#everything will have their turn and there is no thing or place that they can send their love to to live on after them.

[murderofravens]

POLICEMAN INSTINCT

pairing: hwang inho x fem reader

summary: after moving into a new apartment, you realize you're being stalked. thankfully, the older neighbour you've developed a tiny crush on just so happened to be a retired police officer who is determined to protect you.

warnings: age gap (reader is early twenties, he's late forties) slow burn, strangers to lovers, dry humping, masturbation, attempted sa (not by him) really mid smut, face slapping, scent kink, oral fixation, him being fatherly, reader is a bit of a perv, stalking, yander-ish vibes, touch starved reader, masochism, fluff, angst

word count: 13.4k

[feedback and reblogs are a writer's biggest motivation.]

MASTERLIST

it was the cheapest apartment you could find online. while it looked a little shady on the outside, the inside looked comparatively pleasant and clean. the hallway was narrow, and the shoes were placed outside the respective rooms. you just hoped you would have your privacy, and the walls aren't too thin. you've watched enough thrillers to know nothing good comes out of thin walls.

"is this all the luggage you got?" the landlady asks you, eyeing your bag and a suitcase. you hadn't packed much— you'd figured you'd just buy things from stores instead of bringing them from home. you nod, and she hums before offering you the keys.

"pay rent on time, and don't make too much noise." she tells you kindly, and you give her a polite smile. honestly speaking, she was loud enough herself.

as you fumble with the lock, she turns to leave. faint footsteps can be heard before a man appears, and the landlady steps to the side to allow him room to move.

"oh, inho!" she announces albeit too cheerily— making you almost jump. you turn around to peek over her shoulder as she continues. "you haven't paid your rent yet, just wanted to remind you."

you spot him then— the handsome older man with soft, fluffy looking hair who happened to be carrying a plastic bag with two goldfish in it. the sight makes you smile, and he clenches his jaw as he ensures the landlady that he'll pay the rent soon enough.

she nods before gesturing towards you, "and this is your new neighbour! she came here to study, isn't that nice? don't be grumpy with her like you were with your last neighbours!"

ah. a beautiful older man as your neighbour. perhaps, life is worth living.

he looks up at you, and you freeze slightly, suddenly feeling self conscious that she put you on the spot. you give him a light wave, and he nods in acknowledgement before turning back to her. the lady pats his shoulder and leaves, and you go back to fumbling with the lock. he walks slowly to his own door, before turning to you— his expression slightly blank as he says something.

his voice is so quiet that you don't hear it at first. your eyebrows rise in question and you look at him, blinking.

"push the key in a little and then twist." he repeats, showing you the gesture with his own key. you look at him, a little confused before letting out an 'oh!' and following his steps— and as expected, the door opens. you turn to him and give him a sheepish smile, "thank you."

he doesn't return the smile but nods nonetheless. he opens his own door and steps inside, and then slams the door behind him, leaving you a little baffled.

you shrug the behaviour off and carry your bag to the bed. the room is clean, but you know exactly how you're going to personalize it so it looks more like you. you got your favourite bedsheets with you and everything, and the idea of decorating gives you a light sense of excitement.

it's when you decide to go to the bathroom that you realize you haven't gotten one of the most important things needed— hand soap. you wince to yourself as you look through your luggage, finding nothing. hesitantly, you look to the door, wondering if you should go out and buy some, or borrow some from your new neighbour, who although being incredibly handsome, also intimidates you slightly. you don't want to disturb him, but it's already late enough— you are too tired to go out.

you knock on his door, biting your lower lip in anticipation. you hope he's not asleep, you'd hate to be the one who wakes him up. he opens the door soon enough, looking you up and down, "can i help you?"

"i'm sorry, i hope you weren't asleep," you give him a polite smile, "i was wondering if i could borrow some handsoap? i forgot to buy some."

he frowns before nodding, closing the door. you fidget with your fingers while you wait, and he opens the door again before handing you a bottle.

you thank him, and he closes the door before you get to say goodnight. you don't allow yourself to think he's rude— you were the one disturbing him, afterall.

the next morning, you're up early. it's a new day of your independence and you want to explore the library before attending classes. you recheck if you have everything before exiting the room— only to be met with your neighbour.

"good morning!" you greet him cheerily, and he nods and replies with a quiet 'morning, kid.'

you figure he's just woken up, judging by the light rasp in his voice. it makes you feel flustered.

"wait— sir, hold on." you say quickly, and rush back inside your apartment. you deliver his handsoap back to him, and he rubs his eyes.

"thank you for this."

"going to college?" he asks, blinking a few times, and you nod. "is it far?"

"half an hour ride from the bus stop," you shift your weight on your feet. "not that far."

"that's good," he frowns, scratching his chin, "study well, kid."

you grin at him, perking up. you introduce yourself to him, and give a light bow. the corner of his mouth curls up slightly.

"i'm inho," he says, crossing his arms over his chest, "get going now, you don't wanna be late."

"oh yes, inho sir." you bow again and quickly rush down the stairs. you're pretty sure you hear him call out something like, 'drop the sir!' but you ignore it with a smile— your day already feeling brighter with the positive interaction, even if it was just polite small talk.

no matter how exhausting classes were, you were insistent on having a pleasant day. you knew the best way to survive any place was by making friends— and for now you didn't have many options other than your older neighbour.

at the bakery, as you eyed all the delicacies— you didn't know what to choose. you didn't know his preferences. does he like sweets? but what if he has diabetes? you immediately push the thought away, and simply stick to some nice bread that you could have with tea. and then while walking back to the bus stop, you buy some fishfood. a google search also lets you know that goldfish quite like frozen peas— so you buy a little of that too.

back in the apartment, you feel a little nervous as you knock on his door. there is no response, and you almost turn around and leave before a voice coming from behind you makes you jump.

"oh my god!" you shriek, twisting around, holding a hand to your chest. inho is standing behind you, looking tired as he gestures you to lower your voice. you immediately clasp a hand over your mouth and bow in apology before straightening up.

"you scared me!"

"forgive me," he blinks, eyebrows furrowing in confusion, "did you need something?"

a little distracted by his face, you almost forget what you had to say. but before you could embarrass yourself further, your mind brings you back to earth, "oh! yes— sorry."

"i wasn't sure if you liked sweets so i just got you bread. you know, as a thank you for helping me last night," you awkwardly push the bag towards him, "and uh— i saw you had goldfish so i got some fishfood for them. i also read they liked peas, so."

he looks down at the bag, then at you. you swallow hard, "i didn't poison it, i swear."

that elicits a chuckle out of him, and he gently takes the bag. your fingers brush together, and you try not to chase the warmth of his hand. perhaps, you're a little touch starved.

"there was no need for this," he says kindly. you step to the side to allow him to access his door. "but thank you."

"do you wanna eat together?" you blurt without thinking. "i mean, if you're not busy. no pressure, i'm sure you have things to do but—"

"relax," he gives you a light smile— it makes the cute little crinkles by his eyes more prominent. it's contagious and you smile back. he clears his throat, "there's a park not far from here. would you like to walk with me?"

"yes!" you say a little too excitedly before lowering your voice. "yes— absolutely. hold on."

you recklessly open your door and toss your bag inside. with a glance over your shoulder to ensure he's not looking, you quickly reapply your lipgloss before turning to him and locking the door behind you.

"ready?" he asks, a hint of a smile on his face. his voice is teasing, and you can't help but grin in return.

as the sun set, pink and orange hues danced across your skin like glitter. you could see people walking, chatting; couples holding hands and feeding each other cotton candy. it made your heart pang a little, so you redirected your attention to the sky, where birds seemed to be flocking back to their homes. you would've taken a picture, but you decided against it.

"have you been here long?" inho asks, and you turn to see his eyes looking at you intently. "liking it so far?"

"just a few months," you answer politely, walking with a skip in your step. he doesn't realize how grateful you are that he's talking to you— you've felt rather lonely these past few weeks. "i got a scholarship and the opportunity was too good to miss. it's really nice, much better than my hometown, i'd say. i'm relieved to be here, even though it's taking some time to adjust."

"you can come to me if you need anything," he says softly, and you give him a grateful nod, gaze full of barely disguised admiration.

"thank you, i appreciate it."

"and your family?" he asks again, his hands clasped behind his back. he looks so authoritative this way, you think, he's actually adorable. and kind.

"they're back home," you twist around and walk backwards, facing him as you mimic his stance. hands behind your back. he smiles at your antics and it makes your heart skip a beat. "i talk to them regularly."

"that's good." he hums, nodding, a glint in his eyes. "kids don't realize how much parents worry. make sure you don't mix with the wrong crowd."

"noted, sir." you tease, and he snorts.

"drop the 'sir,' will ya?"

"only if you drop the 'kid,' sir."

that makes him laugh, and you feel a strange sense of pride at your little achievement. the park is pleasant, and you're more amazed by how well maintained it is. he mindlessly guides you to a bench with a light touch on your waist, and your stomach feels tingly at the action.

he brings out the bag, tears the bread in half and gives you the bigger one, despite your protests.

"those flowers are so pretty," you point towards a flower bed, and he hums nonchalantly.

"never met a girl who doesn't like flowers."

"what's not to like?" you shift to face him properly, "they maintain this park really well. it's very clean."

"i suppose we do value cleanliness a lot," he looks around, his cheeks puffing up like a squirrel as he eats. it looks so utterly cute, you would have cooed if you had no social cues. "i remember seeing them plant those last year. some kids accidentally skated over the left side and had to pay a fine."

"ouch," you wince, eyebrows furrowing. "say, sir, what do you do for work, if you don't mind me asking?"

he stiffens slightly and stops chewing. you contemplate killing yourself right there out of sheer dramatics— you don't want to make him uncomfortable because this is your only chance at developing a relationship with someone that is not your pillow or your phone.

"i was a police officer," he answers, swallowing his food. he claps the dust off, wipes his hand on his pants after, "retired."

"retired?!" you gasp unintentionally, "you don't look that old."

he throws his head back and laughs— his eyes crinkling. you're mesmerized, the mere sound of it making your heart feel warm. which, you think, is not normal. not after interacting with someone who is still a stranger.

"how old do you think i am?" he asks between chuckles.

you give him a sheepish smile, delaying your response by choosing to finish the bread first. "i'd say.. late thirties or early forties."

he winces with a groan, dramatically clutching his heart, "try late forties. almost fifty."

it makes you fucking giggle— like some lovesick fool. a schoolgirl with a crush. it's so embarrassing, but you decide to let yourself have this one thing— to enjoy a conversation without thinking about how stupid or obvious you might look to the outsider.

"you don't look that old!" you protest, "seriously! plus, you're pretty fit for your age!"

the last comment was not something you had decided to say, but you're bad at thinking before speaking. you prefer to be just as shocked at your responses as the other person.

"you think i'm fit?" he asks a little teasingly— there's a smug smile on his face, and you feel idiotic. of course, a man like him would know he's fit. he's handsome, he must hear it everyday. he must be so amused that you decided to state the obvious. and you clear your throat, your cheeks suddenly feeling hot. you're sure you can hear your ears ringing— and you swallow the embarrassment.

"you know you're fit." you huff softly, and he shakes his head. his smile only grows bigger as he looks away, instead choosing to watch the sky darken.

you're glad he doesn't say much after, and the two of you fall into a comfortable silence. you hope it is comfortable for him, atleast, because there's a storm brewing in your head— berating you for being so obvious. perhaps, you need to find a boyfriend soon, or your little impulsive comments would get you in trouble. you don't even know if the man is single, for god's sake. your eyes drift down to his hands— no ring.

"you live alone?" you blurt out again, despite your better judgement. it's such a stupid question— the apartment rooms are tiny, of course he lives alone. are you stupid?!

he turns to look at you, eyebrow quirked. the air feels heavy now, because he looks tense again, almost thoughtful.

"yes," he nods, frowning slightly. his lips quirk down, and he swallows hard. "my wife passed away a few years back."

"oh." shit, you think to yourself. way to go, idiot. "i'm so sorry."

"it's fine," he gives you a smile that doesn't reach his eyes.

you straighten up, "if there's anything i can do—"

he stands up abruptly, adjusts his pants. your eyes drift down a little before you physically force them to look up at him again.

"we should get going." he says, rolling his shoulders back. he gives you a hand, "it's getting late. you must have class tomorrow."

'it's sunday,' you almost mumble, but thankfully your mouth keeps shut this time. you shyly take his palm and stand up, and he pulls his hand back to run it through his hair almost awkwardly. you try not to miss the way it felt— which is insane. you shouldn't be thinking this way.

the walk back is relatively silent, and you internally beat yourself up about ruining the mood. you might be overthinking this, but this man genuinely seems nice, and you don't really have anyone else to rely on outside of university.

'if there's anything i can do,' you were saying. what could you have done, you idiot? what were you offering to a widowed man twice your age? fucking dummy.

lost in thoughts as you walk up the stairs, your foot misses a step and you trip. before you can fall, inho is stabilizing you with a swift grab, and you yelp as you crash into him, squeezing your eyes shut. instinctively, you grab his arms as tightly as you can.

"oh god," you take a sharp breath, your head falling forward onto his chest more out of shame than relief. "am i dead?"

"clumsy girl." he chuckles, and you open your eyes, hoping that once you do you'll wake up to your room; concluding this mess as a nightmare.

but no, your vision adjusts and is met with his beautiful face. and he looks amused. you can feel his arm wrapped around your waist— very respectfully even though you wouldn't mind it the opposite way. you feel warm all over and the way you've been acting since you met this man is driving you crazy. perhaps you might have to sleep the bad luck off. he gently lets go of you, and you pull away quickly, cheeks flushed. you lean against the wall, groaning.

"still alive," he remarks playfully. you tiredly run a hand down your face.

"i'll just take a nap." you mumble defeatedly, and he nods. you gesture towards the stairs. "thanks for that."

he steps aside and puts his hands in his pockets, and you fumble with your lock and go into your room as fast as possible— ready to bury your head in pillows and avoid this man as much as possible.

ᥫ᭡.

the first weird instance happened during work. you'd signed up for an internship after college hours— it was more of volunteer work. no actual pay other than some incentives based upon performance, which you were okay with. you just needed some experience for your portfolio. most of it included you getting your seniors coffee, designing posters and promoting new events for college.

you were giving some finishing touch ups for the newest poster for a debate competition when a package was placed before you. you looked up at your classmate, confused.

"these are for you." she said.

you frowned, looking at the package — a bouquet, to be specific. it was nothing too extravagant— but flowers all the same. white jasmines paired with some baby breaths, finished with a little bow.

"who sent these?" you asked, visibly baffled. she shrugged, took one look at your work before walking off. you sat straighter, checking the bouquet for any card— there was nothing.

you were confused as you walked back to the apartment. the flowers were a nice surprise— but they also had you worried. you couldn't help but wonder if it was some guy from work, but you don't remember getting close with anyone, atleast not enough for gifts. your confusion was evident on your face as you reached your door. holding the bouquet in one hand, you fumbled with the lock.

"those are nice," you heard a voice behind you. you turned, a smile appearing on your face at the sight of inho.

"hello!" you greeted, facing him. he glanced at the flowers, gaze unreadable, before turning to you.

"you came later than usual." he remarked casually.

"yeah, i've taken up this internship thing for college." you replied politely, leaning against your door. he nodded in understanding, tilting his head towards the bouquet.

"it's going well, i see."

you chuckled awkwardly, "i don't know where they came from." you glanced at the flowers, leaning in to inhale the scent. "my classmate said these were for me but there was no card. it's weird."

"perhaps it's a secret admirer," he joked dryly, unlocking his own door, "stay safe, kid."

you frowned at his words, nodding, before entering your own room.

the flowers didn't stop after. almost every two days, a new bouquet would appear. it was ridiculous. one day it would be just pretty tulips, the other it would be white clovers. it was driving you absolutely insane. and the worst part was, you had no idea who it was from.

you'd go to class, do your work, take the flowers, and go home. inho would make a joke about you being popular, and you would shrug it off and offer him some tea, and you'd pretend you didn't secretly hope he was the one sending them to you.

"maybe a guy has a crush on you," he'd said once. you were sitting at the stairs, analyzing the flowers as if your stare would prompt them to magically start speaking— these were camellias, as the google search suggested. pink. you'd glared at him tiredly, eyes begging for some answers. from anyone.

he'd raised his hands in defence, chuckling a little. he had taken a seat on the stairs beside you, looking at the flowers himself, eyebrows furrowed in focus and lips drawn into a thoughtful pout.

"did you know camellias express longing?" he stated casually.

you'd looked at him, quirking an eyebrow, "how'd you know that?"

he gave the flowers a somber smile, a dejected look in his eyes. "you learn certain things when you get married."

your curiosity had faded into sadness then. immense melancholy for the kind man sitting beside you.

and because of course, he was thinking of his wife. he'd probably given his wife flowers, adored her with everything he had. kissed her and made love to her, and then life took her from him.

you don't stand a chance. not even in your fantasies.

ᥫ᭡.

you were being watched.

you realized this not long after receiving your first bouquet. few days later, you'd seen a man wearing the same jacket everywhere you went. it was making you feel uneasy. you could never see his face— he would disappear almost instantly after you turned around.

first, you recognised the feeling while shopping for groceries. it made you feel so terrified, you ditched the milk and went straight home.

you'd had to borrow some milk from inho that day, and thankfully he had extra which he generously gave to you. even offered to make you some tea. you didn't know if he noticed your distress, but if he did, you were thankful he didn't ask you about it.

the next, it was during daytime. you were waiting for your bus when you saw the glimpse of that jacket— and once again, it disappeared almost as soon as you recognised it.

it was after the fourth day that you had decided that you'd had enough. you were violently knocking on inho's door— teary eyed and scared out of your mind.

he opened the door, his agitation blending into worry at the sight of your face. he utters your name so softly, and you hold back the urge to scream. "what's wrong?"

"you were a police officer, right?" you look at him, panic stricken. "i think i'm being watched. i don't think— i know i'm being watched. i swear, someone is stalking me, first the flowers—"

"hold on, take deep breaths," he puts his hands on your shoulders, guiding you to breathe along with him. you follow, and feel your heart rate calm down. he looks out into the hallway before stepping aside. "come inside."

reluctantly, you walk into his room. you realize then that it's the first time you've been in his apartment— and the idea, even in your moment of suffering, makes you feel warm. excited, even. there's a few books on his bed, and he puts them aside on his table and makes room for you to sit. you can see the goldfish in the tank, and the packet of fish food you bought for them sits by it.

"i like van gogh too." you mumble shakily, pointing at the book on his desk. he hums, guiding you to sit.

you take a seat on his bed, gaze lowered as you fidget with your hands. he grabs a chair and sits on it, facing you. he spreads his legs, and you have to take a deep breath to focus on the actual problem at hand.

"tell me everything," he says softly, crossing his arms over his chest. his shirt is folded up to his elbows, and you physically force yourself not to stare at the veins mapped across his arms.

"the flowers," you start, "they've gotten more frequent. i don't know who's sending them to me. i've asked everyone at work. i don't even talk to guys that much for any of them to be doing all that. and i've been seeing this guy follow me everywhere—"

"you've seen his face?" he asks, expression serious and focused. he looks even more handsome like this.

you pause, before shaking your head no.

"it's stupid, i know." you protest, leaning forward for emphasis, "it's like— a shadow. i haven't seen his face but i know he's following me. i think he might be behind the flowers too. but i'm just scared— i know i'm being stalked, you have to believe me."

"i do believe you," he shakes his head, leaning forward. his hand reaches out and grabs your own, "but you haven't seen his face, so it'll be hard to catch him. but trust me, i will not let anyone hurt you. do you understand?"

"i'm scared." you admit, voice small. you're a woman and you live alone— you don't have many friends and absolutely no family right now. you don't want to talk to your mother and worry her. you're terrified.

"hey, no tears," he whispers, thumb brushing across your cheek. you almost feel hypnotized at the action— you try not to lean into the comfort of his touch. "you'll be okay, i promise. you're safe with me."

you sniffle as you look at him, your hand limp in his hold. you tear your gaze away and nod, his words making you feel oddly at ease. you fidget with his hand before mindlessly holding his finger, and he smiles softly at that. with his free hand, he pats your head, "i have an idea."

you perk up slightly as you blink at him.

"why don't i pick you up from college?" he says softly, "it's not that far. it's hard to do anything during daytime, but in the evening i can come pick you up if you're scared. he'll see a man with you and back off himself."

you freeze, eyes widening. you can't ask him to do that. you chuckle awkwardly, face flushing as you look at your lap.

"i can't ask you to do that, it's fine."

"are you sure?" he asks, leaning down to make eye contact with you. it makes your heart flutter. "it's no issue for me. i think a walk everyday will keep me even more fit."

you can't help but giggle at that— and he smiles too. he grabs your chin and lifts your head up; and your breath hitches.

"come on, give me a real smile." he urges softly. it's so silly coming from him, that you can't help but grin— your fears temporarily forgotten. he pinches your cheek at that and nods in approval, "there she is."

"stop," you huff half heartedly, playfully slapping his hand away. you wish you could hide in your pillows— or dig a hole for yourself because of how flustered you feel. you can't believe how he could do this to you— it's strange how happy he can make you with just a few words. he tucks your hair behind your ear.

"why don't you have dinner and get some sleep? you must be tired."

you nod, blinking tiredly as you stand up. reluctantly, you let go of his finger, and he stands up as well as he guides you to the door. you look back at him, and he meets your gaze.

"thank you," you whisper softly, "you really made me feel so much better, you have no idea."

"i'm glad." he whispers back, and you just stare at him— at his sweet face and his kind eyes. you swallow hard, and you wonder if you hallucinated his eyes dart to your lips. either way, you push your thoughts aside.

he clears his throat and looks away, giving your shoulder a comforting squeeze. "off you go."

"goodnight," you call back, and he nods with a smile before closing the door.

the next day after college— a miracle happened. a rather good looking classmate of yours approached you and praised you on your work. je-hyun, he introduced himself. he shared a few classes with you, and you remember him asking you for a pencil once. you two ended up bonding over liking the same shows, and he'd asked you if you were single. you two shared numbers, and you gave yourself an imaginary pat on the back.

apparently, the flowers had become a bit of a man repellent. he'd been wary of approaching you because he assumed you had a boyfriend, but you cleared the misunderstanding with a convincing explanation. you didn't want to take any chances.

this time, there were no flowers.

after work, the two of you walk out of the building. he stops you with a gentle hand on your arm, and you turn to him. he opens his mouth to speak before his gaze falls on something over your shoulder, and he freezes.

you frown, looking over your shoulder in return.

inho greets you, getting off the wall he was leaning against with a cheery smile. you look at him, baffled.

"hey! uh—" you look at your— date? coworker? before turning to inho, "inho sir! what are you doing here?"

inho glances at je-hyun as well, eyes darting up and down indifferently before he turns to you. he smiles, patting your shoulder. "i had some work nearby so i thought i'd pick you up. especially seeing how scared you were last night. is that okay?"

he was so considerate— it immediately made your heart melt. you almost forgot about your date by your side, and you turned to him apologetically. you could always meet with je-hyun, but you cannot ask inho to go home after he took some time out for you. your decision is immediate. "i'm sorry, i should get going. see you tomorrow?"

je-hyun gave you a tight lipped smile, nodding. "see you, goodnight." he looked at inho warily, giving him a slight bow out of respect. you didn't get to see inho's response before he was wrapping an arm around your shoulder and dragging you away.

"i'm assuming that's the flower kid," he remarked casually, a small grin on his face as he walked straight ahead. you stumbled a little with his pace, but shook your head.

"no, i don't think that's him. he assumed i had a boyfriend because of the flowers," you smile slightly, thinking back to the conversation.

"you can't be sure with boys like him," he muttered, putting his hands in his pockets. you immediately started missing the feeling of his arm wrapped around you. you feel insane for even thinking this way. especially considering you have a potential? love interest— someone your age.

"i can't believe you really came to pick me up," you change the topic, looking up at him. he doesn't know if the stars in your eyes are a reflection of the lights or your admiration. "you didn't have to."

"i know i didn't have to," he smirked slightly, looking around. "but like i said, i was in the area. and i didn't feel right leaving you by yourself. who knows what could happen to a little girl like you?"

the last line was teasing, and you gave him a little push for that. of course, he was unphased. but for the sheer dramatics, he pretended to be hurt— clutching his side and groaning like he had been shot. it makes you giggle, and you hide your mouth behind your hand, internally berating yourself for acting like a fool again. he chuckles before stopping you and dragging you back, "let's have dinner before we get back. you must be hungry."

you blink, your heartbeat suddenly rising. like a date? you wanted to ask, but decided against it. of course it's not a date. he could be your father, for god's sake. he's old enough. and his heart belongs to someone else. you doubt he'd ever think about dating someone like you. it sounds like a far fetched dream.

you nodded, shaking your thoughts off. "yeah, that sounds good."

and that entire night, you didn't feel the eyes of the stalker, nor the fear, even once.

ᥫ᭡.

you got the flowers again. yellow hyacinths paired with deep red roses— the colors creating a striking contrast against each other. so bright, it almost blinded your eyes. salient as the emotions the flowers represent— you feel like whoever is sending you these, is not happy with you.

"who keeps sending these?" the voice makes you jump, and you turn to see je-hyun standing over you. he narrows his eyes playfully. "is there an obsessed ex i should be worried about?"

you wave his concerns off, chuckling awkwardly, "none." you bite your lower lip, looking at the object of your torment placed on the table. you bite down on the end of your pen, thinking. "i'm actually worried. i haven't even met anyone who would do this."

"what about that strange man who came to pick you up?" he remarks offhandedly— and you almost take offense to his words.

"that's inho-sir. and he's not strange," you say a little too sharply, surprising even yourself, "he's my neighbour and he used to be a police officer. he came to pick me up because i was scared. he's very kind and would never do something like this."

"got it." je-hyun could sense your sudden hostility, and he tries to lighten up. "so he's like your dad?" he jokes, and you chuckle at that, giving him a shove with a huffed 'shut up.'

he asks you out to a party after, and you tell him to pick you up at nine.

the journey back home was tantalizing once again— there was a seed of dread brewing inside you. you felt increasingly scared as you travelled, so you picked crowds in hopes of blending in. you wished you had inho with you right now.

you took a nap after work and immediately got ready. you didn't have a lot of party wear with you, you don't like the overwhelming crowds or noises. you're easy to overstimulate, so you tend to stay away from parties. they're always much more bearable with people you know better, anyway. but you make do with what you have, and your lip gloss saves the day as always. there's a knock on your door and you open it to je-hyun looking cute as ever— with his boyish, dimpled smile.

"i wanted to bring you flowers," he says innocently, holding out a box, "but i feel like you're traumatized by them so i got chocolate inst—"

he doesn't get to finish his sentence before you're letting out the most ridiculous laugh ever. he's adorable, and this alone has made you like him so much. you compose yourself, stand straighter and place a kiss upon his cheek— leaving an imprint of your lipgloss on his skin. he blushes, and you grin. "thank you—"

"date night?"

you both turn around to the voice— inho has stepped out of his room, looking cozy and fresh. wearing a sweater vest over a crisp white shirt, finishing with a large black coat. he looks so... soft and gentle. it almost distracts you.

you bite your lower lip, suddenly feeling flustered. his gaze is unreadable as it drags down your body— and out of respect, you adjust your dress a little.

"i'm je-hyun," your date takes the initiative to introduce himself, bowing deeply. there's slight humour in his voice, "you must be her father—"

you elbow him in the ribs, and he doubles over. inho lets out a snort, looking down. you notice he doesn't introduce himself in return. he clenches his jaw, tongues his cheek before looking at you with a glint in his eyes. you wonder if he looks angry, but you can't really tell. it wouldn't make sense anyway.

"going somewhere?" you ask, voice a little high pitched out of sheer nervousness. you don't know why, but you feel rather awkward. you don't understand why you feel like you're betraying him, in a way. perhaps it's because inho has quite literally been the only man you've been regularly interacting and engaging with so far. that's why standing with another guy in front of him feels so... strange. no other reason.

he clears his throat and nods, "out for drinks with an old colleague." he frowns after, cocks his head towards your legs. your dress is not really short, it comes to your knees. but you still feel exposed in front of him.

"don't you feel cold?"

"i'll wear a coat," you tell him, snatching your coat off from where it was hanging behind your door. "well— um. see you."

inho is the first to leave— after giving your date an up and down look of what you can only consider disgust or disapproval. je-hyun pouts a little as he straightens up, before grabbing your hand and dragging you down the stairs.

the party fucking sucks. the noises are too loud, the lights are too flashy, and everyone is drunk. you don't understand their drunken rambles, and you almost tripped twice. you've stumbled into atleast three couples making out, and you don't know how to dance without looking stupid.

je-hyun had kissed your cheek before going off to get drinks. a sprite for you, as you'd demanded. except he never returned. you know life isn't a movie, but at this moment, you'd rate yours a solid 1.5 stars.

a girl accidentally steps on your foot and you wince, hopping on one leg as you go out the back door. there, you put on your coat tighter around yourself, shaking as you glare at the wall in front of you.

you could really use a cigarette. and you don't even smoke.

you bring out your phone and shoot je-hyun a text. it is left on delivered, and you grunt in irritation before looking to the side.

defeated, angry and hurt at being abandoned, you immediately choose to leave. you hold back the urge to send je-hyun a text calling him an absolute dick, and try not to make eye contact with anyone as you walk down the road. it's late, the sky is dark and you have another fear on your mind right now. you look out for a taxi— but none come to your rescue. your luck has run out.

you mutter all sorts of curses to yourself on the way back— until you hear footsteps. you pause, suddenly feeling that same dread seize you again.

you're being followed.

you start walking quickly, and the prickling sensation of being watched doesn't leave. you turn around abruptly — and there's no one there, except from a few friend groups walking out of the club. you pick up your pace and start jogging back, looking around for taxis. you can see the park near your apartment in the distance — and you let out a breath of relief.

you hear a little 'meow,' and you immediately turn around. you love cats— you've been dying to have one. despite your better judgement, you walk closer to the dark alley the voice came from. a kitten is there, meowing at you. your heart melts into a puddle and you coo, instantly following it. you look around, there's no stores nearby, or you would've bought it some food. you gently pick it up, scratching it's ears.

"its my cat."

there's a shabby man standing in front of you— reeking of alcohol and trash. you freeze, looking at him awkwardly as you let go of the cat. his eyes trail down, settle on the silver of your skin peeking out from under the coat. instinctively, you wrap it tighter around yourself, and he steps forward, grinning.

"i have more! do you want to see?"

you give him an awkward, polite smile. in situations like these, its best to subtly pull yourself away. you take a step back and shake your head, "no, thank you."

"it won't take long," he convinces, a hand reaching out. "you could even take one with you—"

you're turning around to run, but his hand grabs your arm and drags you closer. you scream, but he shushes you, pinning you to the wall. you feel like throwing up. you raise your knee and kick him in the shin, and he lets go of you. you quickly start dashing off, but your heel oh so conveniently breaks and you trip. you fall face first onto the floor and his hand grabs your leg and starts dragging down.

you let out a shriek and kick at his arm, but he's lunging at you, trying to grab your face with his dirty hands. you take that moment to release your frustrations of the day upon him— with all the strength you can muster, you pull your head back before crashing it against his face.

"you bitch!" he screams and so do you— and he falls back, clutching his bleeding nose. he tries to lunge at you again, but you scream as loud as you can, trying to crawl away from him.

someone grabs you and starts pulling you up, and out of reflex you thrash and try to hit the other person. your wrist is clasped firmly in a bigger hand, and the sight of inho's face immediately fills you with relief. he helps you up, and before you can express gratitude, he's pushing you back and moving forward.

you flinch at the sound of the first kick. it happens so fast that you don't even realize it— your eyes widen as inho kicks the man over and over again. the sound of his bones cracking fills your ears, and you almost gag at the sight of the blood mixing with the dirty ground. inho looks unphased for the most part— except he's panting, and his hair is falling across his forehead. sweat runs down the side of his face, and he wordlessly turns around, eyes cold in a way that is foreign to you.

perhaps it's the shock of the sudden turn of events, but you can't speak. all you can think about is the rage that is so prominently etched onto his beautiful face, and how easily he stomped on that man like he was nothing. and how thankful you are that he showed up somehow when you needed him. after your date abandoned you. like magic.

he walks up to you, and you let out a shaky breath before allowing your head to fall onto his chest. he squeezes his eyes shut and pats your back, before cupping your cheeks and lifting your head up. he analyzes your face, gently caresses the new scratches on your chin before his gaze drops to your shoes— a broken heel and multiple scratches on your knees.

"are you okay?" he asks softly, and you hold his palm, ensuring it stays pressed against your cheek. you look at him like he's your only saviour— and you feel that way too. your lips wobble and he looks away.

"tired." you mumble— throat feeling dry. you feel dizzy, and your legs hurt. you're pretty sure you feel like throwing up too.

wordlessly, he bends down slightly, gestures towards his back with a tilt of his head. "come on."

you hesitate, looking at him with shock, before gently allowing your front to splay across his back. you link your arms around his shoulders, and he wraps his hands around your legs. he lifts you like you weigh nothing, and you lean your weight into him, resting your head along his shoulder. he shifts slightly so you're more comfortable, his hold on you steady and confident. one of your shoes drop, and you don't look back at it. you don't care anyway.

you hear another faint meow before the kitten is out of earshot.

you resist the urge to cry as he carries you up the stairs. you sniffle, burying your head in his back, deeply inhaling the comforting smell of the man you've started associating with home. your legs dangle off his sides and your heart feels heavy. his silence makes you feel so eternally grateful.

you don't know how you got lucky enough to have someone like him by your side.

he doesn't even put you down when you reach your apartment— merely mumbles a soft, "keys?" and you straighten up slightly, shuffling in your coat pocket before leaning forward to open the lock— unable to resist the urge to chuckle just slightly at how endearing this whole situation is, despite everything.

he takes you inside, and your cheeks flush slightly. your clothes are all over the bed— thanks to your indecisiveness while getting ready for the date. he gently places you down on the floor, and you sniffle, quickly covering the clothes with a blanket— eliciting a snort out of him.

"why were you coming home alone?" is the first question he asks. "what happened to the kid you were with?"

"I don't know," you whisper, looking away. you suddenly feel embarrassed— how immature, how careless je-hyun looks in front of a man like inho. you never should've went on that date. "he just.. he disappeared at the party."

he clenches his jaw, his hands resting on his hips as he looks to the side. there's another vein popping in his neck— and if you had the guts, you'd lean up and kiss it.

"that little boy—" he spits with vitriol, the words coming from a deep place of resentment. he takes a deep breath, tries to calm himself, "he never should've left you alone. you should've never decided to walk home alone. why didn't you take a taxi?"

you swallow hard— he certainly doesn't make you miss your father. he's doing his job for him.

"there were no taxis."

"why didn't you just call me?" he asked again, stepping forward, eyebrows raising. "i could've come picked you up."

you pause. you didn't know that was an option. you really didn't think of it.

"I don't know." you replied lamely.

"didn't you say you have a stalker?" he snaps, "how can you be so careless?"

"i really don't want a lecture right now," you reply dejectedly, looking away. your voice lowers to a mumble as you rub your arm. "tonight has been harsh enough."

his face softens and he sighs, running a hand through his hair. he throws his head back and looks at the ceiling, squeezes his eyes shut before looking at you again.

"forgive me." he says earnestly, tilting his head, "i worry about you."

you nod, fidgeting with your coat. he watches you silently before stepping back.

"you should take a warm shower. i'll grab the first aid and take care of that." he gestures towards his chin, and the sting on your own chin starts to settle in.

this time, you don't argue. you toss your coat to the side, grab your toiletries, don't even bother asking him to leave before you go into the bathroom and wipe the memories of this night off you.

inho is waiting on your bed when you return. you hope he didn't hear the sound of you crying— it was rather pathetic. your skin is flushed with how much you scratched it, and worst of all, you ended up gently banging your forehead against the cold wall over how badly your date went. your fault for thinking you could have a positive experience with a man.

you clutch your bathrobe tightly, the water from your hair soaking through the towel. you put it down, and he gets up from the bed and pats down the empty space, telling you to sit down.

you notice your bed looks a little neater than you left it. your clothes are folded nicely by the corner and your bedsheet is straightened properly. it makes you blush, and you give him a sheepish look. he doesn't acknowledge it as he kneels before you.

"you don't have to—" you start, half heartedly.

"let me."

his voice is soft yet so firm, you end up following through. there is nothing wrong with wanting to be taken care of by a man like him. you shift slightly, hoping that he takes the flush of your cheeks as an effect of your warm shower.

he settles your leg on his thigh, and shifts your bathrobe just slightly so your knee is exposed. he examines it before applying some ointment on it. the touch of his gentle fingers almost has you whimpering— but you clear your throat and fidget nervously with your fingers. he grabs hold of your ankle, looking thoughtful as his thumb brushes across your skin.

the silence between you two feels heavy and suffocating. the tension could be cut with a knife— and the way he touches you is so intimate, it makes you want to climb into his arms and just cling to him till you fall asleep.

thankfully, he makes the decision for you. he places your feet back down and straightens slightly, wordlessly applies some cream on your chin too. it stings a little but it's bearable. he hums, closes the box and puts it aside.

as you open your mouth to speak, you can hear multiple notifications coming through your phone. his eyes snap up, and so do yours— you reach out and grab it out of your coat pocket, and he glares at it as you check.

"is it the boy?" he asks.

you bite your lip, glancing at the multiple texts of je-hyun apologizing through the notification panel. you're bitter, and you don't want to respond, not right now. inho grabs your hand, takes your phone away and places it by your side.

"you shouldn't go back to him," he advices quietly. there's an intensity in his eyes, an emotion that is hard to read. "after tonight, he's proven he's not worth your time. he abandoned you."

you bite your lower lip. he's right— but then again, a part of you wants to ask. so who should i go to? who is worth my time?

you clear your throat and shift on the bed.

"thank you for tonight," you whisper instead, allowing yourself more time to think about how to deal with je-hyun.

"thank you?" he chuckles, amused, "you'd taken care of that guy pretty well yourself. i just finished the job."

"but still," you protest, feeling a sense of pride at his comment. "he would've grabbed me again if you hadn't come."

he snorts, looking down at his lap. and your words remind you of an important question.

"how'd you know i needed help?"

he tenses, his eyes snapping up to yours again. you can't tell what he's thinking, but he merely chuckles, "i was walking in the park when you screamed. immediately alerted me." he raises a finger to his ear. "policeman instinct."

you laugh at that. his explanation makes sense. of course he has a policeman instinct. you wouldn't expect anything else.

he stands up, groaning as he stretches a little. the action makes his sweater rise up, revealing a silver of his tummy— and your eyes dazedly drop down, glancing at it with barely disguised hunger, until he's relaxing again. you snap yourself out of your trance and cough, looking away.

he looks down at you, all tired eyes and soft hair. in moments like these, you think of how sweet he looks. so gentle, and kind, and caring. sweet mister inho, who has been so generous, protecting you, caring for you, wanting nothing in return. who gave you a piggyback ride home when you felt like you would pass out from terror, who put cream on your wounds with the tenderness of a parent or a lover.

perhaps it's that sentiment, your touch starved nature, or your horrible day that prompted you to do it. or lust from that little glimpse of his skin. either way, you're fucked. you lean forward and wrap your arms around his waist, immediately burying your head in his stomach as you whisper thank yous to him— clinging to him like a lifeline.

he stumbles back in shock, stiffens slightly before relaxing— awkwardly shifting to accommodate you. he laughs slightly, and the rumble sends happy vibrations through your whole body. his hand settles on your head, gently playing with your hair.

"i told ya," he said gently, an amused smile on his face. "i won't let anyone hurt you."

a little embarrassed, you let go of him, pulling away and tucking your hair behind your ear.

"sorry," you mumble sheepishly.

"it's fine," he nods, taking a deep breath. he adjusts his sweater, looks around before giving you another smile. he pats your head. "get some sleep, okay? it's late. i'll check on you tomorrow."

you nod, and he leaves. you bite your lower lip as you replay the hug, and don't find the effort to get up and dress yourself before you're squealing into your pillow— all thoughts of je-hyun forgotten temporarily.

you don't see je-hyun in classes the next day, but he comes to work after college. the first thing he does is approach you, even when you push your head into your tablet while trying to imply how you absolutely do not want to talk to him.

"i can explain," he says with worry, "someone drugged me. i didn't want to leave you alone. i swear, i woke up in the toilet hours after. first thing i did was text you."

you sigh, rolling your eyes as you looked at him boredly, "drugged? that's the excuse you're going with?"

"why would i ditch you on purpose!" he hisses, leaning down. your argument gathers the attention of a few of your coworkers, and your senior warns you to get back to work. you sigh and look away from him.

"whatever it is—" you begin as politely as you can, "I don't think i'm ready to date. so maybe you should just—"

he sighs your name in agitation, and you quirk your eyebrow at him.

"you're really giving up on me after one fuck up?" he asks, frowning, "which wasn't even my fault? i was drugged—"

"i almost got assaulted on the way back," you hiss, standing up abruptly. your noses press together, and you pull back the moment his eyes drift to your lips. you pinch the bridge of your nose, before tilting your chin up and pointing at the bandage. he blinks, gaze filled with guilt. you sigh.

"maybe we could give it a go after some time if you're still interested, but i don't think i have the patience for this right now. last night was really hard on me. can you respect that?"

he looks like a kicked puppy at your words, but he steps back nonetheless. he clenches his jaw as he nods— before leaving you alone for the rest of the day.

the feeling of being watched has numbed you. you try not to care on your way back home— you have too much to do to care about that anyway. your dress from last night and your coat got dirty, so it seems like the perfect time to have a laundry day.

it's only when you're gathering all your clothes that you realize what's wrong.

your clothes are missing.

a pair of panties and your favourite camisole top. it's pink and has a little bow in the middle and you remember bringing it very clearly because you have taken a billion pictures in it. you wore them two days back— and tossed them carelessly in the laundry basket. you check once, and twice.

they're missing.

your first thought immediately goes to the stalker. is there any way he found your home? came into your room? stole your undergarments like a fucking sicko?

your second thought feels a little.. illegal to say the least. but.. inho wouldn't do something like that, would he? no, he's a good guy. a kind, rule following member of society. he used to be a police officer, for fuck's sake. he wouldn't do something like that, would he?

you can't lie, the idea that he could makes something in your stomach flip.

you can't go and straight up ask him, 'hey mister, did you take my panties?' so you do the next best thing. you devise a plan to be alone in his room.

you put on your best panic stricken expression as you knock on his door, and he opens almost immediately. his face falls into one of concern as he looks you up and down, "what's wrong—"

"i need pads," you say sheepishly, biting your lower lip as you step into his room. he doesn't protest as he looks at you. "i got my period and i don't have any and it hurts to go to the store. inho sir, could you please go buy me some? please?"

for added effect you let out a groan, holding your stomach as you fall onto his bed. you lie in a fetus position, and the worry etched onto his face almost makes you laugh.

"do you need anything else?" he asks, grabbing his wallet. you shake your head no, release another groan before he's slamming the door behind him as he leaves.

you wait for a few minutes— until you can hear the sound of his footsteps going down the stairs and fading away. you get up quickly then, look around his room with your heart pounding against your chest.

the first place you look is his cupboards— only his clothes to be found. you rip off his blanket and look under the pillows, searching desperately. you almost feel bad— he seems like such a good man, and you're taking advantage of his kindness by doubting him like this. you almost stop and leave, before the sight of his laundry basket has you pausing.

you look at the door before turning back and approaching it. you sit on the floor and shuffle through it, but you can't find a glimpse of your undergarments anywhere. you can find his though— and it makes you blush slightly.

you find his shirt then— white and plain and you remember him wearing it under his sweater last night. with shaky hands, you bring it out. biting your lower lip, against your morals, you clutch it and bring it up to your nose, inhaling the scent of his collar. it smells of him— of sweat and his cologne and it almost makes you moan.

like the fucking sicko you were worried about, you bury your face in it, your legs shaking as you lean further into it. another whimper escapes you. your eyes squeeze shut, and your mind starts flashing images of him, of his arms, of the vein in his neck, of his hair, of his smile—

it's been established already that your luck is horrible. that's why you don't realize it when the door opens and inho stands there, frozen, watching you sniff his clothes like a junkie. he drops the bag, and you freeze, your eyes immediately snapping open.

the way dread settles in your stomach is comical. you don't want to turn around, more so because it would mean acknowledging what you've been doing. he takes your name, and you turn ever so slowly, his shirt still clutched in your hands, pressed against your nose. as reality sets in, you're quickly tossing it back in the laundry basket and standing up like you've been electrocuted.

"i-it's not what it looks like—"

he doesn't say a word as he slams the door shut, very pointedly locking it. it sends a shiver of thrill up your spine, and he closes in on you ever so slowly as you try to explain yourself.

"i was just—" you're stuttering, voice breathless out of shame. you take a step back. "i was looking for something and i thought you had it and—"

he's just nodding patiently as you speak, eyebrows furrowed with mock sympathy. his hand suddenly shoots up to grab your neck, and your breath hitches as he pushes you against the wall.

"i thought you took my panties," you explain quickly, visibly panicking. "i couldn't find them and you were the only one who came into my room—"

"that's why you were sniffing my shirt like a little pervert?" he asks calmly, voice hushed, his mouth curling into an amused smirk. "because you couldn't find your panties?"

"sir—" you gasp, eyes fluttering as his hand squeezes slightly. your legs tremble, and you grab his wrist. "i didn't mean to—"

"dirty girl," he chuckles. before you can speak further, he's grabbing your waist, twirling you around and shoving you onto his bed. you fall upon it with a surprised gasp, and he climbs onto you effortlessly, caging you between his arms. "you think i don't understand the way you look at me with those pretty little eyes? like you're begging me to fuck you into the mattress?"

"oh fuck," you moan, your back arching off the bed. his mere voice has you feeling stupid. your lips wobble as you look at him pleadingly— licking your lips. "please—"

"yeah— like this," he chuckles, giving your cheek a little slap. it barely registers. doesn't hurt at all, feels like a little tap. but the action enough elicits the most desperate moan out of you, and he squeezes your cheeks, leaning down dangerously. "like a little slut."

you whine, biting your lower lip as you try to catch his lips. he merely laughs mockingly, shakes his head as he pouts playfully, "what? you want a kiss?"

you try to nod as best as you can, and he pulls your bottom lip between his teeth teasingly before letting go. you whine again, your hands holding onto his back— clutching the material of his sweatshirt with a desperation you didn't know you could feel.

"i knew you were a little messed up," he grunts, prying your thighs apart with his knees, before settling his hips upon yours. you can feel the bulge in his pants so evidently, and it makes you moan. with a warning glare, he squeezes your cheeks harder, making your lips pucker up. it makes him chuckle, and he gives your head a little shake. "giving your little 'fuck me' eyes to a man my age. do you act like this with everyone? with that fucking boy from college?"

his voice gets louder, harsher with his words and you shake your head desperately. his hips press against yours, and he starts grinding them against your clothed pussy— making you whine.

"j-just you—" you mumble, but he doesn't let you finish. his mouth is crashing onto yours, one hand grabbing your neck again and the other going under your waist, holding you in place.

the kiss leaves you breathless. teeth and tongue slam together, and you moan needily as he grinds against you, the action making a damp patch appear on the front of your pyjamas. your legs wrap around his waist and he grunts, his hips faltering slightly from shock before he continues, cocking his head to the side to access your mouth better.

your hand comes up to his hair, feeling the softness of it. he grabs it, brings your other one up too and holds both of your wrists in a massive palm— before raising them over your head and keeping them in place. he rises over you, his hips thrusting against yours, and you look at him dazedly. strings of your combined saliva separate and drip down your chin, and you blink.

"please inho sir—" you whimper, your hands twisting in his hold. "slap me again, please."

there's a glimpse of shock in his eyes but it goes away just as quickly. you don't even get to expect how fast his hand pulls back and strikes against your face— but you moan at the contact. it's harder than before and it stings, and it leaves the most delicious pain in it's wake. you almost hope it leaves a little print for you to wake up to tomorrow.

"god, you're a mess," he laughs breathlessly, grabbing your hair. you give him an almost drunken smile— your lips puffy and swollen, hips rising up to press needily against his bulge.

"my little mess—" he groans before gently slapping you again, and you whine, chasing his mouth with your own. he leans forward and silences you with the kiss you were so desperately begging for.

he's pulling back suddenly, a hand digging into his pockets. your eyes flutter open and before you know what's happening— he's stuffing your missing panties in your mouth. it baffles you— and he laughs at the way your eyes widen. he doesn't allow you to move as his hand slips inside your pyjama, immediately rubbing your clit.

the sudden stimulation doesn't allow you to dwell on the matter for long. so he did steal your panties— and you cannot question him, because you quite literally did the same thing. how can you call him out, when you were sniffing his worn shirt like a fucking pervert, yourself? he knows that too, judging by the glint in his eyes— as if he's daring you to attack him. you barely get to protest as you writhe under him, and he rubs your clit till you cum all over his hand— your loud moans muffled by your panties.

he pulls his hand out and licks your juices off with the nastiest slurp, maintaining eye contact with you the whole time. you tremble in his hold, before he's hovering over your chest, his thighs caging you in. he looks down at you smugly, pulling his leaking cock out of his pants. your mouth immediately waters— it's thick and darker than the rest of him, and the tip is flushed red. he doesn't allow you to sit up, keeps it conveniently out of your reach as he begins stroking it, hand moving up and down with a soft, wet shlick.

your pleading is silenced by your panties. you desperately try to push them out of your mouth, to reach up and touch him, but he's restrained you too efficiently. he throws his head back, lets out a soft, raspy moan. drops of his precum land on your face as he furiously jerks off over you, his movements getting faster. your eyes flutter, and he cums with a throaty groan, his entire body tensing— splatters of his cum falling upon your mess of a face.

there's tears in your eyes as you look up at him, and he chuckles. he lets go of your hands, and you immediately toss your panties out and cough. you glance at his softening cock with devastation etched onto your features— before glaring up at him, lips drawn into a sad pout. he laughs at your misery, holds his wet hand out, "come on."

like a fucking puppy, you grab his hand. you don't even understand where this degeneracy is coming from— you don't wish to. you don't care. all you know is you need this man carnally, and you're not going to say no when he's offering himself on a silver platter. with sheer enthusiasm, you start licking his palm, eyes fluttering closed. you lick between his fingers, take two of them in your mouth, making him moan; before he's physically pulling you off him.

you whine in protest, and he pats your cheek while tucking himself back into his pants. you pant heavily as you come down from your high, allowing yourself a moment to think about everything that just happened. your cheek still stings, and you've just experienced what you can only classify as the horniest, hottest moment of your life.

you're so lost in thought that you don't register the moment he pulls you into his bed with him, placing your limp body atop his chest. you were given twin beds in your tiny apartments, but you realize you fit in here pretty well. like a puzzle. he pats your hair and places a soft kiss to your temple. you have many questions, but you don't know where to start.

"so i'm guessing you weren't on your period," he jokes, and you groan, hiding your face in the crook of his neck as you recall your little excuse. "i think that was smart. you'd make a pretty good investigator. as long as you don't go around sniffing their clothes—"

"shut up." you whine, glaring at him. he chuckles heartily, and your body feels warm. his hand goes down, slaps your ass teasingly.

"so you think i smell nice?"

"i said shut up."

"it's a yes or no question." he cooes, pinching your cheek. you whine, rubbing your cheek against his chest like a cat. yes, asshole. you wanted to say. you smell amazing.

in retaliation, you decide to ask your own question.

"were you jealous of je-hyun?"

he stiffens slightly, and you smirk. gotcha.

"that's a brave accusation." he retorts smoothly.

"it's a yes or no question," you shoot back teasingly, and he looks into your eyes.

"yes."

you pause then, a small smile appearing on your face. "yes? is that why you kept calling him a boy?"

he shrugs, looking up at the ceiling as his fingers run through your hair. "he is a boy. he couldn't take care of you like i could. and you already liked me before you started going out with him."

that punches the breath out of you.

"was i that obvious?" you ask dryly. he smiles, eyes darting down to you. he grabs your chin and tilts your head down, places a soft kiss upon your lips.

"policeman instinct."

ᥫ᭡.

it's a few weeks later that your entire world slips off it's axis. everything was fine with inho— he had taken you out multiple times. bought you cotton candy, kissed the remnants of it off your chin, and you two had walked hand in hand down the streets of seoul, much like the couples you envied on your first walk with him. you remember mostly going to eat spicy food with him because he was lactose intolerant and not a big fan of sweets. he'd even won you a plushie at an arcade that you now cuddle whenever you go to sleep without him. you remember not being scared anymore because you no longer felt the eyes of your stalker, and the only flowers you got were the ones inho would buy for you.

inho hadn't come home for two days and thirteen hours.

you know because you've been counting each hour. there's an unbearable itch in your stomach, and every door opening or closing in the hallway has you jumping and leaving to check. you'd met up with the landlady, insisted that she get someone to go look for him, but she'd merely brushed you off.

your days at work became gloomy and your classmates started to notice. je-hyun got a girlfriend too— one of your seniors. you were happy for him, honestly. but still fucking jealous. you missed your boyfriend, and worst of all, you were worried. he just went away without saying anything, and it filled you with a sense of betrayal.

you were in your own state of denial. no way he could do this to you— give you love and then snatch it away out of nowhere, leaving you empty and cold. you didn't want to believe it. absolutely not.

you were trying to sleep when you heard his name again. you sit up, quickly turning on the lights and jumping to the door.

"—he was supposed to pay his rent a week ago," your landlady says. you open the door and peek out, watch as she guides another man to his door. you wonder if he knows your inho. "i've stopped by everyday since then, but he hasn't come in or picked up his phone. by the way... about his rent... otherwise you'd have to move his stuff out right away—"

the younger guy ensures he'd pay the rent, and you watch curiously as she opens the door for him. "take your time!" she says.

so he definitely knows inho, you think.

you watch with bated breath, only his back being visible to you. you're not sure if you should approach him. suddenly, he's moving, turning around and leaving the apartment as if something came up. you open the door and watch him go— your voice stuck in your throat.

you don't see that guy again. you don't hear from inho again. you don't receive flowers, but the feeling of being watched still remains, although it's less frequent.

three days pass. you're gathering your belongings to leave when je-hyun places a bouquet in front of you. you look up at him, frowning.

"someone left this at the door," he says casually, rubbing the back of his neck. "for you. guess it didn't stop."

he leaves and you frown as you look at the flowers. you hadn't received these in a while. you analyse them— pink carnations paired with some white lilies and forget-me-nots. wrapped up in a white ribbon. you know carnations because they're infamous and can be seen in almost every flower shop. you also know carnations are usually used in weddings. they're a symbol of love and devotion. and forget me nots— there is no need for an explanation. the answer lies in its name. you're pulling your phone out to go through that website— the one that speaks the language of flowers.

perhaps it's your own stupidity for not having realized it before. you're quickly pulling the bouquet forward. no card. there are a myriad of emotions going through you— anger, hurt, and most of all— yearning. your heart yearns for him. it longs for him. your hands tremble as you clutch the edge of the table.

you look at the flowers almost bitterly. you grit your teeth, glaring down at your phone, the website open and displaying words that only evoke feelings of distress out of you. of course, it had to be him. there was no other explanation. flowers symbolizing jealousy right after je-hyun asked you out, you had mentioned how much you liked flowers the day you two went on a walk. them suddenly stopping the day you two started openly dating. you just feel stupid you didn't realize it sooner.

that manipulative prick.

you huff bitterly, your eye twitching as you read the damning text over and over again.

pink carnations — 'ill never forget you.'

inho watches your face through the screen with a glass of whiskey in hand; smiling slightly at the way you glare at him. him as in, the bouquet. he's testing a new thing, trying to see if you've figured it out yet. he's very conveniently placed a camera in this one. if you understand it's him who has been sending you flowers, he's a hundred percent sure you'll take it home and keep it. if you decide to throw it out, that's okay too. the teddy bear he won for you was easy to install a camera in. he gets to see you whenever he wants, even when he's away. watching your sleeping face is rather therapeutic amidst the brutal killings of the players in the games. whenever he starts to miss you, your face is a button away from him. he can't really keep an eye on you at work, but that's alright. he's paid someone to keep watch and make sure you don't find someone else.

it was fun to see the fear etched onto your face whenever you mentioned being stalked— he was the one carrying out the stalking himself, until other duties called. he had to take these measures to ensure he was the only source of your comfort, the only one to rely on. scaring you just a little so it would bring you closer to him. how else would you come to him? you needed a little push. and now he's got you wrapped around his finger, much like you've got him wrapped around yours.

the flowers were just fun. he liked messing with you. a little inside joke with himself— different flowers to express how he felt about you. he wanted to see how long it would take you to figure it out. the way they worked to keep most men away was simply an added bonus.

you almost actually getting assaulted was not part of the plan. he'd spiked the kid's drink to make sure he could conveniently step in to save the day— to find you and bring you home. except that disgusting freak of nature decided to lay his dirty hands on you. you don't have to know that he went back to finish the job, that the man is six feet under the ground. much like your dear je-hyun would've been if he hadn't respectfully backed off and gotten himself a girlfriend.

he doesn't think he has anger or jealousy issues, no. he simply does not think that he can live without you anymore. anyone who comes between the two of you, has to go. you're a little naive and easy to manipulate, but it worked in his favour. you trusted him too easily, and he's gotten addicted to the way you make him feel like some hero. he gets to protect you and hold you and forget about everything that he's had to go through. it's a win.

he's seen how miserable you've been without him— the plushie he got you has been spending more time in your arms than your phone, which he thinks is a good development.

you miss him, and he misses you too.

he can judge by the clench of your jaw that you've figured out he was the one behind the flowers. the thought makes him snort slightly. he tilts the glass, glancing down at the clear fluid, before looking up at your face.

you've pulled back. you're picking the bouquet up, and carrying it out. you cross the trash can— and you don't throw it out.

you're taking it home.

a pleased smirk curls upon his face and he nods to himself, taking the remote and turning on his music box.

the notes of 'fly me to the moon' wraps around him like a comforting blanket. he's gonna take this as a hint. if you're taking this bouquet home even after realizing he's the one behind the flowers, it must mean you accept him. and he can make do with that.

you're young and impressionable, and you follow what he says. he could share his ideas with you, see how you react.

and perhaps the next time he sees you, he'll bring you to the games with him.

A/N: this was sooo fun to write!! it took me a few days to finish this and i got so unmotivated because i accidentally deleted a draft at first, but now it turned out so much better than before! i truly hope it doesn't feel rushed or bad, and i know the smut is mid at best but i really tried :( as always feedback is always appreciated, and thank you so much for the support on my fics so far! i love you guys!

tags: @movienerd3000 @testdrivethv @leebyunghunswifey @nerdybarbariancupcake @neganhore @k1ra-park3r @vivdolls @wab-i @stantwicr @creativerambling @yasmim-1007 @makethemgirlsgoloco @jamiewritesfanfiction-blog @captaincarmel416 @warlabels @ferrarifinnick @smlbch @izzyyann @meheheasasa @poooopy @endlessfl4mes @selfishlittlebeing @pillowtalk6 @antiromanticbaby

[solbaby7]

High For This

pairing: eris x reader

warnings: jealous!eris, swearing, another overindulgent ball hosted simply for conspiratorial purposes, sexual themes, wrote this with the implication of Beron being dead, abrupt ending bc if i didn’t stop there i prolly wouldn’t stop at all, not edited

summary: Eris is a jealous man and you’re determined to see exactly how hot his fire burns for you.

—

“Excuse me?”

Your eyes roll on their own accord, hands fluffing through fresh curls as dark mascara dries on thick lashes. A tinted gloss stains full lips and Eris hates the way his lungs greedily gulp in the sensual oud permeating the air.

Everything in here smells like you and he doesn’t resist the indulgence of looking around to take in the fluffy duvet sheets neatly strewn over the mattress and the cream throw pillows tucked near your headboard. The canopy drapes are tucked to each post, the middle dripping dreamily like clouds hovering in the sky.

You’re meticulous, he notes; every item you own continent in their convenient little homes. “I said,” The tone you hold makes his jaw clench, his body visibly perturbed by your nonchalance while he felt himself slipping deeper into your pull. You barely spare him a proper glance—too occupied in looking over yourself in the floor length mirror. “I have a date so you don’t have to wait for me. We’ll meet you there.”

“A date?” Eris repeats sharply, staring at you through the mirror.

“Is there a problem with that?” You know the answer before the question is even fully spoken, a smug little smirk ghosting in the corner of your lips as you sift through your jewelry box. Rings are slid onto your fingers, gold bands and pretty emerald cut jewels glittering in the faelight. “I specifically remember you saying that you didn’t need a plus one.”

“Because,” Each syllable is drawn out, his restraint slipping as you pushed his buttons with such expertise. “—I already had one.” You read between the lines, a brow raising as you settle in the knowledge that the High Lord had expected you to hang off his arm.

“I don’t recall you asking.”

“It was implied.”

Dark kohl lines your eyes and accentuates full lashes, a pretty blush placed on the high points of your cheeks and such beauty seems lethal when you stare through the mirror. “You’ve never had an issue articulating your wants before—if you desired it bad enough, of course.”

You leave room for a response, trying desperately to mask the flicker of hope beginning to drudge to life within the embers. Centuries of waiting for Beron to no longer be an issue, no longer looming over both of your shoulders and destroying every meaningful moment.

Things were supposed to be different when he was finally dead.

Easier.

Only, Eris had grown more guarded. Terrified that showing a hint of affection would backfire as it had so many times before. He takes his time, smoothening out his tone and compulsively straightening out the neatly folded handkerchief sticking elegantly from the breast pocket of his perfectly tailored suit. “This is not up for debate, bunny. Turn your little friend away and let’s go before we’re late.”

“No.” You shove past him, clutch tucked under your arm and high heels clicking furiously against the hardwood.

It stuns him for a beat of time but he recovers far quicker and Eris all but barks out your name as he exits your door, following a few paces behind with a snarl working its way up his throat. “Get back here!”

“I am not some object that you can just command when you please.” Elegant curls bounce angrily with your every step, jewelry chiming with each little bounce down the stairs. One hand grips at the banister for balance, the tight fit of your dress forcing you to move slower than you’d like. “You do not own me.”

"You're right, bunny. I don't own you but I am your High Lord and you will stop walking this instant."

The immediate fae-like stillness of your form has Eris’ heart thumping with excitement against his ribcage. A perfect mask is painted across your features when you slowly turn on the balls of your feet to face him but nothing could ever quench the fire that burns behind your retinas. “My Lord?”

A noise is hummed low in his throat—pleased or patronizing?—you weren’t sure but judging by that leisurely stride and the special time he takes in looking you over, it has to be a mix of both. “I like that tone much better.” Eris’ hands are warm when he brushes a lock of hair away from your face, fingertips grazing against your neck with such care that you have to suppress the shiver threatening to rake up your spine.

You refused to allow him the satisfaction of knowing how his touch affected you.

Not when he was acting like such an entitled toddler.

“Wonderful,” Venom burns under every word, even if it is wrapped in a sickeningly sweet tone. “I aim to please.”

A smile bleeds its way onto his face, the faelight casting shadows over the handsome contours of his features and frustration forces your fingers to fidget when the intoxicating oud of his cologne engulfs your senses. “I’m thrilled to hear that, bunny.” Eyes narrow up at Eris as you clock that tone of voice—that devilish look burning behind amber irises. “Let’s hope all that enthusiasm helps you survive the night.”

“Funny you should say that,” The way your hand elegantly rests in the crease of his extended arm feels utterly natural, no matter how much contempt is quivering behind the movement. “It’s not me who needs to worry about surviving the night.”

—

Playing the part of the demure, doting date is a million times more difficult than you make it look. Sweet smiles and the inviting shape of your figure brings in more attention than normal—or maybe it was because of who’d been permanently fused to your side since the second you’d arrived.

Eris had never been so on guard, amber irises raking over anyone who came within a five foot radius and most of your time is spent wading the rigid line of his shoulders. “Quit it,” You snap through your teeth, concealing the bite if your words with a bright grin. “You forced me to be here with you and now you’re scaring everyone off.”

“Forced you?” He doesn’t even sound offended—just smug as he motions to your hand curled comfortably around his bicep. “Is that the narrative you’re running with tonight, bunny? How unoriginal.” The body language portrays anything but ‘forced’ and once he’s pointed it out, you’re quick to pull away, snatching your hand back and grumbling profanities under your breath.

“What else would you call it?”

Eris feigns aloofness when responding, refusing to grant you the decency of his gaze and your spine goes ramrod straight when his words sink in. “I’d say it’s no different than when any of the other High Lords attend with their plus ones—though it seems theirs are more well behaved.”

“I’m not some hound who submits to your every command, Eris Vanserra.” Hurt lingers in the words you spit out just loud enough for him to hear. “What the other High Lords have are wives, partners—mates. They’re not cowards; wanting someone and stringing them along.” Tears well in your waterline, grip shaky around the flute of champagne until you abandon it altogether. “You’re wasting my time and I have little patience left to offer.”

You’re forced to walk away before the dam breaks, refusing to wear your heart on your sleeve for it never worked well before. Makes you too vulnerable; too tethered to a male too afraid to return the sentiment.

Balcony doors creak under your touch, opening just enough for you to slip through and close it behind you. For once, you’re grateful for the solitude. Basking in the cool breeze and the comforting smell of fresh flora, you let your eyes slip closed, a single tear falling free and your back bows as you sag against iron railings.

Just a single moment of weakness.

And it’s completely shattered by another presence.

“Want me to kill ‘em?”

You snap up like a spring, neck nearly snapping with the force it takes to turn so quickly. Palms wipe at your cheeks, straightening out the fabrics of your dress. “Sorry,” You quickly flush the moment realization sinks in, eyes taking in the towering Illyrian standing just a few feet away. His hair held in a neat bun at the nape of his neck, burly form slouched in a lounge chair, wings stretched high behind him. “I thought I was alone out here.”

“Looking how you do, I doubt you’re ever really alone.”

You scoff, this hateful, bark of a noise that refuses to be tampered down or subdued. “Not everyone shares your sentiment.”

“Date ditch you?”

“A girl could only dream. No, my ‘date’ is spending his time being a grade A douchebag—needed fresh air before I did something stupid.”

He hums in acknowledgment, a chilled glass of amber liquor dripping condensation down the thick stretch of his forearm. His head cocks to the side when he looks you up and down, making note of that forlorn expression casting shadows across pretty features. “Want to make him jealous?”

You should be ashamed for how abruptly the notion piques your interest. For how quickly satisfaction settles within your bloodstream at the thought of Eris watching you waltz around with this brick wall of a male and his effortless presence. “What’s in it for you?”

“Pretty thing on my arm is prize enough, even if it is just for show.”

There’s a pause where the Illyrian can literally see the gears turning in your head. Outweighing the risks. Mulling over potential consequences.

He can tangibly grasp the exact moment you shove all that aside—too scorned to give a shit about retribution. Too much time had gone into getting ready to waste it all on a male too prideful to cherish the gift wrapped before him. You head nods with finality, one hand outstretched before him. “It’s a deal.”

His hand is warm against your own, significantly larger and riddled with callouses. Tattoos the shade of obsidian is etched into tawny skin, arms rippling with muscles that bulge against the tight fit of formal leather attire. “I’m Cassian.”

“I know who you are.” Hesitation lingers in the set of your shoulders, spine not fully lax though Cassian doubts that’s fully possible with the skyscraper for heels adorning your feet. “Do you know who I am?”

His grin only grows when he stands at full attention, so tall your neck cranes just to meet his eye. “I’ve got a pretty good idea.” Ice clinks against his glass as he offers it to you, lifting the rim to your lips and muttering a soft praise when you drink obediently. “There’s a girl. Drink up, you’ll need the liquid courage.”

Liquid courage. Makes sense when it burns on the way down, easing frazzled nerves and a short temper until your arm slips in the crease of Cass’ elbow like it was a regular occurrence.

He’s confident. Borderline cocky with the way he urges you closer, hips bumping into one another with each step. The closeness does the trick though, a smoldering set of sandy eyes fall on you the moment you’re thrusted back into the fray. “Chin up,” Cassian murmurs softly, lips barely even moving over the words.

You’re led to the dance floor, situated smack dab in the middle. It’s a spectacle but something tells you that’s the whole point when Cassian circles a hand around your waist. The other reaches for your free hand, easing your fingers against his own until you’re palm to palm. “Do you even know how to dance? I don’t recall that being apart of Illyrian curriculum.”

It’s a harmless tease—the jab earning you a laugh so organic that it shows both rows of shiny teeth and a pantydropping set of dimples in his cheeks. “Pretty and funny. You really should consider not being so charming, I have an awful habit of hoarding treasures like you.”

Your head dips, a blush growing along the apples of your cheeks that only grows when Cassian is emboldened, ushering you in closer until you run the risk of stepping all over his toes. If he cares, you can’t tell, too washed up in the feeling of being shown off—proudly at that. “I appreciate you doing this for me. Even if it doesn’t work.”

“Trust me,” Cassian drawls, his gaze far off as he focuses on something behind you. “It’s working.”

He doesn’t elaborate, though he doesn’t really have to when you pick up on a familiar step pattern. Nose catching the earthy scent of spicy cinnamon and nutmeg. Of pine trees and bonfire smoke. “Bunny,” Eris fixates on the Illyrian’s hold on you, the corded muscle in his jaw jumping with the effort it takes to restrain himself from burning Cassian’s hands to a crisp. “Mind if I cut in?”

“This dance is nearly done.”

“And you’ll be finishing it with me.” It’s sick how desire pools in your belly at the possessive tone. How pleased you feel with yourself when Eris all but pries you away from Cass and into his own arms. You barely have enough time to say thank you to the Night Courts General before the eldest Vanserra has whisked you far, far away from those giant wings and the enigmatic wearer of them. “Where’d you run off too? I was worried.”

“Worried about what? That someone else was cherishing what you neglect?” You hum to yourself at the raw guilt that screws up the handsome pout of his mouth. “What’s that saying? One males trash…”

“You aren’t trash. You know I don’t think of you as trash.”

“No, you just treat me like it.” The chattering of guests drowns out your words from prying ears. “Hiding me at the bottom of the bin like you’re ashamed of me or something.”

You’re working yourself up again. Overthinking. Self-depreciating. Resenting. Digging a hole with no means of pulling yourself out but Eris halts that train of thinking with a hand to your jaw. The grip is gentle but firm, guiding you to look him in the eye; insisting you see the seriousness that swirls in the copper tones of his iris. “You are everything to me,” His confession stops you in your tracks. Steals your breath away at you hang onto every constant and vowel like a lifeline. “I wake up everyday just so I can see your face and I lay my head down every night praying that it’s filled with dreams of you—of us. Everything I do, anything I’ve ever done is to ensure your happiness. Your safety.”

“Eris..”

“No, listen to me.” Both hands cup your cheeks, all space eaten up until each breath he exhales in the air you inhale. Two halves of a whole slowly sliding into place. The final pieces of a puzzle connecting as one to fulfill the bigger picture. “You are mine.” Thumbs brush over the curve of your cheekbones, tracing at the slope of your nose and memorizing the shine of your lips. “My woman,” Tenderness leaks from every syllable, sincerity bleeding from every pore until you’re unable to fight back the rushing currents of your tears. “My love, my mate and while I can never promise to be a perfect male, I can vow that I am thoroughly vested in all things categorized as your best interest.”

“If I’d have known dancing with another male was all it took for such a confession, I’d have done so long ago.”A breathless laugh emits, one that softens the stern line of his brow and eases the fear his father engraved in his soul.

Noses brush, lashes kissing until your lips meet his own and all of your doubt is washed away. “I love you.”

“All I’ll ever love is you.”

[black-crested-jaybird]

Yes, exactly!

We tell the kids: don't give away your name, age, or location online; and if you see/read/hear something that is confusing, scary, or upsetting, you can turn it off/close it, and go talk to a trusted adult about it.

I often worry that this generation, and especially the kids I know, are getting a double dose of "everything is awful" without the necessary and true evidence that actually most things are not awful; they are either pretty okay or really darn awesome actually! We are just wired to notice problems harder as a survival tactic! And sometimes this worry does make me nervous about the kind of things the kids are being exposed to/exposing themselves to.

I try to remind myself that more information is almost always better than less; and deciding when less information is better (for example when I decide that I know enough about a scary movie, or an upsetting news story, and that I don't want to engage with it in more detail) should be an informed and individual choice.

Are the kids going to find things that upset them as they develop their own sense of what is safe and healthy for them? Yes. We all do that. What's most important is that they have safe places and ways to learn, and safe people to go to when they need support with the process of learning.

[watchmegetobsessed]

THE HAPPIEST

A/N: happy birthday to our favorite boo!🎉

WORD COUNT: 1.6k

SUMMARY: It's Harry's birthday, he is surrounded by his friends, but all he wants is to talk things out with Y/N.

MASTERLIST | SUPPORT ME!

The room is full of people Harry loves and that is actually all he wished for his 31st birthday. Even though he’s been on a long.stretched break in the past year, it’s still tough to gather all his favorite people in one room, since life didn’t stop for everyone else while he was getting his well-deserved rest after such a hectic period in his life. 

With a drink in his hand he is standing by the bar of the private room of a popular cocktail place his friends recommended for the occasion. It’s spacious enough to fit over thirty people, there are plenty of seats, a private bar so they don’t have to leave the hidden bubble and even a small dance floor was fitted in one corner with a karaoke machine as well. Just the perfect spot for an amazing night. 

Taking a sip from his drink he glances over the rim of his glass and runs his gaze over the room, probably for the fiftieth time in the past hour or so. No matter how many times he tells himself to just relax and forget about it, he simply can’t. 

Though he seems happy and carefree, the people around him have no idea just how frustrating the last few days of thirty were. All because of her.

Y/N was an old friend of Harry’s, they’ve known each other from the times he was still touring with the band. Their bond formed quickly and strongly and Harry could never deny he always felt a little more than just friendship for her, but the time just never felt right. Relationships, work, moving, it felt like everything around them was urging them to stay as they were, right until a few months ago. 

Y/N was visiting Harry in London, both of them eager to spend some quality time together, but one late night talking with a bottle of wine finally blurred the line between them. A more than friendly dynamic started between them and to Harry, nothing has ever felt as right as being with Y/N.

But her last relationship ended quite terribly and she was cautious, which Harry understood and more than happily accepted. They moved slowly, though Harry could feel himself fall harder and harder with every passing day while she stayed just as prudent as in the beginning and he felt like they were out of sync. 

Then a few days ago he couldn’t hold it in any longer and brought it up. All he wanted was just a discussion and to find common ground, to figure out where they are heading, but it somehow turned into a fight. Harry was adamant, wanting to make them official and take the leap while she argued with him to just stay as they are, to which Harry questioned her what they truly were, but she couldn’t answer. 

It ended quite nastily and she just left. Later that night Harry tried to call her, but she only texted him asking for some time to think. Now it’s been two days and the no contact is slowly killing him on the inside, but he is trying his best to respect her will and just hope for the best. He’s been anticipating her arrival all evening, though part of him is not sure she’ll show up at this point. In that case that will be a rather clear message for him about where they are heading. 

Down the drain, he thinks to himself and ignores the ache in his chest at the thought of losing her, because he wouldn’t be losing his lover but a close friend as well, so that would be a double heartbreak for his birthday with a bow on top. 

“Birthday boy! You have to be the first one singing!” someone shouts at Harry and a moment later he can feel himself being dragged towards the karaoke machine. With a chuckle he lets himself get busied, hoping he would stop staring at the entrance. 

A handful of songs later Harry is behind the mic again, attempting to sing a Chappell Roan song he only heard maybe twice before, but someone else chose it for him. He is focusing on the words, laughing along with his friends when he falls out of rhythm because he can’t read the screen fast enough. 

One hand holding the mic, the other one has his drink, he is sloshing it around as he is urging his audience to join the singing. His eyes flicker up from the screen for just one split second, but his stomach immediately drops when they land on a face he’s been looking for all evening. 

Y/N is standing in the back, watching him with a soft smile that has his gut in a clench right away. 

She came.

He forgets about the lyrics, making his friends laugh which snaps him out of his shock and he returns to his performance, but now every time he looks up from the screen he is only looking at her. 

When the song is over they want to keep him for another, but he successfully slips away, but he also loses sight of her in just a minute. As discreetly as possible, he is trying to spot her in the room as he heads to the bar, but she is nowhere to be found. 

Was he just hallucinating? Where could she go so fast? 

He can barely swallow his disappointment as the bartender hands him his new drink, but before he could fall deeper into his self pity, there’s a gentle tap on his shoulder. He turns around and the warmth is instantly back in his chest.

“Happy birthday.” Y/N smiles at him shyly, as if she is not sure what to do or say. 

“Thank you,” Harry breathes, the urge to wrap his arms around her is strong, but he orders himself to stay put and not cross any boundaries. Besides, public affection was part of their argument, since Y/N didn’t want people to get the wrong idea if they saw them physically close. “I uh… I’m glad you’re here.”

Her eyes soften. 

“Me too,” she replies, barely audible. 

“Do you… want to talk? There’s a small terrace at the back, we could–”

“Maybe later. Is that okay?” 

“Yeah.” Harry nods, hiding his disappointment. He would rather settle the weird tension between them, but he doesn’t want to push her too much. 

“Harry, hey!” someone emerges from the side, popping their little bubble. He swallows his irritation and politely greets the new guests, his jaw clenches when he sees Y/N slipping away from beside him. 

At least she is here, he reminds himself. They will talk this out, he just has to be patient. 

For the next hour or so he keeps an eye on Y/N no matter how far they are from each other in the room, wanting to make sure she’s still there. With several mutual friends, Y/N quickly finds familiar faces and blends in pretty easily and though it appears she is not too bothered by their current situation, Harry often catches her looking at him as well. Every time their eyes meet he gives her a soft smile and she always returns. 

At one point Harry is finally left alone at the bar as he waits for his next drink, gaze glued to Y/N from across the room, of course. This time, she is looking back at him just as intently and he can tell her mind is racing about something he wishes to know. He is just about to make a move and get closer to her, hoping to talk to her, but she beats him. 

Surprisingly, she excuses herself from the group she’s been talking to, crossing the room heading straight towards him. His heart is hammering against his ribs, because it feels like something major is about to happen, but right when she is about to reach him a small group steps to him, engaging him in their conversation, ruining her chance of going through with whatever she had in mind. Harry panics, not wanting her to leave, so before she could escape he reaches out, gently takes her hand and pulls her into the little circle.

The touch of her skin against his palm feels heavenly and makes him want more, but he forces himself to let go. His hand falls back to his side, his skin buzzing from such a small touch and he tries to focus on the conversation because otherwise he would be staring at Y/N. 

But to his surprise, a few seconds later her hand slips back into his palm, fingers lacing together with his and she moves closer to him until she is pressed up against his arm. Harry can’t mask his astonishment as he finally looks at her, but his hand closes around hers without a second thought. They look at each other, talking without words, but they are both clear about the message.

Harry can’t hold his growing smile back, which makes her chuckle as well before she hides her face in his shoulder. A moment later Harry lets go of her hand but only so he can circle his arms around her waist and pull her in front of him, holding her tight in his embrace as they join the conversation again, the others didn’t even notice a single thing of what just went down. Y/N happily leans her back against his front, hands covering his on her stomach as their body heat becomes one. 

“Now it’s a happy birthday,” Harry whispers into her ear so only she can hear his words. She smiles, turns her head and gently kisses his lips before he adds: “The happiest.”

Thank you for reading, please like and reblog if you enjoyed and buy me a coffee if you want to support me!

[1nthedarknessofthenight]

﴾ smooth operator

pairing: bangchan x f!reader

genre: one-shot, office au, smut

word count: 7,1K

warnings: dom!bangchan and sub!reader ⋆ exhibitionism!⋆ choking! ⋆ ass!slapping⋆ hair!pulling ⋆ marking! ⋆ cum!eating ⋆ possessiveness ⋆ oral (f.receiving) ⋆ angry!sex⋆ unprotected!sex ⋆ creampie!

summary: you always get what you want, with a single look, a wave of your hand, dripping with confidence that made him tremble the first time you two met, he watched you quietly from afar, admiring the perfection that you are, but it soon turned into obsession and oh, how he hated how much you got into his head…

request by @khandzilla

──────────────────────

Many things had happened to Chris since he moved, away from all of his past and finally reaching for the future. He discovered many different things that he had never thought about before, trying every new thing and place the city of Los Angels had to offer. They shone at him with brightness, called out to him, even though the tiring and sometimes boring main reason he had taken this step slowed down his new experiences. The best thing was that he had time — plenty of time for himself to grow and learn. The job that gave him this opportunity was honest with him — it will be hard to maintain his position, but all of the hard work paid off in the end. However, he thought that doing all those business meetings, marketing and all the paperwork would be the hardest part…definitely not maintaining his composure.

Chris has done a lot of new things since his first day at work, met new people and made contacts. He could still remember how nervous he was on the first day, but everyone surprised him by being so kind and it was almost unusual at such a hectic workplace. Every day was different for him, if he doesn’t count those awfully long papers and files he had to fill out every day. It was, because of the people that he now can call friends. Minho, despite his first impression of him told him that he wasn’t very friendly, immediately took him under his wing. He showed him everything, what to do and what not do and even introduced him to his other colleagues. Seungmin, a brunette, quite similar to him in a sense that he always made fun of his age just like Minho, even if he wasn’t that much older than them and then Chris soon found himself in a pile of many different faces.

But one thing remained the same and that was you. The first time he saw — felt your presence was when he was a week into his new job. You screamed, your aura cutting through the office as you quickly walked pass him. You were so quick in your heels that he didn’t even have a chance to get a full look at you. Though someone was quick enough to catch his stare — Minho, who was sitting across of him spoke your name and that made the others glance at him. It was like the sound of your name was a secret code, because everyone suddenly turned their heads to catch just a glimpse of your distancing figure. He felt his ears turn red at being caught, but soon after the others became aware of your presence, he realized that he wasn’t the only one simply astonished by you.

He learned from the looks of his colleagues and then awfully interesting gossip that you rarely left your office. Seeing you walk passed them always broke into something — you were the main topic of gossip. Everyone seemed to know everything about you, yet you didn’t talked to anyone if it wasn’t necessary. You were always quick, never leaving your sanctuary if it weren’t for a meeting or a coffee. Aubrey, a dark haired woman which seemed to be the leader of your small ‘fan club’ said that it was like you were almost disgusted by them as if you felt, you were above them. Soon his female colleagues’ chatting turned bitter as they all turned to him, while Minho and Seungmin silently listened. Chris knew that it wasn’t right to talk about someone — about what they were wearing, how they were behaving in a such place and when you not know them, but he kept his mouth shut to get every information.

Chris doesn’t know if it was because he literally became awestruck by your presence from the moment he saw you, but he soon started to see more of you. You seemed to be always in some a corner, alone, but he always found you. You always sat at the corner of the room next to a window, when it was lunchtime. You always made your coffee with just a splash of milk and just a small pump of vanilla. You seemingly should blend into the background as you were always in dark clothes, but your whole aura radiating from you couldn’t make you invisible.

He remembered the one time, when he was sitting behind his desk, looking at the back of your head, tracing your figure clad in loose trousers and blouse, just waiting for you to turn around. Maybe to notice him, maybe to let him finally see your face behind your blowout hair. He should have concentrated on his work or maybe on the voice of his female colleague talking his ear and that really started to cut through his fixation. He didn’t even see your face and it was getting to him. His coworkers voice was awfully low and sweet and he knew she was trying to get his attention, but it was no use.

He watched your pretty manicured fingers go to your cup of coffee, metal reflecting in the light as you never used those cheep, plastic cups like everyone else — well, you definitely weren’t like anyone he had ever met before. You turned just slightly to the side, lips puckering, when you glanced into the hallway leading to your office, finger making a come here motion. He could tell you were frustrated, your frown that he didn’t see much of deepening, when Minho suddenly emerged from the hallway.

Chris straightened his back and at that the annoying sound of his colleague became quiet. He ignored it, noting Minho’s small twitch and fidgeting, when you push a pile of papers into his direction. He couldn’t hear anything over the noises of mouses and keyboards clicking, but he could feel the shift in the air. His friend had a look of small fright, when you started to move your lips slowly, but words seemingly laced with a hard tone. He at that wondered how much strict you you actually were, maybe some of the gossip turned into a fact. Minho shook his head wildly after you were done speaking, not even trying to cut into your speech like he does with everyone. You tilted your head at his words, letting the papers be pushed back to you. His friend then pointed right into his direction, like a child trying to escape his punishment and you instantly turned to look at him.

His mouth opened, gaped at your features — soft, yet sharp with the look you gave him under your glasses. Chris felt his heart stop when you turned fully into his direction, before marching through the room right to his desk. From the corner of his eye he could see everyone turning their heads, hear the sudden stop of the even sounds of keyboards, but he couldn’t do anything else, but look at you. Your body — so nice, tight and soft in the right places, eyes trailing over your blouse that clinged to your breast, your lips painted deeper brown, your eyeshadow sharpening your stare.

The sound of your shoes made his heart beat faster with each stomp, before they scraped on the floor, when you stopped right before his desk. “Chris, is it?” Your glare didn’t match your slow and low tone, not even your comfortable stance, but from the looks of his colleagues, he could tell that you actually were not pleased at all. Why, he didn’t know yet at that moment, still to occupied by looking your over and also trying to keep his cool, because the way you said his name was…arousing.

Chris just knew he looked stupid, when his eyes went back and forth between his coworkers and you, it was like he completely forgot his own name. “Yes…” He thinks he has never felt like this since a teacher caught him misbehaving in middle school.

The way you were waiting for him, giving him time to anwer just made him realize how patient you are, even if you looked quite irritated. You then put those papers on his desk, slap! echoing through the room. “Please, take another look at those papers.” You say, voice still collected.

He did what you ask, even if it was quite hard to tear his gaze away from you, but at least he had your perfume filling up his nose. His eyes fell to the file with papers, lips falling even more apart as he scanned through them. They were his, he did them yesterday just an hour before he ended his day and just by a single look he could tell that there was something not right. “Oh!” His fingers stopped at a particular spot, your shadow heavy on his shoulders.

“Yes, correct it–“ He looked up at you at that, already distancing yourself as you were almost shaking to get back to your office. “Give it back to me later, you have time till three.”

With only that you walked away, not letting him ask questions, leaving him to figure out his mistakes himself. The only thing you left was your lingering presence that made few people, other than his friends look at him and he wanted to groan out loud. ‘What a way to make nice, first impression’, he thought to himself. He literally made a fool of himself. The first words, the first thing he did to get your attention was his idiocy. The hand that landed on his shoulder was supposed to be calming, but Seungmin only made him feel more humiliated. It also didn’t help that the others immediately started to get to the talk and he didn’t hear anything other than their awful gossip.

“Did you see that? Poor you, Channie-“

“How can she talk to us like that?”

“Did you see her clothes? She’s literally screaming for attention!”

“You didn’t do anything wrong, just do what she wants, so she can get off your back–“

Chris was disgusted. You weren’t bitchy or moody, you were collected and he knew just what your position requires. He couldn’t help, but feel intimidated — it was a natural response to you. How could they talk to you like that? Making gossip and hate out of anything you do, Chris is glad for his two friends at the moment as they shut down their conversation. One thing is being humiliated by making a mistake infornt of a woman like you and then others just adding up to it. It was his fault, you only told him to fix it, nothing more. There was no need for them to talk about you so harshly.

Chris returned the papers just in time that day, but he was not quick enough to catch up with you as your office was already closed. It was also the first time he was in that part of the building, only passing by it to get to the elevators. He stared for a moment at your name and your title at the milky, glass door and he probably stood there for a quite while as your assistant walked up to him. He can’t lie that he was disappointed by your assistant telling him to just give those papers to him as you were at a meeting.

Though after that he got just a few more occurrences with you. The most memorable one was when you joined him at the coffee machine. He can still remember your pencil skirt and matching suit jacket, red lips, black stockings with a line going down the back of your legs and mostly your pretty glasses framing your face as you looked for your vanilla sirup. He had to fight the argue to a smirk, when he without a word lean over your cup to pump the hidden sirup in his hands into your coffee. You almost seemed surprised by his presence, like you didn’t even know he was right next you or maybe it was simply because of his sudden deep eye contact. He didn’t even blink, while looking at you, not even when you said a small sweet ‘thank you’. That simple moment grew into something big, when you leaned over him to to grab a plastic cup to put it in the coffee machine, before pressing his preferred choice of drink. It wasn’t sweet anymore after that, it was more nerveracking, because the fact you knew told him everything — you were watching too and he started to like you more and more, before it started to change.

Soon he started to hate you. He hated how you were in the every corner of his mind. He was thinking about you since the first day he saw you — at work, even home, mainly late at night in the privacy of his bedroom. He hated how you saw him firstly like everyone else, how he felt like everyone else — how he was firstly scared of you. Even if he talked to you briefly, got to know your small habits — how you always clicked your nails together, how you hold the side of your glasses with your index finger, your chewing at the inside of your lips, your small minimal pull at your eyebrows when someone talked to you. The conversation were always about work, you never talked outside of it and he soon realized how much you are into your work. You are a total workaholic or maybe you just didn’t like someone sticking their nose into your business.

But it felt like it was his too, because how possibly can you be able to mess him up like this? You weren’t even doing anything to rile him up and he must wonder if those subtle looks, gestures where really nothing or if you were just playing with him. He wanted to figure you out and it is driving him insane, because he feels like he is turning into one of them…though they certainly aren’t thinking of putting you into your place — right under him or maybe he would even let you be on top of him, just like you were used to.

Chris has to groan into his hands, back muscles screaming at the pressure they were put through the whole day. He really does sometimes breathe in relief when he goes to work out, because sitting hours behind a desk feels like a form of torture. It’s so quiet — it’s so weird not hearing even a whisper. The office would look eery, if it weren’t for the city lights shinning through the glass windows. He swears, he can even hear cars from the silence in the room. The lamp at his desk is burning his eyes, glancing for the last time over his work and he wants to scream in delight as he finally could pack his things up and go home.

Today was unusually stressful for him, so much of everything that he had no choice, but to stay late. He could have done it on Monday, but the thought of not finishing something wouldn’t make his weekend better, not to mention how overly hectic it would be if he would leave it to Monday. From the sitting and the turned down air conditioning his skin glisten in the thin layer of sweat, pulling just slightly at his white shirt to unstick it from his stomach. He didn’t even care about how he basically throw his things into his bag, too lazy to actually take time and put everything where it belongs.

The click of his polished shoes is the only sound in the building as he walks down the hallway, trying to untie the nots in his upper back. Though silence should be thing quite familiar to him in sense as he walks pass your office, only for his own body to stop in its tracks. A frown falls on upon his face, looking down at the carpet under his feet. Light is coming from behind your door, the warm orange hue cutting through the moonlight floor. Chris firstly thought that you might just accidentally let your lamp on, but that wouldn’t make any sense — he is the only one here…

Curiosity gets the best of him, not even thinking twice and wrapping his hand around the door handle. In a sense he feels like he is doing something he shouldn’t as the door creaks open, letting him barely have a look in the room and sure enough he at that hears sound of a keyboard’s clicking. His heart beats s little faster, thinking of way too many different things that could be happening behind the door and he literally haven’t open it yet. To his surprise it was a way simpler answer — way more exciting…

You — you were here with him, at this late hour at a place you both know so well. He knew, after some small and innocent spying that you clocked out just an hour before him as you always get here in the early hours of morning — so seeing you behind your desk with a laptop illuminating your face was a surprise. “What are you doing here?” And you were definitely surprised too.

You jump in your seat at the unexpected voice, eyes widening just slightly as you snap your head into the direction of the door. He can see the genuine expression of surprise for a split second, before it all falls back to your natural, cold one. “I could ask you the same thing.” You wit back, taking a one, long look at him from your desk — his misbehaved hair, opened shirt that clinged to his toned body, how he leaned casually on the doorway, before you turn back to your work.

Chris tilts his head at you, listening to your nails grazing over the keyboard. “It’s almost one a.m–“ He, just like you doesn’t answer your question as it wasn’t that much important at the moment, not when you were looking like that — you always looked put together, not single wrinkle on your clothes or a smudge in your make up, but he can see the small effects of your equally hard day on you.

Your glasses that were usually on the low point of your nose sit in the small pocket on your blouse, his eyes naturally drifting to the exposed skin of your breasts. Your outfits were always modest, yet so provocative. Your lipstick appeared lighter than before, but he knew it was dark red as he saw you pass by his desk today. So quick, but not quick enough to not be caught by his eyes. His knuckles turn white at the sight of your open top, body swaying, ready to take a step close just to try and see what you might ne hiding underneath. Chris doesn’t even care about how unprofessional he is being, the only thing he cares about is seeing if you were thinking the same thing — well, you certainly weren’t telling him to leave.

“I know.” You say, not even looking at him, seemingly very into the piece of paper in front of you and he can see your fingers nibbling at its edge.

“Aren’t you tired?” He says, genuinely wondering.

“No.”

“Can I get you a coffee?” Chris fires question after question, just to hear your sultry voice, frustrated from the lack of attention.

You don’t answer this time to his displeasure, only holding up your cup to let him see there was no need for him. But he needs it — you, how can he not grab this opportunity to finally talk to you, fully get drunk off your presence alone. You don’t do anything to indicate that he is not invited, so he slowly makes his way up to you. His eyes not even for a second leave you, grasping greedily at every new angle he gets. You look frustrated — the twitch in your eyebrows is prominent and he wants nothing more than to turn it into something way different.

You are aware of his looming body behind you and you know about that hand gripping the back of your chair, though you do nothing against it. Your fingers no longer move on the keyboard, the pen in your hand hovering over the paper before you. You just stare at it, realizing you might be getting distracted. “That’s tomorrow’s work.” His breath hits the back of your head, making you fight back goosebumps.

“Yes, that’s why I’m doing it…”

You remark was supposed to be witty, but the small strain in your voice won over. “You shouldn’t be so hard on yourself…Y/N.” Chris sighs out your name, hand gripping tightly the back of your chair, doing anything in his power not to just turn you around, so you can see everything what you did and are still doing to him.

He can hear you click your tongue, head just barely turning his way. “I didn’t know we are casual like that…Christopher.” You say.

His eyes narrowed from your words and tone. Is this really not casual? The thick tension in the room, the shared looks…Chris suddenly becomes angered, mostly frustrated from your behavior. His nose flares to exhale a deep sigh, before taking in the sweet smell of your perfume. By that action his body naturally needed to get closer to you to get a real and good whiff of your scent. He hovers over you, caging you in — and was that a small gasp and shake as a reaction to his bold move? “You are so tense…” He can’t fight the satisfied smile from your reaction. Even if it would be unseen by others, his fixation on you literally gave him the power to crack open every single small twitch in you, reading you like a book. “Do you need me to take it away?” He whispers, hot breath hitting you.

There’s a pause, your lips falling apart. “What are applying exactly?” You are incredibly still and collected, even if he is able to see under your thick shell.

He shrugged at your question, smile not leaving his lips and he knows you can hear it in his next words. “Just a massage…” He says so innocently.

He can’t see the obvious frown on your face. “Get on with it then.” You say, your voice uncharacteristically quiet, though your tone sharp. The small laugh in his chest couldn’t be contained by your reaction. His hands loosen around the back of your chair, face falling as he lifts his finger to just barely push your hair away from your neck.

The light scratch of his nails leaves traces of fire, tickling and making a rush of a new emotion go through your whole body. You are quiet, staring at the closed doors to your office, while you let the man behind you touch you. Chris is so slow with his every move, it’s like he is doing it on purpose — maybe to see a glimpse of frustration on your face, but who are you to give him such pleasure? His hands are big, fingers long and when he puts them on your shoulders they almost dip under your slightly open blouse.

You both at that realize the difference between your body temperatures — his hands were hot and they came with even more burning, when he pressed into your shoulders, your body was cold and you realize that it might be because you haven’t felt this much burning for anyone before. He — he has to know by the way your body is so tense under his hands that it’s been a quite long time since you last felt the touch of another. Your work, your passion and need for perfection suddenly felt like a immense weight on your shoulders that he messaged all away with just few squeezes. However your pride didn’t shift…you are not sure if you want to give him the satisfaction and let him see the true effect he has on you. Or do you? One thing that you truly want is to see him tremble, just like on the day you two first met — so flustered, almost scared just by your existence.

Chris breathe so heavily, you for sure have to feel his silent sighs on your skin. The material of your blouse is so thin, that he scrunches it up between his fingers at thought of tracing his fingers across your naked skin. His thumb makes circles on the strap of your bra, the other already falling off your shoulder and he eyes it with a heated glare. “Nice?” He has to wonder, because you didn’t even breathe throughout his moves. He hates, how he seeks your approval.

Heat rushes to his chest, when you let out a quiet, yet soft and long hum of pleasure. The sound makes him press down onto you just a little harder and Chris almost loses his mind right there, when you only sigh again. “Yeah–“ His eyes roll back into his head at your voice, his hips embarrassingly pressing onto the back of your hair. He sighs deeply, heart jumping when you tilt your head to look up at him. “Maybe a little lower?” Your voice is breathless, sweet like honey, but your piercing eyes surely don’t match it. The top of your head is brushing his stomach, your moves, making you push out your chest and his eyes follow immediately your movements and words. His body is stiff other than his hands that keep squeezing at you and they eagerly go lower by your request, pressing down onto your collarbones. “Lower…,yeah — right there.”

Your words dangerously end in what sounded like a moan and Chris licks his lips at the sight of the black lace peaking out of your shirt. “You like that?” His fingers dip into the middle of your breasts, watching your head roll back onto your shoulder, sighing with you at his touch. “Or do you want me to go a little lower?”

The smirk on his lips is obvious and you can’t help, but do the same, enjoying the way his hands pinch at the softness of your breasts, before suddenly pushing yourself from the chair. Your move is so unexpected and quick that he stumbles, the smile of satisfaction falling from his face, but you don’t see the change of expression. “I fear, I have to go now, Mr. Bahng.” Again with your sweet voice that really started to taste bitter as he watches you move across your desk — he had enough.

A hand wraps around your wrist tightly. “No, you are fucking not.” He says, through gritted teeth and you remark gets stuck in the back of your throat, when he roughly turns you around, pinning you to the table and you only become more short of breath, when his hand falls on your neck, fingers pressing ever so slightly into your pulse.

You can’t breathe properly, just like him, staring into each other eyes and you finally see how much darker they have become. You broke him — you and your tactics. He is sick of your playing, not caring about how so suddenly and so sharply he snapped at you, but the look on your face…it seems like you are enjoying this. His fingers wrapped around your dianty neck, your upper half basically exposed to his hungry eyes and then his gaze fall on your lips, smudged in a hue of red — he just had to take a bite.

His lips smash to yours and even in his delirious state, he saw how you leaned into his hold — you wanted this too, him. His tongue swipes over your bottom lip, teeth, till he tastes the bitter taste of coffee and the sweetness you naturally had in you. It is so much and so good, but you still fight lightly to gain dominance against the kiss, though you can’t keep up, something possessed him at that moment and with the first taste of your lips, he couldn’t stop.

Your noses brush against each other, breathing heavily, not even separating for a split second, till you of course had to say something. “I think this is highly unprofessional–“ You say your every word between each kiss, his fingers pressing a little harder around your neck at your statement.

Chris pulls away from you, eyes glaring down at you, eyebrows furrowed. “Do I look like I fucking care?” His tone sends shivers down your spine, him not seeing it, because he leaned over your body to press his lips next your ear. “You are insufferable, I fucking hate you.” His hot breath hits your ears, feeling his tongue graze your earlobe.

A wide smile finds your lips, breathing out heavily. “We both know, that you don’t hate me.” You shake your head lightly at him and it makes him look back at you, his hard stare not matching your overly sweet smile.

“I’m gonna fuck you like I do.”

For the first time your confidence trembles, smile falling a little at the deep rasp in his voice and now he is the one finding some amusement about this situation. You always act so tough…it’s funny to him that you try his patience even now — now when he has you under him, now when his hand is around your neck, now when his other hand travels up your thigh to your center. The heat radiating from you tells him everything he needs to know. His hand finds the sliver of naked skin, when his fingers graze your garter belt, for a moment enjoying the softness of your inner thighs. His eyes however don’t leave your face as your eyes close slightly, silently sighing at his gentleness, before his next move makes you gasp sharply.

His whole hand cups your covered pussy, your juices smearing all over him and by your reaction your leg just barely grazes his crotch, moaning lightly at the feeling. “What got you so wet, huh?” Your lips are sealed for a moment, while his ring and middle finger finds your clit, pressing down on it, yet not moving. “No smart remark? Really is it that easy?”

“Are you going to fuck me or you just not gonna finish your job like always?” You hiss at him, hips pushing against his fingers to find more friction, but to your displeasure, his touch leaves you completely, removing his hand from your skirt and even the hand on your neck leaves you.

Your heart skips a beat for a second, not from fright, but from excitement, ready to see more of this new side of him. Chris isn’t moved by your words, too occupied by pressing his lips to your neck. He licks over your skin, tasting your perfume, before he traps the thin skin of your neck between his teeth. The sharpness is painful for a second, before it melts into pleasure as he sucks and slurps at you. The raw moan you give him makes him groan in union, moving his mouth to the spot under your ear, sucking just as harshly, before he moves to the other side of your neck, your collarbone, the soft skin of your upper breast…He drools over you, bites down on you and he feels a sense of possessiveness grow in him as he finally pulls away to take a good look at your current state.

Your mouth is open, lips glistening from your own spit, eyes following the trail of bites and splotches he left on you and you now by the subtle burn, that he even felt an small imprint of his fingers on your neck. His thumb presses down on one particular spot — right over your heart. “So pretty, look at you, covered in me…” Chris is biting on his lip, chewing, like reminiscing, before meeting your half lidded eyes.

“You…” You are so quiet, lost for words and he feels his cock jump at your drunken state.

“You…” He repeats, but his version helds a almost sick longing. He shakes his head, almost like you would, before straightening his back to completely surround you with his whole body. “Bend over.” Chris’s sudden dominance makes you shaky, he can see the effect by your wildly raising chest and even though you still have some grip on your composure, he feels sense of pride seeing you like this. All because of him — you turn around slowly, too slowly for him, that he had to push you against your desk, palm of his hand on your lower back.

He moves your hair away from your shoulder, mouthing at your already marked up neck, while his hands roam wildly all over your body. They drift under your blouse, his moves so rough that couple of the buttons pop open letting him fondle your tits freely. You let yourself go a little, moaning at his touches. He is everywhere — touching you as if it would be the last time he’d ever have you like this. “I hate you–“ He repeats the words between each suck, you hissing at his teeth piercing your skin a little too deeply.

Chris hums, hips grinding against your ass and you both gasp at the sensation. You can’t help it — maybe it’s because you just enjoy being like this or you want him to finally break. You don’t even know what he might do to you, but that only excites you more. “Ah — is this all because of me?” You coo at him, hand pushing his head away from your neck to look at him. The expression you get from him is worth it, rolling your hips against his.

A hiss of pain leaves you, when his hand finds your hair, tugging your head back. “Every fucking day — every single fucking day…you enjoy making people feel like they are under you, like you are some kind of higher power.” The poison in his voice is light more than anything, it’s just pure lust, but it does make you stop fidgeting. “But who are you outside of this building? Huh, Y/N?” You don’t respond, eyes widening, mouth opening and you feel small pool of drool gathering in the corner of your mouth. When his hand finds your skirt again, scrunching the material and pushing it up your hips, you just realize how much you were pressing your thighs together to make the ache in your cunt go away. “I think you are just a woman, who never let anyone put her in her place.” Chris breathes out a laugh at your face, while he finally release himself from his pants and underwear. The sound you let out next send sparks straight to his cock, his tip at the seem of your underwear. Finally he has your full attention, eyes unmoving from his face and when his fingers push your underwear to the side he has to shiver from how much you are dripping all over him, because of him. His hand comes to your jaw, with the other leveling his cock to your entrance. “You are controlling — and even if you are fantastic in what you do, don’t you think you also need some kind of teaching?”

Your mind is fuzzy, staring at him as he pushes his hips into you and the sheer size of his mushroom tip makes your legs shake. Your body, face, wet and dripping cunt tells him everything to know not to stop his moves. “Fuck–“ The curse flies out of your mouth, when he bottoms out, kissing your cervix and the foreign word leaving your lips makes him groan. You hug him so well, tight, letting him know just how much you needed this. He doesn’t want to be gentle, not after all of your theatrics and teasing — not with the already fucked out look on your face.

The drag of his cock is delicious, filthy and you both can hear the sounds of your juices smearing across the both of you. Your knuckles turn white, gripping tightly at the edge of your desk with the first thrust of his hips. It makes you only arch more for him, air getting knocked out of you, when he starts to fuck into you so roughly, you only could fall forward and let him do whatever he wants. Chris’s lips are parted, tongue swiping across his teeth, eyes going to the sight of your pussy swallowing him whole. In the night lights he can see your glistening, creamy wetness on his cock, his hand pinching at your ass, mesmerized by you.

The way your hips try so desperately to match his erratic rhythm makes his chest tighten. “Yeah…yeah—“ He doesn’t know what to say for a moment as he meets your eye, when look back at him. He sees the small tears of pleasure in your gaze and something about the way you send him a small smile his way, makes him push you against his chest. “So good…so pretty.” You hum lowly at his words, looking at his face, breathing shakily from his thrusts. “It would be a pity to have you all to myself like this.”

Your eyebrows furrow, head tilting in confusion, but your face forms into shock, when he suddenly lifts you off your feet. Chris is swift, not letting you even think about, what he might do with you — no he shows you instead. He turns you both around, stumbling a little, before pushing you against the cold window of your office. “Chris–“ A gasp of his name leaves you, eyes wide and staring at the scenery under you, going over the high buildings next you and each light up window.

“Oh, know it’s Chris?” He knows the risk of someone seeing you like this, even if the possibility of someone seeing you so high up and quite far away is small, it still makes a rush of excitement go over you. Your cunt tightens around him and he finds it hard to maintain his sanity, with you gripping his so tightly.

Your breath fogs up the window, when he starts to move again, thighs press together and making him feel even bigger than he already is. You don’t think anyone ever handled you like this before — hand bruising on your hip, the other holding you against the window, fucking you so roughly and just like he said — putting you in your place. Your ears ring, already lost from the feeling of his cock ramming into you, each pulsing vein making your insides shake. “Chris…” He groans back at the sound of his name, head landing on the window next to yours to catch your gaze.

The coldness from the window on your chest and the warmness from his touch is all too much for you to handle. He can tell by the look in your eyes, closing each second that he bottoms out. “You feel so good–“ Chris finishes his words with a harsh smack on your asscheek and you only push against him more, so he only does it again. “You like that?” You can already feel the skin of your ass turning red and the burn left behind is way too good for you to not nod at his question.

“I c-can’t—“ You gasp, whimper, pushing your forehead against the window, but he doesn’t let you hide.

His hand finds your neck again, pulling you up to make you look back at him, hard chest on pressed on your back. “You can, baby, I know you can.” Chris is enjoying the way you turned so small, seeing finally the girl that always needed to do good. “Give it to me — cum for me.” You cry out at his words, lower tummy rumbling at his words, staring through blurry sight at the crazed look on his face.

You lean to kiss him, more tongue than lips, moaning and gasping into his mouth. He tightens the hand on your neck, cutting the air in your throat. Your ears ring, but you can still hear the smack of his hips and filthy words coming from his lips. You couldn’t hold it no more, the last bits of your pride-self thrown out of the window you were pressed against as he finds the one, squishy, soft spot inside you. Chris is too good at analyzing you now, because his thrusts only become more sharper, shorter and harsher, the tip of his cock brushing against the spot every time he bottoms out, till your eyes roll back inside your head.

Your orgasm make your whole body shake, the only thing not letting you slide down the now sleek window is his strong hold. The faces and noises you make are way better than his imagination. Your walls spasm around him, sucking him in, making his hips shutter, pushing only harder into you. He pulls you so close to his body that you feel his heart beating against your back, his hips stilling, thrusting up into you roughly and it almost makes you squeal. The deep growl he lets out, makes his chest rumble, nose digging into your hair as his cock twitches. You can feel him filling you to the brim, your mixed juices already making a creamy ring around the base of his cock. It’s so hot, filthy, marking you in the most intimate way possible, but the blissful fullness is ripped away from you, when he pulls out his still hard cock from your puffy pussy.

You want to turn around, for the second time confused and mostly shocked by his actions, because you see him from the corner of your eye falling down to kneel behind you. The hands on your hips don’t let you move an inch, letting him take a look of your spend cunt, thumbs pulling at your lips to get a closer look at your gaping hole. You would feel embarrassed if it weren’t for his tongue suddenly licking into you, scooping his and your orgasm into his hot mouth. You are at the brink of overstimulation, hair and clothes sticking to your sweaty skin, not even making a sound to stop him from pushing his face into your pussy from behind. His tongue is everywhere, all over you, tip of it flicking your puffy clit, then flattening, just to lick your whole cunt all the way to your rim. The only thing that wakes you up from your state of exhaustion and pleasure all together is him retrieving from you, pressing his chest to your back and to only shove his tongue inside your mouth to make you taste the tanginess of your mixed pleasures.

You both got exactly what you wanted — though neither of you is sure, when it will be enough.

[cherrygirlfriend]

⟡ ₊ . ༄.° postcards under the bed

pairing: dean winchester x reader synopsis: how dean became a part of reader's little family. tags/warnings: fluff, fwb, reader has custody of her 5yo niece wc: 1k a/n; your girl was craving fluff!!!

dean winchester masterlist ♡

when you and dean first started going out, you knew that he was always traveling and never really stayed in one spot for too long, which was more than fine with you; you were too busy working and taking care of your niece for a proper relationship, anyway.

so, whenever the man came back to kansas and you managed to get a babysitter, the two of you would get tangled up in your bedsheets for a night. until things started changing.

what started as dean calling you up when he was back in town slowly turned into him texting you when he was gone, asking you how you were doing and telling you he couldn't wait to see you, coming over as soon as he was back in kansas.

what started as dean coming straight to your place and almost immediately taking you to bed slowly turned into pots and pans clanging in the kitchen as he cooked you dinner while you simply watched him with a glass of wine on your hand, the man telling you all about whatever monster him and his brother had been hunting while he made you his so-called specialty.

what started as dean leaving before you had even woken up slowly turned into waking up to his snores, spending lazy mornings tangled in each other's arms while the two of you talked about everything and nothing in hushed voices, exchanging small, nearly feather-light kisses.

he started bringing you postcards from all the places they'd travel to, the back of them filled with chicken scratches about what they were hunting, and although he always gave them to you in person, he made sure to write your name on the lines meant for your address with what was dean's attempt at cursive, the shoe box under your bed soon filled with postcards from different places.

neither of you called it what it was; when sam queried dean about where he'd disappear off to the moment they got back from their cases he'd mumble something about 'going to see someone', and when your friends wondered who was the guy picking you up from your girls' night in the black impala you'd just shrug and grin before making your way outside, straight into the arms of the man leaning against the car.

"i'm gonna have to cancel tonight." you said into your phone, using your shoulder to hold it up to your ear as you used your hands to decorate a bunch of cupcakes.

"what? aw, come on." dean's voice rang out, "i got popcorn and sour patch kids, and you finally agreed to watch terminator with me. are you bailing on me because of that? because if you really want to, we can watch one of your chick-flicks. again."

you let out a small laugh and rolled your eyes, a small smile now lingering on your lips, "it's not that. my sitter has a fever and had to cancel. so instead of our planned explicit date night i'm gonna be playing board games with aurora."

"ah, damn." dean sighed on the other line, "i really wanted to see you, sammy and i are probably gonna be back on the road tomorrow, we found some vamps up in duluth."

"i'm sorry." you say with your lips turned down in a slight frown, "let's take a raincheck, 'kay? i should go get rory, i finished decorating our cupcakes."

"oh? what cupcakes did you make?"

"red velvet. they're her favorite."

dean let out a small chuckle before humming, "hey, i was thinking... if it's not a girls-only night... maybe i could join you."

"really?" you raised your brows, "you wanna spend the evening playing monopoly with me and my niece rather than, i don't know, go to some bar and spend the evening with some hot chick?"

"i mean, you do have cupcakes. and board games are no fun with just two people."

you hummed, your lips pursed as you thought about his suggestion for a moment, before swallowing, "yeah. you can join."

after that evening, it seemed like things changed all over again.

dean no longer texted to ask you how you were, or to tell you how much he wanted to see you. he no longer cooked for you while you got to relax. you no longer woke up next to him. you didn't receive postcards addressed to you.

instead, he'd call you, checking in on you and aurora, saying how much he couldn't wait to see both of you again. he cooked for you while you were busy coloring with your niece. by the time you woke up, led zeppelin was blasting in the kitchen and the entire house smelled of pancakes, and when you got up, you'd see aurora dancing clumsily while dean was making pancakes. and the postcards were no longer addressed to you, but to you and aurora, and instead of ending up hidden under your bed, they were displayed on the fridge, until you no longer had enough magnets.

you were laid on dean's chest, your fingers drawing slight patterns on his skin, until his own hand came to stop you, bringing your hand to his warm lips, pressing a kiss on it.

"what are you thinking about?" he asked against your skin, and you looked up at him, wondering if you should tell dean what you were really thinking about or just brush him off. but the look in his eyes was reassuring, almost pleading you to tell him what was on your mind.

you took a deep breath before locking eyes with him, chewing on your lower lip, slightly anxious about what he was going to think.

"i don't think i can live without you."

dean's eyes widened slightly in surprise, before he let out a soft chuckle, the feeling of his breath on your hand causing shivers to run down your spine. he let go of your hand and moved his hand to your cheek, and you almost automatically brought your face closer to his.

"that's good, sweetheart, because i don't think i can live without you, either."

[wicked-yarn]

I live in Oklahoma Currently all mainstream porn sites are required by law to register our Government issued ID's in order to access them. This is very obviously going to be used against people if/when the coming storm. The only places where one can still access porn without getting on a list that the government won't monitor is social media and blogging platforms. Just taking a moment to say that before the porn ban I was able to scroll through tumblr and ethically source all of my smut from independent artists like I was at a Farmers market of pussy and dick. I was able to find stuff made by artists who were the same as me and I could make sure they were the kind of person within the fetish community I was okay being around too. Now that almost all fetish content is being painted with the same degenerate brush, I have seen the people I was comfortable with disappear out of shame.....and you left me with a bunch of fucking assholes. On that note, here is a list of things that count as fetishes or kinks. Large breasts Small Breasts Skinny Fat Muscles Short Tall ShortxTall(size diff) Being a Housewife(trad wifing is a fetish, it is a kink lifestyle sorry not sorry) Clowns Getting hit with a pie/mud/slime (It's called Splat) Turning into something else (Anything, yes anything, yes any form of transformation at all is under the transformation fetish umbrella) Being under the Command of someone with more authority than you Getting insulted Having to wear clothes that don't align with their preferred gender Being treated younger than you are Not having to do anything Having to do everything for everyone. If you're looking at some of these and going "That CAN'T be a kink! That's a normal every day situation!" Congrats. That's a kink. "B-but that's in cartoons for kids!" Yep, and someone thinks it's hot. "That is disturbing and their mind is broken!" Hey that's just like, YOUR opinion man. "Well I want to write a story that's 100% fetish free!!!!!!" Good fucking luck buddy, In the world of fetishes being made to do anything at all in fiction can be a fetish. "You sound like YOU'RE a pervert!" I am, I am an open Kinkster who uses the BDSM concepts of roleplay and power dynamics to understand the world better. Unlike those weirdos who don't know about their fetish and thinks everyone wants to suck on toes all day and write every speech they ever write refering to the innate desire we all have to suck on toes. My point is that Fetishes and Kink can arise from normal situations and when you're writing fictions you will eventually rub up against a fetish noo matter what and you have two options to do about it. "Okay Pervert, I'm barely listening to you but tell my your crazy idea about how we need to be okay about perverts." Either stop caring that perverts exist, cause pervs are gonna perv, you can't control them or stop them. Just ignore them, shove them off to the side and just write. OR weirdly, listen to them You might be surprised by what you learn. If Someone who's thing is watching a power stuggle between two strong personalities ADORES your power struggle story...maybe learning a little of the tropes and desires of that fetish can punch up your stories Person with a hand fetish that likes music? They'll notice what cords your character is playing on the guitar. EMBRACE THE PERVERTS!!!!!! A Pervert can be a friend who can warn you about an oncoming storm......I mean if you're not busy calling them a pedophile for having sex while also enjoying a cartoon.

“Why are you so upset about adult content bans? You don’t even post that stuff. can’t you just look at porn somewhere else?”

Well, you see, I have this small problem where my very existence is considered adult content by a small but very powerful group of people and I actually rather enjoy being able to exist in public without restriction so uhhhh put that in your bong and smoke it kiddo.

[leaentries]

nico taking extra care of reader when on her period and him just being so in tune with her every sign and need

nico is just a huge teddy bear and i will die on that hill

-

It’s around 3:30 by the time nico is back at his apartment. As he texting you, he can’t help but notice something’s off about the way you’re talking to him. Shorter replies, the lack of wanting to come over, even your lack of exclamation marks is setting off red flags in his mind.

This goes on for about an hour until you stop responding all together. Nico tries his best to wait patiently but his own worry and protectiveness gets the better of him.

Nico doesn’t waste another second before grabbing his keys and heading over to your place. He drives over in complete silence, his mind plagued with worry and the possibility of you being mad or upset with him. He ticks off everything he did yesterday, trying to see if it would have set you off or angered you. Pulling into your complex, he quickly parks his car and practically runs up to your apartment.

Knocking on the door, he waits for a moment, biting his lip anxiously when you don’t answer. Eventually, he grows too impatient and grabs the spare key under the rug and lets himself in.

“Schatzi?” Nico calls gently, waiting to hear the familiar cadence of your voice, but frowns when it never comes. His heart begins to beat harder against his chest as his feet carry him quicker around your apartment.

Finally reaching your room, he quietly pushes the cracked door open, letting out a breath of relief as he finds you curled up in your blankets asleep. He moves carefully to sit beside you on the bed, using his hand to feel the back of your forehead. His eyebrows furrow when he feels that you’re not warm, which means you’re not sick. He looks around the room, noting the bottle of pain meds and the black cord that disappears under the blankets.

Ah.

Nico smiles softly, realizing that you must be on your period. He gently strokes your hair, cooing gently as he knows you must be in pain if you didn’t want to come over to his apartment.

At his gentle touches, your eyes begin to flutter open.

“Nico?” You mumble out, voice still heavy with sleep.

“I’m right here, schatzi.” He says gently, brushing some hair out of your face. “Do you need anything? Water? Chocolate? More pillows?”

You shake your head, “M’ okay. When did you get here?”

“Just a little bit ago,” He says softly, “I was worried about you. You didn’t want to come over and then you stopped responding. I thought did something to upset you.”

Shaking your head once more, you sit up fully with Nico helping support you. “No, I’m not upset with you…I’m just—“

“On your period.” Nico smiles, kissing your temple. “I put two and two together when I got here.” His face grows more serious, “You don’t have to hide that from me, schatz. It doesn’t gross me out or turn me off. You’re my girlfriend, I want to take care of you.”

You smile softly at his words, “Positive?”

Nico returns the smile, “Positive. Now, lay back down and I’ll get you what you need, okay?”

Nodding, you settle back into the pillows, knowing you can surrender yourself Nico. Knowing that he’ll cherish your body and well-being like the most precious thing in the world.

[enyaliuswrites]

➽ Girl Dad Caleb

Thank you @erensfeed for the idea!! She was a huge contributor! Gave me so many good ideas, made all of this possible!! <33

Girl Dad!Caleb who goes absolutely crazy when you’re in labor—on the surface he’s smiling and being strong for you while holding your hand, but once everything is over he’s crying and laughing all at once. Girl Dad!Caleb whose face is covered in tears as he carries his daughter for the first time. Your daughter crying made him cry and now that’s making you cry. (You all crode together.)

Girl Dad!Caleb who buys so many apple themed baby clothes that it can fill the bathroom even though you told him not to.

“Caleb! She’ll outgrow them in a few weeks!” “But she looks so cute in them! We can take pictures and keep a memento of how tiny she was!”

Girl Dad!Caleb who cries when your daughter takes her first steps. Your beloved husband frantically grabs a camera and records these precious moments as he then rushes over and kisses the two most important girls in his life.

Girl Dad!Caleb who uses his evol and takes your daughter flying around the house or at the park. He loves hearing her giggles.

Girl Dad!Caleb who keeps on trying to make the first words your daughter speaks to be him.

“Say ‘Dada’! Come on, I know you can do it, Princess.” “Caleb! She’ll say it when she wants!” turns to your daughter, “Say ‘Mama!’”

Girl Dad!Caleb who cooks whatever you and your daughter wants. Pasta? Done. Barbecue? Done. Beef Wellington? Done. A random recipe you saw on tiktok? Done.

Girl Dad!Caleb who keeps trying to put off sending your daughter to school. He wants to be with you guys all the time :(

Girl Dad!Caleb who gets emotional when you finally send your daughter to school. He was all smiles in front of her and now he’s holding you with tears running down his cheek.

Girl Dad!Caleb who always picks your daughter up from kindergarten with you and one day sees her holding a boy’s hand.

“Hold on… Is that boy holding our princess's hand?” “Caleb, it’s finee. Kid probably doesn't even-” “No no. Who does this little Romeo think he is?” “Caleb!”

You had to kiss him to hold him back from beating up the poor kid. (He was joking, he just wanted some attention)

Girl Dad!Caleb who places your daughter’s things in high places so she has to ask him to make her float to get it or ask him to get it for her. He still does that to you too.

Girl Dad!Caleb whose heart melts when he sees you dressing your daughter up in mini colonel clothes. His hat falling over and covering her face when she excitedly waves at him.

Girl Dad!Caleb who can't help but tease your daughter. He’ll make her toys just out of her reach, make her beg him to buy her sweets, accidentally trip her and save her, tell her scary stories at night so she’ll snuggle up to him when she’s sleeping.

Girl Dad!Caleb who always has time for you and his princess. He loves you both and would kill anyone and everyone if he had to.

A/N: Can you tell I’m having Baby Fever? Caleb would be such a great father but he’d always want you and your daughter(or son) to lean on him. Anyways! Stay delusional! (*´∀`*)  Dividers by @omi-resources

[deadhands69]

I know this trope is done to DEATH but I love the idea of personal knight katsuki and royal reader🥺

Katsuki who’s maybe a few years older than you, who loves to watch you sit in the courtyard, and lets you read to him because you can see he’s paying attention. Katsuki who pretends he hates how you practically give him a fashion show every morning in your new gown but it’s his favorite thing you do. Katsuki who’s there when you’re sobbing over the death of your beloved horse, you’re clinging to him as he softly talks you down. Katsuki who sits outside your door listening to the soft moans that come from within, hard as a rock in his gear, knowing that you’re calling his name, debating whether to stay out here or go inside and help his beloved girl.

I hope you can see my vision 🧐

-🌸

Hi 🌸!

Hope this is what you were thinking, I haven't written a knight/royal au before so it was a fun challenge!

Katsuki Bakugo stands at the door, feeling himself grow harder against the constraints of his armor. Through the cracks in the thick wooden door at his back, he can hear your soft moans floating through the air. It’s certainly not the first time. He’s been your personal knight for years, with you through everything. It’s his job to guard your door, regardless of what you’re doing in your chambers, but typically you at least try to muffle the pretty sounds you make. If he didn’t know better, he’d assume you want him to hear it.

No, that can’t be it.

He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, willing himself to regain composure for your sake. It’s no use, his mind drifts to forbidden territory. The way you looked in your new gown this morning. How you like to pull his visor up, gaze never leaving his face when you drag him by the hand through the meadow to pick flowers. Today you looked into his eyes, the same way you always do and he had to fight off every fiber of his being screaming at him to kiss you. He can only imagine the taste of your lips. The taste of - no, spending time with you is his job and it wouldn’t be fair to you if he indulged in these thoughts. It’s not his place. No matter how much he wants it to be.

He fusses with his armor to distract himself. Trying to make room for the growing erection he tries in vain to will away. 

“Katsuki,” your voice drifts into his ear.

Taking his glove off, he rubs his eyes. It’s been too long without sleep and now he’s hearing things. 

But he isn’t. 

Once more, your voice sings to him through the door like a siren song calling him to the rocks. “Katsuki, please,” your breath catches, dragging the last syllable into a whimper.

Visions of you moaning into your pillow, waiting for him flood his brain. You need him. And isn’t it part of his job to tend to your every desire?

“Fuck,” he mumbles to himself, hand hovering over the door latch. His fingers clench into a fist as he turns away, pacing the hall outside your chambers. 

“Please, I’m so close,” your voice calls out once more, absolutely breaking through any ounce of willpower he had left. Pressing through the heavy door, he finds you in your undergown. The soft linen bunches at your hips, your tired hands moving back to the bed as you press yourself up on your elbows. He slams the door shut, barring it from the inside before moving to kneel at your side. You’re still panting, eyes heavy lidded and cheeks flushed as you reach to remove his helmet. He knows you’re strong, but helps you anyways. The heavy pieces of his armor and chainmail clink to the floor until he’s down to the padded shirt and thin pants that do nothing to hide how turned on he is.

Reaching for his cheek, you pull him in until his lips meet yours. You taste sweeter than he ever could have dreamed and he can’t get enough. He hovers over your body, pressing you back to the bed before kissing his way down your neck. Through the thin white fabric, he feels your nipples harden under his touch. His hands slip lower, grabbing the backs of your legs. 

He shouldn’t be doing this, but deep down he already knows your relationship crossed the lines of proper long ago. All those days spent with you reading to him. Holding you through hard times. This is just the natural progression of things. 

“Need you,” you murmur down at him and all hesitation is lost. 

“You have me,” he taunts back. Lifting the material of your gown out of the way, he slides to the floor, pulling your hips to the edge of the bed. He kisses his way up your legs while moving them over his shoulders until his face rests on your inner thigh. His hot breath teases over your aching skin. 

“You’re so pretty,” he mumbles into you. Your fingers run through his messy hair, giving you a better view of his face.

His chapped lips move over your folds, finding you dripping wet already. You weren’t lying when you said you were close. Passionately, he slides his tongue in and out of you, nose pressing hard into your clit. There’s nothing he’s ever wanted more than to hear you moan his name again (other than you running away with him and living happily ever after but he’ll start small.)

“Katsuki,” you cry breathlessly, “you feel so amazing.”

And he does, every lick rippling through your body like fire. Clenching his hair harder, you shove your hips into his face. His movements stutter as he whimpers at the feel of his slick mouth grinding over your cunt, teeth lightly brushing your most sensitive areas. 

“I’m gonna cu-” 

“Do it,” he pants before his tongue delves back into you. 

For a moment, you swear you could see stars. Forgetting when and where you are, like nothing outside the room exists or matters. He exhales hard, face collapsing into you as you slowly run your fingers over the side of his face, around his ear, and down his neck.

Eventually, he sits up, wiping his face with the back of his hand. Climbing onto the bed, he holds you and you savor every moment of it - not knowing how long it will be before you’ll be alone like this again.

[sakura-onesan]

small remider yakity-sax (s 8, ep 18) exists.

as a rd fan i recognize many pranks she did over time became worse. (regardless, maybe not convince and give panic to your friend as that level as the rainbow cookie episode.) In that episode pinkie gets a yak instrument to play. and her playing disrupts EVERYONE. even the backround ponies. they run away from it. to the mane 6 least to worst: twi none. rarity gets distracted at work and the dress isnt how she wanted, yes she could make another, but she did waste time and materials also she could get hurt by the machine, like other episodes. rainbow dash + wonderbolts + plus the audience. show gets interrupted, followed by dangerous fast fighers outside formation, posible accidents with themselves and audience (luckily none happen). also the audience, they spend they hard earned money to see a show only to get it ruined by a third party. aj and fluttershy are about the same level, but im gonna place flutters first since it included innocent animals. aj: pinkie's playing was so against nature, apples self exploted. important note that the orchard is entire aj family's lifelihood. they did not plat to make applesauce like that. so only they get a say on what happens to their apples. (wasted produce, wasted money, also that sauce was in the trees so not safe to eat) fluttershy: many many animals JUST made to sleep. shes in her own house, late at night, didnt get asked first, and pinkie just plays. animals get woken up and she stays up calming them. the next day shes sooo tired.

Now. the entire episode get played around friends tell another shes bad at what she loves. Actually mentions the episode when twi didnt tell celestia she was bad at acting. excuse me?? celestia's bad acting didnt interrupt or harm or placed risk on ANYONE'S DAY. then when pinkies told the truth the episode makes pinkie go so sad she turns grey (like when on discord influence, chaos magis in pinkie theory), either way everything goes out of their way to tell us the rest of the mane six are in the wrong for telling pinkie to stop.

please even had the yak prince rutherford tell us + the mane six that "there's no wrong way to play the instrument and thats the point of it". please.

so pinkie plays again, screw the consequences or HER OWN actions.

thats why mare do well episode is not good either. we can both agree rd's a boaster. the biggest loudest greatest boaster. maybe she should stop a little. yes please. she was boasting that she was town's hero. yes. rd you should do heroic things because theyre good not to boast about them later. but cmon. the mane six went overboard.

or the first gilda episode. gilda was rude. gilda stole that apple. she was unecessary rude to fluttershy. also. gilda was in a strange town, she was an outsider. around the same season we see how they treat zecora, and they got more in common with zecora than with gilda (which inconsistency found! why give gilda the benefit of the doubt but not to zecora???). much later we realize how shitty griffon town is. unfriendly. unkind. little to no family. shes on defence. not with rd since they're already friends. plus, lets be real pinkie pie was so noisy, wanted to be around all the time. rd should have interviened before. but how wrong is gilda for wanting alone time with someone she trusts!? both gilda some wrong and some right can be true at the same time.

but honestly it happened to every character. like twi with the cruise episode or the movie (cmon no one was helpful, pinkie stop were incognito, rd yes animation pretty but incognitooo)

conclusion: every character was written to be only exagerrated versions of one thing overtime, some episodes we condone something but in others not, not everypony is innocent, and i blame the writing

is it just me or did this happen a lot

(this doesn't have anything to do with punkitt but this doodle style is inspired by her horsecomix so @punkitt-is-here hi)

[seospicybin]

TASTE.

CHAPTER V: TENDER.

Lee Know x reader. (s,a)

TASTE MASTERLIST

Synopsis: When Minho is hired as the head chef of Farfalle, a prestigious Italian restaurant, expectations are high for him to elevate its reputation and bring it to new heights. However, no one anticipates the drastic changes he implements in the kitchen—including his strict rule that that there'll be no women and no romance in his kitchen. (20,7k words)

Author's note: Congratulations for making it through the week. Pls enjoy this chapter and let me know what you think about it after ♡

Tender. /ˈten.dər/ (adj) 1. showing gentleness and concern or sympathy. 2. easy to cut.

There’s something about the way sweet things linger on your tongue—like the moments you’ve shared with Minho. Each one, fleeting and intoxicating, feels like a sugar rush. The stolen glances, the secret smiles, the warmth of his presence beside you—they all flood your senses, leaving you craving more.

But now, that sweetness has turned cloying. The secret you’ve been keeping together, delicate as spun sugar, is starting to crack. And like biting into something bittersweet after too much indulgence, the sharp edge of reality cuts through.

You’re walking toward the locker room, hands balled into fists on each side of you and you brace yourself for what's coming as you push the door open. It feels like the aftermath of a sugar addiction—the kind of crash that leaves you wondering why you allowed yourself to get so carried away in the first place.

The memory of Taesoo’s panicked face lingering in your mind, his words ringing in your ears: Everyone knows now.

Your heart sinks again, as if hearing it for the first time.

The taste of bitterness is unmistakable now, grounding you in the realization that this thing between you and Minho—this private, fragile thing—has been exposed to the light.

The locker room feels like a battlefield the moment you step inside. Seungwan charges toward you like he’s been lying in wait. His voice comes out in a rapid-fire assault.

“Minji saw everything!” he declares, practically vibrating with excitement. “She watched you and Chef Minho in the café! She even sent me a picture—proof!”

Your stomach drops, but you force yourself to stay calm. Before you can even respond, Hyunwoo appears at Seungwan’s side, his expression stern. “So? Is it true?”

Before you can answer, Felix suddenly slides into view, positioning himself at your side like a protective shield.

“Hey, it’s not true.” His wide, bright eyes lock onto yours as he asks for your confirmation, “That’s not true, right?”

The weight of their combined stares is suffocating, but you take a deep breath and let it out, bracing yourself. “It’s true.”

The room erupts. Seungwan gasps in victory, practically glowing as he boasts, “See? I told you I wasn’t lying!”

You quickly raise your hands, trying to regain control of the situation. “Wait, listen. It’s true we went to the café, but it’s not because we’re dating, we're close because we were friends back in Italy.”

The uproar falters, and Hyunwoo crosses his arms, skeptical. “Minji said she saw you give him chocolate.”

“I did,” you admit, “but not everyone who exchanges chocolates on Valentine’s Day is a couple by default.”

Seungwan isn’t buying it. “Minji said you looked like a couple.”

You meet his gaze head-on. “Does she have proof? Did she see us kissing? Did she see us sleeping together?”

That bold challenge silences him for a moment, but before you can feel any relief, Felix jumps in, clearly desperate to squash the rumor.

“Hey, it’s impossible!” he insists. “Chef isn’t the type to fall for some random woman in the kitchen. Even if you like him, no matter how hard you try, he won't budge.”

You don’t know if that comment stings more than it should, but you keep your face neutral. In the corner, you catch Taesoo trying to suppress a laugh. He quickly looks away when your eyes meet his.

The tension in the room gradually deflates as the others seem to accept the lack of solid evidence. Seungwan narrows his eyes at you, his voice low with warning. “If it turns out you are dating, I’m not going to sit back and allow it.”

You force a small, indifferent smile. “Fine.”

The others shuffle out of the locker room one by one, grumbling amongst themselves. As you listen to Felix and Hyunwoo bicker about whether or not you’re really dating Minho, you lean against the cold metal of the lockers and close your eyes.

Finally, blessedly, the room is empty, and the air feels breathable again. You sag against the lockers, exhaustion creeping in. The bitter taste of the confrontation lingers, but at least, for now, the storm has passed.

But even in the bitterness, there’s a part of you that clings to the sweetness. The way Minho looked at you, the way his voice softened when he said your name. Those moments are what keep you going, what make the risk feel almost worth it.

You glance down at the chef coat hanging in front of you, then yanking it off the hanger and taking your time as you put it on. Maybe you need the space to breathe, or maybe you’re just trying to drown out the ache in your chest.

Because no matter how much you tell yourself to stop, to quit this dangerous craving, your heart keeps whispering the same thing: One more taste.

-

The echo of his footsteps feels heavier today as Minho walks through the hall and up the stairs to his office. Everyone knows. That single thought loops in his head, clinging like a bad smell he can’t shake off.

He’s prepared himself for the inevitable questions, even rehearsed his answers, but when he steps into his office, the tension he expected isn’t there.

Sara is at her desk, her pen gliding smoothly over her notebook. She looks up briefly when he enters, her brow furrowing slightly as if she senses his unease. But she says nothing.

Minho pauses, unsure. Her lack of reaction is almost more unsettling than if she’d pounced on him with questions. They share a quiet glance, her expression a mixture of curiosity and confusion. When he doesn’t speak, she simply returns to her notes, the faint scratch of her pen filling the silence.

Minho crosses the room and drops into his chair, swiveling it slightly to the side to put himself out of Sara’s line of sight. His fingers reach into his coat pocket, pulling out the card you gave him.

He stares at the envelope for a moment, running his thumb along the edge before carefully pulling the card out. The words you wrote are simple, yet they hit him with an unexpected force.

"I'm happy that you're always around me, Chef. You make me feel like I’m cooking the best pasta in the world."

A small, lopsided smile tugs at his lips as his eyes fall to the tiny heart you’ve sketched in the corner, next to your initials. It’s so you, and it’s perfect.

Minho lets himself sink into the warmth of your words, feeling them settle in his chest. For a brief moment, the weight of the morning—the rumors, the tension, the stares—fades away. All that matters is this little card and the emotions it carries.

He leans back in his chair, holding the card in one hand as he gazes at it. The dread that had been clawing at him since Taesoo’s outburst dissipates. It doesn’t matter anymore.

Instead, he thinks of you. The way your eyes light up when you talk about food, the shy smile you tried to hide when you slid the box of chocolates across the café table, how you thought of him when you wrote these words.

Minho’s grip on the card tightens slightly, a spark of determination igniting within him.

-

The kitchen hums with the usual chaos—clanging pans, sizzling oils, and sharp orders cutting through the air—but today, there’s a peculiar tension simmering beneath it all. It’s intangible, like an invisible thread tightening around everyone, pulling them taut.

Minho feels it, the weight of too many eyes fixed on him. He’s used to being the center of attention in the kitchen, but this is different. Suspicion hangs in the air like the smell of burning garlic.

He notices Taesoo, his eyes darting nervously between stations. First at you, then at Minho, then at everyone else, as if trying to track invisible lines of connection. Minho doesn’t miss the way Sara leans toward you, whispering something. You shake your head, feigning obliviousness, but your stiff shoulders betray your discomfort.

Minho keeps his face neutral, but inside, he’s amused. He knows exactly what’s happening.

Walking the perimeter of the kitchen, he checks on everyone’s progress, pausing here and there to critique, encourage, or chastise. When he reaches your station, he pauses longer than necessary. Without warning, he grabs your wrist, guiding your hand to shake the frying pan properly.

“Faster, but steady,” he says, his tone deceptively soft. His hand remains over yours a moment longer than needed, and he can feel the heat of your skin through the fabric of his gloves.

It’s deliberate, of course. A tiny act of rebellion against the scrutiny, a way to poke at the invisible tension until it snaps.

You pull your hand away quickly, your cheeks flushing as you mutter, “I’ll do better.” Your eyes dart nervously around the kitchen, and Minho knows you’re aware of the stares.

He smirks faintly. “Good.”

Then, louder, for everyone to hear, he says, “Come with me.”

The room freezes for a moment, and Minho doesn’t miss the way Taesoo’s face pales. Minho walks toward the freezer without looking back, trusting that you’ll follow. Sure enough, he hears your footsteps trailing behind him, hesitant but obedient.

The freezer door closes with a soft thud, and the chill immediately bites at his skin. You cross your arms, glaring at him.

“Chef, we shouldn’t be doing this,” you grumble, your voice low but firm.

Minho raises a brow, feigning innocence. “Doing what, exactly?”

“Everyone is watching,” you hiss.

He steps closer, tilting his head slightly. “I called you in here to scold you. Don’t get any ideas. Do I have to tell you so many—”

Before he can elaborate, the door bursts open, and Taesoo rushes in, his face a mask of panic.

“Chef,” he stammers, his voice a frantic whisper. “Everyone’s watching you two. You can’t—”

Minho cuts him off with a sharp look, his patience thinning. “It seems you the two of you are getting too comfortable with me. It’s time to fix that.”

Both of you blink at him in confusion.

“Kneel,” Minho orders, his voice cold and authoritative.

“What? Why?” you ask, incredulous.

“Kneel on the floor and raise your arms. Now.”

There’s a moment of hesitation before you and Taesoo comply, kneeling on the icy floor and raising your arms awkwardly.

Minho crosses his arms, pacing in front of you. “Respect in the kitchen isn’t optional. Do you think I'm a friend? You will both stay like this for ten minutes as punishment.”

He walks over to a nearby bucket of clams, gesturing toward it. “And apologize to the clams. You didn’t clean them properly, and they still smell like mud.”

For a moment, there’s silence. Then, to his surprise, you burst into laughter, your giggles echoing in the cold space.

Minho glares at you. “Do you think this is funny?”

Through your laughter, you manage to say, “I’m just… glad I’m being punished.”

Taesoo, unable to hold it in, starts chuckling beside you. The sound is contagious, and for a brief second, Minho’s composure cracks, a small smile threatening to escape. He quickly regains control, his expression hardening.

Minho straightens, his authoritative mask slipping back into place. “Now, stop grinning like an idiot and keep your arms up. Ten minutes isn’t over yet.”

As he turns to leave the freezer, a small, satisfied smirk plays on his lips. Whatever happens next—whatever fallout this may bring—he’s ready. For you, he’ll face it all and if anything, he feels braver now.

-

Minho’s office feels smaller than usual, the air heavy with the weight of unspoken words. Felix hesitates, glancing between you and Minho before knocking on the door.

“Come in,” Minho’s voice calls, steady and commanding.

You step inside, Felix right behind you, both still clad in your chef coats. Minho and Sara are already waiting, their expressions unreadable as they stand side by side.

Minho doesn’t waste time with pleasantries. “Hyunwoo is moving to the pasta line and Seungwan will take over the grill which leaves the antipasto line open.” His sharp gaze moves between you and Felix. “Which of you wants to take it?”

Sara chimes in, her tone softer but no less serious. “We’re leaving the decision to you two.”

You exchange a brief glance with Felix. The silence stretches just long enough to feel uncomfortable before Felix clears his throat. “I… I don’t think it’s a good idea to break the current dynamic. But—” He hesitates, his voice growing quieter. “I’ve had some issues with the entrée line. I’d rather not work directly with them.”

All eyes shift to you. The unspoken expectation presses down like a weight. You’re the senior, the one with more experience in antipasto, and everyone knows it.

Minho’s eyes lock onto yours, and with one look, he makes the decision for you. “You’ll take it.”

Sara immediately protests. “We need to hear her opinion first.”

“It’s final,” Minho replies without missing a beat, his gaze shifts back to you. “You’ll take Seungwan’s position starting tomorrow.”

Before you can argue, Minho dismisses Felix with a curt nod. Felix glances at you, his lips parting as if he wants to say something, but he thinks better of it and leaves.

“Can you give us a minute?” Minho asks as he turns to Sara, his tone leaving no room for negotiation.

Sara pauses, her expression conflicted, but she nods. As she passes, her gaze lingers on you, offering a silent apology before she exits.

The door clicks shut, leaving you alone with Minho and the second you and him are alone in the room, you don't hold back.

“I don’t want to switch, Chef,” you blurt out, your frustration bubbling to the surface.

Minho leans against his desk, arms crossed. “This isn’t about what you want. A cook who stays in one section becomes stale. Hyunwoo didn’t get moved because he complained—I made that call.”

You narrow your eyes, doubt creeping in. “Is this because of the rumors?”

He straightens, his tone sharp. “No.”

But it’s too late. The thought takes root, and your voice softens. “If this is about protecting me because of our… relationship, I understand.”

Minho steps forward, his hands landing firmly on your shoulders. His touch is steady, grounding. “I told you this isn’t about that,” he insists, his gaze searching yours. “Look at me.”

You hesitate but eventually meet his eyes.

“Don’t you trust me?” he asks, his voice quiet but intense. “Don’t you trust your chef?”

You do. You trust him more than anyone else in this kitchen, but a small part of you doesn’t trust his judgment on this decision. Still, you keep that thought buried.

You don’t answer, and the silence stretches between you. Minho’s hands drop from your shoulders, and he steps back.

“Be ready for tomorrow,” he says, his tone unreadable.

You nod stiffly, turning to leave, but the tension lingers, heavy and unresolved, as you close the door behind you.

-

The morning light streams through the curtains as you wake with a heavy head, your body feels sluggish, and for a moment, you consider calling in sick. But no—you refuse to let anything, not even a budding illness, make you seem weak or incapable.

You drag yourself out of bed and shuffle into the kitchen, your eyes barely open. Sara is already at the dining table, her laptop open, fingers typing away. She glances up as you enter.

“Morning,” you mutter, your voice scratchy as you make your way to the coffee machine. The promise of caffeine is the only thing pulling you forward.

“Morning,” Sara replies, her tone light but curious. Her gaze lingers on you as you prepare your coffee.

The smell of freshly brewed coffee offers some comfort as you pour yourself a cup and take a slow sip. The warmth spreads through you, waking you up just a little.

Sara leans back in her chair, her expression thoughtful. “You’re still upset about Minho’s decision, aren’t you?”

You glance at her but quickly look away, shaking your head. “It’s fine,” you say, forcing a faint smile.

She doesn’t seem convinced. “If you don’t want to leave the pasta line, you can tell me. You don’t have to go along with it if it’s not what you want.”

You take another sip of your coffee, letting the bitter warmth fill the silence. “It’s fine, really,” you repeat, this time with more finality.

Sara watches you for a moment longer, then smiles faintly, taking a sip of her own coffee. “If you say so.”

The sound of her typing resumes, filling the quiet space between you.

But then she pauses again, tilting her head slightly. “The kitchen was… weird yesterday,” she says casually, though her eyes are sharp. “Is there something going on I should know about?”

Your heart skips a beat, but you keep your face neutral. “I have no idea what you mean,” you reply, your tone light and innocent.

Sara raises an eyebrow, clearly skeptical, but she doesn’t push further. Instead, she nods slowly and returns her attention to her laptop.

You take another sip of your coffee, the bitterness grounding you as your thoughts swirl. Sara’s question hangs in the air, her suspicion like a quiet storm waiting to brew.

“It’s better this way,” you murmur under your breath, so softly that Sara doesn’t hear. Keeping things under wraps—keeping him under wraps—is the safest choice for now.

You glance over at Sara, who’s focused on her screen again, her typing steady and uninterrupted. If she, with her sharp intuition, catches on, it’s only a matter of time before everyone else does. And then what?

You set your cup down on the counter, the sound sharper than you intended, and Sara glances at you again. You force another faint smile her way, but your mind is already elsewhere.

Minho’s decision might sting, but he’s right about one thing: in a world like this, appearances matter. As much as it frustrates you, the secrecy shields you both—for now.

You press your palm against the counter, steadying yourself as a quiet resolve builds in your chest. Yes, this is the best thing for now. But for how long?

-

The locker room smells faintly of detergent and metal, the silence punctuated only by the quiet clink of locker doors and the shuffle of clothing. Minho steps inside, and his eyes immediately find you. You're standing at your locker, back partially turned to him, moving with a distracted air.

He pauses, taking in the tension in your shoulders, the way your movements lack their usual grace. He knows you're still upset about yesterday, about the decision he made for you without asking, but he also knows this isn't something you can discuss openly.

Taking a steadying breath, Minho calls your name softly.

You glance over your shoulder, your expression unreadable, before turning to face him fully.

Minho steps closer, his voice calm but firm. "In the kitchen," he starts, his gaze holding yours, "I'm just your head chef. Not the man you like."

The faintest smile graces your lips, but it doesn't quite reach your eyes. "Yes, chef," you reply, your tone polite but distant.

That won’t do. Minho closes the distance, resting his hands lightly on your shoulders. The warmth of your body beneath his touch grounds him as much as it does you. "Listen," he says, softer now, his tone almost a whisper. "In the kitchen, there’s no Minho. Just the chef. Do you understand?"

This time, your smile is a little brighter, a touch more genuine, and it eases some of the tightness in his chest.

"Yes, chef," you reply again, and this time, there's a hint of lightness in your voice.

Minho hesitates for a moment, then lets his hand trail up to your cheek, his thumb brushing softly against your skin as he tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers linger, warm and steady, before he leans in slightly, his voice low. "Be prepared."

Your smile deepens, and this time it’s convincing. "Yes, chef," you say again, and something about the way you say it fills Minho with an unfamiliar ache—a longing to stay like this, even though he knows he can't.

The sound of approaching footsteps snaps the moment in two. Instinctively, Minho drops his hand and takes a step back, turning to his locker and shutting it with practiced ease.

Before he leaves, he risks one last glance at you. You're standing there, watching him, your expression softer now. Minho doesn’t say another word, but he hopes that brief moment between you was enough to bridge the unspoken gap.

As he walks away, he also reminds himself it’s all about work. What he does to you at work is nothing personal. Not at all.

-

The kitchen bustles with the usual clamor of voices, clattering utensils, and the sharp hiss of flames.

Your new station feels foreign, the rhythm and layout unfamiliar compared to the pasta line you’d grown so comfortable with. Across the room, Felix gives you an encouraging grin, his eyes sparkling with reassurance. “Good luck!” he mouths.

You smile back, appreciating his gesture, but the nerves gnawing at your stomach refuse to settle. Your attention shifts to the front as Minho steps up to the chef’s table, commanding immediate silence with his presence.

His gaze sweeps across the kitchen, lingering for the briefest moment on you. Then, his voice cuts through the room, authoritative and unyielding. “There are changes in the kitchen,” he begins, his tone firm. “Just because you're in the new line, does not mean you can make mistakes. I won't accept excuses like 'I need time to adapt' or 'I'm not used to it'. Customers are blind to what's going on in the kitchen. Just because we have a change in personnel or because they're not used to doing it, there's no customer whose willing to put up with bad food. Understood?”

A chorus of “Yes, Chef” echoes in response, your voice among them.

The first orders start rolling in, and the kitchen launches into motion. You throw yourself into the work, your hands moving with practiced efficiency, but there’s no denying the subtle awkwardness of being in a new environment.

You present your first dish, a carefully grilled medley of vegetables, to Minho. He barely glances at it before his voice cuts through the din, sharp and precise. “What are you doing to these vegetables?” he snaps, holding up a forkful like it’s a crime scene. “Did you forget how to grill? Or is this because it’s not pasta?”

Heat rises to your cheeks, and you stammer out an apology as he continues. “The basic of grilling it is to let it sear lightly so that it's brown on the outside but still juicy inside. This? This is dry.”

“I'll do it again, Chef,” You admit your mistake quickly, grabbing the plate and retreating to your station. His words sting, but you force yourself to focus, determined to get it right on the second try.

As you work on the next dish, a bowl of potato soup, Minho’s voice startles you again. “When are you going to come to your senses?,” he slams his spatula onto the counter before pointing it at your garnish choice. “The soup is potato. When it comes to course meals, balance is everything. It's different from pasta, the garnish should be something refreshing like tomatoes. Do you think the customer only eat potatoes, huh?”

Swallowing your frustration, you apologize once more and excuse yourself to retrieve a container of tomatoes from the freezer. The cool air hits you like a slap as you step inside, and for a moment, you just stand there, clutching the empty container.

Your thoughts race as you try to steady your breathing. He’s just doing his job, you remind yourself, but the harshness of his tone lingers, cutting deeper than you want to admit. Was it really just about the food, or was there something personal behind his words?

The door creaks open, and you jump, turning quickly. Relief floods through you when you see Taesoo grinning at you.

“Jeez, you look like you saw a ghost,” he jokes, grabbing something off a nearby shelf. “Man, the way Chef yelled at you, no one’s gonna think you two are dating now!”

You force a smile, trying to match his lighthearted tone. “Yeah, I’m glad no one thinks so,” you reply, though your voice comes out strained.

Taesoo chuckles, oblivious to your inner turmoil. “Seriously, it looked like he was just trying to knock you down a peg. Guess that’s his way of making things... normal?”

His words blur into background noise as your thoughts drift. Was it really just about appearances? you wonder. Or was there something else behind the way Minho singled you out today?

You shake your head, pushing the thought aside as you grab the tomatoes and head for the door. Taesoo’s voice trails after you, but you don’t respond.

As you step back into the heat and chaos of the kitchen, your resolve hardens. If Minho wanted to prove something today, he succeeded—but the sting of his words still clings to you like a bitter taste that lingers on your tongue.

-

The dining hall is empty now, the faint hum of the refrigerator the only sound echoing through Farfalle. Minho knows exactly where to find you. He steps out to the back entrance and spots you sitting on the narrow steps that lead up to the dining hall, your arms wrapped around your knees.

You’re not crying, but there’s something vulnerable about the way you sit, staring ahead as though trying to push away the memory of today’s relentless scoldings. Minho pauses for a moment before joining you, settling onto the steps with a sigh.

Your expression is calm, but he catches the faint pout of your lips. It’s… cute, in a way that annoys him because it’s distracting.

“Today was tough,” he begins, his voice softer than usual, “but it’ll get better from now on.”

You hug your knees tighter, still avoiding his gaze. “Were you harsh on me because people are suspicious of us, Chef?”

The question catches him off guard, but he recovers quickly, his tone firm. “No. I scolded you because you didn’t get it right.” His lips twitch into a faint smirk as he adds, “And it’s honestly annoying how you’re worse than I expected.”

That earns him a glare. “The last time I handled antipasto was four years ago,” you retort defensively.

Minho leans back, his tone warning. “This is just the beginning.”

Your eyes widen in horror. “Does that mean you’re going to scold me more?”

“Yes,” he replies simply, relishing your exaggerated groan as you bury your face in your hands.

After a beat of silence, you call him. “Chef?”

He hums in acknowledgment, and you wait until he meets your gaze before asking, “Are you the chef right now, or are you just Minho?”

The corner of his mouth lifts into a teasing smirk. “Which one would you prefer?”

You glance around, gesturing to the empty surroundings. “This isn’t the kitchen or anything.”

Minho raises a brow, his tone dry. “There are still people around who haven’t left work yet.”

You pout again, your lips jutting out in that same way that makes something tighten in his chest. “Then when do you stop being the chef and just become Minho?”

He smirks, leaning slightly closer. “What’s wrong with the chef? Don’t you like him?”

You sigh dramatically and mumble. “I hate the chef. He scolded me all day long.”

He chuckles, the sound low and warm. “What about you? Is this my line cook, or just you?”

“Just me,” you mutter, though your eyes dart nervously around.

“If it’s just you then why are you sitting so far away from me?” He asks, one corner of his mouth raises higher than the other.

“But people could still see us like this,” you say as you crane your neck to spot any prying eyes.

Minho shrugs and calmly responds. “We’re in an open space. No one would suspect anything.”

You glance at him, then the empty surroundings, before scooting closer. You both exchange playful glances at each other until you break into a series of giggles, light and sweet, and for a moment, Minho feels the weight of the day lift. Your warmth draws him in, and he considers, just briefly, risking everything by kissing you.

But the moment shatters as Chris appears at the top of the steps, his expression far too cheerful. He squeezes himself between you and Minho, blatantly ignoring the latter’s glare as he takes your hand.

“You've finished your work today,” Chris begins, his tone warm. “I’ll give you a ride home. Let's go.”

Your gaze flickers to Minho, seeking his reaction, but Chris notices. “It’s past working hours, Chef,” Chris says pointedly to Minho. “Surely, she’s allowed to leave.”

Minho exhales sharply, locking eyes with you. “It’s up to you,” he says cryptically, his voice unreadable.

Confused by his cryptic response, you hesitate, but Chris barrels on. “I know it’s not allowed for kitchen staff to date each other,” he muses aloud, “but hall staff and kitchen staff? That’s a different story, right?”

Chris grins slyly, his words grating on Minho’s nerves. “I personally think the restaurant should be a happy place, don’t you think? Love, friendship—it’s all fine by me.”

Minho’s patience snaps. “What are your intentions with her?” he asks bluntly, his tone sharp.

Chris meets his gaze with an infuriating calmness. “Anything,” he replies smoothly.

The audacity makes Minho’s blood boil, but he reins himself in. “Go inside,” he orders you curtly.

You hesitate but obey, and Minho waits until he hears the sound of the door slamming shut behind you before talking again.

Minho turns back to Chris, his eyes blazing. “I know why you’re doing this. You like her, don't you?”

Chris doesn’t deny it, his calm stare unflinching. “That’s right. I like her.”

It's not a rocket science to figure it out, Chris' treatment toward you tells it all and Minho can tell the difference between favoritism at workplace and romantic feelings.

“How long were you planning to keep it a secret?” Minho boldly asks him.

Chris smirks and puts on a coy smile. “I'm not going to love cowardly like you do, Chef. It's difficult to just watch and support her now. Thanks to you.”

The words hit like a punch, and Minho scoffs, masking the sting.

Chris shrugs, his tone casual. “The secret ends now. I'm going to tell her.” He announces before walking off, leaving Minho stewing in his frustration.

You return a moment later, your expression hesitant as you sit beside him again. “What did you two talk about?”

Minho tilts his head, exhaling sharply before leaning toward you. “Good news,” he says with a wry smile.

You perk up slightly. “What is it?”

“There’s a guy who likes you,” he teases, watching your reaction carefully.

Your brows furrow. “Why are you telling me this?”

“To give you confidence,” he replies smoothly. “Who knows? Maybe he’s a better person than me.”

You chuckle, leaning closer. “I have good news for you too.”

“Yeah?” Minho asks, playing along.

You lean in close to whisper it to him. “There’s a girl who likes you.”

Minho takes it with a coy smile. “Is she pretty?”

You nod with a grin. “Very.”

“Good to know,” he quips, smirking.

“What about the guy who likes me?” you ask, feigning curiosity. “Is he rich?”

“Very,” Minho deadpans.

Your delighted gasp turns into laughter, and Minho finds himself laughing too, though a bitter ache lingers beneath his amusement.

How is it fair? he wonders as the laughter fades. Chris will have the freedom to treat you well, to show his feelings openly. And Minho? He’s trapped, forced to keep scolding you in the kitchen while his own feelings remain locked away.

-

The kitchen is quiet, filled only with the soft hum of the refrigerators and the faint echo of your footsteps. Determined to make a better impression in antipasto today, you arrived earlier than usual. After slipping into your chef’s coat, you head straight to your station, mentally rehearsing the steps for today’s dishes.

As you’re about to inspect your prep list, the sound of footsteps echoes behind you. Turning, you see Chris walking in, his navy suit perfectly tailored, his silk tie catching the faint glow of the overhead lights. His dimpled grin greets you warmly, and you can’t help but smile back.

“You’re early,” he remarks, leaning casually against the counter.

“You’re always early,” you counter with a teasing smile.

Chris comes up at you and crosses his arms, pretending to pout as he says, “I’m hungry.”

You raise a brow. “What? No personal chef to whip up breakfast for you?”

Chris dramatically places a hand over his heart. “Ouch. That hurt.”

You chuckle. “Alright, alright. Sit down. I’ll make you something.”

Chris waves a hand dismissively. “But you’ll be cooking all day so let’s go out and grab something instead.”

You shake your head. “I insist. Besides, I miss cooking pasta.”

He relents with a small shrug and a grin. “Alright, then.”

You grab a gas lighter for the stove. “I'll be a moment. You should wait in the chef’s table.”

“I want to watch you cook,” Chris says with a teasing smile as he leans against the counter.

You take a wooden spatula and point it at him. “Don’t blame me if your fancy suit get splattered!”

Rolling your eyes, you grab a pan and start prepping. As you move around the kitchen, you occasionally glance at Chris, noticing how his eyes linger on you instead of the ingredients. His attention is flattering, but you try not to let it distract you.

Once the dish is ready, you bring the plate to the chef’s table, setting down a fork and napkin. You hop onto the counter, watching as he examines the dish with a look of admiration.

“It’s pretty,” he comments, his fork hovering above the plate.

With a sly smile, you tell him, “Instead of spaghetti, I used farfalle—for the owner of Farfalle.”

Chris grins at the pun but still hesitates. “It’s too pretty to eat.”

“Nothing tastes good when you eat alone,” you say, crossing your arms with a playful smirk. “And I’m not sitting here because of you. I’m sitting here because I want my pasta to taste good.”

Chris laughs at that, finally digging in. As he eats, you can’t help but lean forward. “So? Does it taste good?”

Chris nods earnestly. “It's the best.”

You narrow your eyes, unconvinced and sigh. “Your taste buds are a bit dull because Chef would've thrown a fit right now.”

“I mean it, it's good,” he insists, his tone softening as he meets your gaze. “Anything tastes good with you next to me.”

You quickly laugh, brushing off the flutter in your chest. “You’re just trying to flatter me now.”

He chuckles, taking another bite before you teasingly ask, “Still better than sex?”

Chris pauses, chewing thoughtfully. When he swallows, he shakes his head. “I’ve had sex now, so...”

You feign nonchalance and give him a playful side eyes, “Good for you,” you reply lightly.

Chris offers you a forkful of pasta. You lean in to accept, only for him to pull it back last second and shove it into his own mouth with a mischievous grin.

“Really?” you ask, putting on an annoyed expression.

He grins triumphantly. “Got you.”

Despite your mock irritation, you feel your mood lift. Chris always has this way of making everything lighter, brighter without him even realizing it and you’re grateful for it, even if you’d never admit it out loud.

-

You’re on your way to the kitchen, mentally going over the preparations needed for tonight’s dinner service. Your nerves are steady—though antipasto demands precision, you’ve prepared yourself for the challenge.

“Hey!” Hyunwoo’s cheerful voice stops you mid-step.

He’s standing beside Seungwan, his usual wide grin plastered across his face. “Ready for today?”

You nod simply. “Yes.”

Seungwan, ever the commentator, chimes in, “You know, antipasto requires meticulousness. A delicate hand. Mindfulness. You get it. Women are naturally better at these things.”

You feel the heat of irritation flare up but push it down, offering a curt nod instead of engaging. It’s not worth the energy.

Hyunwoo claps a hand on Seungwan’s shoulder, as if to diffuse the awkwardness. “Well, you’ve got experience, so I know you’ll do well. But if you need anything, I’m here.”

You muster a polite smile. “Thanks.”

Before you can move on, Seungwan interrupts, smirking. “You have nothing to worry about, though. We know Chef will take good care of you.”

Hyunwoo chuckles, catching the implication, and soon both of them are laughing, their voices carrying through the hallway.

You open your mouth to respond—to shut down their insinuations about Minho—when a familiar voice cuts through the noise.

“What are you three doing standing around?”

Minho appears behind you, his sharp gaze flicking between the three of you. His tone is cold, commanding, and it instantly silences Hyunwoo and Seungwan’s laughter.

“Hurry up and get to the kitchen,” he orders, his eyes narrowing slightly in warning.

The two men mumble quick apologies and scurry off, leaving you alone with Minho. For a brief moment, his gaze lands on you, unreadable. Then, without a word, he strides past you, heading straight for the kitchen.

You can't tell if he heard everything or maybe he heard but he just doesn't care. You release a quiet breath and follow after him, steeling yourself for the long night ahead.

The kitchen is chaos. Orders are flying in, pans are clanging, and the sharp aroma of cooking fills the air. You stay at your station, hyper-focused, determined to do your best and avoid Minho’s wrath.

The ticket machine whirs, spitting out another order. Minho’s voice booms across the kitchen. “Table number six. One panchetta, one carbonara, one celeriac puree with grilled scallops.”

He looks around the kitchen and his eyes land on you. “You take the scallops. Make one extra for a taste test.”

“Yes, Chef!” you reply firmly, moving to grab a pan.

Taesoo rushes over with fresh scallops, and you thank him before carefully checking the temperature of your pan. You add the scallops, and the satisfying sizzle confirms the heat is just right. Every move is calculated—no room for mistakes.

When the scallops are done, you plate the dish for service with meticulous attention to detail, making sure it looks perfect. On a smaller plate, you arrange the extra portion for Minho to taste. You carry both plates to the chef’s table, setting them down with a quiet but confident, “Chef.”

Minho doesn’t hesitate. He takes a bite of the extra plate.

The reaction is immediate. He spits the scallop into a napkin and, with a sharp movement, hurls the plate to the floor. The crash echoes, silencing part of the kitchen.

“Are you trying to break the customer’s jaw? Is this a gum or a rubber? What is this?” His voice is cutting, laced with venom.

Your heart sinks as you see the dish you made splattered across the kitchen floor and Taesoo quickly sweeps it away before anyone can step on it.

“Didn't you hear what I told you earlier? I said it has to be brown on the outside but tender on the inside. If you overcook a scallop like this, it’s tougher than the soles of your shoes!” His eyes are blazing, and for a moment, it feels like his anger isn’t just about the dish but aimed directly at you. It’s hard not to take it personally.

“What are you doing? Do it again!” The tone of his voice rains down on you like a bucket of cold water.

“Yes, Chef,” you manage, your voice tight as a lump forms in your throat.

Before you can move back to your station, Minho’s sharp voice cuts through the kitchen again. “Seungwan, you take the scallops.”

The humiliation burns as Seungwan takes over, muttering under his breath, loud enough for you to hear, “But I still have a lot to do...”

As you return to your station, Seungwan glances at you, his tone dripping with mockery. “You still like Chef after he tore you apart like that?”

You don’t answer. Your lips press into a thin line, and your chest feels heavy. The truth is, you’re not sure anymore. It’s harder and harder not to let his words cut deep, harder to pretend his disdain doesn’t feel personal.

You focus on the task in front of you, trying to push the doubt and hurt away. But no matter how much you tell yourself it’s just work, his anger lingers like a bruise.

-

Dinner service is brutal, even by Minho’s standards. The tension in the kitchen is suffocating, and he sees the weight of his harsh words pressing down on you. He hates it—every second of it.

Minho prides himself on keeping things professional, but with you, the lines blur dangerously every day. Tonight is no exception, and he can’t wait to leave the kitchen behind and find a way to make things right.

The locker room is dim and quiet when he walks in. His eyes immediately find you standing in front of your locker, your back to him. You’re tying your hair into a messy ponytail, your movements deliberate and tense. You look exhausted, but more than that, you look angry.

Minho hesitates, unsure how to approach you. He moves to his locker, giving you space and hoping you’ll warm up to him. As he opens the metal door, his eyes catch the corner of something tucked into the back of the shelf. He pulls it out—the Valentine’s card you gave him, still pristine despite its creased edges.

"I'm happy that you're always around me, Chef. You make me feel like I’m cooking the best pasta in the world."

He reads it again, the words a bittersweet reminder of how much you mean to him and how much he’s risking with his behavior. Slipping the card back into the locker, he turns to face you and softly calls your name.

“Yes, chef?” you reply, your voice distant and clipped.

“Are the other cooks still bothering you? Like earlier?” he asks, watching you carefully.

You wave him off, your tone sharp. “It’s nothing. It’s not their fault anyway—it’s ours. We’re the ones lying to them.”

The bitterness in your voice stings, and Minho realizes this isn’t like the other times you’ve been upset. This is deeper, rawer. You grab your bag from your locker, slamming it shut with more force than necessary before turning to leave.

Minho steps in your way, blocking the door. “Tell me what you want me to do,” he says, his voice low but firm. “Just... tell me and I’ll do it.”

Your eyes lock with his, hard and unyielding. “Then tomorrow. During lunch service. Tell everyone that you like me and that we’re dating. And you want everyone to treat me nicely and to be patient with me.”

He knows you don’t mean it—not really. It’s not a serious demand but a product of your anger and frustration. Still, he stays quiet, letting you speak because he knows you need to.

“I didn’t know it was going to be this difficult,” you continue, your voice softening but no less sharp. “If I had, I wouldn’t have started it.”

Your words strike him like a blow, but he stays rooted, listening as your eyes turn glassy.

“I know you’re scolding me as a cook for making mistakes,” you say, your voice trembling, “but it doesn’t feel like that. It feels like I’m being yelled at by someone I like. A lot.”

A tear slips down your cheek, and you wipe it away hastily, as if embarrassed by the show of emotion. Your eyes meet his again, red and glistening.

“I can't separate those two feelings like a fool,” you say wistfully, fighting the tears pooling in your eyes. “But you seem to be good at it so why can’t I? Tell me how.”

Minho opens his mouth to speak, to tell you how hard it’s been for him too, how every harsh word in the kitchen feels like a knife twisting in his own chest. But the words won’t come. He can’t explain without risking you misunderstanding everything.

When his silence stretches too long, you bite your lip, swallowing down more tears. “Forget it,” you mutter, pushing past him.

He lets you go, standing there alone in the quiet locker room. The anger that swirls inside him isn’t directed at you—it’s at himself. At the way things have spiraled between you. At how his own fear of jeopardizing your career and his has made everything worse.

And most of all, at the way he’s made you sad.

Leaning against the wall, Minho clenches his fists, vowing to himself that he’ll find a way to make things right. He has to—because losing you isn’t an option.

-

Minho sits at his desk, his head bowed over his well-worn recipe book. The pages are filled with scribbles, corrections, and crossed-out ideas—remnants of every failure that taught him something valuable. He flips through them slowly, the memories tied to each one tugging at him.

He’s come so far, but the thought of how easily it could all crumble gnaws at him. His shoulders feel heavy with the weight of his choices, both in the kitchen and outside of it.

The creak of the office door pulls him from his thoughts. He glances up to see Sara stepping in, her expression hesitant but determined. The sight surprises him—he thought everyone had already left the restaurant.

Sara doesn’t say anything at first, but her eyes are locked on him, her presence carrying an air of purpose. Minho leans back in his chair, waiting for her to speak.

“Chef,” she starts, her voice carefully measured. “Can I ask you something?”

He doesn’t reply verbally, just nods slightly, signaling her to go on.

“It’s about... what people are saying in the kitchen,” she says, her voice faltering.

Minho smirks, the corner of his mouth lifting in a humorless smile. Of course, the gossip finally reached her. He expected as much—it was only a matter of time.

“Is it true?” Sara asks, her tone laced with hesitation.

Without hesitation, Minho answers, “It’s true.”

The confirmation hangs in the air, heavy and unavoidable.

Sara presses on, her voice trembling slightly. “How do you feel about it?”

Maybe this is his chance to stop running, to stop pretending he can keep everything under wraps. He exhales deeply, letting the tension leave his body, and answers her with full conviction.

“I like her more than she likes me,” he says, his voice steady and unwavering.

Sara’s lips tremble, and Minho can’t tell if she’s holding back tears or fighting the urge to speak further. But he doesn’t feel guilt. He’s told her before, countless times, that he only sees her as a chef—a colleague. Nothing more.

Standing, Minho grabs his bag, slinging it over his shoulder. He pauses for a moment, looking at Sara one last time, before stepping toward the door.

“I hope this clears things up for you,” he says quietly, his tone firm but not unkind.

As he leaves the office, Minho feels a small weight lift off his chest. He’s not hiding the truth anymore—not from Sara, at least. And while the path ahead still feels uncertain, he’s relieved to have taken this first step.

-

You don’t know how long you’ve been sitting there at the bus stop, letting bus after bus pass without getting on. Your head is a whirlwind of thoughts, yet somehow, it also feels completely blank. You sigh, hugging yourself tightly against the biting cold of the night air.

The sound of footsteps draws your attention, and you glance sideways. Minho is walking toward you. Without a word, he sits down on the bench and slides closer until he’s right next to you. You keep your gaze fixed straight ahead, refusing to meet his eyes. You can feel his presence, the warmth of him radiating against the chill, but you say nothing. If you open your mouth now, everything you’re feeling will come spilling out, and you’re not ready for him to see how deeply he’s affected you.

In a calm, steady tone, Minho breaks the silence. “You can go back to the pasta line.”

You bite your lip, still not looking at him. That’s not what this is about—not why you exploded at him earlier. When you don’t respond, he leans in a little closer, his voice soft but firm. “I said I'm letting you go back to the pasta line.”

Your frustration boils over. “I don’t want to,” you snap, finally turning to glare at him.

Minho looks genuinely confused. “Weren’t you just complaining about it a while ago?”

You meet his gaze, your voice unwavering. “I don’t want to go back because of you. I’m going back to the pasta line on my own merits—not because of whatever this is.”

The intensity of your words seems to take him by surprise. He stares at you for a moment, stunned into silence. Then, slowly, his lips curl into a sly smile.

“You’re quite something, do you know that?” he says, his tone laced with admiration.

You roll your eyes, dismissing his attempt at flattery. You dismiss it, thinking he’s just trying to sweet-talk you.

Minho sighs, his expression softening as he leans in even closer. “What should I do? I’m in big trouble now,” he says quietly.

Your brows furrow. “Why?”

He tilts his head, his warm breath brushing against your cheek. “Because I like you even more now.”

The words catch you off guard, and despite yourself, a smile tugs at the corners of your lips. You quickly suppress it, trying to keep your composure.

Minho notices, of course, and his own smile deepens. “I’ve never met a woman like you,” he says earnestly.

You jab back, trying to deflect. “Just how many women have you known?”

He doesn’t rise to the bait, surprising you. Instead, he gestures toward the sky. “Look at the moon.”

You scoff, skeptical. “Why?”

“Just look at it,” he insists, his tone leaving no room for argument.

With a huff, you tilt your head up, your eyes landing on the full moon glowing brightly against the dark sky. The sight is breathtaking, but before you can comment, you feel the soft press of Minho’s lips against your cheek.

Startled, you whip your head around to face him. He meets your gaze, his eyes steady and sincere. “Your cooking is missing something. You need to improve,” he says quietly. “That’s why I scolded you—not because of rumors, not because of us, but because I know you’re better than that.”

His words sink in, and you nod slowly. “Yes, Chef,” you reply sincerely.

Minho smiles, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “That’s what I love to hear the most. When you say, 'Yes, chef!'” he says with a teasing lilt.

Despite yourself, you giggle softly, repeating, “Yes, Chef.”

This time, Minho doesn’t hold back. He cups your jaw gently, leaning in to press his lips to yours. The kiss is soft, tender—completely different from the sharp, demanding presence he exudes in the kitchen. It’s as if he’s trying to show you the difference between Minho the Chef and Minho the man.

When he pulls back, his hand remains on your jaw, his thumb brushing your cheek. “What do you think, mmh?” he murmurs. “Should we let all hell break loose tomorrow?”

You blink at him, startled. “You’re serious?”

Minho chuckles, nodding. “Let’s stop hiding. It’s better than getting caught and fired.”

You stare at him, trying to gauge if he really means it. His lips quirk into a grin, and he adds, “I feel like I’m about to explode from frustration if we keep this up.”

Finally, you find your voice. “So... you want us to just say to hell with it?”

“Exactly,” he says, cupping your face with both hands now. His gaze is intense, but there’s a warmth there that steadies you. “Let’s just tell everyone. To hell with it.”

Before you can respond, he leans in again, his lips capturing yours in a long, lingering kiss that erases any doubts you might have had.

As he pulls away, leaving you breathless, you find yourself staring at him, your heart hammering against your ribcage. The truth is, you’ve felt it growing stronger every day—the way he’s slowly become impossible to ignore. It’s more than just admiration, more than just the thrill of secrecy. It’s something real, something that scares you just as much as it excites you.

You don’t say any of that aloud, but the way you lean back into his touch, the way your lips curve into a small, shy smile, tells Minho everything he needs to know. For once, you feel like you’re both on the same page.

-

The space between you feels heavy, charged, but neither of you says a word. His gaze locks on yours, dark and intent, and it makes your heart race. Slowly, Minho steps closer, the faint scent of his cologne mingling with the warmth of his bedroom room. His fingers graze your cheek, his touch feather-light, as if he’s memorizing the moment.

Your breath hitches as he leans in, his lips brushing against yours with a gentleness that sends a shiver down your spine. The kiss is slow, deliberate, as if he’s savoring every second. You respond in kind, your hands finding their way to his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your palms.

Minho deepens the kiss, his lips moving with a tenderness that leaves you dizzy. His hands slide down your arms, warm and steady, before resting on your waist. He pulls you closer, your bodies barely a breath apart.

As the kiss grows more fervent, his fingers find the hem of your shirt, toying with the fabric. He pauses for a moment, his eyes meeting yours as if asking for permission. You nod, your own hands slipping to the buttons of his shirt. Slowly, carefully, you undo them one by one, your fingers brushing against his skin with each movement.

Minho mirrors your actions, his hands lifting your shirt over your head in one fluid motion. The cool air kisses your skin, but it’s quickly replaced by the warmth of his touch. His fingers trace along your collarbone, his lips following suit, leaving a trail of soft kisses that make your knees weak.

You push his shirt off his shoulders, letting it fall to the floor. Your hands explore the smooth planes of his chest, the taut muscle beneath your fingertips. He exhales sharply, his breath hot against your neck as he presses closer, his lips finding the sensitive spot just below your ear.

Your hands move to his belt, fumbling slightly, but Minho stops you with a soft chuckle. “Hey, what's the rush?” he whispers, his lips curving into a small smile against your skin.

The rest of your clothes fall away piece by piece, each moment lingering, each touch filled with an unspoken reverence. Minho’s hands are steady as they glide along your body, his touch igniting a warmth that spreads through you like wildfire.

When there’s nothing left between you, he pauses, his gaze sweeping over you with an intensity that makes your cheeks flush. “You’re perfect,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper.

You reach up to cradle his face in your hands, your thumb brushing along his jawline. “You’re perfect,” you mutter back, your voice soft but certain.

Minho leans in once more, his lips capturing yours in a kiss that’s equal parts passion and tenderness. As you fall back onto the bed together, the world outside fades away, leaving only the two of you, wrapped in each other’s warmth, every touch and kiss a silent declaration of the feelings neither of you can deny any longer.

-

Minho hovers over you, his weight braced on one arm as his free hand moves to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing over your flushed skin. He looks down at you, his eyes filled with a mix of mischief and adoration that sends a thrill through your entire body.

“You’re beautiful like this,” he murmurs, his voice low and husky, his gaze never leaving yours.

His lips capture yours again, the kiss deep and unhurried, as if he wants to taste every sound you make. His hand trails down, fingertips ghosting over your skin, leaving a trail of heat in their wake. The anticipation coils tight in your stomach as his touch ventures lower, slow and deliberate.

When his fingers finally slide between your thighs, a soft gasp escapes your lips, but Minho swallows it with another kiss, his smirk pressing against your mouth. He pauses for a moment, teasing, his touch feather-light on your bundle of nerves, just enough to drive you wild.

“Eager, are we?” he asks, his tone playful, his lips brushing against the corner of your mouth.

You nod slightly, breathless, and he rewards you with a low chuckle that sends shivers down your spine. His fingers move with precision, exploring and learning what makes you react, what makes you tremble beneath him.

The tension builds as he curls his fingers inside you, finding the perfect rhythm that leaves you gasping and clinging to him. He watches you intently, his eyes flicking over your face, taking in every reaction. The smirk on his lips deepens as he notices the way your body arches toward him, completely at his mercy.

“You’re so sensitive,” he whispers, his voice filled with both awe and amusement. He leans down to capture your lips again, muffling the soft moans spilling from your mouth. His kiss is as skillful as his touch, his tongue teasing yours as if he’s trying to coax every bit of sound out of you.

Your hands grip his shoulders, desperate for some anchor as the pleasure intensifies. Minho’s lips leave yours for a moment, moving to press kisses along your jawline, then down to the hollow of your throat. His voice is a low murmur against your skin. “I could watch you like this forever.”

Each movement of his fingers feels like a symphony, building you higher and higher. Your breaths come in shallow gasps, your body trembling beneath him, and Minho seems to revel in every second of it.

When your moans grow louder, your head tilting back against the pillow, Minho leans down to kiss you again, catching the sound in his mouth. His lips curve into a smile against yours, and the vibration of his low chuckle only heightens your pleasure.

“Let go for me,” he murmurs, his voice soft and coaxing. “I’ve got you.”

His words, his touch, the way he’s watching you with so much intent—it’s overwhelming in the best way. You fall over the edge, your body trembling as waves of pleasure wash over you. Minho doesn’t stop, guiding you through it, his lips never straying far from yours, his fingers slowing only once he’s sure you’re coming down gently.

When you finally open your eyes, Minho’s gaze is still fixed on you, his smirk replaced by a softer, more affectionate smile. He leans in, pressing a tender kiss to your forehead, as if to ground you.

As you come down from the high he’s led you to, Minho’s hand slides up, his fingers brushing over your flushed skin with care. He watches you intently, his lips curving into that signature smirk of his, as though he’s proud of the effect he has on you.

Without breaking eye contact, he brings his hand up, his slick fingers hovering near your lips. “Open,” he murmurs, his voice low and coaxing, yet laced with dominance.

Your breath catches, but you obey, parting your lips for him. He slides his fingers into your mouth slowly, his touch deliberate, and you close your lips around them, tasting the remnants of yourself on him.

Minho’s eyes darken as he watches you, his thumb tracing along your jaw as you lick his fingers clean. The way you meet his gaze, unflinching and bold, sends a shiver through him, his smirk deepening with every deliberate movement of your tongue.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, his voice soft but dripping with heat. “Such a good girl for me.”

Your cheeks flush at his praise, but it only makes him lean in closer, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “You have no idea how perfect you are,” he whispers, his tone dripping with seduction.

He pulls his fingers from your mouth, his hand now cradling your jaw, tilting your face toward him. His thumb brushes over your bottom lip, as though he can’t get enough of you. “You make it so easy to lose control,” he adds, his gaze intense.

Minho leans in, capturing your lips in a kiss that’s both possessive and tender, as if to seal his words. When he finally pulls away, his forehead rests against yours, and the corners of his lips lift into a soft smile.

“You’re going to be the death of me,” he says with a chuckle, his voice light but filled with genuine affection.

You can’t help but smile back at him, your heart pounding as his thumb strokes your cheek. Whatever walls he’s kept up before, they seem to have crumbled completely in this moment, leaving nothing but raw honesty between the two of you.

-

“Please,” You whimper as Minho is burying his head in between your soft mounds. His mouth immediately latches onto your hardening bud while the other is being teased by his fingers, both assaults make your eyes fluttering shut.

A moment after hearing your plead, Minho lets go of his mouth, leaving your nipple wet and swollen. “Please what?” he asks, landing a kitten lick on your other nipple.

“Fill me,” you breathlessly beg.

Minho sucks on your flesh before answering to your request. “Fill you with my cock or...?”

Your hand reaches down to his hardening member, you pinch the end of the condom he's already putting on and pulling at it until it snaps away. “Both,” you simply answer and opening your legs wider for him.

The thought of being filled by his cock is enough to send you into overdrive but you want more, you want to feel every inch of him, to be filled with his cum, to feel it filling you and leaking out of you and ultimately, you want to be soaked in both of your releases.

Minho is more than eager to comply to your request, he gives his cock a few strokes before aligning it with your entrace. Once the tip has entered you, he uses his hips to push the rest of his length.

The two of you collectively moan at the feeling of being inside each other, raw, without a layer of protection. While you delightfully sigh, Minho groans into the crook of your neck as he's fully sheathed inside you. The slightest of movement and you can feel him, the length, the heat, the hardness... oh, he fills you perfectly.

The way Minho moves against you is slow yet deliberate, every motion pulling soft gasps from your lips. His hands grip your waist like he’s afraid to let you go, his forehead pressed against yours as he lets out low groans, completely lost in the sensation of you.

“God, you feel so good,” he murmurs, his voice shaky and raw. His head tilts down, lips ghosting over the curve of your shoulder as if trying to ground himself, but you can feel him faltering, overwhelmed by the intensity between you.

You’re caught between the pleasure coursing through you and the sight of him unraveling—his lips parted, his brows furrowed, his breaths heavy. It’s mesmerizing, yet you know he’s losing himself too much in the moment.

Reaching up, you grab his chin gently but firmly, tilting his face so he’s looking directly at you. His eyes flutter open, hazy and dark with desire, and you feel his breath catch as you lock your gaze with his.

“Hey,” you whisper, your voice steady despite the heat pooling in your core. “Look at me.”

Minho’s lips part as if he’s going to say something, but no words come out. Instead, he nods slightly, his hands tightening on your hips as he adjusts his rhythm, his movements more controlled now, more intentional.

You hold his gaze, your eyes searching his as your fingers caress his jaw. “That’s it,” you murmur, your voice soft but commanding. “Stay with me.”

His breaths grow heavier, his lips brushing yours briefly as he finds his rhythm again, pouring everything into every movement. He seems transfixed by you, his eyes never leaving yours, even as his body trembles with the effort to keep it together.

“You feel so, so good,” he whispers, his voice filled with awe and something deeper, something that makes your chest tighten in the best way. His gaze softens as he takes you in, his movements slower but no less intense, like he’s savoring every second with you.

Your hand moves from his jaw to his hair, fingers tangling in the dark strands as you pull him closer. “Minho,” you breathe, the sound of his name on your lips pulling a low groan from his throat.

He leans in, capturing your lips in a kiss that’s searing, his focus entirely on you now, every motion, every touch, every sound meant for you alone. The intimacy of it all makes your heart race, the connection between you deepening with every moment.

And as he continues, his body pressed firmly against yours, you see it in his eyes—the way he’s completely and utterly yours in this moment, and how much it terrifies and excites him all at once.

-

Minho leans back against the headboard, his chest bare and warm against your back as you sit between his legs. His arm wraps securely around you, holding you close in the quiet intimacy of afterglow. In one hand, you're holding a wine glass steady as Minho carefully pours, his fingers brushing yours for just a moment.

You take the first sip, savoring the sweetness on your tongue before passing the glass to him. The silence that follows is comfortable, but you know it can’t last.

“You know your plan to say ‘hell with it’ tomorrow isn’t going to work, right?” you say, breaking the quiet.

Minho pauses mid-sip, raising an eyebrow at you. “Why not?”

You shift slightly to look up at him, your head leaning back against his shoulder. “Because I want to stay in the kitchen with you for a long time,” you admit, your voice soft but firm. “You still have so much to teach me, and that can’t happen if we get fired.”

Minho takes another slow sip of wine before handing the glass back to you. He exhales, his lips curving into a slight smile. “I can’t work in that kitchen without you in it anyway.”

The sincerity in his voice makes your chest tighten in the best way, and you can’t help but giggle, the wine glass hovering close to your lips. Resting your head comfortably on his shoulder, you turn your face slightly to meet his gaze. “I want to learn to be as good as you someday,” you confess, your tone playful but tinged with genuine admiration.

Minho scoffs, his usual cockiness coming through. “As good as me? You’re being greedy. I’m the best, you know.”

His arrogance annoys you, but it’s so quintessentially Minho that you can’t even be mad. Rolling your eyes, you counter, “Exactly. That’s why you’re the best teacher I could ever have.”

Minho’s hand slides to the nape of your neck, his touch gentle but firm as he tilts your face toward his. “So, what you’re saying is... you want to be my student?”

You smile sweetly, meeting his gaze. “Yes, chef,” you reply with a soft laugh.

He shakes his head slightly, his lips curving into a sly grin. “That’s not good enough. You have to be my favorite student.”

The playfulness in his tone makes your heart flutter, and when he leans in to kiss you, it’s like he’s trying to capture your smile with his lips. The kiss is slow and tender, leaving you breathless when he finally pulls away.

Lightly holding his chin, you gaze into his eyes, the words spilling from your lips before you can stop them. “I wonder if there’ll ever be a day when I can be as good as you. Maybe even better.”

Minho snorts, clearly amused by your boldness. He wraps his arm tighter around you, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your skin. “I don’t want you to be better than me,” he says, his tone half-joking, half-serious. “Being as good as me is enough—and even that’s highly unlikely.”

You groan, rolling your eyes again, which only makes him smirk. He tugs gently at the hair at the back of your head, making you turn to face him fully.

“Why? You think I’m arrogant?” he asks, his tone daring you to challenge him.

Without missing a beat, you reply, “Yes, chef.”

His smirk deepens as he pulls you closer, your head resting in the crook of his neck. “Even if I am, just grin and bear it,” he says, his voice low and teasing.

You chuckle softly, nuzzling into him as you reply, “Yes, chef.”

Minho shifts slightly, his fingers trailing along your jawline as he tilts your face up to meet his gaze again. His eyes darken with something unspoken as he murmurs, “Say it one more time.”

Your heart skips, but you don’t hesitate. “Yes, chef,” you whisper, putting every ounce of feeling into the words.

He nods in satisfaction, his lips crashing into yours in a kiss that’s hard, deep, and utterly consuming. The taste of wine lingers on his tongue resembles this shared moment between the two of you: sweet with just a hint of bitterness and highly intoxicating.

-

The key to a perfect crispy hashbrown lies in the details, and Minho thrives in them. He presses the shredded potatoes between layers of paper towels, extracting every last drop of moisture with precise, firm motions. The sizzle of oil heating in the pan is his cue to move, his fingers instinctively testing the temperature by letting a few stray potato shreds dance in the heat. When the oil crackles just right, he spreads the potatoes into an even, golden canvas, pressing them lightly with his spatula to ensure uniformity.

The smell of starch meeting hot oil fills the kitchen as the edges of the hashbrown crisp and curl slightly, the underside transforming into a golden-brown crust. With a deft flick of his wrist, he flips it, revealing the perfection he aimed for—deep, golden brown, with a promise of crunch.

He’s just plating the first hashbrown when you appear, stepping out of the bedroom in his oversized sweater, the hem brushing your thighs, the sleeves swallowing your hands. Your hair is a mess of bedhead, and your sleepy smile feels like sunlight breaking through the quiet morning.

“Good morning,” you mumble, leaning against the counter, your chin resting in your hand as you watch him work.

Minho allows himself a brief glance at you, his lips twitching into a smirk, before returning his focus to the pan. “Why are you just standing there? Make yourself useful. Coffee,” he says, his tone a mix of teasing and instruction.

You chuckle softly, the sound still drowsy, but you comply, moving to the coffee machine with a sense of purpose that warms him more than the steam rising from the pan.

Together, the two of you work in quiet harmony. By the time breakfast is ready, the table is set with golden hashbrowns, fluffy scrambled eggs, and two steaming mugs of coffee. Minho takes a seat across from you, picking up his fork as you do the same.

He notices it immediately: the way you keep stealing glances at him between bites, your eyes lingering like you’re savoring more than just the food. The third time he catches you, Minho sets his fork down and narrows his eyes at you.

“Stop staring,” he says flatly, though the corner of his mouth betrays him with a slight twitch.

You pout, your lips curving into a playful frown. “It’s the first time I’m staying over for breakfast,” you point out, your voice soft but teasing.

Minho scoffs, his hand pausing mid-reach for his coffee. “That’s because you always sneak out before I even wake up,” he counters, giving you a look that’s equal parts reprimand and amusement.

You giggle, tucking your knees up onto the chair and cradling your mug close to your chest. Instead of looking away, you stare openly, the mischief in your eyes making his chest tighten in ways he’s not ready to admit.

Rolling his eyes, Minho leans back in his chair, reaching for his backpack slung over the sofa. He pulls out his notebook, flipping it open briefly before sliding it across the table to you.

You blink in surprise. “What’s this?”

“The notes I took in Italy,” Minho explains, crossing his arms as he leans back. “From when I was wrestling over pasta. If you look carefully, you'll see all my failed attempts.”

You pick it up hesitantly, flipping through the pages. Your brows furrow as you scan the scribbled notes, some smudged with flour, oil, and sweat from long nights in the kitchen. “Not the ones you've succeeded?”

Minho nods, a satisfied smirk tugging at his lips. “Deliberately noted every single one of them.” He taps his temple. “If you only write down what you got right, you’ll keep going back to it and stop thinking it over. But if you document your mistakes, you’ll challenge yourself to do better every time.”

Your eyes widen as you flip through more pages. “You made this many mistakes?” you ask in disbelief.

Minho is slightly offended, his expression darkening playfully. In one swift motion, he flicks your forehead, the sound sharp but the gesture light enough to make you laugh.

“Don’t focus on replicating someone else’s great recipe,” he warns, his tone firm but not unkind. “Find your own dish through your mistakes. That’s how you get better.”

You clutch the notebook to your chest, nodding solemnly before breaking into a smile so warm it feels like the morning sunlight flooding the kitchen. “Yes, chef,” you say softly, the sincerity in your voice settling into him like a perfectly balanced dish.

Minho watches you for a moment, his arms crossed as his sharp eyes scan your face. There’s something about the way you’re holding his notebook—as if it’s the most valuable thing in the world—that stirs something deep within him.

Before he can stop himself, he reaches across the table and gently pats your head, his fingers ruffling your messy bedhead with deliberate care. His lips curve into a faint smirk, but there’s a softness in his eyes that he doesn’t try to hide.

“I gave you that because you're my favorite student,” he murmurs, his voice low but undeniably affectionate.

Your cheeks flush at the unexpected praise, and you duck your head slightly, pretending to focus on flipping through the pages again. But Minho sees the smile tugging at the corners of your mouth, and it makes his chest feel inexplicably full.

Yeah, you’re his favorite, and for reasons that go far beyond the kitchen.

-

The clinking of utensils and hum of conversation from the staff having lunch downstairs fades as Minho walks toward the second floor of the dining hall. His footsteps slow when he spots Felix and Taesoo sitting at one of the tables, heads bent close in conversation. Their voices are low, but not low enough to escape his ears.

Minho lingers just out of sight, leaning against the wall, arms crossed, listening in with mild curiosity.

“So, what do you think’s going on between chef and her?” Taesoo asks, his voice carrying a teasing lilt.

Felix hums thoughtfully. “Honestly? I’d prefer it if they did fall in love.”

Minho’s eyebrows shoot up. That’s not the answer he was expecting, and judging by Taesoo’s laugh, neither was he.

“Why?” Taesoo presses, his tone disbelieving.

Felix shrugs. “I mean, if it’s between her and Sara, I’d rather see chef with her, you know? It’d be… nicer.”

Minho’s lips twitch, both annoyed and amused. His jaw clenches when Felix adds after a moment, “But, even if they did, it’d be risky. If they got caught dating while working in the kitchen… It’d be dangerous.”

That’s enough. With a sharp inhale, Minho steps forward and delivers a firm slap to the back of both their heads, startling them.

Felix yelps, clutching his head as Taesoo hisses in pain, whipping around to see their chef towering behind them.

“Yes, I’m having an affair in the kitchen. So what?” Minho deadpans, his gaze locking onto Felix with a daring intensity.

Felix stiffens, his face a mixture of shock and embarrassment. “I—I’m sorry, chef!” he stammers, bowing his head.

Minho walks around to the front of the table and leans against it, crossing his arms. His sharp eyes stay trained on Felix, who fidgets nervously under the weight of his stare.

“What you said is right,” Minho says, his tone deceptively calm, almost challenging.

Felix blinks in confusion. “I didn’t mean with what I said, Chef. I'm sorry.”

Minho smirks as he calmly asks Felix’s opinion. “What do you think? Don't we look good together?”

Felix gapes at him, dazed and unsure if this is a trap. “I—I don’t know! Are you asking for real or just messing with me?”

Minho tilts his head, his smirk deepening. “Well, since there are already rumors, maybe I should make them true.”

Taesoo lets out a snort of laughter, but Felix pales. “Chef! You’d get fired!”

“I know,” Minho replies nonchalantly, his voice laced with mischief.

Felix groans, slumping back in his chair. “There are so many beautiful women out there. Why her?!”

Without missing a beat, Minho leans forward and flicks the back of Felix’s head again. “Do you want to die? What's wrong with her?”

Felix winces, rubbing his head. “Are you lonely, chef?” he mutters weakly.

“Yes,” Minho replies immediately, the corner of his mouth twitching upward.

Felix groans louder, throwing his hands up in frustration. “Chef, you need to control yourself! You can’t date her!”

Minho smirks, reaching out to grab Felix’s ponytail and giving it a playful tug. “Never,” he says with a sly grin, watching as Felix frantically fixes his hair, a look of disbelief etched across his face.

Taesoo snickers behind his hand, and Minho straightens up, looking utterly satisfied with himself. Taesoo makes another zipping his mouth gesture to him to avoid Minho’s wrath.

As Minho walks away, he feels a small but undeniable sense of relief. Now that more people knew about you and him—albeit through gossip—it felt a little less like he was hiding something. And while he’d never admit it out loud, he liked the idea of others knowing that you were his.

For once, the thought didn’t feel like a risk. It felt like a win.

-

The hum of the coffee machine fills the air as you sit at the counter, a steaming cup of coffee in one hand and Minho’s notebook in the other. You flip through the pages, tracing his meticulous notes with your finger, trying to absorb every word. His handwriting is sharp and precise, almost as if it mirrors his personality—strict, methodical, yet undeniably passionate.

The faint sound of footsteps makes you glance up, and you catch Chris approaching. He doesn’t say anything as he pulls up the stool next to you, sitting with his arms stacked on the counter. His presence is calm but unwavering, his gaze fixed on you as you study the notebook.

You try to ignore him, focusing back on the notebook, but his silent watching becomes too distracting. After a few moments, you sigh, closing the notebook and turning to him with a questioning look.

Chris flashes his trademark dimpled smile, the kind that always seems to disarm everyone around him. But this time, there’s a hint of something else behind it—something pensive. He lets out a low sigh.

“It’s unfair,” he says softly.

Your eyebrows shoot up in confusion. “What’s unfair?”

Propping his chin on his hand, Chris starts listing, his tone lighthearted but deliberate. “Well, for starters, I think I’m a good person. I’ve got a decent amount of money. I’m considerate. And—” he pauses for dramatic effect, “I’m very reasonable.”

You nod at each point he makes, humoring him. “I acknowledge all of that,” you reply with a small smile.

Chris leans back slightly, grinning as he clasps his hands together. “And I also think you’re the best chef in the world.”

You chuckle at his exaggerated sincerity. “Fully noted and acknowledged.”

Chris’s grin widens, but his tone softens. “All things considered, I think I’m a pretty decent catch. So why don’t you even consider me in the running?”

You pout at his question, feigning offense. “Who told you I didn’t?”

His eyes narrow slightly, and he leans closer, a playful glint in his eyes. “Do you really mean that?”

You shrug, maintaining your playful tone. “I love wealthy men. And I do love that you have lots of money.”

Chris nods in mock seriousness, playing along. “So… no dislikes?”

“Of course not,” you reply easily, taking a sip of your coffee.

There’s a brief moment of silence before Chris leans in closer, his tone dropping just enough to make the conversation feel private. His eyes lock onto yours, and the teasing air between you shifts.

“You know I like you,” he says, his voice quiet but firm.

You chuckle, brushing it off with a lighthearted smile. “And you know I like you too.”

But the smile on Chris’s face fades, replaced by an earnest, almost vulnerable expression. “No,” he says softly, his gaze unwavering. “I said I like you.”

It takes you a moment to process his words fully. The weight of his confession settles in, and your playful demeanor falters. You open your mouth to respond, but nothing comes out.

Chris doesn’t press you for an answer. He simply smiles—soft and understanding—and stands from his stool. As he walks away, his words hang heavily in the air, leaving you sitting at the counter, staring after him with a knot of conflicted feelings in your chest.

-

The echo of your footsteps bounces off the corridor walls as you head toward the locker room, your mind swirling with thoughts. Chris’s confession keeps replaying in your head, leaving you feeling like your chest is tied in knots. You want to vent, to unload the mess of emotions building inside you, but there’s no one in here you can comfortably and openly share this with.

With a frustrated sigh, you dig your phone out of your pocket, scrolling through your contacts until you land on a name that feels safe. You press the call button.

The line rings three times before your dad picks up. “Hello?”

“Dad,” you say, your voice wistful and soft.

There’s a pause before he asks, “What’s wrong with your voice? Did you get into trouble again?”

You grumble, rolling your eyes even though he can’t see it. “Why do you always assume I’m in trouble?”

“Because you call me like this, all dramatic,” he replies. “What is it, then?”

You hesitate, chewing your lip. Then you take a deep breath and let it out in one go. “A guy told me he likes me.”

Your dad gasps, audibly enough that you can’t help but pull the phone away from your ear. “A guy?”

“Why are you so surprised?” you ask, annoyed.

“Which guy?” he presses, his tone suspicious and borderline protective.

“I’m not telling you that,” you reply firmly. “But now I’m confused.”

Your dad doesn’t let it go. “Does this guy have a job?”

You blink at the unexpected question. “Yes. He’s got loads of money.”

“Is he bad-tempered?”

You sigh. “No, he’s actually very considerate and reasonable.”

“Does he mind that you’re a chef?”

You pause before answering, “He always says whatever I make is delicious.”

Your dad sighs deeply, his voice softening. “Then what’s the problem?”

You hesitate again, your heart caught in your throat. Finally, you admit, “I… I like someone else.”

There’s silence on the other end, and then your dad asks, “What’s better about the other guy?”

You instinctively clam up. The thought of describing Minho to your dad feels impossible. He’s the exact opposite of Chris in every way. “I… I can’t talk about him,” you say vaguely, your voice barely above a whisper.

Your dad’s tone sharpens. “Does the other guy have more money?”

“Probably not.”

“Is he nicer?”

You snort, the answer bubbling up before you can stop it. “No way. He yells a lot, is stubborn, and gets into fights with people all the time.”

“Does he like your cooking?”

You groan, already knowing what’s coming. “No, he nitpicks my cooking. All. The. Time.”

Your dad lets out another heavy sigh. “And you like this guy more?”

You lower your voice, almost ashamed. “It just… happened.”

There’s a long pause before your dad speaks again, this time with firm finality. “Go with the first one. No matter what.”

“What?!” you shriek, your frustration boiling over. “Why?”

“Because I’m your dad,” he replies without hesitation, as if that explains everything.

You gasp, completely exasperated. “You can’t just pick for me!”

“I just did.”

Groaning in disbelief, you snap, “I shouldn’t have told you anything!” Without waiting for a response, you hang up, shoving your phone aggressively back into your pocket.

“God! Why did I even bother?” You mumble to yourself.

Standing in the quiet locker room, you lean against the cold metal doors, groaning under your breath. Calling your dad was supposed to help clear your head, but now you feel more conflicted than ever.

-

The heat in the kitchen feels heavier today, the air thick with tension as the orders flood in relentlessly. Minho scans the ticket machine as it spits out another slip. His eyes flicker to table eight’s order, extra cautious as he calculates what needs to be done. His gaze darts to your station.

“Have you started on table eight?” he asks sharply.

“Yes, Chef,” you reply immediately, already halfway into prepping the vongole.

“Then hurry up,” Minho snaps, turning back to the endless stream of orders.

Before he can move on, a service staff member steps into the kitchen, looking hesitant. “Chef, table eight wants to change their order—they’re asking for the Chef’s special.”

Minho clenches his jaw, spinning back toward you. You glance up at him, your hands frozen mid-motion. “Chef, I already put the clams in. Should I stop cooking the vongole?”

For a moment, Minho hesitates, the decision flickering in his mind. Table eight wants a Chef’s special, but you’re already halfway through the vongole. Quickly, he makes the call.

“Keep going with the vongole,” he instructs, then pivots to the entrée line. “Seungwan, swap the tuna salad for grilled vegetable salad. You’ve got five minutes to prep it.”

Seungwan looks up from his station, irritation flickering in his eyes. “I don't think that’s possible, Chef. If you only give me five minutes, we should go with the special we already prepared.”

Minho turns toward him slowly, his stare icy. Before he can respond, you interrupt with another question. “Should I keep going with the vongole, or—”

“Finish it,” Minho barks, his patience thinning, then swivels back to Seungwan. “Are you trying to teach me a lesson here? Did you guys set the specials?”

Seungwan stiffens, but Minho doesn’t give him a chance to retort. He steps closer, his voice slicing through the air like a blade. “Let me remind you, I created this menu. If I decide to make changes, it’s because I know what works. Since the pasta is changing, the grilled vegetable salad will enhance the flavors of the clams better than tuna. Do you get that?”

Hyunwoo chimes in from the side, his tone laced with skepticism. “Why change the pasta in the first place? If you’d just stuck with the seafood linguine, none of this would be necessary.”

Seungwan adds, his tone sharper, “Or is it because she made the vongole?” He throws a glare your way.

You hiss back at them, your voice tight with frustration. “Hey, this has nothing to do with me!”

Minho draws in a deep breath, trying to contain the mounting irritation. He strides toward the entrée line, his sharp tone commanding the room. “A customer requested the Chef’s recommendation. Are you saying I can’t make that recommendation?” He raises his voice, his authority cutting through the tension. “Whether I tell you to make pasta, lasagna, or even a bowl of ramyeon, if I say it, you make it. Got it?”

Turning on his heel, he stalks back to the chef’s table, his voice dropping to a cold calm. “If anyone here has a problem with how I run this kitchen, feel free to find another chef and another kitchen. I don’t need anyone here who won’t listen to orders.”

The room goes silent, save for the faint sizzle of pans. Then Seojun, the sous-chef, speaks up, his tone measured but firm. “Chef, how can you say that so easily?”

Before Minho can respond, Hyunwoo mutters under his breath, but loud enough for everyone to hear, “Unlike some people, we don’t have chefs who’ll cover for us if we leave.” His eyes flick briefly toward you and Felix.

Minho hears you hiss under your breath as you tend to the vongole about to get overcooked from staying on the pan for too long. “Chef, what should I—”

Before you can finish the sentence, Minho snaps, “I told you to make it! Are you rebelling against me too?” His voice rises as he glares at you. “I gave you an order then you should make it. Where did you pick up a habit of questioning me over and over again? Is that how these guys taught you to do? Just finish the dish!”

The tension is palpable, the air crackling as Sara steps in, her voice cutting through the chaos. “Enough!” she barks, her tone sharp as a blade. She glares at the entrée line. “Are you going to keep these up? Can't you see the orders are piling up?”

Minho grips the edge of the table so hard his knuckle turns white, he turns to Taesoo who's been watching the fiery exchange from the corner of the kitchen. “Hey, Taesoo! What are you doing? You still don't know what you should bring out for a chef’s recommended course? Hurry and bring them out. Right now!”

Now that Minho knows they won't obey him, he only needs to work with the people who wants to work with him. He turns to Felix and says, “Felix, you and I are going to make the chef’s recommended course. Switch places! Now!”

“Yes, chef!” Felix eagerly respond, throwing a sharp glance at Hyunwoo as he walks past his station.

Felix walks to the other side of the kitchen, taking Seungwan’s station from him while Minho takes Souschef Seojun’s station, pushing Seojun and Seungwan to the back of the kitchen.

Sara temporarily takes the chef table and scold both Seojun and Seungwan who refuse to obey Minho. “If you're all just going to stand there and do nothing, get out. You're just interfering.” Her voice is firm yet authoritative as she remarks, “Whoever doesn't want to cook in this kitchen, I want you to get out.”

Seungwan and Seojun exchange glances, resentment burning in their eyes. Seojun steps forward, his voice tight with anger. “Chef Sara, why are you doing this? At least one of us should find out why this is happening—why the kitchen’s a mess!”

Sara doesn’t flinch under his fiery stare. “Anyone who doesn't obey the orders of the chef isn't needed in the kitchen. You should've at least followed the basic rules of the kitchen before you protested,” she retorts coldly.

Meanwhile, the ticket machine continues to spew out orders. Minho knows the kitchen won’t survive with half the staff refusing to work. His pride grates against his decision, but he knows what he has to do.

He turns to Seojun, his voice softer but no less commanding. “Hey, Souschef! Grab a frying pan. Please!”

Seojun’s jaw clenches, his hands balling into fists. For a moment, it looks like he might refuse, but then he sighs heavily and steps toward the pasta line. Slowly, the others follow, the kitchen sputtering back into chaotic motion as the orders pile up.

Minho exhales deeply, the weight of the moment pressing down on him. The fight isn’t over, but for now, the kitchen runs.

-

Minho descends the staircase slowly, his steps measured, the sounds of distant chatter from the dining hall growing clearer with each step. As he enters the hall, he spots Taesoo sprawled on his back atop one of the tables, groaning dramatically as he vents to you. You sit beside him, listening patiently, though Minho can tell from the way you rest your head on stacked hands, you're too exhausted to listening to it.

“I can’t do it,” Taesoo whines, stretching his arms above his head. “If there’s another day like today, I swear my heart will either burst or shrivel up into nothing.”

Minho, unimpressed by Taesoo's theatrics, crosses the room in quick strides and delivers a swift slap to the back of Taesoo’s head. The loud smack startles him, making him yelp and sit upright, rubbing the spot with a pout.

“Cut the drama, Taesoo,” Minho says curtly as he pulls out the chair next to yours and sits down. “It’s embarrassing.”

Taesoo grumbles but doesn’t argue further. Meanwhile, you turn to Minho, offering a polite smile. “Thank you for your hard work today, Chef,” you say, your tone professional, if not a little tired.

Minho’s gaze softens as he places a hand on your shoulder. “Are you alright?” he asks, his voice quieter than usual.

Your smile doesn’t falter, though it seems rehearsed. “I’m alright, Chef,” you reply simply.

The interaction doesn’t escape Taesoo, who sits upright, his eyes darting between the two of you with exaggerated suspicion. “Do you know how many people are talking about the two of you?” he blurts, leaning forward conspiratorially. “Or how many can’t wait to catch you two together? They're sharpening their knives as we speak!”

Minho shoots him a smirk, entirely unbothered. “Should I care?”

Taesoo doesn’t back down, lowering his voice as he leans closer. “I’m more anxious about it than either of you, and I’m not even involved!” He clasps his hands together in mock pleading. “Please, for all our sakes, rein in your temper a little, Chef. You’re making it worse.”

Instead of acknowledging Taesoo’s concerns, Minho flicks his forehead, eliciting a sharp hiss from you as you watch the scene unfold. Taesoo’s expression twists in exaggerated pain and frustration.

“Chef! How long do you think we can keep going like this?” Taesoo asks, panic lacing his voice.

Minho considers it for a moment, leaning back in his chair. “Not more than a month,” he answers nonchalantly. Then, with a small sigh, he corrects himself, “Probably a week. Three days if we’re lucky.”

Taesoo lets out a defeated groan, slumping back against the chair as if Minho’s prediction seals his fate.

Their conversation seems to summon trouble as Seungwan, Hyunwoo, and sous chef Seojun appear near the entrance. Their gazes immediately zero in on you and Minho, and Seungwan wastes no time making his disdain clear.

“If I catch the two of you dating, I’m not going to stand for it. Keep that in mind!” Seungwan says, his tone sharp and accusatory. His glare lingers on you, but Minho stands up, his chair scraping loudly against the floor.

“Are you threatening me right now?” Minho asks, his voice dangerously calm. His sharp gaze locks onto Seungwan’s, daring him to escalate the situation further.

Seungwan hesitates, faltering under the weight of Minho’s icy stare, but whatever response he might make is interrupted by the sudden arrival of Chris.

Chris smiles warmly as his eyes land on you, his soft voice cutting through the tension like a knife. “Hey, aren't you going home?” he says, directing his attention to you. “I’ll give you a ride home. Let’s go.”

You glance between Chris and Minho, sensing that leaving now is the smartest move. With a quick nod, you grab your bag and rise to your feet, walking toward Chris. Minho’s gaze follows you, sharp and unreadable, as you reach for Chris’s arm in a small gesture of familiarity. Minho feels something pinged his chest, jealousy.

Chris turns back to the room before leaving with you, his smile unshaken. “Good job today, everyone. I'll see you all tomorrow,” he says cheerfully.

The room falls silent in their absence until Felix appears a moment later, his presence lighter but no less significant. He approaches Minho, hands casually tucked into his pockets. “It’s been a long day. How about we grab some drinks, Chef?” he offers simply, his tone a mix of suggestion and insistence.

Minho exhales, running a hand through his hair. Drinking feels like the only way to end the day, and he figures he can deal with the mess brewing around him tomorrow. Without a word, he gives Felix a nod, and the two leave the dining hall together with Taesoo insists on joining as he trails behind them like a puppy.

-

It’s been a hard day, and drinking feels like the perfect solution. Minho sits at a small table in a dimly lit bar, with Felix to his right and Taesoo to his left. The three of them have already drained two bottles of soju, and as Taesoo refills their glasses, it looks like they’re well on their way to finishing a third.

The alcohol has softened the edges of Minho’s usual restraint, his words slightly slurred as he leans back in his chair. He glances between Felix and Taesoo, raising his glass. “If either of you has any complaints about me, just say them now,” he says, his tone both a challenge and an invitation. “Everything. I want to hear it today.”

Felix perks up instantly, his face lighting with exaggerated enthusiasm. “Oh, I’ve got a ton of complaints,” he says, setting his glass down with a grin.

Minho arches a brow and turns to him, feigning seriousness. “Go on, then. Say it to my face.”

Felix stacks his hands together on the table, leaning forward as if preparing for a serious interrogation. “Alright, tell me the truth,” he begins dramatically.

“The truth about what?” Minho asks, narrowing his eyes.

“Do you like sharing the office with Chef Sara?” Felix asks, his voice laced with mock curiosity.

Minho doesn’t bother answering. Instead, he gently slaps the back of Felix’s head. Felix hisses in pain, rubbing the spot as he mumbles something under his breath about Minho being too rough.

Minho doesn’t linger on Felix, shifting his attention to Taesoo next. “What about you?” he asks. “Got anything to complain about?”

Taesoo shrugs, nonchalant. “Nope. No complaints.”

Without hesitation, Minho slaps the back of Taesoo’s head too, earning a startled yelp. “You’re too agreeable,” Minho mutters, shaking his head.

Felix chuckles, taking another sip of his soju before wincing at the sharp aftertaste. He exhales deeply and rests his chin on his hand. “You know,” he says, looking at Minho with a hint of earnestness. “The problem is that you have a funny way of showing affection. That’s why the other cooks don’t get your good intentions.”

Minho rolls his eyes but doesn’t bother denying it. Instead, he firmly hits Felix on the chest, causing Felix to wheeze dramatically.

“Let’s just drink tonight,” Minho orders, waving for another bottle of soju.

He doesn’t want to talk, not about anything that actually matters. Tonight, he just wants to drown his frustrations in alcohol and forget the tension that’s been weighing on him all day. Especially the part of the day where he got to watch you being whisked away by that annoying manager, Chris.

The waiter brings the fresh bottle, and Taesoo eagerly pops it open. He pours into all their glasses, careful not to spill a drop, and they raise their drinks together.

“To surviving another day,” Taesoo says with a grin.

Minho clinks his glass against theirs, the faint chime ringing in the air. “Cheers,” he mutters before downing his glass in one shot.

The warmth of the soju burns his throat, momentarily dulling the sharp edges of his thoughts. He places the empty glass on the table and exhales, already reaching for a refill.

-

Chris drives with one hand on the steering wheel, the other resting casually on the center console. The car glides smoothly along the road, his pace steady and unhurried. As the car slows to a stop at a red light, he glances over at you.

“So,” he says, his tone light but knowing, “did you come with me on purpose to avoid the other chefs?”

You chuckle softly, amused by how quickly he figures things out. “See? This is why I like you,” you reply with a grin. “You’ve got a great sense for things, Chris. And honestly, I’m glad it’s not awkward between us.”

His forehead wrinkles slightly in question. “What do you mean?”

You tilt your head, choosing your words carefully. “I mean, it’s just the two of us here, in the car, and it doesn’t feel weird or uncomfortable. Especially after what you told me earlier.”

At that, Chris’s lips curl into a wide grin, his dimples sinking deep into his cheeks. “I’ll take that as a good thing,” he says, his voice warm.

The light turns green, and Chris shifts his attention back to the road. After a moment, he speaks up again. “I need to stop at the grocery store. You wanna come along?”

You glance at him and smile. “Sure,” you say, feeling like it’s the least you can do after he swooped in to save you earlier.

When you get to the supermarket, Chris grabs a trolley and starts pushing it through the aisles while you wander toward the fruit section. Your attention is caught by a bag of grapes sitting in the chiller. You grab it and examine the label before turning to him.

“These are cotton candy grapes,” you announce.

Chris raises a brow, pushing the trolley closer. “What’s the difference?”

“They’re sweeter than regular grapes,” you explain. To prove it, you open the bag, pull out a grape, and without hesitation, shove it into his mouth.

Chris blinks at you, startled, but obediently chews. You pop one into your own mouth, savoring the burst of sweetness as you watch his reaction.

He chews thoughtfully, his expression neutral. “Tastes like regular grapes to me,” he finally says, shrugging.

You groan dramatically. “Your taste buds really are dull, Chris.” Then, with a teasing smile, you shove another grape into his mouth before he can protest.

Ignoring his glare, you toss the bag into the trolley. Chris immediately objects, his voice mock-stern. “Hey, you opened that! You should pay for it.”

You shake your head, grinning. “Nope. You ate more grapes than me so you’re paying for it.” And just to tease him further, you shove yet another grape into his mouth.

Chris pouts as he chews, his lips sticking out just slightly, and you can’t help but laugh softly at the sight. There’s something so easy about being around him. There are no games, no tricks, no sharp words to dodge or tension to navigate. It’s nice, comfortable, safe.

And yet…

As you watch him push the trolley forward, chatting easily about what else he needs to buy, your thoughts drift to someone else. Your heart, stubborn as it is, doesn’t want this safety or ease. It wants the man who flicks your forehead and scolds you, who keeps you guessing and makes your heart race for all the wrong reasons.

But for now, you follow Chris down the aisle, telling yourself it’s enough to enjoy this moment, even if your heart is elsewhere.

-

Minho’s head is buzzing, a dull throb behind his temples as he stumbles out of the elevator. His steps are heavy, his balance slightly off, but he manages to make it to your apartment without tripping. He pushes the doorbell, leaning against the wall for support as his impatience bubbles over.

“Hey!” he calls, his voice slurred. “Open up! I know you’re in there!”

After what feels like forever, the door finally opens. But it’s not you.

Sara stands in the doorway, her expression unreadable as she takes in his disheveled state. Minho squints at her, as though he can’t quite believe what he’s seeing. “Where’s she?” he asks, his voice thick with alcohol.

Sara hesitates, her hand still on the doorknob. “She’s not home yet,” she says simply.

Minho scratches his head, a frustrated groan escaping his lips. He needs to talk to you, to see you. His gaze flickers back to Sara. “Can I get some water?” he asks, his voice softening.

Sara nods after a moment, stepping aside to let him in. He makes his way to the living room, collapsing onto the single sofa with a tired sigh. The room is quiet except for the faint clinking of a glass from the kitchen. When Sara returns, she hands him the water without a word.

Minho takes a long gulp, the cool liquid soothing his dry throat. He gasps for air after finishing half the glass, setting it down on the armrest as he leans back into the cushions. His gaze shifts to Sara, who’s taken a seat on the long sofa across from him, sipping what looks like tea.

“Thanks,” he mutters, breaking the silence. “For today. In the kitchen.”

“Don’t mention it,” Sara says with a small smile and then takes a careful sip of her tea before asking, “You've been drinking, huh?”

Minho nods bht his mind feels slightly clearer now, though still hazy enough to loosen his tongue. He glances down at the glass in his hand, his voice dropping to a steady, almost contemplative tone.

“You know,” he starts, “I thought about it once. Just once.” He pauses, gathering his thoughts. “If you’d beaten me fair and square—if you’d used honest means and taken first place—would I have stayed in second just because I loved you? Would I have applauded you in the background?”

Sara’s brow furrows slightly, but she stays quiet, letting him continue.

“I think… even if you had been honest and won, I still would’ve left you,” he admits, his voice tinged with bitterness. “Because I would’ve gotten jealous. Envious. You’d have made me feel small.”

He lets out a dry laugh, shaking his head. “My pride as a man… it would’ve screamed that I had to be number one. And because of that, I would’ve left you anyway.”

He takes another sip of water, his words hanging heavy in the air. When he sets the empty glass down, he looks at Sara directly. “So maybe… maybe I didn’t leave because you backstabbed me. Maybe I would’ve left regardless.”

The room falls silent. Sara holds his gaze, her expression conflicted. Minho can see the appreciation in her eyes for his honesty, but also the uncertainty about how to respond.

That’s his cue to leave.

Minho pushes himself up from the sofa, his legs unsteady but determined. “Thanks for the water,” he mutters, heading toward the door.

Sara stays seated, watching as he leaves. As he steps out into the hallway, Minho lets out a breath, leaving her to grapple with the weight of his words and eventually makes peace with herself with it.

-

Chris pulls the car to a stop right in front of your apartment building, the streetlights casting a soft glow over the vehicle. You unbuckle your seatbelt, reaching back to grab your bag from the backseat. Your heart pounds as you sit there, debating whether now is the right time to say it.

Taking a deep breath, you turn to him with a smile, calling his name softly. His dimpled smile greets you instantly, warm and familiar. “Yeah?” he says, his voice gentle.

You don’t hesitate any longer. “I like Chef more.”

The words tumble out so quickly that you barely register the slight shift in his expression. For a second, he looks caught off guard, but then his lips curl into a soft smile. “Wow,” he says, feigning playfulness. “You’re quick to reject a guy, huh?”

You let out a nervous laugh, shaking your head. “It’s not exactly a rejection,” you explain. “I like you, Chris. I do. But I just… like Chef more.”

Chris leans back in his seat, his hand resting on the steering wheel. He nods slowly, as if processing your words, before looking back at you with a knowing grin. “I kind of already knew.”

You gasp, your eyes widening. “Wait, you knew I’d reject you?”

He gives a small, coy nod.

Without thinking, you reach over and gently slap his chest, making him chuckle. “Then why confess in the first place?” you demand, half annoyed, half amused.

His chuckle deepens, his dimples flashing again. “Because I wanted to try anyway. Maybe I’ll just keep trying until you say yes.”

You groan, slumping back against the seat. “Don’t do that, Chris. Seriously.”

He laughs at your reaction, but there’s something in his tone that hints at a deeper feeling—one he’s clearly trying to mask. You glance at him, feeling a pang of guilt. “You don’t know how hard this is,” you mutter, glaring at him. “I’ve never had to do this before. Rejecting someone… especially a guy who’s wealthy, good-looking, and actually likes me?!”

Chris laughs again, the sound warm and disarming, but you can see the faint sadness in his eyes. You reach out and squeeze his arm gently, offering him a small, reassuring smile. “I really hate being the one to do this, you know. I’d rather be the one getting rejected.”

Your hand slides down to his, holding it briefly as you meet his gaze. “Just… promise me you won’t say this again. Don’t tell me you like me or anything like that ever again.”

Chris holds your gaze for a moment longer, a glimmer of mischief returning to his eyes. “I’ll do what I want,” he says, his voice teasing.

You groan in defeat, leaning your head back against the headrest. Your frustration only lasts a second before the two of you burst out laughing at the same time, the tension melting away.

Eventually, you know it’s time to go. You reach for your bag and unbuckle, but before you leave, you lean in and wrap your arms around him. “Good night, Chris,” you whisper softly, giving him a squeeze before letting go.

As you pull back, you give him a smile—one that you hope conveys how sorry you truly are for not being able to feel the same way. “Bye,” you say gently, opening the car door.

Chris watches you as you step out, his gaze lingering until you close the door. You wave briefly before heading toward the building, his car idling in place for just a moment longer before driving away.

-

Minho leans against the cool marble column of the lobby, his eyes fixed on the car parked outside. Through the windshield, he sees you and Chris talking, your expressions shifting between seriousness and familiarity. His stomach twists uncomfortably when he sees Chris’s smile soften and how you return it before leaning in to hug him—a hug that lingers just long enough to stir unease in Minho.

He doesn’t know what you’re saying to each other, but his gut tells him Chris must have confessed his feelings. It doesn’t scare him—Minho knows who he is, knows his worth—but it makes him nervous. He knows how sly that Australian guy, Chris, can be, how easily he could sway you if you let him.

When you step out of the car and head toward the building, you don’t notice Minho watching until you’re almost at the door. Your startled expression turns to one of exasperation as you catch his glare.

“You really are a professional two-timer,” Minho sneers, his words sharper than he intended.

You scoff, crossing your arms as you step closer. “And you’re drunk,” you point out, wrinkling your nose at the alcohol on his breath.

Minho grabs your hand firmly, cutting off any further argument. “Come with me,” he mutters, dragging you toward the elevator.

The ride up is silent, except for the faint hum of the elevator motor. Minho leans against the wall, his gaze locked on you. He wants to ask about Chris, wants to confirm if his suspicion is right, but his thoughts are muddled by the alcohol and his own insecurity. The ding of the elevator interrupts his thoughts, and he stumbles slightly as he steps out.

“I need your help to get inside,” he grumbles, draping an arm over your shoulder for support.

Once inside his apartment, Minho kicks his shoes off haphazardly, his bag and coat ending up in a careless pile on the floor. He pulls you along toward the bedroom, his grip on your hand tightening. “Take me to bed,” he demands, his voice heavy with fatigue and alcohol.

“Just a second,” you chide, slipping out of your shoes as fast as you can before he tugs you toward the bed.

Minho collapses onto the mattress, pulling you with him. You prop yourself up on one elbow, offering to get him some water, but he grabs your wrist and pulls you down beside him. “Stay,” he murmurs, his tone softening.

You obey, lying on your stomach and facing him. The room is quiet except for the faint sound of the city outside. After a while, Minho turns his head to look at you, his brow furrowed. “Chris told you he likes you, didn't he?” he finally asks.

You nod, confirming his suspicion.

“What did you say?” he presses, his voice low.

Instead of answering directly, you prop your hand under your chin and smirk. “My dad says Chris is a nicer man than you.”

Minho lifts his head slightly, narrowing his eyes at you. “Does that make me the bad guy?”

You grin, nodding without hesitation.

“You told your dad about me and Chris already?” Minho asks in disbelief, his brows shooting up.

You nod again, your grin widening.

He groans, reaching out to pull you closer. You shut your eyes, bracing yourself for the finger flick you’re certain is coming, but instead, Minho wraps his arm around your neck and tugs you close until your head rests against his shoulder.

“What did your dad say?” he asks, his voice quieter now.

You let out a soft sigh. “He’s rooting for the nice man.”

Minho frowns, his lips pressing into a thin line. “What about you?”

Your sly smile returns as you rest your hand on his chest. “Well... I’ve always been the disobedient daughter who never listens to her dad.”

Minho smirks at that, nodding in approval. “Good,” he murmurs. He presses his forehead to yours and closes his eyes. “Don’t listen to your dad, okay?”

You chuckle softly. “Yes, Chef.”

He nods again, shifting to get more comfortable. “Let’s sleep.”

“Yes, Chef,” You snuggle closer to his side, his arm draped around you as he exhales deeply, finally relaxing.

Just as you’re about to drift off, Minho turns his head toward you. “Aren’t you going to kiss me goodnight?”

You roll your eyes and shake your head firmly. “No. You reek of alcohol.”

“Come on, just a peck,” he pleads, his voice almost whining.

With a sigh, you relent, leaning in to press a quick peck to his lips.

“That was too quick,” he protests immediately.

You groan, rolling your eyes again before leaning in for a longer, lingering kiss. Minho lets out a small gasp when you finally pull away, his cheeks flushed and his lips curling into a contented smile. “Perfect,” he murmurs, his voice soft and drowsy.

He cups your face gently, holding your gaze as he whispers, “Goodnight.”

You smile back at him, your heart warming at the tenderness in his voice. “Goodnight.”

As the room falls into peaceful silence, Minho pulls you closer, your warmth grounding him. For the first time in a while, the doubt and jealousy that had been weighing on him begin to lift. With you lying beside him, he feels at ease—secure in the knowledge that no matter who tries to sway your feelings, you aren’t going anywhere but his side. A soft smile lingers on his lips as sleep finally claims him.

-

Minho’s eyes scan the tickets clipped to the rail as Felix approaches with a dish in hand. Minho inspects the plating carefully, wiping a smudge from the edge of the plate with a practiced motion. “Go,” he instructs, handing it off to the waiting server. Felix nods and heads back to his station, and Minho’s focus shifts to the tickets again.

His brows furrow. Something’s off.

“Felix!” Minho barks, his voice cutting through the clatter of the kitchen. Felix looks up from the garnish he’s carefully arranging.

“Yes, Chef?”

Minho holds up the ticket. “Table three’s order hasn’t even gone out yet, but table eight’s is already served. Care to explain?”

Felix glances at the tickets, then smirks and jerks his head toward Hyunwoo, who’s furiously tossing pasta in a pan at the next station. “It’s not me, Chef. It’s Hyunwoo. He’s taking too long on the linguine.”

Hyunwoo stiffens, glaring at Felix. “Linguine takes longer to cook! Maybe if you timed your dishes better, this wouldn’t happen.”

Felix doesn’t miss a beat. “Maybe if you didn’t act like you’re boiling pasta for a buffet line, this wouldn’t happen either.”

Their voices escalate, bickering like children, as Minho’s patience wears thin. Slamming his palm against the counter, he growls, “Both of you, shut up!”

The kitchen falls into tense silence, save for the sizzle of pans. Minho steps around the counter, moving to stand between Felix and Hyunwoo, his sharp gaze flicking between the two.

“I’ve told you both a hundred times,” Minho starts, his voice low but seething with authority. “Cooking for a course meal isn’t the same as cooking a single dish. Timing. Coordination. Communication. If you two can’t figure out how to work together, you’ll take this entire kitchen down with you.”

Felix nods quickly, contrite. “Yes, Chef.”

Minho looks at Hyunwoo, waiting. But Hyunwoo’s jaw is tight, resentment clear in his eyes as he hesitates.

Minho narrows his gaze at Hyunwoo. “Are you not going to answer me?”

The tension thickens as Hyunwoo glares back at Minho but says nothing. Before Minho can press further, the kitchen door bursts open.

“Where is he?!” Yura’s voice echoes like a thunderclap.

Chris rushes in behind her, his face flushed as he tries to hold her back. “Please, don’t. Let’s talk in my office—”

Yura yanks her arm away, storming past Chris with fire in her eyes. She marches straight toward Minho, her voice trembling with rage. “I know what you’ve been doing. With who. And when.”

Minho doesn’t flinch, his expression stony as he locks eyes with her, daring her to continue.

“I know your little secret,” Yura spits, her gaze sweeping the kitchen before landing back on Minho. “I saw it with my own eyes. You and her.” Her eyes flick to you, standing frozen by the corner of the kitchen.

Minho’s chest tightens, but his face remains impassive.

Yura takes a deep breath, as if savoring the moment. Then she announces, loud enough for everyone to hear, “I saw you two at the bus stop. Kissing.”

The kitchen plunges into suffocating silence. Every clatter of knives and pans halts. All eyes turn to Minho, then to you, then back to him.

Despite his calm exterior, Minho’s heart pounds in his chest. Yura presses on, her voice dripping with venom.

“You are a hypocrite. You fired my sister—innocent Minji—because you said you wouldn’t allow romantic relationships in the kitchen. But now you’re doing the exact same thing.” Her lips curl into a bitter smile. “How does it feel to be the one breaking your own rules? How does it feel to be the one causing this situation?”

Felix steps forward suddenly, his voice firm. “That’s a complete lie! Chef wouldn’t do something like that.”

Hyunwoo hisses in response, turning to Felix with a sneer. “How do you know? Minji saw them at the café, remember? And now this? Are you seriously defending him?”

Hyunwoo turns his glare on you. “And you—didn’t you say you were just close with Chef? What a joke.”

Seungwan steps in, his voice sharp. “So, it's true, Chef? That the two of you are dating?”

You cut in, your voice trembling but steady enough to say, “We— We’re close because we went to the same culinary school in Italy. That’s all.”

But Sous Chef Seojun isn’t satisfied. “Chef, just tell us the truth. Are you dating her or not?”

Minho’s gaze falls on you, and for a moment, the world narrows to just the two of you. Your eyes plead with him, a silent “don’t do it” written in every tearful glance. But Minho knows this has gone on long enough.

Minho straightens, resting his hands flat on the chef’s table as he looks out at his team.

“It’s true,” Minho says, his voice clear and unwavering. “We’re close.”

He pauses, looking back at you, silently apologizing for what he’s about to do.

“However, I’m in love with her.”

A collective gasp ripples through the room.

You close your eyes as if you can't stand seeing it happens and when you open them, tears pooling in your eyes as you stare at him in disbelief.

Minho keeps his gaze on you, knowing that as long as he looks at you, he can weather anything.

The silence is deafening, broken only by Yura stepping forward with a mocking laugh. “And what did you say would happen if someone was caught dating in this kitchen, Chef?” She grabs Minho by his chef’s tie, pulling him closer. “You’re fired!”

Minho calmly untangles her grip from his tie, fixing his coat with precision. He stands tall, facing everyone once more.

“I acknowledge that I’ve behaved in a way that could lose your trust in me as your chef,” he says, his voice steady despite the turmoil inside him. “But I won’t apologize for loving her. And because of that, I have no right to continue leading this kitchen.”

Minho unties his chef’s necktie, pulling it off and holding it in his hand.

“With this, I'll leave this kitchen on my own cognizance.”

The room remains eerily quiet as Minho steps back, turning his attention to you one last time. A triumphant smile plays on his lips, even as tears stream down yours.

Despite the chaos he left behind, despite the stunned expressions and inevitable fallout, Minho feels an unexpected lightness—a sense of victory. For the first time, he didn’t hide. He didn’t lie. He stood before everyone and declared his love for you without hesitation, without shame.

He glances down at the crumpled chef’s tie in his hand, a symbol of all the rules and walls he’d built around himself. He knows he’s walking away from the life he built with his blood, sweat, and tears, but strangely, there’s no regret.

If loving you meant losing the kitchen, then so be it.

-

Support my writings by kindly reblog, comment or consider tipping me on my ko-fi!

@svintsandghosts @abiaswreck @ppiri-bahng @drhsthl @idkluvutellme @biribarabiribbaem @skz-streamer @biancaness @hanjisunginc @elizalabs3 @laylasbunbunny @kpopformylife @caitlyn98s @hann1bee @mamieishere @is2cb97 @marvelous-llama @bluenights1899 @sherryblossom @toplinehyunjin @hanjisbeloved @sunnyseungup @skz4lifer @stellasays45 @severeanxietyissues @avyskai @imseungminsgf @silentreadersthings @army-stay-noel @rylea08 @simeonswhore @yubinism @devilsmatches @septicrebel @rairacha @ven-fic-recs @hyunjiinnnn @lostgirlinthewoodss @schniti-is-in-the-house @jisunglyricist @minh0scat @simplymoo @inlovewithstraykids @eastjonowhere @seochangbinnnnnnnnnnn @whosanaanyway @skzswife @nightmarenyxx @vixensss @angstraykids

[ch0llies]

FOREVER NOW | CHRISTOPHER STURNIOLO. PT.2

oneshot - chris x reader

You and Chris have been tied together by an invisible string ever since you met at 10. As you grew older, Chris became your safe place. He was always there, unknowingly shaping himself into the person you'd eventually fall in love with. By the time you were 18, you had become each other's first everything- first kiss, first love, first promise that neither of you could ever belong to anyone else the way you belonged to each other. And now, standing in the bathroom with ten pregnancy tests lined up on the counter, that promise felt heavier than ever.

story warnings: fluff, smut, pregnancy kink, basically everything that has to due with pregnancy and childbirth, established relationship, etc... if any of these topics upset you... don't read!

word count: 6k

MONTH 2

The sterile scent of the doctor’s office does little to calm your nerves as you sit on the exam table, your fingers gripping Chris’s hand like it’s the only thing anchoring you to the room. The last week had been a blur- between the endless late-night talks, the baby name debates, and Chris spending way too much time researching the best prenatal vitamins- everything still felt surreal.

“Alright, let’s take a look,” the ultrasound tech says with a warm smile, squeezing the cold gel onto your stomach.

Chris tightens his grip on your hand. “You good, baby?” he murmurs.

You nod, exhaling a shaky breath. “Yeah. Just… nervous.”

His thumb brushes over your knuckles. “Me too.”

And then, the screen flickers to life.

At first, it’s just static, a mix of shadows and shapes you don’t quite understand. But then- there.

A tiny bean-shaped figure appears, nestled inside of you. The heartbeat echoes through the room, fast and steady, and your breath catches in your throat.

“Oh my God,” you whisper, tears instantly pricking at your eyes.

Chris lets out a breathy laugh, his eyes glued to the screen, pure awe written all over his face. “That’s our baby?”

The tech smiles. “That’s your baby. And judging by the measurements, you’re about two months along.”

Chris lets out a stunned chuckle, running a hand down his face. “Two months,” he repeats, like he’s trying to wrap his head around it. He turns to you, his expression softening. “We’ve had our baby with us for two months already.”

Tears slip down your cheeks, and Chris leans over, kissing your forehead. His hand stays firmly in yours the whole time, never letting go.

And just like that, the little bean on the screen makes everything real.

You decide that night to invite everyone over and tell them the news. Your apartment is full- packed, really- with family, laughter, and the unmistakable scent of home-cooked food. Your mom, dad, and brother are here, chatting with Chris’s parents and all his brothers. It’s the first time everyone’s gathered together in a while, and they think it’s just a normal family dinner.

But you and Chris have other plans.

Chris squeezes your thigh under the table, shooting you a knowing look. It’s almost time.

“Hey, Mom?” you call out casually, getting up and heading toward the kitchen. “I think something’s burning… can you check the oven?”

Your mom, who’s been deep in conversation with Chris’s mom, Mary Lou, immediately moves toward the oven. “Oh shoot, yeah, of course.” She opens the door, peering inside. “There’s just a… roll?”

Mary Lou tilts her head, coming over. “Let me see this.”

Chris, still seated but now grinning widely, leans forward. “What’s in the oven?”

Your mom and Mary Lou both frown at first, then look at each other as realization dawns.

“A bun…”

Their heads snap toward each other, eyes widening, mouths parting in shock.

Then, utter joy.

Screams, happy shrieks, as they grab each other and start jumping up and down like teenagers. Your mom clutches Mary Lou’s arms, her eyes already welling up.

“Oh my God, oh my God, OH MY GOD-”

Chris laughs, standing up just in time for his mom and yours to practically tackle you in a hug. “Are you serious?!” your mom exclaims, pulling back just enough to look at your face.

You nod, laughing through your tears. “Two months.”

Another round of screams.

The commotion quickly draws in the rest of the family. Chris’s dad steps into the kitchen first, followed by your dad and your brother, then all of Chris’s brothers- Matt, Nick, and Justin, who were mid-conversation and now just staring at the scene unfolding before them.

“What’s going on in here?” your dad asks, looking mildly concerned.

Your mom turns to them, face lit up with pure joy. “THEY’RE HAVING A BABY!”

Silence.

Then, another explosion of excitement.

Chris’s dad claps him on the back, shaking his head with a wide grin. “You little shit.”

Your brother lets out a stunned laugh. “Holy shit, I’m gonna be an uncle?”

Nick lets out an exaggerated gasp. “I’M GONNA BE AN UNCLE TOO!”

“You’re not special, we’re all uncles!” Matt chimes in, and Justin just shakes his head, laughing.

Chris, overwhelmed but beaming, pulls you into his arms, kissing you right there in the middle of the kitchen, his hands cradling your face.

“I love you,” he murmurs against your lips.

Tears still streaming, you smile against his mouth. “I love you too.”

MONTH 3

By the third month, your body is starting to change, though you’re not fully showing just yet. Your lower stomach has a tiny bump, just enough for Chris to become obsessed.

Every morning, before even kissing you good morning, he lifts your hoodie or pajama top to check your belly. “Lemme see our baby,” he mumbles sleepily, pressing a kiss to your skin. He does this every single morning.

At your 12-week ultrasound, you both hear the baby’s heartbeat loud and clear for the first time. Chris records the whole thing on his phone, his eyes misting over as he grips your hand tightly. “That’s our baby,” he whispers in pure awe.

Month 3 was fun but it came with mood swings. And they hit hard. One moment you’re laughing, the next you’re sobbing because you saw a video of a puppy and now you need one. Chris is patient, rubbing your back while hiding his laughter when you cry over the most random things.

Not to mention the weird cravings too…pickles with peanut butter. Chris gags every time you eat it but stocks up on both anyway.

MONTH 4

Your energy is coming back, and so is your sex drive. It’s like a switch flips, and suddenly, you need Chris all the time.

“You’ve been insane, baby,” he teases one night, hands tracing over your growing belly. “Not complaining, though.”

Chris also starts buying baby stuff constantly. You come home one day to find him unpacking an absurd amount of onesies, soft blankets, and a tiny Bruins beanie.

“We don’t even know the gender yet!” you remind him.

Chris just shrugs. “Doesn’t matter. Our kid’s gonna be a Bruins fan either way.”

MONTH 5

One night, you wake up to something- a small fluttering sensation in your belly. It happens again, and your breath catches.

“Chris,” you whisper, shaking him awake. “Chris, the baby just kicked.”

He sits up so fast he nearly falls out of bed. “Wait, what?!” His hands are on your belly immediately, waiting, eyes wide. When he finally feels the tiny kick against his palm, his breath stutters.

“That’s-” He swallows hard, shaking his head in disbelief. “That’s our baby.” He spends the next hour whispering to your belly, telling them all about their parents and how much they’re already loved.

This is also the month you start turning the office into a nursery. You decide not to find out the gender until the baby is born and instead choose a yellow theme- bright, neutral, and happy.

You both spend an entire Saturday painting the walls, music playing, the windows open. Chris is in jeans, no shirt, covered in paint, while you’re in overalls, your baby bump finally visible. He insists on taking a picture of you holding a paintbrush to your stomach.

“For the baby album,” he says with a grin.

MONTH 6

Your bump is really showing now, and Chris is in love with it. He touches it constantly- rubbing it absentmindedly when you sit together, spooning you at night with his hands protectively splayed over your stomach, kissing it whenever he gets the chance.

“You’re glowing,” he tells you one day, watching as you fold tiny baby clothes in the nursery. “Like, actually glowing.”

The nesting instinct is kicking in full force. You’re suddenly obsessed with organizing and cleaning, and Chris is doing his best to keep up. One night, you wake up at 2 a.m. convinced the nursery needs rearranging immediately. Chris groans but helps move the crib- only for you to change your mind an hour later.

“Baby,” he mumbles, flopping onto the rug. “Please. Let’s just go back to bed.”

“No.”

MONTH 7

Your back hurts constantly, your feet are swollen, and even sleeping is uncomfortable. Chris gives you back rubs every night, rubbing your feet and making sure you’re drinking enough water.

Sex is still happening, but it’s… different. Your growing belly makes some positions impossible, limiting you mostly to doggy, but Chris doesn’t seem to mind. If anything, he’s more patient, more attentive- his hands steadying your hips, his lips pressing soft, lingering kisses along your spine. He’s careful with you, always checking in, always making sure you’re comfortable, but there’s something else in his touch lately- something hungry.

And then, one night, as his fingers trace the curve of your belly, lingering just a little longer than usual, he finally admits, “Baby… I think your belly turns me on.”

You blink at him, taken aback. “What?”

He shrugs, but the way his eyes darken as they sweep over you betrays his casual tone. His hand drags slow and deliberate over your bump, fingers spreading possessively. “I don’t know,” he murmurs, voice lower now. “Just… knowing our baby is inside you. That I put them there.” He shakes his head, smirking as he licks his lips. “It’s kinda hot.”

You roll your eyes, but the way your pulse quickens betrays you. Because honestly? It is hot.

“Yeah?” You challenge, your voice playful but laced with something deeper. You tug your shirt over your head, baring your swollen breasts and belly to him, your skin hypersensitive, your body already aching for him. “Wanna show me just how hot you think it is?”

Chris exhales sharply, like you’ve just knocked the wind out of him. His pupils dilate, his jaw clenches, and for a second, you think he might actually lose his mind.

Then he’s on you, hands already reaching, already touching. His lips find your neck, warm and open-mouthed, his breath hot against your skin. “Get on your hands and knees, mama,” he rasps, voice thick with need.

You obey without question, shifting onto your hands and knees, arching your back just enough to give him the perfect view.

You had thought that since gaining pregnancy weight that Chris would be turned off… or maybe even stop finding you attractive completely. But it was the opposite. He loves it.

He grabs your love handles every chance he gets and rubs your thighs and massages your back, not because you asked, simply because he wants to. Because it turns him on.

Chris groans behind you, his hands immediately finding your hips, fingers digging in just enough to make you feel grounded. He spreads his palms over your skin, dragging them down to your thighs, then back up, like he’s memorizing every inch of you.

“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath. “You don’t even know what you do to me.”

You shiver at the heat in his voice, at the way he sounds almost wrecked already.

“Then show me,” you challenge, glancing over your shoulder at him.

His eyes flash dark with something dangerous, something wild, and then he’s moving- leaning over you, pressing his chest to your back as he kisses along your shoulder, his hands never stopping their slow worship of your body.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he murmurs, lips brushing the shell of your ear. His hands slide under your belly, holding you, supporting you like it’s second nature. Like taking care of you is just as much a turn-on as anything else.

And when he finally pushes into you, slow and deliberate, a deep groan rumbles through his chest. His grip returns and tightens on your hips, and he drops his head forward, his breath hot against your skin.

“Jesus Christ,” he swears, voice strained. “You feel even better like this.”

A gasp escapes your lips as you adjust to the stretch, your fingers clutching the sheets. Chris moves carefully at first, like he’s afraid of hurting you, but it only makes you want more.

“You don’t have to be so gentle,” you pant, pushing back against him, desperate for more. “You’re not gonna hurt the baby.”

Chris lets out a deep, shaky breath, his hands tightening on your hips as he keeps thrusting into you at an achingly slow pace. His self-control is tangible, the restraint in every roll of his hips almost maddening. Then, suddenly, his hands slide from your hips back to your belly, spreading wide, cradling the swell of it with something so tender it makes your chest ache.

“I know,” he murmurs, his voice rough, almost wrecked. “I just- fuck.” He exhales harshly, thumbs stroking the soft skin of your stomach. “I just love you like this.”

Your breath catches, and before you can respond, he moves- his grip tightening, his thrusts deepening, more purposeful now. He’s still careful, still mindful of you, but the hesitation is gone, replaced by something more raw, more desperate.

“Chris,” you moan, your fingers clutching the sheets, your body arching into him.

His hands stay on your belly, holding you there, like he’s grounding himself in the feeling of you- of the life you created together. His pace picks up, each thrust pushing you forward just enough to make your breath hitch. He’s panting above you, pressing open-mouthed kisses to your spine, his voice thick with need.

“You’re so fucking perfect,” he groans, his grip flexing as he moves. “Carrying my baby, taking me so well.”

The words send a shockwave through you, heat pooling low in your stomach. You whimper, pushing back against him, needing more. He growls low in his throat, like you’re unraveling him, like he’s barely holding on.

“Yeah?” he breathes, one hand sliding up to cup your breast, his thumb brushing over your sensitive nipple. “You like that?”

You nod frantically, gasping as he rolls his hips harder, deeper, hitting that spot that makes you cry out.

“Fuck,” Chris groans, his voice strained, his movements more desperate now. “Gonna make you cum just like this, mama. You ready?”

Chris’s thrusts grow more purposeful, deeper, his control slipping as your body clenches around him. His hands remain firm on your belly, holding you close, grounding himself in the feeling of you- the mother of his child, his woman, so perfect beneath him.

You’re burning, every nerve in your body alight as pleasure coils deep in your stomach. The way he’s touching you, how he’s holding your belly like it’s something sacred while still fucking you so thoroughly- it’s overwhelming, too much and not enough all at once.

“Chris- ” you gasp, pushing back against him, desperate for more. “I’m- oh my God- ”

He groans, gripping your hips again, pulling you back onto him harder. “I got you, baby,” he pants, his voice wrecked. “You feel so fucking good- so tight, so perfect. You gonna cum for me?”

You nod frantically, the tension inside you about to snap. His hand slides from your belly down between your legs, fingers finding your swollen clit, rubbing firm, tight circles that send shockwaves through you.

Your moan is almost a sob as the pleasure crashes into you, your body shaking as you cum hard around him. Your walls clench tight, dragging him deeper, and he groans, losing whatever fragile control he had left.

“Fuck, baby, just like that,” he grits out, his rhythm growing erratic. His grip tightens on your belly again, his forehead pressing against your spine. “Gonna fill you up- fuck-”

You’re still trembling from your own orgasm when you feel him go rigid behind you, a deep groan ripping from his throat as he cums inside you, his thrusts slowing but still deep, still pushing every last bit of himself into you.

For a long moment, all you can hear is the sound of your mingled breaths, heavy and uneven. Chris collapses against your back, wrapping his arms around you, his hands still possessive on your stomach.

He lingers inside you for a moment longer before he finally pulls out, groaning softly at the loss of warmth. He presses a lingering kiss between your shoulder blades before sliding off the bed, heading to the bathroom. You hear the water run, and moments later, he’s back with a warm washcloth.

“Let me clean you up, mama,” he murmurs, his voice still thick with exhaustion and satisfaction.

You sigh as he gently wipes between your legs, being careful with every touch. His hands are slow and methodical, taking care of you like he always does. When he’s done, he tosses the washcloth into the laundry bin, then climbs back into bed, pulling you into his arms.

You melt into his embrace, your back pressed against his chest, his hands instinctively finding your belly again. He rubs slow circles over your skin, his lips pressing lazy kisses to the back of your neck.

Just as you’re about to drift off, his voice cuts through the quiet.

“Baby,” he says, his tone laced with something mischievous.

You hum sleepily, too comfortable to open your eyes. “Hmm?”

“We’re gonna have to record a movie or some shit with you pregnant,” he says, his breath warm against your ear. “It turns me on way more than it should.”

Your eyes snap open as you twist to look at him. “What?”

He grins, completely unapologetic. “I’m serious. You obviously can’t be pregnant all the time… unless I get you pregnant again right after the first baby is out.” He smirks, his hand splaying possessively over your belly. “How do you feel about Irish twins?”

You stare at him, half amused, half horrified. “Chris.”

“What?” he chuckles, nuzzling into your neck. “I mean, just think about it…. another baby, back to back? You’d look so fucking good carrying my baby again.”

You swat at his arm. “Let me get through this pregnancy first before you start planning the next one.”

He laughs, squeezing you tighter. “Alright, alright. But just so you know, I’m putting the idea out there.”

You roll your eyes but can’t help the smile that tugs at your lips. “You’re insane.”

“And you love me,” he counters, kissing your shoulder.

You sigh dramatically. “Unfortunately.”

Chris just chuckles, pulling you even closer. “Get some sleep, baby. We’ll revisit this conversation later.”

You shake your head but don’t argue, letting yourself drift off in his arms, knowing full well he’s absolutely going to bring it up again.

MONTH 8

Your families throw you the most beautiful baby shower. Chris spends most of the day looking at baby items like he’s in awe that they’re for his child.

He’s also officially in full-on dad mode. He refuses to let you lift anything, scolds you for overexerting yourself, and installs the car seat a month early.

One night, you find him sitting in the nursery, staring at the crib.

“Chris?” you whisper, stepping inside.

He looks up, a soft smile on his face. “I just can’t believe we’re gonna have our baby sleeping in here soon.”

You walk over, taking his hand and resting it on your belly. “Me neither.”

MONTH 9

Everything is ready. The nursery is done, the hospital bag is packed, and Chris is on edge 24/7.

Every time you shift in bed, he bolts upright. “Are we going? Is it happening?”

“No, Chris. I just have to pee.”

He starts leaving work early, checking on you constantly. One day, he comes home with even more baby clothes, a yoga ball, and a brand-new breast pump.

“Chris,” you laugh. “We already have everything!”

“I just… wanna be prepared,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck.

One night, as he’s helping you into bed, he kneels down, pressing his lips to your belly.

“Hey, baby,” he murmurs, voice full of love. “We’re ready for you whenever you are.”

And just like that, the final stretch begins. Any day now, your baby will be here.

MONTH 9, WEEK 1

Lying in bed, your body aching from the sheer weight of pregnancy, you shift slightly, trying to find some comfortable position. Chris, ever in tune with you, adjusts immediately, tucking himself behind you and rubbing slow, soothing circles on your belly.

“We need to talk names,” you murmur sleepily, your head resting against his chest.

Chris hums, his fingers trailing absentmindedly over your bump. “Yeah, we do. We can’t just keep calling them ‘baby’ forever.”

You smile, but then a thought strikes you. “Okay, hear me out- if it’s a boy, I still wanna name him Owen.”

Chris stills for a moment before tilting his head down to look at you. “Still?”

You nod, suddenly nervous. “Yeah. I just… I love the name, and I thought it’d be a sweet way to honor you.”

Chris is quiet, but then his lips press against the side of your head. “You know what, I love it,” he whispers.

Relief floods you, and you nuzzle closer. “For the middle name… I was thinking maybe after my dad or my brother?”

Chris grins. “Perfect. We’ll decide when we meet him.”

You nod before shifting again. “And if it’s a girl?”

Chris chuckles. “Do you remember what my pick was?”

“Aria?” you question, remembering what he had said months and months ago.

Chris exhales, and you swear you feel his heart pick up. “Yes. Aria,” he repeats, like he’s letting it settle. “Do you like it?”

“I love it, baby. And for the middle name,” you continue, tilting your head to look at him, “I was thinking… Lou.”

Chris’s breath hitches. “After my mom?”

You nod, watching as his face softens into something unbearably tender.

“I love you so much,” he whispers, pressing his lips to your forehead. “Aria Lou… that’s perfect.”

And just like that, your baby- Owen or Aria- finally has a name.

MONTH 9, WEEK 2

The first time you feel contractions, they hit out of nowhere. Your stomach tightens, and a dull ache spreads through your back, making you pause mid-step in the kitchen.

Chris notices instantly. “What? What’s wrong?”

You grip the counter, wincing. “I think… I think I’m having contractions.”

Chris immediately launches into action. “Okay! Okay, let’s go- hospital, now!” He grabs the pre-packed hospital bag, his keys, his phone, his soul practically leaving his body as he rushes to the door.

You exhale through the pain, holding up a hand. “Chris. Chris! It’s fine. They’re just Braxton Hicks contractions.”

Chris blinks, still frozen mid-panic. “The fuck is a Braxton Hicks?”

You sigh, rubbing your belly. “False contractions. My body’s just practicing.”

Chris stares at you like you just betrayed him. “Practicing?! Baby, I was ready to sprint down the hall and flag an ambulance!”

For the rest of the week, every single time you shift uncomfortably, Chris is on guard. If you so much as groan while rolling over in bed, he’s wide awake, scrambling for his phone.

You sigh. “Chris. I just have to pee.”

He squints. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

You’re not sure how he’s gonna survive the real thing.

MONTH 9, WEEK 3

By now, the baby is almost a month overdue and you want nothing more than to push it out. God must’ve heard your prayers because you wake up to an intense pressure in your lower belly, a sharp pain that pulls you out of sleep with a gasp. For a moment, you think it’s just more Braxton Hicks contractions- until you feel it.

A rush of warmth liquid. A pop.

Your eyes go wide as realization slams into you.

“Chris.”

Chris, who had been sleeping like a dead man, groggily lifts his head. “Mmm?”

You slap his chest. “Chris, my water just broke.”

It takes him exactly three seconds to process that before he shoots upright, fully awake.

“OH, SHIT.”

“CHRIS, GET THE FUCKING BAG!”

Chris dives out of bed, scrambling for the hospital bag while simultaneously pulling on his jeans and trying to call everyone at once. “Okay, okay- uh, shit, okay- baby’s on the way, holy fuck!”

“Chris, breathe!” you hiss, gripping the bed as another contraction rolls through. “Just get me to the-”

And then you glance outside.

It’s snowing.

Not just a light dusting- a full-on blizzard.

Chris follows your gaze, his face draining of color. “No. No, no, NO- Fuck. Okay, hold on.”

He rushes to the window. Your car is buried under the snow, the driveway completely covered.

“Oh no….”

“DON’T WORRY! I GOT IT!”

And for the first time in your life, you see Chris move with the efficiency of a goddamn Olympic athlete.

He grabs his coat, shoves his feet into boots, and runs outside with nothing but a shovel and pure desperation.

You’re standing in the doorway, gripping the frame through another contraction, watching him shovel like his life depends on it.

“CAREFUL, CHRIS!”

“I’M BEING CAREFUL, BABY!” He yells as his left boot slips on ice and he almost takes a tooth out on the frozen pavement.

After what feels like forever, he finally clears enough space to get the car out. Panting, sweating, frost forming on his damn eyelashes, he runs back inside, scooping you up like a firefighter.

“Okay- okay, we’re going, baby, let’s go.”

He gets you into the car, throws the bag in the back, and peels out onto the snowy road, one hand on the wheel, the other gripping yours tightly.

Between contractions, you hear him frantically calling his parents, your parents, anyone will who pick up. “Baby’s on the way! We’re coming- SHIT, THESE ROADS ARE ICY- but we’re coming!*”

“Chris, focus on driving!”

“I CAN MULTITASK!”

But through the excitement, the panic, the snowstorm- Chris still finds a second to glance over at you, his free hand tightening around yours.

“We’re about to meet our baby, baby.”

And despite the pain, the stress, the absolute shitshow of this entire night- you smile.

Chris has the gas pedal pressed way too hard, white-knuckling the steering wheel as he simultaneously calls every single family member he can think of.

“Mom! We’re on the way- baby’s coming NOW. I don’t care about the storm, just- just get to the hospital!”

You groan through another contraction, gripping your belly, your nails digging into the seat. “Chris, shut the fuck up and focus on DRIVING!”

He immediately hangs up on his mom and dials someone else. “Dad! Baby’s coming- YES, RIGHT NOW- NO, I DON’T KNOW HOW LONG LABOR TAKES, JUST GET THERE!”

“Chris,” you grind out, trying to breathe through the insane pain in your abdomen. “If you call one more person, I swear to God-”

“Hold on, babe- Nick’s calling.”

“CHRIS!”

“OKAY, OKAY, I’M FOCUSING!”

Chris barely slows the car as he swerves into the hospital entrance. He parks right outside the ER doors, throws it into park, and launches himself out.

“Hang tight, baby, I got you!”

You let out a pained groan as another contraction tears through you, doubling over in your seat. Chris yanks the hospital bag from the back, sprints to your side, and immediately pulls open the passenger door.

“Come on, come on, we gotta go- ” He tries helping you out, but you’re moving too slow for his patience. His head whips around and locks onto the valet guy standing nearby.

“TAKE THE KEYS!” Chris chucks them at him before turning back to you.

“Chris,” you grit out, “I need a second-”

“NOPE, NO TIME, HOLD ON-”

Before you can argue, he sprints inside and grabs a wheelchair.

And when you say grabs a wheelchair, you mean full-speed, NFL linebacker, dodging obstacles, yanks one from the hallway and sprints back.

“Okay, baby, up you go- ” He lifts you carefully, places you into the chair, grabs the bag, and immediately pushes you through the sliding doors, moving like a man possessed.

“WE’RE HAVING A BABY!” he yells to the entire hospital lobby. “WHO CAN HELP DELIVER IT?”

A nurse rushes over, calm and professional. “Sir, please lower your voice-”

You groan, grabbing onto the wheelchair handles, “Shut the FUCK up, Chris!”

The nurse blinks, unimpressed. “Yeah, you heard her. Follow me.”

You’re wheeled into a triage room, and Chris hovers like a nervous wreck as the nurses work quickly around you.

“How far along are you?” a nurse asks, helping you onto the hospital bed.

“Nine months and three weeks.” Chris answers way too fast. “She’s been having contractions for…how long, baby?”

You glare at him through the pain. “CHRIS, I DON’T KNOW, I’M IN AGONY.”

“Okay, okay, right, sorry-”

A doctor comes in, pulling on gloves. “Let’s check how dailated you are.”

Chris freezes. “Wait, check what?”

The nurse gives him a look. “Sir, if you’re gonna faint, step outside.”

“I’M NOT GONNA FAINT,” Chris yells, then immediately looks pale when the doctor starts checking your cervix.

“She’s already seven centimeters,” the doctor announces.

Chris’s eyes widen. “Wait, so that’s close, right? Baby’s coming soon?!”

“Labor can still take time,” the nurse says calmly, way too used to panicked fathers. “Let’s get her into a delivery room.”

Once you’re settled into the delivery room, Chris refuses to sit down. He stands beside you, gripping your hand way too tight, bouncing on his feet like a fighter waiting to enter the ring.

“Okay, baby, just breathe. Remember the breathing exercises? In through your nose, out through your-”

“I swear to fucking GOD, Chris, if you tell me to breathe ONE MORE TIME-”

“Okay, yep, shutting up- ”

The contractions are getting worse. Chris watches helplessly, his eyes flicking between you and the monitor tracking each one.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters under his breath, running a hand through his hair. “How are you this strong?”

“Because I have no choice,” you snap, panting through another contraction. “Because you put a baby inside me, Christopher.”

Chris gulps, squeezing your hand. “You’re doing amazing, baby. I love you so much-”

You barely register the doctor’s next words.

“You’re at nine centimeters- almost time to push.”

Chris blanches. “WHAT? ALREADY?”

“You ready to meet your baby?” the nurse asks, beaming.

Chris nods rapidly. “Oh, hell yeah, let’s go, let’s do this-”

The doctor smirks. “Dad, maybe sit down before you pass out?”

“I’M FINE!”

You glare at him. “Chris, SIT THE FUCK DOWN.”

And for once, Chris actually listens and sits down in the chair next to your bed.

And then It’s time.

Chris stands up again, gripping your hand both excited and terrified, his forehead pressed to yours as the doctor counts down.

“Push, baby, you got this- Oh my God, I can see the head- holy fuck- ”

You’re exhausted, screaming through the pain, every fiber of your being focused on getting your baby into the world.

And then-

A cry.

A loud, beautiful baby’s cry.

Chris chokes on a sob as the doctor lifts your baby up.

“Congratulations! You have a-”

But Chris isn’t even listening. He’s already crying, already pressing kisses to your damp forehead, whispering “I love you, I love you, I love you so much, baby, you did it-”

And then, they place your baby in your arms.

Tiny. Perfect. Yours.

Chris stares at them, absolutely wrecked with emotion, whispering, “Hi, baby,” his fingers brushing over their tiny hands.

“It’s a girl,” the nurse says softly. “6 pounds and 7 ounces. Perfectly healthy.”

Chris lets out a breathless laugh. “I knew it.”

Tears spill from your eyes. “Aria Lou,” you whisper, and Chris breaks, pressing his face into your shoulder.

“She’s perfect,” he chokes out. “You’re perfect.”

Chris holds out his arms the second the nurse gives the okay, gently lifting Aria from your chest. The moment she’s in his arms, his entire face crumbles. His hands tremble slightly as he cradles her tiny body against his chest, his thumb brushing over her impossibly small fingers.

A shaky breath leaves him as he leans down, pressing the softest kiss to her forehead. His voice is barely a whisper, full of so much love it physically aches.

“Hello, my baby girl. My beautiful, beautiful baby girl.”

Tears slip down his cheeks as he stares at her like she’s his whole world. Because she is.

SIX HOURS LATER

The hospital room is quiet now, the energy finally settling after a whirlwind of family visits. Both of your parents, Chris’s parents, his brothers, your brother- everyone had come rushing in, crying, hugging, taking turns holding Aria.

Mary Lou had sobbed the second she heard the name. “You named her after me? Oh, honey…” She hugged you so tightly you thought you’d burst into tears again.

But now, the room is peaceful.

Chris is sitting up in bed beside you, his arm wrapped around your shoulders as you cradle Aria against your chest. The hospital room lights are dim, and for the first time all day, it feels like time has slowed.

“She has your eyes,” you murmur, staring down at her delicate face. “Your beautiful light blue eyes.”

Chris hums, his hand trailing up and down your arm. “Yeah… but she has your lips. And your nose.” He leans down, tilting his head to study her. “And your little chin. And your cheeks.”

You laugh sleepily, pressing a kiss to Aria’s soft hair. “She’s perfect.”

Chris sighs, completely in awe. “Yeah, she really is.”

An hour later and you’ve fallen asleep, exhaustion finally pulling you under, but Chris stays awake. He sits there, just watching you breathe, his heart swelling at the sight of you curled up beside him, completely worn out from giving birth to the most precious thing in the world.

Carefully, he lifts Aria from your arms, cradling her to his chest. She’s so tiny, so fragile, her breaths warm against his skin.

Slowly, he stands, rocking her gently as he walks back and forth across the room. His fingers ghost over her little ones, his lips brushing against the top of her head.

And then, in the softest, most reverent whisper, he murmurs:

“I’m gonna love you forever now.”

And with that, his whole world is complete.

a/n: dad!chris is literally my favorite thing EVER😭😭😭

tags: @mattsobvimyfav @bernardsbendystraws @ilovejohnnieguilbertsblog @mattsturnii @starstrucktyrantinfluencer @watercolorskyy @strangecatpeach @katie1002 @1ovesiick @slut4christopherr @mattgirl4eva @mayalovesturn @chriss-slutt @sturniolohohoho @courta13 @izzylovesmatt @matthewsturnsgf @aaa-mi @bigbeefybitch @hopelesslydevotedsstuff @wastelandzella @yourmother29 @whore4-chrissturniolo @idefinitelyhateu @madisonnxtdoor22 @user1smvtysturniolo @briisturniolo @sturniololuvz @hesvoid34 @butterflytsblog @mommymomm @mattsbunnyxx @blushsturns @i8kth @annalisesturnioloxo @kenziesturniolo54 @ribread03 @sturnl0ve @grace-sturniolo12 @sophsturns @mattsturnfx @lilyloveschris @milo-the-dog @riggysworld @scrumptiouskoalabasement @tenaciousearthquakeperson @sturnlovematt22 @seros-girl @sofsturnz689 @sturniololuvz @eeyoresturnz

[lotuswish]

˗ˏˋ what loving you feels like to them (pt. 6 - octavinelle) 𓆝 .ᐟ

synopsis: have you ever wondered what falling in love feels like for each twisted wonderland boy? this series explores love from their perspective—how their personalities, experiences, and desires shape what loving you means to them. follow me to see the next part!

featured character(s): azul ashengrotto, jade leech, floyd leech.

content warning(s): none.

a/n: what loving you feels like to them might occasionally use the same words, but those words mean something a little different for each of them. it might sound familiar, but it's still their own!

azul ashengrotto

loving you feels like being swept away by an unstoppable current for azul ashengrotto—inevitable, overwhelming, and carrying him to places he never dared to dream of. for someone who has spent most of his life meticulously planning, calculating, and staying two steps ahead, love is a variable he cannot fully predict or control. it’s both exhilarating and unnerving, a kind of risk he would never have dared to take before you came into his life.

azul has always carried a deep-seated insecurity beneath his polished exterior. years of being ridiculed as a child for his appearance have made him fiercely determined to prove his worth through power, success, and control. yet loving you doesn’t feel like a negotiation or a transaction—it feels like surrendering to something he can’t quantify. it’s raw and messy and completely unlike the smooth, calculated persona he presents to the world. you don’t look at him for what he can offer, for his intellect or his business acumen; you see him, the parts of himself he tries to hide, and you love him for them. that terrifies him. but it also makes him feel something he’s never felt before: truly enough.

loving you feels like the gentle pull of the moon on the tides, constant and inescapable, drawing him toward something he never thought he could have. it’s the way you make him feel safe enough to lower his walls, to let go of the mask he’s worn for so long. around you, he can be vulnerable without fear of being judged. you’re the one who notices when his smiles don’t quite reach his eyes, the one who knows when he’s tired of putting on a show. with you, he doesn’t have to be the untouchable azul ashengrotto; he can just be azul.

at the same time, loving you stirs a fierce protectiveness within him. he’s spent years honing his ability to turn the tables on anyone who dares challenge him, but with you, it’s different. he doesn’t want to shield you out of strategy or obligation; he wants to protect you because you matter to him in ways he’s still learning to put into words. you’re more than a part of his world—you’ve become his most cherished treasure, something he would protect with everything he has.

for azul, loving you feels like finding a pearl in the depths of the sea—a treasure so rare and precious that he can hardly believe it’s his. it’s a reminder that even in a world driven by deals and ambition, there are things that can’t be earned or bargained for, things that simply exist in their beauty. loving you is terrifying and freeing all at once, and though it challenges everything he thought he knew about himself, he wouldn’t trade it for anything. you are the one thing he never saw coming, the one thing he never wants to lose.

jade leech

loving you feels like curiosity turned obsession for jade leech.

to jade, love is something foreign and utterly fascinating. it’s a deep ocean he’s never fully explored, and you are the mystery hidden beneath its surface. his love for you isn’t loud or obvious; it’s quiet, calculated, and deliberate, like the way he nurtures rare plants in his terrariums. loving you is a process, one he savors as much as he analyzes, peeling back the layers of who you are, uncovering your quirks, your fears, and your dreams. for jade, this discovery is intoxicating, a puzzle he never tires of solving.

and yet, it’s not just fascination. loving you feels like control slipping from his grasp in a way he never anticipated. jade is meticulous, always composed, always in control of himself and his surroundings. but with you, there are moments when he feels unbalanced, when the depth of his emotions surprises even him. it’s as if the current is pulling him somewhere unknown, somewhere dangerous, yet he can’t resist being swept along. loving you is a contradiction: it makes him feel both completely exposed and utterly alive.

for someone who rarely shows his true intentions, loving you feels like a quiet surrender. you see sides of him no one else does, the softness beneath the sharp edges, the warmth behind the cold, polite exterior. it’s disarming and thrilling all at once. you make him feel seen, not just as azul’s clever right-hand man or as the more composed leech twin, but as jade. you notice the details no one else bothers to see, and in return, jade finds himself wanting to give you everything, to open up the world to you as if you were the only person in it.

yet, there's also a possessiveness to his love, a quiet but unyielding need to keep you close. jade is not one to display his emotions openly, but beneath the calm exterior lies an intensity he keeps carefully hidden. loving you is like uncovering a sunken ship filled with untold treasures—a rare discovery he'll guard fiercely, no matter what. his protectiveness is subtle, woven into the fabric of his interactions with you, but it's unshakable all the same.

loving you feels like tending to a rare and delicate flower—something beautiful that requires both care and patience. you are the one thing in his life that cannot be manipulated or controlled, and instead of frustrating him, it fascinates him. he finds joy in watching you bloom, in learning how to nurture the connection between you. loving you is more than fascination; it’s a game he never wants to win, a puzzle he never wants to solve—because the joy isn’t in the answer, but in the endless discovery of you.

floyd leech

loving you feels like chaos and calm all at once for floyd leech.

floyd’s life has always been shaped by his whims, his moods, and his insatiable need to avoid monotony. to him, the world is a game, and people are pieces he moves and discards when they stop being interesting. but you? you’re different. you’re the one thing he can’t figure out, the one person he doesn’t want to toss aside. loving you feels like the kind of chaos he craves, but it also unsettles him in ways he’s never experienced before.

floyd thrives on extremes. he’s not used to balance or moderation, and his feelings for you are no exception. loving you is all-consuming—intense, raw, and sometimes overwhelming. it’s like the ocean at its most turbulent, waves crashing against his heart with a force that leaves him breathless. you challenge him, intrigue him, and keep him guessing, and that’s what he loves most. with you, there’s no risk of boredom, no stale routine. every moment feels alive, charged with a kind of energy he thought only existed in fleeting thrills.

loving you is something he never thought he’d allow, something that sneaks past his defenses and takes root before he even realizes it. floyd has never been one to settle down or feel tethered to anyone, yet with you, he doesn’t feel trapped. he feels seen. you don’t flinch at his unpredictability or try to smooth out his rough edges. you accept him as he is—moods, sharp teeth, and all—and that makes him want to keep you close, tighter than he’s ever held (squeezed) anything before.

it’s not easy for floyd to process emotions like this. he’s used to acting on impulse, but loving you makes him hesitate. it makes him think about what it means to want someone so deeply, to be afraid of losing them. it brings out a possessive side of him, but it’s more than just wanting to keep you close. it’s the fear of you walking away, of you deciding that the chaos he brings isn’t worth it. the idea of losing you is one of the few things that can genuinely make him feel vulnerable.

for floyd, loving you feels like a temptest—untamed, intense, and utterly consuming. it’s a force of chaos that turns his world upside down, and he wouldn’t trade it for anything. you’re the only one who can keep up with him, the only one who doesn’t try to dull his edges, and for that, he loves you with every ounce of his chaotic, unpredictable heart. you’re his favorite thing in the world, the one person he never gets tired of, and he’ll make sure you know it every single day.

congrats on making it to the end! if you enjoyed this, likes, comments, follows, and reblogs are always appreciated—they help motivate me to keep creating and sharing!

[followtheechoes]

earplugs are important!

this chart is from the rcgp website. it looks very similar to the one my instructor gave us in a course I took in college on bioacoustics and hearing aid technology. the risk of hearing loss with normal everyday sounds goes up with the amount of time you spend listening with no protection.

if you need a less scientific explanation and a more personal one instead, consider this:

my dad has had tinnitus longer than I've been alive and he has difficulty in crowded restaurants because the ambient noise of the radio and people talking is at just the right frequency to cause him pain. his hearing loss was from standing right next to a speaker at a concert when the mic started giving feedback. my mum has bad hearing for unrelated reasons but she told me she was sure all the concerts didn't exactly help. I have spent my entire life translating conversations between my parents because they keep having conversations while they're in seperate rooms and mishearing everything the other says. if my mum is sick there's basically no point in talking to her without shouting. my dad has a hard time being around small kids because the sound of them screaming or laughing is at just the right pitch to hurt, and I deliberately made my voice lower as I grew up because I knew high pitched sounds were painful, especially close to him. I learned early to communicate face to face, because if I have a conversation with either of my parents without them being able to read my lips (say, if we're in the kitchen fixing ourselves lunch), they'll assume it isn't important or mishear. I love my parents, and this has it's benefits (I'm better at talking to seniors, I'm more confident saying things directly to people in as few words as possible, I'm good at mediating between people who aren't understanding each other). I'm just saying that if you don't want this to be your/your children's life, and you go to a lot of concerts, please do look into hearing protection.

my mum got hearing aids at 55 and needed them for years before that (see: my entire childhood), and she was amazed at how much better things were for her. hearing aid technology has improved to an insane degree. she has a streamer which connects to her phone via bluetooth, so she can listen to music whenever she wants and no one will know. she told me she turns up the volume when her office is quiet and people are gossiping so she doesn't have to get involved but she still knows what's going on. she has a tiny, subtle microphone that can attach to her clothes or be placed nearer to the person she needs to hear, and when covid hit and her office started getting glass dividers, she was able to place her microphone on the other side of the divider and hear her clients. she's has told me what a relief it is not to have to nod along and hope she's laughing at the right moments. it's been ridiculously cool watching her step out of her comfort zone and get back into music as well.

my point being, hearing loss is not the end of your life, but it will make things different and more difficult, so please protect your hearing while you can!

[kamospeach]

Hey girl, just read your Eren one shot and I was loving ittt. Could I ask for a one shot of Eren x black female bestfriends who have a flirty relationship but Eren finally makes a move when she gets asked out by someone else? #smutty please ☺️

we might share the same brain cell :P

you don't want me to see nobody else .ᐟ

plot: bestfriend!eren is tired of only being best friends.

content warning: pining, mutual pining, jealous eren, oblivious reader, slut shaming (barely), titty sucking, oral f!recieving, fingering, cowgirl

peachy's yap: i've literally thought about this so many times i love best friend eren in every way !

“her? nah she's my best friend."

"girlfriend... i don't have a girlfriend. oh y/n? that's my best friend."

"yeah we live together but we're strictly best friends."

those were just three of the many different statements eren replied to strangers. strangers being people your friends brought the two of you around. your friends themselves couldn't even tell others what you both had going on.

"y/n and eren? well, they're best friends, and uh... they hug a lot."

"yeah they do that often, she always sits on his lap."

"when did he start holding her waist in public? that's new."

"truthfully i've seen them kiss. on the lips!"

all of it was true you and eren did hug a lot even cuddle when it was cold. you sat on his lap proudly in public, especially at the club you wouldn't dare let some stripper twerk on your best friend. he held your waist when you and your friends walked around the mall looking for things to buy.

you did kiss twice though once at a dinner party on accident when you turned to talk to eren and the same when he tried to kiss your cheek. another time when you both were crossfaded in your room you looked over at your best friend. his eyes were low and his pink lips shiny from chapstick and he looked very fuckable.

but even after that your friendship stayed the same and you didn't falter. you were best friends and even promised to be in the next life. and today was just like every other day.

"ren!" you yelled and eren walked to you from your shared kitchen. you laid on the couch wrapped in a blanket watching a scary movie. he stood at the end of the couch looking at you with a raised brow.

"yeah ma," he asked and you pointed at the tv his eyes followed your finger. you could barely hear the tv from where you sat. "what you scared?" he laughed at you and you frowned.

"no i ain't scared!" you defended although you were truthfully scared that wasn't what you wanted. "remember how your fat ass stepped on the remote and it broke yesterday?" you said and he looked around trying to act like he didn't hear you.

"what about it?" he asked still looking at the TV.

"i can't hear it and we haven't got a new remote. so can you turn it up pleaseeee?" you asked and he scoffed turning up the TV and looking at you to see if you were satisfied. you nodded in approval happy now that you could hear the TV. "thank you, hun."

"mhm you're welcome," he mumbled walking over to you and kissing your forehead. things like that were everyday interactions for you and eren. it was friendly and you never thought of it any other way. you watched the movie until eren came into the living room with two plates.

he handed you one and sat directly next to you in the corner of the couch. you lifted the blanket placing it over eren's legs. he grabbed your legs placed them over his lap and looked down at you.

"what movie is this again?" he asked and you scoffed rolling your eyes.

"i don't know it's on a random channel, no remote remember." you playfully remind him to which he scoffs. he promised he would go out today and buy a new remote after work.

since you took today off you sat in your room all day waiting for eren to return. just for eren to come back with two bottles of Don Julio, a family box of Cheez-Its, and a value pack of sour gummy worms. everything but a damn remote.

"you don't gotta remind me every time." he laughed and you shook your head.

"i'll go get it tomorrow." you laugh as a comfortable silence settles between the two as you both enjoy the meal. after you both finished he left to clean the dishes and returned minutes later. he sat down in his previous spot except this time he pulled you in between his legs. you leaned your against his chest looking up at him.

"hm?" he hummed in a questioning tone and for a second you weren't exactly sure what you wanted to say. lost in his green eyes that you swore swirled hypnotizing you into becoming a mute. his fingers rubbed small circles on the bare skin of your thigh. his other hand under your oversized teachers resting on your stomach.

"you work tomorrow?" you asked and he nodded looking at the time seeing it was getting close to his bedtime. he was trying to stay up later so you wouldn't call him an old man but he was exhausted. "can i ride with you?"

"yea, you can." he cleared his throat standing you up and standing up behind you. "finna go to bed," he mumbled stretching as your eyes never left his happy trail until it was hidden by his shirt again.

"can you sleep in my room? i got scared." you now admit to being scared by the low-budget horror film. he obliged as you both went to your room.

the next day was how you expected stressful, tiring, and overall draining. it was going on 3 pm and you only had one client left. you had two appointments and even did three walk-ins you were beat.

you looked across the tattoo shop at your best friend who looked even more exhausted than you. he was finishing up his last client it was his second large back piece of the day along with 3 smaller tattoos.

eren was always the busiest it was his shop and everyone loved his work. although you, connie, annie, and mikasa were good at what you did, it wasn't beating eren's talent by a long shot. you stood up walking over to his station sitting next to him watching him work.

after another 20 minutes, your client arrived, he was a regular client for you. if you were being honest you gave him discounts here and there because he was fine as hell. whenever he called and needed you to squeeze him in you never told him no.

"wassup y/n." he smiled his white teeth nearly blinding you with its reflection of the sun. you returned his smile patting the back of the seat.

"heyyy come take a seat," you said and got started with the process. you were first sitting in silence until he asked about your day. taking the opportunity to rant about your stressful day.

"man if i known that i would've waited until tomorrow or when you ain't have as many people," he said and you shook your head.

"i'll never tell you no, you know that." you send him a bright smile and he returns the gesture.

"i must be your favorite?" he laughed and you nodded slowly still keeping your main focus on his tattoo.

"you might be..." you say and he sends you a smirk. he was getting cocky and you fed into it.

"then let your favorite client take you out?" he looked at you and as much as your body wanted to freeze up from shock. you stayed calm lightly nodding your head. "not for no free tattoos or nothin'. i been liking you for a while and i've known you for three years now and..." you cut him off as he started to ramble.

"i'll go out with you." you laughed trying to lighten the mood. he was obviously a little anxious but you admired him for asking.

"oh ok cool, bet." he nodded to himself and you smiled the whole time you finished his tattoo. you were just happy someone you found attractive thought the same about you.

after that, you both said your goodbyes and you walked over to eren who sat in his chair waiting for you to finish. he grabbed your bag from you and you both made sure everything was good to be locked up. you switched the lights off following eren to his bike.

"what were you and that guy gigglin' bout?" eren asked handing you your helmet and you shrugged.

"nothin', much he asked me out and that was about it," you tell eren and he freezes turning to look at you. you weren't sure why he looked so shocked at that statement so you chuckled.

"what?" you asked getting on the back of the bike and he shook his head. not bothering to say anything to you he just wanted to get home. he sped home going a little faster than you liked your arms wrapping tightly around him.

once you both made it back home eren wasted no time jumping off the bike. he didn't even look back at you and rushed into the apartment. you followed behind him oblivious to his anger.

"what you want for dinner i'll cook," you say and he shrugs his shoulders walking to his room and slamming his door shut. you stood in front of the door in shock, you and eren never stayed mad at each other.

you shook your head going to your room and deciding on taking a shower. you sat your phone on the counter in the kitchen along with your keys and bag. you went and did your regular shower routine before going to cook. when you came out eren was sitting at the island eating food.

"you doordashed?" you asked and he nodded. looking down at your phone and then back at his food. you frowned seeing your phone had lit up meaning you had gotten a notification. you walked over grabbing your phone seeing it was a text from the client who had asked you out.

6:23 pm

it was good to see your pretty face today how does friday at 7 pm sound?

you smiled at the message about to text back until eren snatched your phone. you looked up at him with your eyebrows furrowed in anger. "eat your food." he nodded in the direction of the bag and you squinted your eyes at him.

"fuck we forgot the remote again." you groaned. eren watched your every move you felt him watching. but you ignored it not wanting him to know that you were nervous from his intense gaze. "what's your problem today?" you asked getting it over with.

"you gonna go out with him?" he asked and you turned to look at him like he had lost his mind.

"why would i not?" you say grabbing your food and sitting next to him. he hummed nodding his head almost like you were irritating him. you both ate your food in silence just as you were about to swallow your last bite eren spoke.

"you ever thought about how it'd make me feel?" he asked and you choked on your food not sure what he meant.

"what?" you asked and he sighed looking away from you.

"i'm just sayin' like we best friends and stuff..." you cut him off assuming he thought you both had to sit down and contemplate whether or not you would date this guy or not.

"you expect me to run to you like you're my father and ask if it's that i date him?" you said now getting angry that eren was acting this way.

"that's not what i'm getting at bruh. i'm sayin' like one guy comes and asks you on a date and you just said yes?" he said and you squinted your eyes at him.

"you callin' me easy?" you asked grabbing your empty plate and throwing it away. not only were you fed up with his attitude his words hurt you.

"no ma that's not..."

"don't 'ma' me. you sittin' here callin' me easy and getting mad that someone showed interest in me. i've never had a boyfriend because they're always scared of you. let me have this one please." you practically beg eren. and then there it was again. that swirling in his eyes that was saying everything and nothing at all. you began to storm off to your room but eren asked a question that made your stomach churn.

"have you ever... thought about me? in that way?" he asked you and you blinked in shock.

"in what way?" you asked, you needed him to be straight up and tell you what he really wanted to know.

"have you ever thought about dating me and uh... being with me?" he asked and you cleared your throat. you never thought you and your best friend would be having this conversation.

"yes i have... maybe a year ago," you admitted and he grabbed your wrist pulling you back to him.

"when we kissed? in your bed?" he asked and you nodded slowly.

"i thought about you for days, months really. i hid the way i felt, i didn't want you to know," you admitted to him.

"i've always felt that way about you," he admitted and you looked at him your eyes running over his face. his eyes, nose, lips, everything that made you feel the way you did a year ago. "don't go out with him... go out with me."

you didn't know what to say but you knew you wanted to kiss him. it had been a year since you felt those lips against yours and you needed him. you were standing between his legs as he sat on the barstool in your kitchen. his hands gripped the exposed skin of your waist as you both stared at each other

you couldn't wait another minute to press your lips against his. the softness of his lips and the urgency in his movements made it all the more sensual. your hands ran along his shoulders finding their way in his hair. you took out his bun letting his hair fall as you ran your fingers through his hair.

"have you ever thought of me like this?" you asked referring to the intimate moment you were both about to have.

"so so so many times," he said breathlessly lifting you like you weighed nothing. he sat you on the counter gripping your thighs and spreading them apart. he stood between your legs and went back to kissing you. his hands found their way to your ass and massage the flesh. your hands rubbed the back of his neck playing with the hairs on the nape of his neck.

he pushed his tongue in your mouth his tongue roaming around your mouth. the kiss was sloppy spit sloshing and swapping between your mouths. he pulled back as a line of spit followed, both of your chests raising and falling at a fast pace.

he grabbed your jaw pushing your head backward and attacking your neck. you whine at the feeling of his teeth grazing the muscles of your neck. he kissed down your neck and behind your ear, you could hear his rigid breathing. his hands reached under your shirt noticing you don't have a bra on.

"no bra?" he asked smirking and you sighed as he pulled your shirt over your head.

"i just g...got out the shower." you stuttered as he rolled his nipples between his pointer finger and thumb. he pulled at them watching your eyes flutter close at the feeling. he roughly grips your breasts fondling them and looking at you.

"put em' in my mouth," he instructed looking up at you through his lashes. your eyes widened at the thought and he nodded letting you know he was serious. he stuck his tongue out as you grabbed your boob placing it on his tongue.

his mouth latched around your breast sucking and lightly biting at your nipple. his hand grabbed your right boob fondling and playing with your nipple until he switched. he sucked so hard that you felt your need cunt clench around nothing wanting him in you so bad. your hands played in his hair pulling him away from your chest.

"why'd you do that?" he frowned looking up at you. his eyes were 3 shades darker.

"i need you..." you whined and he smirked at your neediness. he lifted you off the counter kiss you as he walked over to the couch placing you on your back.

"can i take off your shorts?" he asked and you nodded. he took off your shorts looking at your skimpy panties that were soaked. your juices creating a wet spot on your pretty pink panties. eren spread your legs his nose nudging the spot sniffing your scent.

eren let out a guttural groan and the smell and pulled off his shirt. his body was nothing new to you but seeing him hover above you with his shirt off made it so much more sensual. he unbuttoned his pants taking them off followed by his boxers. he was huge not as big as you imagined but to be fair you imagined him to be 13 inches.

although he wasn't as long as he was in your wet dreams, 8 1/2 inches was bigger than most. he was bigger than most of the guys you followed on twitter. you reached up grabbing his dick and your hand couldn't even wrap all the way around it. you stroked him slowly and he threw his head back his cock already twitching from the feeling.

"let me taste you," he mumbled and you looked up at him with a smile. you wanted to tease him, he was a naturally dominant man. even one second to be a tease was enough to make you feel superior.

"what was that rennie?" you asked in a seductive tone rubbing your thumb across the slit of his tip playing with the stickiness of his precum.

"i said let me taste you," he said louder this time and you nodded. spreading your legs. eren gripped your panties easily ripping them down the middle. your lips and swollen clit on full display your entrance dripping your wetness. "such a pretty pussy... so wet for me." he hummed leaning down to lick a long stripe down your folds.

he sucked on your clit and now and then teased your entrance with his tongue. he groaned into your pussy while he eat you out your body squirming under the feeling. your legs tried to squeeze together trapping his head between them, the feeling so overwhelming.

eren pushed your legs open letting up from your clit. his thumb swirled over your clit and you moaned loudly from the feeling. without warning he pushed his middle finger in fingering you roughly.

"you like that baby?" he asked with a raised brow and your head was thrown back as you moaned loudly at the feeling. he didn't get an answer from you so he pushed in a second finger. you whined at the pressure of a second finger. "you keep ignoring me i'll add a third." he said deeply and you pushed your limits thinking there was no way he would.

he fingered you vigorously so fast that you could hear your juices sloshing. your cunt tightened around his fingers. loving the feeling of his fingers pumping in and out of you. since you didn't answer eren did as he said he would add another finger in. you squealed he was stretching you so good and the feeling was overwhelming.

"m'close ren." you moaned feeling that feeling in your stomach.

"tell me how much you love it then i'll let you cum." he said and your voice was giving out from your moaning and screaming. "c'mon ma just three words." he taunted you while he fingered your wet, needy pussy. he ground his hips into the couch getting harder by the minute watching you leak all over the couch just from his fingers.

"i love it ren fuck!" you yelled and he smirked as your body gyrated from the orgasm begging to be released.

"cum for me baby, cum for your best friend rennie." he said as you let go cumming hard, your cream coating his fingers as your body shivered from the pleasure. "gooood girl," he said pulling his cream-coated fingers out of your cunt. he pushed them into your mouth as you sucked and slurped your cream off his fingers.

he pushed them down your throat making you gag on all three of his thick digits. you smiled at him as he leaned down kissing you. his tongue dancing with yours as he tasted you on your tongue. you sat up pushing him down on the couch. he leaned against the back of the couch as you straddled his waist.

"you sure?" he asked and you nodded wanting to show him what you could do. although you never had a boyfriend didn't mean you never had sex. you wanted to show eren what he had been missing.

you planted your feet on the ground lowering yourself onto him. he moaned in your ear and you whimpered at the way his cock stretched you. he was way thicker than those three fingers he used earlier. you lowered yourself fully onto him until your ass met his thighs.

your eyes were closed and your body ground into his, enjoying the feeling. after you adjusted to the size you began to ride him. your arms wrapped around his neck and his hands gripping your waist.

"fuck baby you feel so good, so wet, fuck." he groaned as you fastened your pace bouncing on his cock. you couldn't slow down you couldn't take it slow, not with the way you felt every inch of his cock stroking your insides.

"mmm ren." you moaned leaning your chest against his kissing him biting on his bottom lip. your pace slowed a little until eren moved his grip to your ass helping you ride him. still kissing you roughly while he moved you to keep the same fast pace.

his big hands almost covering most of your ass, he slapped one encouraging you to ride him faster. he watched the way your beautiful brown ass rippled from the force.

"you're doing so good ma. make us cum." he tells you as your knees got tired and he grabbed you. "you tired baby?" he asked whispering in your ear.

"mmm mhm." you whimpered out and he nodded. eren turned around so you both were lying the length of the couch. he planted his feet fucking up into you. "ren!" you yelled feeling him roughly fuck into you. it was extremely loud the sound of your bodies colliding and your yelling out from eren's rough thrust was enough for the two of you to get noise complaints.

"you close baby? i'm close." he rambled loving the feeling of your walls clenching and unclenching around him. "play with your clit." he demanded. you listened not in the mood to defy him. you rubbed your clit vigorously watching eren bite his lips as sweat ran down his forehead. his hair stuck to his forehead and his broad shoulders tensed as he fucked up into you with immense force.

"m'cumming ren." you moaned loudly and he grunted.

"me too cum with me ma." he said as your eyes rolled to the back of your head as you whimpered out in pleasure. "fuck i love you shit," he said and your eyes widened as his warm cum filled you up. his dick twitching and pulsing as his seed painted your insides white.

"y... you love me?" you asked still sitting on his cock as your mixed fluids dripped down his dick and his balls. your body automatically grinding into his at the feeling of being full.

"of course i do i've told you that so many times," he said giving you a confused look and you shook your head.

"no that was as friends i mean do you love me like a lover?" you asked and he smiled at your explanation.

"i never meant it as a friend," he said and you pouted at his statement and you nodded in satisfaction.

"then i love you too rennie."