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seospicybin · 18 days ago

Text

TASTE.

CHAPTER IV: DECADENT.

Lee Know x reader. (s,a)

TASTE MASTERLIST

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nod, grinning. "It’s good."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Go back inside and sleep," he murmurs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"GET YOUR BRAINS BACK TO YOUR HEADS!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Seojun halts, his posture stiffening slightly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What now?” he asks, clearly exasperated.

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

“Then why didn’t you eat earlier?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His response is instant and firm. “No.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The customer raises an eyebrow. “Should I?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You narrow your eyes suspiciously. “Why?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"First?" you echo nervously.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Everything,” you reply without hesitation.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Good morning,” she greets softly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your eyes widen slightly, and she presses on.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Minho watches you go, his chest still stinging—not from the punch, but from the sharp, cutting weight of your words. He stands frozen, replaying everything in his mind and if something wrong happened in between this morning and now.

Minho stands at the chef’s table, surveying the bustling kitchen as the lunch service begins. The usual energy fills the air, but his eyes are drawn to you. Your glum expression hasn’t changed since you walked into the restaurant this morning, and it’s unsettling.

Pushing personal concerns aside, Minho claps his hands to gather the kitchen’s attention. “Listen up! It’s graduation and admission season, which means family gatherings are in full swing. People want separate pasta dishes rather than full-course meals, so expect an overload of pasta orders today.”

The staff murmurs their acknowledgment, and Minho continues. “Pasta line will handle all the orders without help from entrée chefs unless absolutely necessary. It won’t be easy, but I trust you’ll manage.”

The kitchen erupts into motion as the first few orders come through. Minho shouts them out, and the organized chaos begins. As predicted, pasta orders flood in, pushing the pasta line to their limit.

You approach Minho’s chef’s table, placing two plates in front of him. “How many more?” he asks, inspecting the dishes.

“I still have four more after this, Chef,” you reply, your tone distracted.

Sara steps up, placing her plates on the table. “I’m done with my orders,” she announces, glancing at Minho. “Give me orders!”

Minho nods and redirects some of your orders to Sara, sending you back to your station. But as he observes you, it’s clear that something is off. Your movements are out of rhythm, uncharacteristically sloppy. Clams slosh out of your pan and onto the floor.

“You!” Minho snaps, his voice cutting through the clamor. “Did the clams come all the way here just to dive onto the kitchen floor?”

“I’m sorry, chef” you mumble, quickly picking up the pace.

But it doesn’t get better. Your cooking remains erratic, and Minho’s patience wears thin. He strides over to you and extends his hand. “Give it to me,” he orders, eyeing the pan.

You shake your head, gripping the handle tightly. “I’ll do it, Chef. I'll do it myself.”

Minho stares at you, his frustration mounting. “Do it right, then,” he mutters, stepping back to watch.

When you finally place the dish on his table, Minho takes one look and frowns. The pasta glistens with an unappetizing sheen, and the clams sit lifelessly atop it. He picks up a fork, poking at the dish before placing it down with a sharp clink.

“What’s the matter with you?” he demands, his voice rising. “The pasta and oil aren’t emulsified. Your hands and your mind aren’t working together—just like this dish. Now, what’s wrong with you?”

The kitchen falls silent. All eyes are on you as you stand there, head bowed. Minho’s stomach twists, guilt creeping in despite his annoyance.

“I’m sorry, chef” you whisper, your voice barely audible. “I’ll do it again.”

“No,” Minho says firmly. He turns to Sara. “Take over the rest of her orders. Total of six, go!”

You nod, defeated, and return to your station. Minho watches as you scrape the failed dish into the trash, the weight of his scolding visible in the slump of your shoulders.

He sighs and calls you back to the chef’s table. You approach hesitantly, clasping your hands in front of you.

“Do you know why we stir these clam shells in the frying pan when we can't even eat them? You think we put in those shells that are ten times their size so we can eat the tiny bit of clam in them?” Minho begins, keeping his tone steady. “It is to keep the clam juice inside the shell. As it opens up, it should release fresh clam juice. For that reason, you have to stir at the same speed with the same strength so that all clams get cooked and opens up simultaneously. That is the key to make vongole.”

You nod but don’t meet his gaze.

“Aren't you going to answer me?” Minho presses.

“Yes, chef,” you reply softly, still avoiding his eyes.

The meekness in your voice is jarring, so unlike your usual spirited self. Minho waves you back to your station, but the sight of your retreating figure only deepens his confusion. What in the world is going on with you?

Minho’s head is already swimming with frustration as he walks toward Chris’s office after the dinner service. The last thing he wants is another conversation with the restaurant’s manager, but the summons was clear. He drags his feet, feeling the weight of the long day pulling at his shoulders.

Reaching the door, Minho knocks half-heartedly and waits until Chris’s voice grants him permission to enter. He steps in to find Chris tidying up his desk, moving stacks of papers into neat piles.

“Please, have a seat,” Chris says, gesturing to the sofa across the room as he joins Minho there.

Minho sits, his patience thin, and looks at Chris expectantly.

Chris wastes no time. The second he's seated on the sofa across from him, he asks, “How do you feel about sharing the chef’s office with Sara starting tomorrow?”

Minho’s brow furrows, the question catching him off guard. “Is that an order?” he asks flatly.

Chris leans forward, clasping his hands together. “Sara’s a chef, just like you. I don’t think it’s right for her to share a room full of guys who clearly don’t make her feel welcome. It’s only fair she has a better environment to work in.”

Minho doesn’t hesitate. “I don’t want to.”

Chris blinks, surprised by the blunt rejection. “It’ll help you two work better together. Sharing the space will make communication easier and—”

“I don’t want to,” Minho interrupts firmly, his voice low but resolute.

Chris leans back, exhaling in exasperation. “Sara deserves the same respect and facilities as any other chef. She has every right to use that office. Am I the one not making sense here?”

Minho leans forward, his eyes sharp as he looks around Chris’s spacious office. “Your office is nice and big,” he remarks, his tone laced with sarcasm. “Why don’t you bring Sara here instead? Let her share this space with you. Or is this really about what’s best for her? Maybe it’s more about what’s best for you.”

Chris’s face tightens, but he doesn’t respond immediately. Minho stands, brushing off invisible lint from his jacket.

“You can start by being honest about that,” Minho says coldly, heading toward the door.

“Chef,” Chris calls out, his tone final. “You’ll be sharing the room with Sara starting tomorrow.”

Minho doesn’t stop walking, his hand gripping the door handle. Without looking back, he steps out of the office and into the hallway.

Chris can insist all he wants, but Minho isn’t going to give in easily.

The parking lot is quiet, with only the faint hum of distant cars breaking the silence. Minho walks briskly toward his car, his thoughts scattered. He tries to focus on the day ahead tomorrow, but his mind drifts back to you—your distant expression, your unsteady hands, your reluctance to meet his gaze. He shakes his head, frustrated with himself for letting it bother him so much.

Just as he turns a corner, he spots you. Sitting on the steps leading to the dining hall, you’re hunched forward, your shoulders slightly slumped as if the weight of the day is pressing down on you.

Minho’s steps slow instinctively. Before he knows it, he’s approaching you. He stops three steps away and clears his throat to make his presence known.

Your head snaps back, startled, and then you quickly bow slightly. “Thank you for your hard work today, Chef,” you say, your tone polite but distant.

Minho clicks his tongue softly. He’s used to this—your tendency to put up a professional front when there’s something deeper bothering you. He sits on the steps, his posture relaxed, but his gaze fixed on you.

“Are you upset because I scolded you earlier?” he asks, his voice steady but probing. “It’s not like it’s the first time you’ve been yelled at.”

You sigh, your gaze dropping to your hands. “It’s not just that,” you admit quietly. “Getting scolded... hurts my pride now.”

Minho tilts his head slightly, clicking his tongue again. “That’s a good thing,” he says, as if it’s obvious.

You glance at him, frowning slightly, but you continue. “It feels even worse now because... it felt like I was being compared to Chef Sara. Like I’ll never measure up.”

Understanding dawns on Minho, and he nods subtly. He remembers those days—when he was the one being compared, his pride crushed over and over until he thought he’d break.

He leans forward slightly, resting his arms on his knees. “Getting your pride hurt is how you get better,” he says, his voice firm but not unkind. “If you just think your seniors are naturally better than you, you’ll never improve. Not in a million years.”

You look at him, your lips slowly curling into a faint smile.

“Being compared to someone better than you is what pushes you to catch up,” Minho continues. “And trust me, you will catch up. But you’ll only get there if you let that comparison push you, not break you.”

Your smile widens a little, and Minho feels a small sense of satisfaction. “From tomorrow on,” he warns with a smirk, “I’m going to compare you to Sara even more. I’m going to crush your pride even worse.”

Despite his words, your smile grows wider, your eyes softening as you look at him. “Yes, Chef,” you say softly, the words carrying a warmth that lingers in the air.

Minho moves down the steps, sitting next to you now. His voice lowers, the usual sharpness replaced by something more intimate. “Just because I like you doesn’t mean anything changes,” he says quietly. “You’ll still have to swallow your pride. More than ever.”

Your gaze flicks to him, a soft smile playing on your lips. “Yes, Chef,” you repeat, and Minho chuckles softly at the words he’s grown to love hearing from you.

Silence falls between you, but it’s the comfortable kind. The night air is cool, and the world around you feels distant, like it’s just the two of you in this moment.

After a while, you break the silence, your voice soft. “Having your pride wounded... is that really a good thing?”

Minho glances at you, his smirk returning. “Yes,” he says simply. “When you’re in trouble or your pride’s hurt, don’t get sad. Get even. Stand up tall and be jealous—it’s better than wilting like a dead plant.”

You chuckle softly, the sound light and genuine. “Yes, Chef.”

Minho raises an eyebrow. “What did I tell you to be?”

“To be jealous,” you reply, your smile growing.

“That’s right,” Minho says, his signature smirk deepening.

Silence falls again, but this time, it feels even more intimate. The tension between you is almost palpable, and when you turn to him again, your eyes meet his.

“I’m going to become a chef you can be proud of,” you say, your voice filled with quiet determination.

Minho’s chest tightens at your words, a wave of affection crashing over him. The sincerity in your eyes, the way you want to make him proud—it’s endearing, almost too much to bear.

If you weren’t here, at the restaurant, he’d kiss you right here, right now. Instead, he reaches for your hand, his fingers curling around your writst.

“It's cold. Let’s go home, mmh?” he says softly, standing and pulling you to your feet. You follow without hesitation, your hand still in his as Minho takes you home.

The moment the door to Minho’s apartment clicks shut behind you, the air between you shifts, charged with tension that had been simmering for weeks. You barely have time to glance around his apartment before Minho steps closer, his dark eyes fixed on yours.

“Finally,” he mutters, his voice low and rough with impatience.

Before you can respond, his hands cup your face, and his lips crash onto yours with a fiery intensity. The kiss is urgent, almost desperate, as if he’s been holding himself back for too long. Your hands instinctively clutch at his shirt, gripping the fabric as his lips move against yours, soft yet insistent.

Minho’s fingers slide down to your waist, tugging you closer until there’s no space left between you. His touch is firm but gentle, his hands warm as they settle on your hips. He pulls back for a fraction of a second, his breath mingling with yours as he stares at you, his pupils blown wide.

“You have no idea how much I’ve been holding back,” he murmurs, his voice a husky whisper.

Before you can reply, he bends slightly and scoops you up effortlessly, one arm under your knees and the other supporting your back. You gasp softly, your arms wrapping around his neck for balance as he carries you to the sofa.

Minho lowers you onto the cushions with care but doesn’t waste a second before leaning over you, his hands framing your face as he captures your lips again. This time, the kiss is deeper, hungrier, and you respond with equal fervor, your fingers tangling in his hair.

The heat between you is palpable, every touch and kiss filled with emotions he’s kept bottled up—desire, affection, frustration, and something deeper he hasn’t yet put into words. His lips trail down your jawline, leaving a scorching path as he presses open-mouthed kisses along your neck.

Your breaths come faster, your heart pounding as his hands roam, his touch leaving sparks in its wake. Minho pulls back just enough to look at you, his gaze intense and filled with an emotion that makes your stomach flip.

“Do you have any idea what you do to me?” he whispers, his voice barely above a growl.

You shake your head, breathless, and he leans in again, brushing his lips against yours in a kiss that’s softer this time but no less consuming. His hands find yours, intertwining your fingers as he presses you deeper into the sofa.

Every kiss, every touch feels like a confession, a way for Minho to pour out all the feelings he’s been holding back. And as you kiss him back, just as fervently, you let him know without words that you feel the same.

Minho hovers over you, his eyes roaming your face, drinking in every detail. Your flushed cheeks, the slight parting of your lips, the way your chest rises and falls rapidly—it’s enough to drive him mad. Slowly, deliberately, his hands move to your shirt, fingers brushing your skin as he lifts it over your head and tosses it aside.

His breath hitches as he takes in the sight of you, his lips curving into a faint smirk. His hands move with purpose, tracing over your shoulders and down your arms, leaving goosebumps in their wake. When his fingers find the clasp of your bra, he pauses, his gaze flickering to yours for permission. The soft nod you give him is all he needs. With practiced ease, he unhooks it, sliding the straps down your arms and discarding it.

Once the bra is out of the way, Minho glides his hands up to your ribcage and moves them to the side to cup your soft mound, fingers lightly rubbing the hardening buds, but his eyes... they remain locked with yours. They're dark and wide, filled with lust.

You mirror his movements, your fingers fumbling slightly as you unbutton his shirt, pushing it off his shoulders to reveal the taut muscles of his chest. Your touch is hesitant at first, but as your hands run over his warm skin, Minho lets out a low hum, his eyes darkening with desire.

Piece by piece, the barrier of clothing between you disappears. Minho watches you with a mix of admiration and hunger, his hands grazing your bare skin, memorizing every curve, every dip.

He leans in, his lips pressing softly against your collarbone. From there, he works his way down, leaving a trail of kisses along your skin, each one lingering longer than the last. When his lips find the sensitive spot on your neck, you gasp, your fingers tightening on his shoulders.

“Mine,” he murmurs against your skin, his voice possessive as he leaves a mark there, a reminder of this moment.

Minho doesn’t stop there. His lips travel lower, over your chest, your stomach, your hips, your thighs... each kiss filled with reverence and passion. Every mark he leaves feels like a promise, a declaration of everything he can’t put into words.

“Mine, mine, mine,” that's all Minho can mutter with his lips pressed to your skin.

When he returns to your lips, his kisses are slower, deeper, as if he wants to savor every second. His hands cradle your face, his thumb brushing your cheek as he whispers your name.

“You are mine,” he says, his voice raw with emotion, before pressing his forehead to yours.

The next thing you know, your back resting on his chest, your legs parting open and Minho’s hand relentlessly touching, teasing your bundle of nerves. You're squirming against him, moans spilling out of your mouth and Minho tries his best to contain it by kissing you.

As you spill your release on his hand, you turn your head to the side and he immediately captures your lips in a hard, deep kiss that steals your breath away.

Swiftly, he turns you over, having you lying on your side next to him. His hand curves around your thigh before lifting your leg over his, allowing him the access to penetrate you from the back. His fingers have no problem finding your clit, applying gentle pressures on it as he pushes his length inside you. Your moans are low and sultry, the kind that he won’t get tired of hearing over and over again, spilling out from your mouth until he's fully sheathed inside you. He then pulls you close until your body molds into his, becoming one.

With gentle but deliberate movements, Minho guides you into a rhythm, his touch and kisses all-consuming. Every movement feels like an unspoken conversation, his body communicating what words can’t: desire, care, devotion.

In the quiet intimacy of his apartment, with only the sound of your breaths and the occasional murmured name, Minho makes love to you, pouring everything he feels into every kiss, every touch, every whispered word.

Minho pulls a blanket from the side of the sofa, unfolding it with careful hands. The fabric is soft and worn, a perfect cocoon for the two of you. He drapes it over your bodies, tucking it around your shoulders before settling back against the cushions. There isn’t much space on the sofa, but that’s what he likes about it. No gaps between you, no room for anything but closeness. Every small movement has your skin brushing against his, your warmth sinking into him.

As your chest rises and falls with each breath, Minho unconsciously syncs his breathing with yours. The rhythm is soothing, intimate, as though your bodies are speaking their own language. Your head rests on his chest, one hand folded beneath your chin, and he can feel the softness of your eyelashes grazing his skin whenever you shift slightly.

“Hey,” he calls softly, his voice barely above a whisper.

You tilt your head up, your eyes locking with his almost immediately. For a moment, he forgets what he was going to say, caught in the quiet brilliance of your gaze. His hand lifts to brush his hair back, steadying himself before he continues.

“From now on,” he begins, his tone even and measured, “I’m going to scold you non-stop in the kitchen.”

You blink at him, waiting for more.

“That way,” he adds, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, “no one will get suspicious about us.”

A smile blooms on your face, and you nod. “Yes, Chef.”

Minho chuckles softly. “When I scream at you, just remind yourself—it’s my way of showing affection, okay?”

You nod again, that playful glint in your eye as you reply, “Yes, Chef.” But then, after a pause, you tilt your head, your lips quirking into a teasing smile. “So… the more you scream, the stronger your affection?”

Minho’s smirk deepens, his eyes glinting with amusement. “Exactly.”

You giggle, the sound light and infectious, and he can’t help but feel a sense of satisfaction at how easily he can amuse you. Your hand reaches up, fingers gently curling under his chin as you hold his face still.

“What about when you’re being nice?” you ask, your tone soft but teasing. “Does that mean you don’t like me then?”

“No,” Minho shakes his head, his gaze steady. “It means I like you too,” he answers simply.

You giggle again, your face lighting up as you lean closer. “So basically, you’re going to show me affection all day long.”

A smile breaks across his face, warm and genuine. “That’s right,” he says, his voice dropping slightly. “I’m going to shower you with so much affection, you won’t even have time to complain. And if all that love and affection doesn’t make you better, then you’re in serious trouble.”

His eyes lock onto yours, an intensity in his gaze that makes your breath hitch. “Got it?”

Your lips curve into a smile as you answer in that soft, melodic tone he’s come to adore. “Yes, Chef.”

The way you say it melts something in him, because to him, it's not just an expression of obedience but also devotion, and before he can stop himself, he leans in, pressing his lips to yours. The kiss is soft, tender at first, but he pulls away for only a second before diving back in, capturing your lips in a long, lingering kiss.

When he finally breaks away, it’s only to pull you closer, tucking you firmly against him. The two of you stay like that, wrapped in each other’s warmth, until sleep gently claims you both.

You step out of the bedroom, still stretching the remnants of sleep from your limbs, and head toward the kitchen. The comforting hum of the coffee machine fills the quiet apartment as you prepare to make your morning coffee.

The front door creaks open, and Sara walks in, looking flushed and energized, like she’s just finished a workout. You offer her a polite smile and a soft, “Good morning.”

She returns the smile, her expression kind but guarded. “Good morning.”

“Coffee?” you ask, gesturing toward the machine.

Sara shakes her head. “No, thanks.” She moves to the other side of the counter, grabbing herself a glass of water.

For a moment, the kitchen is quiet, the only sound the faint gurgling of the coffee machine. Sara breaks the silence, her voice measured but clear. “I thought about what I said to you yesterday—whether it was wrong to tell you.” She pauses, taking a sip of water. “But now that I’ve said it, I think it was the right thing to do.”

You slowly turn to face her, leaning back against the counter as you meet her gaze. The warmth of the brewing coffee lingers in the air, grounding you.

“Thank you,” you say, your tone calm but sincere. “For being honest with me. For telling me the truth.”

Sara’s lips curve into a faint smile, and she takes a step closer, though she’s careful to maintain a respectful distance.

“I think the only way to do this is for us to do things our way,” she says, her voice steady and confident. “And because I promised Minho when I came to Farfalle that I’d be fair, I’ll only play fair and be honest—in everything. Including in getting him back.”

Her words are bold, but there’s no malice in her tone. It’s a simple declaration, as straightforward as a chef presenting a dish: no frills, no pretenses.

You tilt your head slightly, listening intently. There’s something admirable in her directness, her willingness to lay everything bare without disguising her intentions.

“If not,” she continues, her gaze unwavering, “then this victory wouldn’t mean anything to me.” She takes another sip of her water, her expression unreadable. “What do you think?”

You can see it now, the unspoken challenge in her words—a duel not fought with knives and flames in the kitchen, but with hearts and intentions.

You allow a small smile to form, meeting her eyes with a steady gaze. “Okay.”

Your single-word response hangs in the air, an agreement, an acceptance of the unspoken competition between you. Sara nods slightly, her expression firm but not hostile.

And as the coffee machine beeps, signaling your cup is ready, you can’t help but feel a quiet determination settling in your chest. Sara might be better in the kitchen than you but you’re competing for a whole different thing now and you're ready for it.

Minho’s good mood evaporates the moment he steps into his office and finds two members of the service staff maneuvering a desk through the doorway. His eyes narrow as he takes in the sight of them positioning it into the corner of the already cramped space.

“What are you doing?” Minho snaps, his voice sharp enough to make the workers pause mid-action.

“The manager told us to move this in here,” one of them answers hesitantly, gesturing toward the desk.

Minho clenches his jaw, the muscles in his neck tightening. He distinctly remembers telling Chris he didn’t want to share his office, but it seems like Chris doesn’t care about what he wants.

Storming out of the room, Minho makes a beeline for Chris’s office, his steps quick and deliberate. Before he gets there, though, he spots Chris in the dining hall, clipboard in hand, inspecting the setup.

Minho stops in front of him, crossing his arms. “I told you I don’t want to share the office,” he says, his tone low but laced with irritation.

Chris looks up, meeting Minho’s intense gaze without flinching. “And I told you this was going to happen.” His voice is calm, almost infuriatingly so.

Chris doesn’t back down, holding Minho’s stare with equal intensity. “Why are you being so narrow-minded?”

Minho’s jaw tightens further. “Why are you narrowing my space?”

The two engage in a fiery standoff, their gazes locked in a silent battle of wills. Minho feels his patience wearing thin, his frustration bubbling dangerously close to the surface. If this goes on any longer, he knows he’ll explode.

Without another word, Minho turns on his heel and storms away, opting for a different tactic. If Chris won’t listen, maybe Sara will.

He heads to the kitchen and spots her near the stock station, carefully stirring a pot of broth. Minho stops in his tracks, his frustration momentarily replaced by a flicker of professional instinct. The kitchen has been having issues with the stock lately, and he knows it needs to be addressed.

Deciding to step back, Minho retreats to his office and pulls out his phone. He fires off a quick text to Felix, asking him to meet in the office to discuss it.

A few minutes later, Felix strides into the office, his usual laid-back demeanor intact. He stands in front of Minho, hands in his pockets, waiting for him to speak.

Minho leans back in his chair, folding his arms. “We need to make a decision about this stock problem. Either we give in to Sara’s way, or she gives in to ours.”

Felix doesn’t hesitate, his answer immediate. “It's only right if she gives in. That was the only possible conclusion from the start.”

Minho raises an eyebrow at the certainty in Felix’s voice.

Felix shrugs. “If I thought I was going to give in, I wouldn’t have left the kitchen in the first place. I stand by what I said.”

Minho takes that in, nodding slightly. “Do you like the taste?”

Felix pulls a face, cringing dramatically. “It’s not that good, and I didn’t like it at all. Honestly, she’s just trying to win the power struggle.”

Minho nods again, this time slower, as if processing Felix’s words. “Alright,” he says, dismissing Felix with a slight wave of his hand.

Felix leaves without another word, and Minho leans back in his chair, staring at the desk that now occupies the corner of his office. He needs space—not just physically, but mentally—to figure out how to deal with both the office and the stock problem. But regardless of that, Minho has a feeling that Sara will still win, one way or another.

You finish tying the knot on your apron as you step out of the locker room, ready to start your shift. The sound of hurried footsteps behind you is your only warning before Felix grabs your arm, practically dragging you toward the kitchen.

"Felix, what—" you begin, stumbling slightly to keep up, but he interrupts you, speaking in a hushed tone.

"Chef asked me about Sara’s stock earlier," he says, his voice urgent. "And I, uh, might have told him I tasted it."

You stop dead in your tracks, eyes widening in horror. "What?! You lied about tasting it?"

Felix pulls you forward again, muttering, "It’s not lying if I already know what chicken stock tastes like."

"Felix!" you hiss, your voice rising slightly in panic. "That’s a fatal mistake! You know how thorough Chef is—how could you mess that up?"

"I panicked, okay?" Felix defends himself as the two of you step into the kitchen. "And it’s not like I’m completely wrong. Chicken stock is chicken stock."

You let out a frustrated groan, heading straight for the stove where Sara’s pot of stock still sits. Grabbing a ladle, you pour some into a small bowl, taking a spoonful to taste. The flavor hits your palate, and your stomach drops.

"This… this isn’t chicken stock," you say, turning to Felix with wide eyes.

Felix leans closer, frowning. "What do you mean? It tastes like it."

"It’s not," you insist, setting the bowl down. "Come on, we need to test this properly."

The two of you set to work, comparing Sara’s stock with the vegetable stock the kitchen has been using. You each cook three pastas, pairing them with white, red, and cream-based sauces. Once everything is plated, you spread them across Minho’s chef’s table, ready to taste and compare.

First, you both try the white sauce pasta. You twirl a forkful around and take a bite, chewing thoughtfully. "It’s not bad," you admit, "but the wine in the sauce stands out more than the stock. It doesn’t blend as well."

Felix nods, echoing your observation. "Yeah, it’s… okay. But not groundbreaking."

Next, you move to the cream sauce. Felix takes a bite first, his expression neutral. "The cream’s so rich, it overpowers everything else," he says.

You taste it for yourself and nod in agreement. "Yeah, there’s barely a difference."

Finally, you both dig into the red sauce pasta. The moment the flavor hits your tongue, you and Felix exchange wide-eyed looks.

"Wow," you breathe, genuinely impressed.

Felix lets out a low whistle. "She was right. The stock brings out the tomatoes’ savoriness, and the aroma—it’s so much better."

He runs a hand through his bleached blonde hair, ruining his already messy bun, and groans. "We should’ve tasted this before deciding anything."

You immediately snap your head toward him. "We? You’re the one in trouble here, Felix. Don’t drag me into your mess again."

Felix pales, realization dawning on him. He grumbles, "If Chef finds out we objected without even tasting it first, he’s going to make us take our uniforms off."

You let out a long sigh, tasting more of the red sauce pasta as Felix spirals. "Let me correct you again—you’re the one who’s in trouble, not us and definitely not me."

Felix continues to grumble under his breath, but you’re too focused on the food in front of you. As much as you hate to admit it, you’re impressed with Sara. Despite everyone being against her, she didn’t back down—and she proved herself. You take another bite, silently marveling at how bold and unwavering she was. Whether you like it or not, she’s earned a little respect.

The lunch service begins with the usual chaos brewing in the air, the kind that buzzes with both adrenaline and tension. Sara strides confidently to her station, placing a container of her stock front and center as if it were her crown jewel. Felix lets out an audible scoff beside you, muttering under his breath, "We don’t even have space for that."

You can’t tell if he intended for Sara to hear, but she does. Her lips curl into a smirk as she turns her head slightly, saying with calm confidence, "Why don’t we just unify it into one stock? Though for now," she adds, "I’ll only be using it for my triple-flavored pasta."

Caught between them, you feel the tension simmering, and a nagging thought creeps in—Felix's truth, or rather his lie, is bound to come back and bite him at some point.

Minho’s commanding voice pulls everyone’s attention to the chef’s table. "It’s graduation day," he announces, his presence radiating authority. "There'll be a flood for pasta orders. I want you to move your pans so fast that they're just a blur to me. Are we ready?"

"Yes, Chef!" the kitchen replies in unison, and the hum of anticipation turns into a full-blown symphony as the first tickets begin to roll in. The energy shifts instantly as the kitchen comes alive, the sound of sizzling pans and clattering utensils filling the space.

As you juggle pans in both hands, Minho appears at your station, his sharp gaze locked on your movements. He watches silently for a moment before stepping closer, reaching out to hold your wrists. His hands guide yours as he says, "Keep the rhythm fast but steady."

It’s impossible to keep your heartbeat calm with his touch commanding so much of your focus, especially when it’s in full view of the bustling kitchen. You glance at him, your lips twitching into a sly smile.

"Yes, Chef," you manage to say, hoping your voice sounds steadier than you feel.

He nods, releasing your hands, but not before reminding you, "Use your wrist for balance," before moving to Felix’s station.

From the corner of your eye, you see Minho’s sharp instincts kick in the second he watches Felix work. "Add more sauce," Minho orders, his tone direct. Felix, flustered, grabs a ladle from the container but accidentally knocks the entire thing over. The vegetable stock spills onto the stove and cascades onto the floor in a steaming mess.

The room freezes for a split second before Minho’s voice cuts through the chaos like a whip. "What are you doing? Don't you know how busy we are right now?"

Felix stammers out an apology, scrambling to clean up, but Minho is already turning to Taesoo. "Taesoo, why are you just standing there? Get him more stock!"

Taesoo hesitates, his brows furrowing. "Chef… that was the last of the vegetable stock. I was planning to make more after lunch... during prep time."

Minho’s eyes flick to Sara’s pot of stock, then back to Taesoo. "What is that then?"

"That’s Chef Sara’s stock," Taesoo meekly answers.

Minho’s jaw tightens, conflicted. "Change the stock now!"

Taesoo stutters as he asks Minho for confirmation. "To Chef Sara’s stock?"

"Then are you going to cook the pasta without stock?" Minho snaps, his patience running thin.

Taesoo complies, placing the container in front of Felix, whose face pales as though he’s staring at a loaded gun. He glances at you, muttering something you can’t catch.

You glare at him and through your gritted teeth, you say, "Don’t look at me. You dug this hole. You deal with it."

Felix grimaces as he reluctantly dips the ladle into Sara’s stock and pours it into his pan. Minho, ever perceptive, notices the brief exchange between you two. Without hesitation, he steps in between, dipping his wooden spatula into Felix’s pan to taste.

His expression falters for a moment, and he immediately tastes the stock on its own. The room feels heavy with silence as Minho’s piercing gaze lands on Felix, daggers practically shooting from his eyes. You exhale quietly, grateful beyond words that it’s not you standing in Felix’s shoes right now.

The rooftop air bites with cold, sharp gusts of wind cutting through the stillness, but Minho’s anger burns hotter than the chill. Felix and Taesoo stand before him, Felix’s defiance cracking at the edges, while Taesoo’s confusion is written all over his face.

What pisses Minho off the most about this isn’t just about Felix lying about Sara’s stock, it's because Felix lied about something he asked for his genuine opinion on and Felix let his petty hatred for Sara cloud his judgment like that. Minho takes a deliberate, unrelenting step toward him. His voice is low but sharp, like the edge of a knife as he asks, “You lied about the taste and you call yourself a chef?”

Felix flinches, his jaw tightening, but says nothing. Minho presses on, his voice rising. “While Sara spent hours, days, perfecting her recipe—while she was working, what were you doing? Criticizing? Lying? Wasting my time?” His arms fold tightly across his chest. “Do you honestly think you deserve to make pasta if this is how you act?”

Felix opens his mouth to defend himself, but Taesoo suddenly raises his hand hesitantly, like a schoolboy caught off guard. “Chef, I don’t mean to interrupt, but… why am I here?”

Minho shoots him a glare that could freeze fire. “You’re here because you didn’t make enough stock in the first place! What kind of kitchen runs out of stock during lunch service, huh? You’re supposed to anticipate these things!”

Taesoo shrinks under the weight of the scolding, muttering, “Yes, Chef.”

Minho’s voice drops to an icy tone. “Both of you—take your uniforms off.”

Felix’s eyes widen, his face going pale. “Chef, are you firing me?” he asks, panic creeping into his voice. “I know I was wrong, but— I left everything and came back from Italy when you asked me for help. How could you fire me like this?”

“Who said I was firing you?” Minho cuts him off, his tone as sharp as a blade. “I said take off your uniforms. Now.”

Taesoo blinks, his confusion deepening. “But, Chef… it’s cold.”

“I don’t care if it’s freezing,” Minho snaps. “Take it off! NOW!!!”

Reluctantly, Felix starts undoing his necktie, while Taesoo removes his chef hat. Slowly, they unbutton their chef coats, the icy wind biting at their exposed skin. Minho watches them without flinching, his expression unyielding.

The rooftop door creaks open, and you step out, pausing to take in the bizarre scene. Felix and Taesoo are shivering, with nothing covering their upper half bodies, while Minho stands before them like a judge handing down a sentence. He doesn’t acknowledge your arrival.

“How does it feel to take your uniforms off? Do you like it?” Minho asks, his tone dripping with disdain.

“No, Chef,” they reply in unison, their voices shaky as they hug themselves.

“Do you want to keep them off and stop cooking?”

“No, Chef.”

Minho steps closer, his gaze piercing. “If I catch either of you pulling something like this again, I’ll make sure you’ll never put those uniforms back on. Understood?”

“Yes, Chef,” they answer, trembling in the cold.

After letting the silence hang for a moment, Minho delivers the final blow. “Each of you owes me 100 push-ups. Start now.”

Felix groans under his breath, but neither dares to protest. They drop to the ground, their voices echoing across the rooftop as they start counting their push-ups.

Minho finally turns to you, sitting on the bench. You wordlessly hand him a lollipop, which he takes with a small, amused smirk. For a while, the two of you sit there, savoring your lollipops as Felix and Taesoo struggle through their punishment.

You glance at Minho. “What are you going to do now, chef?”

He withdraw his lollipop out of his mouth and raises a brow at you. “What?”

You pull your lollipop out of your mouth, twirling it between your fingers. “You’re going to have to acknowledge Chef Sara’s stock now that the sauces tasted better with it.”

Minho narrows his eyes, though there’s a faint conflict in them. Before you can press further, he turns his attention back to Felix and Taesoo. “Count louder! I can’t hear you!”

Their voices rise, and Minho leans back, savoring the sweet taste of his lollipop that masks the bitterness on having to accept his defeat to Sara.

Minho’s fingers drum rhythmically against the empty desk in his office, the sound filling the silence. The restaurant had another successful day, but exhaustion hangs heavy over him, though his thoughts weigh even more. Your question keeps looping in his mind, gnawing at him. What are you going to do now?

He sighs, staring at the desk like it might provide an answer. It doesn’t. His finger tapping grows sharper, almost impatient, as he wrestles with his thoughts. He hates it—admitting someone else is right. But Sara was right about her stock, and as much as it grates him, Chris’s words echo too. She deserves the same respect as a chef.

After another moment of frustration, Minho lets out a resigned huff and pulls out his phone. He types a short text to Sara, his fingers moving quickly: "Meet me in my office."

It doesn’t take long before there’s a knock at the door. Minho straightens, pushing himself off the desk. “Come in,” he calls out.

Sara steps in, the faint smile on her lips betraying none of the exhaustion he feels. She approaches confidently, her posture relaxed yet professional, her eyes meeting his.

Minho leans back against the desk, crossing his arms. “Your stock is good,” he says simply, his tone steady but measured.

Her smile widens slightly, though she keeps her response modest. “Thank you, Chef. I just finished perfecting it yesterday.”

He nods. “How long did it take you to get it right?”

“A very long time,” Sara admits with a soft laugh, her voice lighter than he expects. “But I pushed through because…” She hesitates for a moment, then continues, “...because I had you beside me. It motivated me to do better.”

Minho stiffens slightly, the personal undertone in her words prickling at him. His gaze sharpens as he leans forward, making sure there’s no room for misinterpretation. “This has nothing to do with our personal lives,” he says firmly. “I hope all you want from me is to be accepted as a chef, and you deserve that. So let’s share it—the kitchen and the office. Let's do it together.”

To emphasize his point, Minho extends a hand toward her. “Chef Choi Sara,” he addresses her with deliberate formality.

Sara takes his hand without hesitation, her grip firm and her expression warm. “Thank you, Chef Lee Minho,” she replies just as professionally.

Their handshake is brief but significant, a silent agreement between them. Minho watches her closely, his jaw tight but his expression softening just slightly. He hopes she understands what this means—nothing more, nothing less. Just professionalism, for the sake of the kitchen.

He releases her hand and straightens his posture. “That’s all. You can go now.”

Sara nods, offering him one last small smile before turning to leave. As the door closes behind her, Minho exhales deeply, the tension in his shoulders easing just slightly.

He looks at the desk again, then shakes his head. This is the right decision, he tells himself. But as he moves to gather his things, a flicker of uncertainty lingers in the back of his mind.

The next morning, Minho steps into his office, pausing when he notices the subtle changes to the space. Sara’s desk, which was bare just yesterday, is now decorated. A small potted plant sits in one corner, a neatly arranged stack of books in another. The sight makes him purse his lips, though his attention is quickly drawn to the pile of books.

Curiosity wins out, and he picks the one on top, flipping it open. It’s Sara’s recipe book. The pages are filled with detailed sketches of dishes, annotations, and scribbled ideas in the margins. Despite himself, he’s impressed by the level of detail.

The door opens, and Minho looks up to see Sara stepping inside. Her gaze lands on him holding her book, and she tilts her head, a small smile tugging at her lips. “Planning to steal my ideas, Chef?”

He snaps the book shut and hands it back to her without hesitation. “Do whatever you want with it,” he says curtly, turning toward his desk.

Sara takes the book, setting it back on her pile. “Actually, I was thinking of sharing it with the cooks here.”

“Like I said,” Minho replies without looking at her, “do as you wish.”

Settling into her chair, Sara glances at him. “You should share your recipe book too, Chef.”

Minho lets out a dry scoff, shaking his head. “So you can copy my recipes? No thanks.”

Sara laughs lightly, unbothered by his sarcasm. “Well, I can’t say no to that offer.”

Minho shoots her a flat look. “I’m not sharing it.”

She shrugs, adjusting her chair and continues organizing her desk. “It might not be easy sharing an office at first, but we’ll get used to it.”

Minho raises an eyebrow at her, skepticism written all over his face. “I don’t see how it can be better than using the office by myself.”

Sara leans back, watching him with a faint smile. “Are you bothered by me, Chef?”

To be honest, yes, but Minho isn’t about to admit that. Thankfully, a knock on the door spares him from responding. “Come in,” he says.

The door creaks open, and Hyunwoo hesitantly steps inside, his expression uncertain. “May I… come in?”

Minho gestures for him to enter. “Sure. What is it, Hyunwoo?”

Hyunwoo shifts nervously but eventually speaks. “I wanted to ask if I could work in the pasta line.”

Minho exchanges a brief glance with Sara before focusing back on Hyunwoo. “What’s the reason?”

Hyunwoo looks down as he musters up the courage to honestly answer to the question. “I don’t know if I can become a chef with my background, but in the future, I dream of opening a small Italian restaurant to support my family.”

Minho narrows his eyes. “So you don’t want to make pasta because you love it, but because it’s a way to earn a living?”

Hyunwoo defends himself quickly. “Chef, being a chef is a profession. It’s not unreasonable to think that way. And pasta is one of the most popular dishes in Italian restaurants. I need experience if I want to succeed. But I noticed you only put your people in the important positions.”

Minho’s jaw tightens as he crosses his arms, offended by Hyunwoo’s words. “People who make good pasta get to make pasta. People who are good at grilling get to grill. That’s how it works.”

Hyunwoo avoid Minho’s gaze but his voice grows more determined. “All I’m asking for is a fair chance, Chef.”

Minho looks at Sara, who meets his gaze evenly. Finally, Minho turns back to Hyunwoo. “You may go.”

Hyunwoo bows slightly and leaves the office, closing the door behind him.

Once he’s gone, Sara lets out a sigh, leaning back in her chair. “I don’t like switching people around on the pasta line. It’s just now starting to run smoothly.”

Minho nods, considering her point. “Keeping people in their current roles could be a little selfish on our part, though.”

Sara tilts her head, studying him. “True. We should think about it and decide what’s best for the team.”

Minho leans back against his desk, arms crossed. His gaze lingers on Sara for a moment. This isn’t just about Hyunwoo, he realizes. It’s also a test of how well he and Sara can work together. And though he won’t say it out loud, that thought weighs heavier on him than he’d like to admit.

As everyone else is having lunch, you slip out of the restaurant to a café a few blocks down from the restaurant. This time, you glance around as you walk, making sure no one from the restaurant followed you this time. The memory of your last close call still makes you cringe to this day.

The café is quiet, a comforting hum of soft chatter and the occasional clink of cups filling the air. You sit at a small table tucked into the corner, the bag containing your surprise securely nestled in your lap.

The door chimes, and your heart skips when you see Minho step inside. Dressed impeccably as always, his sharp eyes scan the room. You raise your hand, catching his attention.

“Over here!” You shout, excitingly waving your hand in the air.

He spots you, and you notice the way his lips twitch, almost betraying a smile before he reins it in. It makes your heart warm—he’s always trying so hard to maintain his composed front.

As he approaches, you offer, “Do you want to order coffee, Chef?”

“I already had coffee,” he replies nonchalantly, pulling out a chair and sitting across from you.

Since he's already here, you pull the bag onto your lap and take out the small box. Without saying a word, you place it on the table, sliding it toward him.

Minho looks at it, and this time, he doesn’t fight the smile. It tugs at his lips as he glances at you.

“Chocolates? Are we kids?” he teases, but there’s no malice in his tone.

You tilt your head coyly. “What’s wrong with it? I’ve always wanted to do this on Valentine’s Day.”

Minho lifts an eyebrow but says nothing, his fingers brushing over the box. You point at the small card you tucked on top of the package. “Read it,” you urge.

He smirks, shaking his head. “You read it.”

You shake your head back. “Nope. You have to read it yourself.”

Minho leans forward slightly, his eyes narrowing playfully. “What did you write?”

“Just take it and read it when you’re alone,” you insist, suddenly shy.

He tilts his head, studying you. “Did you write it from the heart?”

You giggle, nodding. “Of course.”

Something flickers in his eyes, softening his expression. He takes the card and tucks it into the inner pocket of his jacket, then focuses back on the box. You catch a fleeting look on his face, something you’ve never seen before—wonder, almost awe.

“No one’s ever given me something like this,” he murmurs, his voice quieter than usual.

The admission surprises you, and your heart swells knowing that you get to be the first for him, you can't help but feeling special.

Minho opens the box, and a genuine laugh bursts out of him. The sound is rich and warm, the kind of laugh that you rarely hear from him.

You grin, unable to contain your own laughter as he looks at the chocolates inside—the assortment of truffles arranged around the word “Chef” written in chocolate, flanked by little heart-shaped pieces.

“Don’t just stare at them,” you say, chuckling. “Try one!”

He picks up a piece, pops it into his mouth, and chews slowly, his eyes locked on you. His expression is unreadable at first, but then he nods, swallowing. “This must be why people fall in love.”

The words take you by surprise, and you feel your cheeks heat. You reach for one of the chocolates, but he swats your hand away, pulling the box closer to him.

“They’re mine,” he says, his tone mock-serious. “You can’t have any.”

You pout, feigning an unamused expression and then lean back in your chair. “Ugh! Fine.”

As you watch him, your eyes linger on his face. You’ve admired Minho before—his sharp jawline, his perfectly shaped lips, the way his eyes seem to catch the light just right—but sitting here, facing each other in this quiet moment, you feel like you’re seeing him in a new light. The usual sternness in his expression is gone, replaced by a softer, more relaxed version of him.

It strikes you how beautiful he looks when he lets his guard down. His smile, rare as it is, transforms him completely.

“What?” he asks, catching you staring.

“Nothing,” you say quickly, looking away. But deep down, you know that this moment, with the two of you sitting together and sharing something simple yet special, will stay with you for a long time.

The chilly air brushes against Minho’s face as the two of you walk side by side, the world around you quiet save for the faint sound of your footsteps. Moments like this, stolen and fleeting, remind him how much he cherishes your presence. He glances your way, and when you catch him looking, you smile—a bright, unguarded expression that makes his chest tighten.

Minho shoves one hand deep into his coat pocket, clenching his fingers into a fist to resist the urge to reach for your hand. Touching you, kissing you—it’s all he wants to do, but even walking next to you like this feels like a rare treasure.

In his other hand, he carries the box of chocolates you gave him, and every time he looks at it, he feels an inexplicable elation. It’s ridiculous, isn’t it? How something so small, so simple, could make him feel like this? His mind drifts to the card tucked inside his jacket. Curiosity simmers beneath his composed exterior, but he tells himself to wait. He’ll read it once he’s back in the safety of his office, away from prying eyes.

But the warmth in his chest is shattered in an instant.

The restaurant’s main entrance swings open with a loud clang, and Taesoo bursts through the door. His face is a twisted mix of panic and horror, his chef hat crumpled in his trembling hands. He stops dead in his tracks, eyes darting between Minho, you, and the restaurant behind him.

Minho’s brows furrow as he straightens up. “What’s wrong?”

Taesoo’s gaze flickers nervously, his breaths uneven. His mouth opens, but no words come out at first. Minho’s patience snaps.

“What’s wrong?” he accidentally raises his voice at him out of impatience.

Taesoo finally blurts it out, his voice rising in a mix of alarm and disbelief. “What have you two been doing?”

Your eyes widen, and Minho feels the tension radiate from you as you stammer, “What are you talking about? What’s happening?”

Taesoo’s voice breaks as he takes a step closer. “You’ve been caught!”

The words hang heavy in the air, freezing both you and Minho in place.

“Caught?” Minho repeats, his voice dangerously low, though his heart is pounding in his chest.

Taesoo nods frantically. “Everyone in the kitchen knows now about... you two!”

You gasp audibly, your hand flying to your mouth in a dramatic gesture. “Everyone?”

Taesoo nods again, his expression a mix of disbelief and regret, as if he wished he could have been the bearer of better news.

Minho exchanges a wide-eyed look with you, his mind racing. He can feel the weight of the moment pressing down on him, the precarious balance of secrecy teetering on the edge of collapse.

“What do you mean everyone knows?” Minho asks, his tone cold and unyielding, though his voice falters ever so slightly.

But Taesoo doesn’t answer. Instead, he steps back toward the door, leaving you both standing in stunned silence.

You turn to Minho, panic clear in your eyes. “What are we going to do?”

Sadly, Minho doesn’t have an answer for that but he feels as though the ground beneath him has crumbled, and all he can do is brace himself for the inevitable fallout.

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adelheidvonschicksal · 1 year ago

Note

hii i have a request for megumi x reader where he is unaware of readers attraction to him and he is doesn’t realise the effect of when he does something like scratch his neck and his shirt lifts and it happens one too many times until she admits that he’s pretty which makes him all flustered😭 can be sfw or nsfw

Staring Problem

Five times Megumi caught you staring at him + the one time you caught him staring at you

Notes: I got carried away whoops. Flustered Megs is my fav followed by feral. (I actually had another scenario like this for Christmas except the Reader was doing it on purpose rofl; this one is just a bit ditzy). Thanks for the request. It was fun! Thank you @avidbroswer and another friend for beta reading!

Relationship: Megumi x Fem!Reader

Tags: Fluff, humor, mild sexual context but overall SFW (i.e. no sex), 5000 words

The first time Megumi notices you staring at him is after the baseball game with the Kyoto students.

The game was a big win for your group. Everyone was loudly cheering and celebrating your victory over your sister school – aside from him. It’s not that he wasn’t pleased with the victory. Who wouldn’t be? The cheering and high-fiving wasn’t his scene though. The most celebration he required was simply brushing his hand through divine dog’s fur for a job well done before dismissing the creature.

Megumi walks back to the dugout, steps into the drop-off, and peels his helmet from the top of his head. The sweat accumulated in his helmet causes his hair to cling to him, forcing it down against the back of his neck and his bangs into his line of sight more than usual. He never liked what he considered too much hair on his nape; and for some reason, Gojo hated it even more. Not that he ever understood why Gojo would care about how he styled his hair. He was just weird, he guesses.

Either way, it was annoying.

Gripping his shirt collar, he brings it to his forehead to clean the moisture away, and there’s the added bonus of the breeze cooling off his stomach as his shirt untucks from his uniform pants. He finishes off his grooming with a quick stroke of his fingers up through his bangs before reaching for his water bottle.

It isn’t until he’s finished drinking and wiping away the small bead of water that escapes his mouth to cascade down his pointed jaw with the back of his wrist that he catches the sudden sensation of someone looking at him.

He glances behind him, scanning the crowd of cheerful faces, and he catches your gaze pinning him down. There’s no mistake you’re watching him, but he isn’t sure why you have that clouded, half-lidded stare locked on him like a homing gun.

It makes him antsy even when your neutral lips turn into a gentle smile, and you move to congratulate Itadori on his victory-winning home run.

The next time he catches you, you’re at the café with the other first years, pouring over schoolbooks together. He doesn’t often study with the others outside of class; but out of everyone in the school, he has the best head on his shoulders academically so he can’t really refuse when the three of you earnestly ask for his help for once.

As he draws one leg over the other, Megumi shifts his weight to sit more comfortably in his chair. He rests his chin against his palm, allowing his lengthy fingers to massage the increasingly growing migraine from his throbbing temple while his elbow braces against the table to support the position. His other hand tightens around the handle of his mug and brings it to his mouth. The drink – coffee, black, always – is the only thing stopping his mind from going numb at reviewing the same information he already knows as Nobara struggles to read the chart on this particular page.

“Toos-day.”

“Tuesday.”

“When-is-day.”

“Wednesday,” Megumi corrects.

Stomping onto her feet, her hands slam on the table causing it to shake. Megumi holds his drink closer to his chest to avoid it spilling over as she growls out. “This is so stupid! Why do we need to know English anyway? Why couldn’t it be something like French? Then, we could at least hit up Paris Fashion Week.” She pulls at her hair in frustration, stopping only when you mention that she’ll cause split ends. Sighing, she releases her tension and falls back in her chair. "I need a break."

On that, you're all in agreement.

Taking the opportunity to ease his head, Megumi blows away the steam swirling from his coffee. He closes his eyes if only for a moment to bask in the roast. The liquid is hot and smooth on his tongue, a welcome sensation after walking through the cool evening to get here. It’s enough to earn a small sigh of approval.

When he opens his eyes, he sees that you’re nursing your own drink by pinching your straw between your lips. However, your eyes are on him 'or maybe the mug near his mouth?' he thinks. Regardless, you’re doing it attentively with an affectionate glint like you were smiling on the inside. It makes his eye twitch.

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

You flinch like you’re snapping out a hypnotic trance. Slowly, a meek smile forms as you innocently tilt your head and place down your drink. “I was?”

“You were," Itadori corroborates. "You do it a lot actually," Itadori adds between bites of his sandwich. The fact is something Megumi has begun to notice recently as well.

Noticing everyone looking at you, your eyes widen slightly before you force them back down to look at your textbook. You slide your hands from the table and rest them in your lap. “I must’ve zoned out,” you say apologetically.

Megumi scoffs.

“If you’re going to ask me to help you study, you could at least pay attention.” Megumi sighs at the growing remorse on your face. “Forget it,” he dismisses and decides to go back to his coffee, but the peace doesn’t last long as he catches that same gaze from you a minute later.

Your eyebrows push in together as you narrow your eyes briefly in thought, and he can’t help but wonder what’s going on in your mind as you cock your head to the side again.

“Ne, Fushiguro,” you begin hesitantly and quietly. He doesn’t think he would’ve noticed you speaking to him with how soft your voice was had he not already been looking at you. “Did anyone ever tell you that your voice is kinda husky in English?”

Suddenly, his face is hot along with his tongue as he inadvertently chokes on his drink while the other two at the table burst out laughing, drowning out your frantic mutterings as you collapse your face into your palms.

It seems to be a cycle now. Megumi would be going about his day when he would occasionally (usually twice a day) get this sensation of being watched. Sure enough, he could find you following him with your eyes. There isn’t any anger when you’re doing it so he’s fairly sure that you’re not cornering him with your sight out of aggression, but he couldn’t think of another reason his presence would be of interest to you.

Megumi tried to ask Gojo the reason why someone might stare at him. When he explained that you were the one doing it, the older man only laughed at his predicament. Megumi didn’t know why he expected him to be any help in the first place anyway.

Maki was even less help (she seemed reluctant even), but at least she didn't look at him like he was an idiot like Nobara. Finally, there was Itadori, who only caused him more difficulty.

(“Are you sure she doesn’t just LIKE you?” Itadori suggested.

Megumi could only roll his eyes then. It always came back to that with him. “Look, if you’re not going to take this seriously—“

”I am!”)

Megumi almost entertained it until he thought ‘what reason would she like me?’ After all, you didn’t know each other that well. There was no explanation available so it had to be something else.

Out of everyone, he decides to take Maki’s advice that it's best to get the answer from the source.

However, whenever he asks what’s the problem, you never seem to give him a direct answer, explaining away your strange…habit. Even stranger was that he was starting to become accustomed to it, slowly losing the annoyance he held for it early on in your relationship – or maybe he was getting better at ignoring it.

Nonetheless, it would still be nice to have an explanation.

When he sees you early at breakfast, and you undoubtedly see him early at breakfast, he finally decides to broach the topic. He sits himself and his plate at your table, and he doesn’t give you the time to make excuses when he knows for certain you were staring at him.

“Alright. Enough already. What's the deal?"

“Hmm?”

“The staring,” he reiterates.

Your mouth opens like you want to say something but throughout the many times he’s confronted you on your manners, not once have you ever given him a straightforward answer.

“Don’t try to give an excuse. You were definitely watching me.”

As the small silence extends in the air so does the embarrassment on your face until it finally fades away along with your resolve. “Okay, this time I was,” you admit very specifically.

“Why?”

“There’s not really a reason," you explain while looking anywhere but directly at him, and it's an easy tell to sense that you're lying.

Megumi narrows his eyes at you.

“For some reason, I feel like that's not the case."

There has to be some reason your attention is on him so much. He’d at least like to know if it was something he did to you.

“It’s nothing bad really,” you confess, avoiding eye contact with him while your fingers fidget. “Do…you want me to stop?”

Megumi would very much like to say he wants you to stop but somehow he doesn’t think he would be able to force you not to look at him. “I’d prefer it.”

“No problem,” you say and purse your lips tightly. “But…I probably wouldn’t be able to help it every now and then,” you warn him, which piques his curiosity even more.

“What does that mean?”

“Oh, that’s because, uhm—to tell you the truth,“ you pause, and he wants to prod more from you but you’re quick to excuse yourself, leaving him with two weeks free from your staring. Or, at least you attempted for that long.

As he accepts that you're not going to stop, it comes to him that he doesn't really care anymore in the following months. It's just how you are, he figures sentimentally. It would feel weird if you stopped at this point. However, it leads to you catching him off guard too often, especially in moments like these.

The two of you were assigned to a mission to dispatch some low-level curses together. It was surprisingly easier than what the mission report suggested, not that he would complain about an easy mission.

Nue is behind him as he requests a ride back to the school over the phone. The bird shikigami is being needier than usual, nudging at the width of Megumi’s back with his head causing Megumi’s voice to be unsteady as the thick plate of Nue’s mask braces between his shoulder blades.

“Cut it out,” he scolds gently, reaching his free hand back to briefly ruffle at random mounds of feathers.

There’s a soft crooning in his ear, begging for attention. He isn’t used to Nue being this affectionate, not like his divine dogs. As he hangs up the call, Nue starts to stroke his head against his side again.

Amused, he huffs softly - as close to a laugh as anyone has ever heard from the taciturn teen – and raises his arm to let the bird cradle better against his side. The gentle cuddling from the shikigami is enough to lighten his mood as auburn feathers tickle against his fingers and coax the smallest smile from him.

“Alright. Alright. That’s enough,” he says affectionately before returning to the serious matters at hand. “We need to regroup with our partner. Can you go scout for her?” Megumi asks; but to his surprise, Nue flutters his wings and twists his head around to stare directly to the side of him…at you, a few feet away.

Megumi didn’t know how long you’d been standing there, watching him. He thinks any time was probably too long in this situation. (He also thinks he might demand you start wearing a bell when you go on missions together.)

With a goofy smile, you walk towards him, and his heart is pounding, anticipating what you could possibly be about to say as you shorten the distance between the two of you, so close that an outreached arm would be enough to close it. The childishly smug look on your face makes his cheeks burn as you gently begin to trace the outline on Nue’s faceplate and press your head against the top of Nue’s.

“Before you say anything, I wasn’t watching you. I was admiring Nue.”

Megumi scoffs. He can’t say he isn’t amused that out of all things to say, you start with that. As if it isn’t obvious by now that he knows that you’re failing hard to hide your bad habit – for whatever reason you have it. And even more amusing was the way your face would highlight in embarrassment as you tried to hide the fact.

“Convenient story.”

“It’s the truth. Isn’t that right, Nue? You’re so handsome that I can’t tear my eyes away,” you praise, cuddling the owl until he ruffles his feathers and chitters, happily letting you drown him in attention.

And for the first time, he finds himself watching you instead with your face buried against his shikigami, and Nue is equally happy for your touch. It’s a sweet scene as Megumi concludes where Nue might have started to learn these overly affectionate tendencies. That is until you turn your head, naturally searching for his presence. When you meet his gaze, you smile warmly at him causing heat to crawl up the back of his neck and his heart to jump in his throat. With your focus on him this way, he is overwhelmed by a new sensation that he isn’t sure why he’s feeling in the first place. It’s not like he was unused to you looking in his direction.

Astonished by the moment, you point out, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you smile before.”

Confused, Megumi blinks at you. Had he been smiling?

Your expression softens. “It suits you.”

Surprised by your tender observation, he shifts his head away, hiding his rapidly reddening cheeks from you.

“Let’s head to the meeting point,” he manages, thanking whoever above that he was able to keep his voice steady at least.

One day, you decided to stop at the café together again. This time it’s only the two of you since the others are still out on their own duo mission. Even with that being the case, he would still have accepted your invitation regardless of the availability status of your other two friends. He isn’t really sure when he started to be okay being alone with you, and he also isn’t sure when you began to get comfortable with him as well. But he finds he doesn't mind either of those anymore.

“You’re staring,” he points out flatly, not bothering to look up from his book to confirm his accusation. He knows it’s true. “What is it this time?”

There’s a laugh from you, drawing his attention up. “Nothing.”

Normally, he would let you get away with that answer nowadays; but today, Megumi is determined to finally get to the bottom of whatever is up with you and him.

“Nothing?” he questions again skeptically. You nod, and he holds his gaze on you, pointedly, securely, determined to not even blink as he watches your face.

You frown. “Why are you doing that?”

“Doing what?” he asks, one long blink to reset himself before firmly keeping royal blue eyes locked on you once more.

“That,” you say, motioning to all of him.

“I’m not doing anything.”

“Uh-huh."

There’s a small beat of quiet as you return your focus to your book, but you look up every so often (probably to check if he's stopped eye-ing you down, which he doesn't). Holding an arm across your chest to scratch at the other, you squirm. As awful as it is, he feels a bit smug at the way you curve in and start to grow self-conscious.

“This is weird.”

“It is,” he agrees bluntly causing you to pout. He notes how funny it is to finally see the tables turned between the two of you and to have you overly aware of his watch. Even if he doesn’t get his answer, teasing you like this and eliciting that cute reaction is strangely worth it.

“How long are you going to do that?”

Megumi crosses his arms and leans back in his chair, never letting you leave his vision. He shrugs. “Depends. Are you going to tell me?”

You scowl but manage to hold your resolve for the better half of five minutes.

“Okay, I get it. I’ll stop,” you say, but he isn’t satisfied with that answer. Choosing to keep his rebellious challenge against you, he leans in closer and keeps up the wall until you finally start to crack under the pressure. “Well…it’s nothing really.”

“Then, tell me.”

“It’s,” you begin then pause.

He hunches in closer as if to keep your secret.

“It’s just that…” he can see you start to fidget in your chair, and for some reason, he feels his own anticipation growing. “You have a really pretty way about you.”

That was not the answer he was expecting.

“Huh? I have…a pretty way about me?” he repeats in disbelief, his face scrunching. “You must be joking.”

“I’m serious,” you tell him. “It’s something in the way you move, it makes it hard to concentrate.”

Megumi could only guess what kind of answer you would have but it wasn’t one that instantly makes his temperature skyrocket and causes his heart to start swelling against his ribcage, spreading the feeling of liquid butterflies through his veins.

“That's the only reason,” you repeat, noticing the way he seemed to completely stop functioning. “I’m not making you uncomfortable, am I?”

He uncrosses his arms, trying to sputter out a coherent sentence but his mind wouldn’t supply him with one as he fights to keep his own blushing down. “No. I’m not—it’s not that I’m—I just didn’t know what it was about—I—pretty?” he stammers, completely bewildered to the point he thinks his voice might crack for the first time in years.

You nod, growing more embarrassed. “I mean in a masculine way! Like your eyes, your hands, your voice, and the way your shirt drapes your shoulders. Ah! Basically…you’re really handsome,” you finish quickly when you realize you are rambling stupidly, and you squeeze onto the edge of your chair to calm yourself.

It’s so quiet between the two of you that you could possibly hear one of the cheap plastic straws from the front counter drop.

“Fushiguro-kun?” you ask bashfully.

He focuses his attention on the passerby's walking by the window as he shifts and squeezes at his uniform collar, attempting desperately to hide a fraction of his burning face behind the dark blue fabric. You…were simply attracted to him for some reason he would probably never understand (why in the world would you think any of that about him is attractive?) all this time.

“Let’s pretend this conversation never happened,” he tells you frantically.

Nodding, you confirm. “Yeah! That’s a good idea.”

For once, you’re not staring at him yet Megumi still feels like he can’t breathe despite the rapid rising and falling of his chest showing that he was very well breathing. As his face continues to burn and his stomach churns with this unfamiliarly pleasant and confusing emotion, he wishes his shadow would open and swallow him whole. Forever, perhaps.

It isn’t until later that night when his mind is heavy with thoughts of you, he admits to himself that he doesn’t exactly hate your reason.

Bonus

Before you enrolled in this school, your clan already outlined your priorities in life. Study, learn, become the best sorcerer you can for the benefit of the clan and your own survival. There isn’t time for things like friendship and even less for love, your family taught you, at least not until you’re older.

You agreed with that sentiment, going through your younger teen years not ever having a crush on someone or a strong preoccupation with romance. However, this school is proving that you still very much feel attraction.

Specifically for your withdrawn classmate.

Something about him was just so pretty. You’re not sure if it was the way his hair falls ever so neatly over his forehead before turning back into spiked peaks, or how deep blue his eyes are especially when shadowed by gorgeous rows of midnight eyelashes, or the way he carried himself like the stoic protagonists in the love comics your friends were obsessed with last year.

Maybe it was the entire package.

At the time you first started to notice him, you didn’t have the answer pieced together yet. Seeing that you also hadn’t learned anything proper about romance and attraction from your clan let alone flirting, the only thing you could do was stare at him as you failed to decipher this newfound infatuation that made your heart stutter and your lower body hot with tingles similar to the sensation of ginger spice on your tongue.

‘Is this that puberty thing they were talking about in health class all those years back,’ you wondered. They did say it could happen late, but this late? You weren’t sure, but you did like looking at him. That much was certain.

So, you continued to do so.

It's not like you were exactly going against what your clan told you.

After all, your clan would always say it’s important to be aware of your surroundings as a sorcerer, remember every little detail, and save it to memory, that could be the difference between death and victory in a battle.

Shouldn’t you take that advice to heart when it comes to your teammates as well? After all, these are the people you will be relying on while working. It’s important to learn their mannerisms.

Another thing your clan told you was that hands are an important thing to watch. Any sorcerers’ hands were a danger from Itadori’s hand-to-hand combat style, Gojo-sensei’s domain expansion, and Fushiguro’s entire technique.

His hands were always coming together to summon shadows, and he talked and explained things frequently with them to the point it became a distraction for you.

You also like the way his dominant hand always seems to climb up and curve around the back of his neck in the mornings as he stretches out the tightness from a cramped sleep. You would watch as he glosses each finger across his nape and shoulder, wondering what it would be like to have them coming across your own and to have fingers that could expertly craft signs tickling at your skin. Would you shudder or would it tickle or would it feel like nothing? Fortunately, you always resist the shaking urge to glide your own hand across your collar to find the answer.

It isn’t always the way his palm brushes his neck that entirely gets you but the way his sweatshirt rises, barely revealing a ring of beige skin that was normally hidden away under layers of comfortable cotton. It not only exposes him to the stagnant air of the school building but to your wandering eyes that had a bad problem of not being able to remain where they should be.

Objectively speaking, you were aware from day one that Itadori was strong and well-built under his clothes, but you didn’t realize the same could be said for Megumi until you saw the slip of his lower abdominal and the constellation of pale brown freckles hidden in the groove of his hip.

By the time your attention would return to his hands, you would be locked on the gentle way his knuckle catches the edge of his shirt's neckline. It was unknowing to him during those times that the action was teasing you by causing the fabric to lightly shift and expose the crux of his collarbone.

Then, you didn’t even want to get started on his face or eyes. The same ones that are gorgeously blue even when stormy with annoyance or softened with confusion every time he would catch you.

From your point of view, you admit that both looks were handsome on his face. However, you’re starting to realize from your last interaction that maybe you were being a tad…invasive. You refused to say creepy without a pillow to scream into.

So, you convince yourself to stop staring whenever you notice your eyes drifting to him. Only small peeks for his comfort unless you were talking to him or he to you. In hindsight, you think you are better at talking to him without embarrassing yourself all the time at least.

Your new resolve would be tested today as you prepare to head to the training field for another day of close combat drills with your upperclassmen. You dress in layers, wearing a light jacket and thigh socks with your shorts, fully intending to ditch both once it heats up a little more in the afternoon.

When you make it to the practice field, you notice two things: that Megumi is there (which you swear you only took note of for two seconds) and that you’re the last to arrive, meaning that you’re going to be the first put through the wringer with Maki-senpai.

The only positive is that you manage to last an extra round against her more than usual, and you’re left with only an aching butt as you hit the ground. You hiss and rub your wounded rear before dusting the ripped-up blades of grass from your lap. Noticing your socks bunched against your ankles, you click your tongue. Bending your legs, you start to shuffle one back up the length of your calf then your thigh. You unfurl it as high as you can until there’s only a small circumference of skin left between your shorts and the top of your sock. Satisfied, you start to repeat the process with your other leg before Maki taps your hip with her staff.

“Megumi is staring at you,” she grunts in a quiet warning, and you blink at her before trying to glance back over to the first row of bleachers. “Not too obvious.”

You force your gaze back to her, using the opportunity to catch Megumi in your periphery. Sure enough, you could barely make him out looking in your direction while Itadori talked to him. That was weird. You don't think you can recall a time where he was watching you unless you did it first. ‘He was probably watching me train,’ you begin to decide.

Before you can register what's going on completely, Maki calls out dryly, "Hey, Megumi, pictures last longer!”

Barely from this distance, you can see his head snap back and a scowl glowering on his face as he glares at her direction. “What are you talking about?”

“So, you want to play that way,” she mumbles and singles him out with a point of her staff and a crooked smile. “In that case, I’ll explain while we train!”

Megumi looks more annoyed than you have seen him in the last few days as he declares from the bleachers that he’s training with Panda instead as soon as he’s done with Nobara.

“That guy,” Maki grumbles quietly, slapping her staff back against her shoulder and layering a hand on her hip. “He makes things so difficult for everyone, including himself. I guess I’ll have to have a chat with him later.”

"Huh?" you huff as she twists her waist to look at you.

“Well, I can’t exactly have my darling little relative turning out like the rest of those perverts from the clan, after all,” she explains vaguely but instead of anger, there’s a rare hint of sarcastic amusement in her words. Suddenly, it starts to dawn on you what Maki means as your fingers brush the side of your inner thigh, and your throat starts to tighten with something akin to anxiety, and you want desperately to bury your face in your hands as you realize that he was looking at your legs. That he must like your legs…

The thought makes your heart pound, and something pulses inside you with what feels like anticipation as you catch his attention on you again. You were used to lusting after him but it was a different feeling to experience it in reverse – mutually even.

Is this what it felt like? Have you ever made him feel like this by watching him?

You didn’t know what to do.

“What do I do?”

She gives an incredulous look. “Call him out naturally, especially if it bothers you,” she replies. "But that isn't what you want, right?"

You frown, not entirely sure yourself. It didn’t bother you necessarily. If anything, you like his attention on you. It makes your body otherworldly hot when he gives it to you. Pulling your knees to your chest, you think back to what someone in one of those television dramas would do in this situation. It takes some courage, but you find your answer.

You wink at him.

It elicits an immediate response that involves him shoving his hands in his pockets and scrambling to break eye contact; so much that you can see Itadori twisting towards him with concern.

“Hah, that was a good one." Maki lets out a short and harsh snort. "Wait until I tell Panda.”

Smiling proudly, you can’t resist staring at the flush that he has to stand and stalk off to the other side of the field closer to Inumaki and Panda to hide. Out of all the attractive things about him, you think that might top your list; and truthfully, you wanted to see it again.

#megumi x reader #megumi fushiguro x reader #jjk x reader #megumi x you #fem!reader #jjk fluff

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httpsryu · 8 months ago

Text

muse? pt. 5

pairing: kang haerin x fem newjeans!reader

summary: getting a new member way long after debut and before a comeback isn't really the best idea to haerin

category: enemies-to-lovers (?), kpop idol au

genre: slow burn, angst, and fluff

warnings: a bit frustrating and A LOT of jealousy

a/n: i appreciate all the love muse has gotten so far! tysm everyone :)

It has been a week of you being a member of NewJeans.

All of you finally finished with the concept photoshoots for the comeback along with the re-designing of the albums and completing new photo-cards as well.

While the days are hectic with everything, you feel happy with the newfound idea of being on a team. A team where the members are very inviting and warming to you. Well...all except for that grouchy roommate of yours.

You recall only exchanging a single word to her, especially after that accidental kiss. To your surprise, Haerin kind of seems like she opened up to you. (JUST A TEENY TINY BIT!) However, you don't pay much attention to her.

Practice today was going smoother than expected, especially because of the fact that no one has been in this room since that day you messed up. Everyone was so occupied with the concept shots and re-recording everything that no one had time to practice.

Much to Haerin's surprise, she might have to admit that you're actually not as bad as you made yourself seem. Of course, Haerin believes you still joining the team is a 'setting NewJeans up for failure' thing but she gives some sort of props to you, she guesses.

However, looking at the reflection of you through the practice room's mirrors and seeing the look of determination in your eyes, the feline-like female understands why SM was so determined to cast you. The way your eyes speaks for itself, it looks quite too good for a 4th generation idol.

"Alright! We'll take a quick half an hour break before countering Cool With You." The dance instructor informs the girls before turning over to you. "Impressed at how fast you're keeping up, great job, Y/N!"

Your eyes lit up, a smile that is so perfect for your face appears on your pretty pink lips. "Thank you, unnie."

Haerin bores her eyes a little too much, lingering on your features. Her lips are parted in concentration at the way you simply move; bowing at the instructor and letting out another smile before brushing your hand through your hair. She was going to stare a bit harder too but she notices the youngest with a teasing smirk on her face from her peripheral view.

Immediately, her pupils pull away from you and lock to the ground in hopes of Hyein not catching onto anything. She hopes that she wasn't too obvious of staring at you.

"I'll be back." The instructor leaves the practice room, the door shutting behind her.

Everyone started doing their own thing the second the door shut. Minji and Hanni are bickering again over some issue while stretching their arms. Hyein makes her way to her bag to grab a quick snack to avoid passing out while Danielle leaves the room to get her water bottle refilled.

Haerin picks up her phone from the couch, resting leisurely on the soft cushion to interact with 'Bunnies'. However, she takes a quick sneaky glance over at you. You stare at your reflection in the mirrors of the room, she doesn't look past the discontented expression of yours.

Something in the cat-eyed female feels her own heart feeling quite bitter at the way you look unpleased at your own self. And she wants to reach out to you and ask if you're alright; however, Haerin doesn't want to be distract herself with anything at this critical moment right now.

No one else seemed to ask if she was alright with adding you to the lineup last minute, so why should she ask if you're okay?

Is that so wrong of her?

"Is everything alright?" Minji walks over to you, concern painting over her eyes as she look at you.

Haerin bites down on her jaw, wondering why Minji couldn't have continued arguing with Hanni. She looks down at her phone, not caring anymore.

"I'm just worried." You tried to smile it off, however, being the oldest, Minji knows something is bothering you.

What could it be?

"Are you not feeling well?" The oldest brings the back of hand to your forehead, her eyes are down-turnt as her eyes worryingly fixed at you.

Looking at Minji, you feel your heart warming up from having a considerate leader of the team. Something you never experienced at your previous company. You feel happy for once.

Minji breath hitches at the eye contact from you. The way your eyes seem to shine a bit brighter, even in the dark room has the older nervous. She feels her ears going red and her mind is flooded by the sounds of her heartbeat that wants to jump out of her chest.

"I'm fine, unnie." You laugh a bit to lighten up the sudden concern from her. "I guess I'm just worried the fans won't like the change. I'm not too sure really."

Haerin doesn't care, yet, her eyes aren't on her phone like she wanted to. Instead, they're glancing over at you and Minji through the mirror of the room. Why does she seem to care so much about Minji touching you? Why does she care about who you talk to?

Most of all, why does Haerin want to talk to you more?

"Y/N-shi, you're a really beautiful person. Inside and out. From my eyes, you're so hardworking and you deserve to be on this team. After all, you were specially picked." The oldest gently smiles as she lightly boops your nose (she couldn't help it.)

Minji pulls out a lollipop from the pockets of her sweatpants, handing it to you with a soft adoring look in her eyes. You let out a small giggle, taking the piece of candy from her.

Haerin's eyes glower down at the physical touch, letting out a quiet scoff as she rips her eyes away from the sight. A sour taste is forming in her mouth and she despises it. After all, she's unconcerned about you. Right?

"Scoot over." Hyein towers over the cat-eyed, her bag of chips in one hand while the other is constantly moving between the bag and her mouth.

Haerin stares at the younger with a stoic face.

"You're scooting or...?"

Letting out a grumble in frustration, the raven-haired girl puts her legs down and scoots towards the wall for Hyein to sit besides her.

"So, I saw you looking at Y/N unnie earlier."

Oh fuck.

Haerin knew Hyein was going to bring it up someday, just not now. Especially when you're literally a few meters away from them.

"No, I wasn't." Haerin lies, hoping and praying that Hyein will believe her.

The youngest stares at the cat-eyed, confused. "Hmm..yes you were."

"Why would I?" Getting a bit defensive now, Haerin puts her phone away as her mind scrambles to find more lies to get out of this investigation from the youngest of the group. "You know we don't get along so why would I look at her?"

Popping a chip into her mouth, Hyein shrugs. "Maybe cause you realize she's actually not bad and is really good at this."

"Like I said, I don't care about her." Haerin's voice is stern now, upset at what Hyein is trying to get out of her.

"You can lie to yourself but you cannot lie to me."

Whatever.

"Unnie, can you show me how you do that popping trick?" Hyein jumps up from the couch, rushing over to you.

You divert your eyes away from Minji and Hanni, paying attention to the youngest. In the process, you make eye contact with Haerin who only looks away while she rubs the back of her neck and letting out a cough afterwards.

"Of course!"

Oh, screw Hyein. She did that on purpose. For you to look over in this direction.

And screw Haerin's slight excitement at the way your eyes landed on her for the first time today.

Finally exiting HYBE's building, everyone lets out noises of excitement. The night breeze feels very cooling across your face, especially after countless of practicing for Cool With You. You shut your eyes for a couple of seconds, reminiscing about the air of your hometown.

"Move, you're in the way." A voice causes you to immediately open your eyes, ruining your 'main character moment'.

Turning to the person besides you, you cross your arms with a scowl. "Let me get some fresh air."

"Well, you're in my way." Haerin retorts back, placing her hands in the pockets of her zip-up to fend for something. "And it's getting windy."

Rolling your eyes and letting out a small tsk at the other's words, you can only look at the view outside again. The night sky looks very calming today, with the streets all lit up ready for some people to have their nighttime adventure.

"The night is my favorite time of the day." You softly smile, looking at how the moon is glowing with a few stars. "It's so pretty."

Haerin can only stare at the view beside her, her eyes focuses on how your natural face seems to look pretty. She would admit that if there was a definition for beauty; you would be the first contender.

"I overheard you talking to Minji unnie earlier." She looks away, not wanting to look at your decently overwhelming eyes. "While I'm personally not a fan of you for joining the team, I think 'Bunnies' would like you."

You can't help but let out a gasp at the other's sudden words and kindness. Suddenly feeling a frenzy of a stomachache at what your teammate just said, you let out a small sigh.

"Why do you not like me joining the team, Haerin?"

The cat-eyed diverts her attention back to you at the way you called out her name.

That was the first time either of you acknowledged one another by name.

"I don't like changes, Y/N." She can only defend her reasoning, pulling out a lollipop and staring down at it. "Do you see this candy I just pulled out, it was never there but all of a sudden, it's in my pocket. That's the type of change I dislike."

What in the world is this girl talking about?

You furrow your brows, looking down at the strawberry-flavored candy in her hand.

"Here, you can have it." She hands it to you.

You don't even know whether you'd want to take it from her. "Hmm, keep it. Get used to the change, you'll like it soon."

"You think I will?" She responds back, her voice sounding cold yet unsure.

Letting out a small hum in response, you smile over at her. "It takes time, I understand."

Haerin and you stare at each other in silence.

"What are they doing out there?" Hanni squints her eyes from the car's window.

Hyein can only shake her head while she too stares at the view from the car. "Haerin is so stupid."

"I don't want them to get sick, omg." Minji stresses, head in her hands.

Ripping your eyes away from the sudden moment between you two, you cannot help but to let out an awkward laugh. Motioning with your hands at the van. "Let's go, I think the others are waiting for us."

Haerin nods at you.

"What are they doing over there?" Hanni squints, looking out from the window of the van.

Minji stresses, placing her head into her hands. "I don't want them to get sick omg."

"Oh they're coming!" Hyein sits up, moving her things away and placing them onto her lap. "I want to sit by Y/N unnie!"

Hanni disagrees, turning away at god speed from the front to look over at the youngest. "No way! It's my turn!"

"You've always sat next to her! My turn! Plus, you chose that front seat."

Danielle stares at the tantrums from both of them, thinking of a solution. "Let's make it simple and have her sit next to me for today."

"She's always welcome to sit next to me." The oldest proposes. "I can always move to the back."

Hanni purses her lips in an upset manner, lowering her eyes at the unofficial leader. "Bro, you're going to make a move on her."

"Bro? What?"

The Vietnamese crosses her arm, squinting her eyes at the one besides her. "You heard me."

"Sorry we took long out there." Haerin opens the door, scanning the van and is met with an unsure atmosphere. "What happened?"

The youngest lets out a laugh at how the oldest members are arguing over something small again. "Minji unnie and Hanni unnie were fighting over who Y/N sits next to."

"Me?" You peek your head in from the outside, earning a gasp from Danielle at how cute you just looked.

Haerin rolls her eyes at how Minji and Hanni just automatically assumes you're some sort of property once it comes to the seating arrangement in the van. After all, at the end of the day, they're all going to leave in the same way so why does it matter where and who Y/N sits.

"You two need to stop fighting over the same thing." Haerin can only mutter to the two OLDEST members acting like immature toddlers, stepping into the van to bee-line her way towards the back of the van where Danielle is sitting.

You let out a smile while scanning where to sit. Ultimately deciding to sit between Haerin and Hyein.

"Thanks a lot, you scared her." Minji mumbles with her teeth gritted at Hanni.

The female with the bangs scoff before pointing at herself. "Me? More like you."

"Whatever, Pham."

"Suck my toes, Kim."

Finally, with everyone seated, the manager takes off for the night to end.

Haerin can only let out another thousandth sigh at how they were acting. There's too many things going on in the world than to fight over sitting next to someone (like controlling the small excitement she felt when you chose to sit next to her).

As the ride is a bit bumpy, your thigh accidentally touches the cat-eyed female's thigh as well. Feeling shy all of sudden from the physical touch, you scoot a bit closer to Hyein. This leaves Haerin a bit confused and fazed at why you didn't want to sit next to her.

But whatever, right?

"Haha, unnie likes me more than you." Hyein sticks her tongue out at Haerin, who only stares back with a blank.

"That's not true, haha~" You say. "I just wanted to give her some room."

Everyone sits near each other, huddled around the computer after the manager sent a file of all the concept photos for each album. Gasps and squeals at how each individual photo turned out while Minji scrolls through the photos.

"Hanni unnie looks so cute in these polaroids." Hyein compliments, looking at how tiny the older is.

The Vietnamese giggles, waving her hand off. "Oh stopp~"

Haerin has to admit, she liked that there was more water concept ones compared to the previous ones proposed earlier before you were added to the lineup.

"I loved the way your hair was done in these." You too compliment the Australian.

At the compliment coming from you, Hanni suddenly feels shy. Letting out a small and quiet "thank you" to you.

Minji whips her head to look over at her best friend with an unsure expression, confused as to why the Vietnamese is acting all "coquette".

"Oh! Look at Haerin's photos." Danielle proudly admires how her best friend is charming, she starts complimenting the hair, outfit, makeup and pose but stops once seeing the paired photos that Haerin took with you.

The feline-like furrows her brows at how the paired photos turned out. They look pleasing with the scenery of the tree and sun in the background. The simple picnic theme with both girls wearing light colors to balance one another.

Continuing to scroll, Minji pauses upon the photo where Haerin accidentally kisses your cheek.

"This looks so good! With the butterfly adding a touch to it." Hyein excitedly sits up, her eyes sending a teasing look over to Haerin.

"We do look cute here." You nod in agreement, trying to ignore the way your heart is beating and all of sudden you feel the need to grab a glass of water from how hot it is in the living room.

Hanni rolls her eyes, crossing her arms at the mere fact she wasn't paired up with you. "It's cute and all but Y/N and I would've been cuter."

"Too bad." Haerin replies, sticking her tongue out at the older. "Where's the one where I fixed her hair? She looked cute during it."

Cute?

You have a funny feeling at the way your cheeks are starting to warm up. "Let me go get a glass of water real quick."

You need to get out of being in the same room as her.

"OOO, this one looks super good." Minji hums, satisfied with the way these looks. Especially with the fact that you and Haerin don't get along but somehow, the photos make it look otherwise.

Haerin throws out a delighted smile at how your eyes looked in the picture taken. Admiring the view points of you, from your eyes to your lips. And maybe, just maybe Haerin can admit what Hanni and the others mean by you being real.

Meanwhile, you're pacing back and forth in the kitchen.

There's no way you feel nervous around your very mean roommate, right? RIGHT?

Yeah, it can't be.

Kang Haerin and her mean comments. Kang Haerin and her cute smile. Kang Haerin and her boba eyes. WAIT-...

This is bad...

prev part

june 16, 2024; publishing date

AHHH FINALLY UPDATED MUSE!! tysm for all being patient .^.

taglist: @xszn , @airice , @nnewjeansstuff , @xeiinpain , @jiwoneric , @brocoliisscared , @ilamara , @linnnsworld , @gayforalll, @lorsstar1st , @haechansbbg, @dhdhdjjf , @hyejin67 , @mushroom-main, @ilovekimminji , @justme-idle , @kyuusberry , @masuowo , @iraa567 , @shycreationdreamland , @idunnofr , @imahybridicannotbekilled , @twicesserafim, @awkwardtoafault, @olives-on-pizza, @misclsims, @lailac13, @gtfoiydlyj

#kpop x reader #kpop imagines #new jeans x reader #new jeans imagines #haerin x reader #kang haerin x reader #httpsryu

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townofcadence · 3 months ago

Note

The voice is clearer now, and so close. He leans in from behind, lips next to Artair's ear as a swath of black and red hair spill into the edge of his vision.

"Because you're not as clever as you think, mon cher."

Everything stops at that whisper, that name. A heartbeat thuds, and the world continues without him.

He knows that voice, he's never forgotten it. It is still as low and soft as ever, a silken veil over the scorpion's stinger. He freezes, freezes like last time. In a different situation, there would be a moment to bounce back, to garner distance, to scrap together some kind of plan. But here, now, this close to him, he is paralyzed and statuesque.

He can already feel those claws glide down his shoulders, clutching both arms. There's strength in the iron of their grip. His heart lurches and thrashes like a caged animal with his every instinct to get away. But his limbs stay locked. He's dizzy, light-headed and no breath seems to find it's way to his lungs. Cold prickles over his skin. His lower back burns as if those claws are adding new lines to his marred skin. He can't think. Every strand of hair the brushes against him adds a shot of adrenaline and vertigo and nausea to his system.

The panic is so thick, he finally manage to move. He jerks as if to pull away, eyes wide with blown pupils. He always has something to say, but now he's silent except for quickened breaths as he tries to wrench away.

#answering things #ic artair #bloodlustiing #bloodlustiing. Ares #ares stop giving him trauma challenge 2k24

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bwabys-scenarios · 1 year ago

Text

Anything for his mission

Camboy!Kurapika x Fem!Reader

!!REBLOGS APPRECIATED!!

warnings: consensually filming sex, handjob, mentions of pregnancy/breeding

A/N: Feel free to send camboy!Kurapika requests! Also, I posted this in my discord months ago. If you want to see more stuff like this, you should join! Here’s the link

taglist: @desiray562

if you would like to be added to the NSFW taglist, comment a ❤️!! make sure you have your AGE in your bio, and that you’re able to be tagged/mentioned!

Kurapika discovers that side of the internet one night when he’s researching a paper trail of some person different social media accounts.

He’s absolutely mortified at first. Immediately he’s shutting his laptop and glancing at a picture of you he keeps on his nightstand.

Kurapika hesitantly opens the laptop back up, sighing to himself. ‘I’ll just check out the information on that account then delete my search history.’

He doesn’t even know why he’s embarrassed and ashamed, it’s not like you and him are together. Why would you care if he’s visiting some adult website? He’s nearly 20 for gods sake!

He searches through the account, not finding anything to interesting… except that the person has a type.

Skinny blonde boys.

Kurapika blinks. The person he’d been researching had multiple pairs of the scarlet eyes, and so far he hadn’t been able to find any weaknesses in the persons defenses.

Maybe Kurapika would have to get creative…

You blink when Kurapika comes home with a box, not letting you look inside of. You become curious when he locks his door, leaving a “do not disturb” sign on the handle.

This curiosity peaks when you’re searching up some porn to get off to tonight. Despite your embarrassment, you look up people that look similar to your long term crush, Kurapika. He was just so pretty to you, after all, and you couldn’t get off if the person didn’t look like him :((

As you search one night, you come across an account with an awfully familiar username.

“Pika”

You stare at the name for a second, nearly laughing at yourself. “There’s no way, Kurapika would never-“

You click on the profile, and sure enough, from the lips down is YOUR Pika, sat shyly on his bed, jerking off.

He looked stiff, robotic almost. He couldn’t be enjoying himself, and you could see it in the uncomfortable grimace he was making.

The comments were telling him pretty much the same thing.

“Aww, come on pretty boy, give us a smile.”

“You look uncomfortable af”

You sigh, pulling your hands from your panties. Your poor, poor Pika. He had to be doing this for a reason, and it obviously wasn’t for his own pleasure.

You tiptoe to his room, thanking god that he had left his door unlocked. His back was turned from the door, and using In you were able to sneak up behind him.

“Pika, baby, let me help.”

He gasped when he felt your lips on his neck, the blondes face turning a dark shade of red. “(N-Name)!”

“I saw you were live. You know, if you asked I would have helped you out.”

He gasped when your hand wrapped around his length, thumb brushing against his tip. “Poor, poor Pika. Not used to jerking off, huh? Lemme help you feel good.”

The comments come pouring in, but neither of you cared. “Shh, just focus on how my hand feels, okay?”

He whimpered, and you kissed him, allowing his tongue to explore your mouth.

It didn’t take long for him to cum, painting his chest. You kissed his cheek, giggling at his spent expression.

You glanced at the comments, giggling.

“Oh god that was hot!”

“DOMINATE HIM!”

“I love blonde twinks”

“pretty cumshot 😩”

Kurapika cleared his throat, catching his breath. “Th-thank you all for coming.”

He ended the live stream, glancing back at you shyly. “I can explain.”

“You don’t have to, Pika. It’s none of my business what you do with your body.”

You kiss him again, this time the blonde realizes that you’re only wearing a pair on panties and a tanktop. His hands dip down to your waist. “I know, but I want to tell you.”

You sigh. “Sure, go ahead.”

As he shyly pulls down your panties, he continues. “Someone I’m trailing has… an interest in people that look like me.”

“Skinny, pale, blonde boys?”

Kurapika sighed at your words, pulling you into his lap. “Yes. And… I thought perhaps I could get closer to them through this… website.”

You hum, glancing back at his computer as you hover over his cock. “Why not livestream us having sex? That would get us a lot of views, possibly draw in the persons attention.”

He frowns. “I would prefer to keep love making with you intimate and in the bedroom…”

You cooed, kissing all over his face. “Aww, you’re such a cutie Pika. It’s just a suggestion, if you really don’t want to I understand.”

He held onto your hips, his cock twitching below you. “… if you think it’s a good idea, I won’t deny you.”

You laugh. “Alright. I’ll start the stream, okay?”

He nodded, barely holding himself back from pulling you onto his cock. The two of you had some sort of friends with benefits relationship that he wanted to take a step further, but was much too scared that you didn’t feel the same way he did.

“Hi everyone! As you can see, I’m about to get pounded by the lovely Pika!”

Kurapika turned red at your words, pulling you closer. “(Name)…”

He blinks, seeing the viewer count steadily rise. Kurapika does get a little pissed off at the comments, most of them talking about how much they wanted to fuck YOU.

“Ready, Pika?”

He growled, not giving you a second to think as he pushed your hips down. “Eep!”

Kurapika moved your hips up and down, moaning into your mouth. The chat was going WILD.

“YO don’t break her pussy bro 😭”

“twinks gone wild”

You gasp when you feel him pin you down onto the bed, glancing to the monitor to make sure you were still in view. Thankfully, Kurapika made sure neither of your faces would be visible, only your bodies.

“Love you… love you so so much…” he said as he pounded into your, occasionally dipping down to lock his lips with yours. You look up at him, face heating up.

“I-I love you too, Pika!”

Your words seem to affect him, making him go at an animalistic pace. Before long you can feel his cum filling you up, something he’d never done before. Kurapika had always pulled out, it was almost like he was telling you just how much he loved you by claiming your womb as his.

This continues for a while, Kurapika moving you into different positions, cooing soft praises into your ear and whispering ‘I love yous’.

Eventually the two of you collapse on the bed Kurapika reaching over to end the stream.

“Did… did you mean what you said earlier?”

He nods, pulling you into his chest. “Yes, every word.”

“Including the part where you were going to fuck me until I was pregnant?”

He stayed quiet, staring down at you with those pretty red eyes.

“Well… the thought of your stomach swelling with my seed, of you having my child…”

He kissed the top of your head. “It’s all I can think about.”

The two of you cuddle and fall asleep, forgetting about the whole reason you even started the stream earlier. Now, you were both ready to start a relationship, maybe even a family.

The next day, Kurapika is elated to see the person he’s tracking has followed his account.

“that livestream with the girl last night was hot! keep it up!”

‘It seems I’ll have to keep this up for a little while longer…’

If he kept streaming, maybe he could get closer to this person and get some valuable information…

He looks over to you, smiling as you make breakfast while he scrolls on his laptop.

“Angel, would you like to do another stream with me tonight?”

You turn, giving him a smile. “If it means I get to spend time with you, then yes!”

And he blushes, standing up to hug you from behind. “I love you…”

“I love you too!”

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e-hibiscus · 1 year ago

Text

Pairing: Himeko x reader

Warnings: NSFW, sub!reader, dom!character, finger.ing, use of y/n (like once)

Author’s Note: I write because I finally got my own Himeko | Not proofread

Minors DNI! | NSFW! under the cut

﹊﹊﹊﹊﹊﹊﹊﹊﹊﹊﹊﹊﹊﹊﹊﹊﹊﹊﹊﹊﹊﹊

The express crew have gone off on their next mission. Leaving just you and Himeko aboard the express with the exception of the conductor. The two of you retreated back into the Navigator’s room for some quality time with one another.

Himeko always lends an ear, offering her support to each and every member of the express. Your appreciation for her focus on the well being of others was rewarded by you lovingly going down on her, not that you minded in the slightest. When Himeko’s face becomes as red as her beautiful locks it's a sight to behold for anyone. You always want to make sure she’s as comfortable as she can. The two of you are always taking things slow and intimate with sensual and delicate touches with linguid movements. This time was no different in that aspect, but tonight she rather focused on your pleasure first.

“y/n, dearest,” Himeko holds your face gently with her hand, “you’re such a good girl for me, would it be alright if I have you as my treat instead?” She hums softly, brushing aside a stray strand of hair behind your ear. “If not, we can cuddle in bed instead.” Your hand comes up to meet her’s, gently guiding her hand to your lips to kiss it. The smile on her lips grew fondly. “I would love that Himeko.” The words were murmured against the palm of her hand. “You know I’m always more than happy to give you everything.”

The two of you help each other undress until a cascade of clothes turns into nothing but pools of clothes on the floor. Himeko is ethereal even more so now without her dress on. She’s absolutely stunning and you couldn’t take your eyes off her. Even after seeing her like this time and time again, you’ll never get used to her beauty.

A soft chuckle escapes, moving over towards you and gently pushing you down on top of the bed. Her lips nipped at the sensitive skin of your neck. You sigh as she takes her time sucking and biting at your skin, gradually gliding her hands lower and lower until she slots her hand between your thighs.

“You’re dripping, love.” Himeko’s fingers run along your slit leaving you stifling a moan which the navigator simply cooed out. “I want to hear from you. Tell me how good I make you feel so don’t keep in your noises.”

Himeko’s fingers drew tantalizing circles around your clit. Her pace slows while she gathers your slick on her fingers. Running her delicate finger against your folds, Himeko pushes it into your velvety walls.

“H-himeko…” Your plea was silenced with Himeko’s lips against yours. She’s smiling against your lips as you allow her to guide you through the kiss.

“You’re so, so eager.” Himeko gently finger your needy hole— the size not nearly enough to satisfy the burning desire you feel in your core.

“Mmm.. I need more.” The breathy whine escapes, just audible enough for her to hear. Adding a second finger, she thrusts them into you.

Himeko speeds up her movements. Her fingers spread themselves out scissoring your pussy while moving in and out.

The way Himeko’s fingers brush against your g-spot has you gasping. You can’t catch your breath. Your toes curl up and hips rock into her hand. Himeko palms you clit as her fingertips brush against your sensitive walls.

Golden eyes peers upwards, watching your reactions as she nips at your chest. Your eyes rolled back while Himeko curled her fingers just right. Your pussy spasms around her fingers as you slide into an orgasmic bliss— thighs trapping her hand in place while your back arcs towards her.

Himeko doesn’t stop spreading her fingers. Each action sends shivers racing through you while you ride out your orgasm. Her slender fingers pull out while she hums softly in her chest. You lay there panting as your body relaxes in the sheets; your entrance slick with your release. Through your half-lidded gaze, you watch as Himeko brings her fingers to her lips— savoring the taste of you. “We can do one more after some rest, alright darling?” Himeko approaches you with a gentle smile. She closes the distance to place a kiss on your lips as her arms wrap comfortably around you. A hand draws circles on your back, lulling you into sleep as your naked bodies intertwine.

#himeko x reader #hsr himeko x reader #himeko smut #hsr x reader #hsr smut #honkai star rail x reader #honkai star rail smut #🌺.hibiscus writes

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criticallyacclaimedstranger · 1 year ago

Text

Reminder [Tim Rockford x f!reader]

Read on Ao3

Rating: Explicit

Fandom: Merge Mansion ad (can't fucking believe this...)

Pairing: Detective Tim Rockford x you/cishet f!reader

Tags/Warnings: reader wears sexy lingerie but no description of body type, blowjob, deepthroating, workplace sex.

Summary: Tim Rockford works too hard, and too late. You have to remind him of what's waiting for him at home.

Words: 2,165

A/N: Y'all I am adding a new character to my menagerie of Pascal men! Dunno if I get Tim Rockford but I've been thinking about sucking his dick since I first saw him. He just has that vibe about him. Enjoy.

He is sitting astride a chair in front of a huge notice board filled with photos, notes, clippings, clues pinned to it, connected by red twine. The white shirt is straining to reach across his broad upper body. You remember a time when it had the shape of a V, now it's more of a U before connecting with the still narrow hips and flat ass.

You nod a thanks to the officer who let you in, and when he closes the door behind him, you lock it.

"Detective," you quip teasingly, but there's no response except a neck roll. He sighs deeply as he rubs his neck.

He's been working around the clock on this case. You avoid looking at the notice board, the pictures of bloody crime scenes, as you walk up to the chair.

"Tim," you speak softly, your hand landing on his shoulder. Tim twitches and looks up at you. It takes him a moment to recalibrate his brain to reality.

"What are you doing here? It must be like ten o'clock."

"It's past midnight, actually," you correct him with a wry little smile. He sighs again and takes your hand away from his shoulder, bringing it to his lips for a kiss.

"I'm sorry, my love, I'm gonna pull an all-nighter again."

You grunt. He knows what it means. You've been over this before.

He rises from the chair, moves it away before turning to you. He smells of stress and determination: smells that you know well. He's always like this when he's working a case. You don't like it, but you've grown to accept it.

He pulls you in for a hug, so fast that you almost stumble into him. His broad chest, the soft stomach with the buttons ready to pop. He refuses to go up a size for some reason. The shoulder holster, the gun at his side. Your hand slides away from it, not wanting anything to do with it, only wanting your soft man.

"I'll come home in the morning for a shower," he promises in a low whisper against your hair. "Have breakfast with you."

"No, you won't," you calmly point out. "You'll get terrible coffee and a bagel from the diner around the corner, and your stomach will be a mess by the time this case is solved."

Tim chuckles a little at that before seeking out your lips. He tastes of stale coffee, and sweet and sour pork; the flavors of a murder case unsolved.

"Go home, get some sleep," he tells you gently. "I'll call when I leave."

"Aren't you wondering what I'm doing here, at this hour?"

He blinks, like he's only now realizing what time it is, and that you're actually here.

"Is everything okay?" His hands come to your cheeks, and he searches your face. You cover his hands with yours, lowering them as you smile reassuringly.

"I'm good, Tim, nothing's wrong. But I knew you'd be working all night, and I wanted to bring you something."

His brows draw together when he waits for you to elaborate. You untie the belt around your waist, and button open your trench coat. His nostrils flare and his eyes widen when you reveal yourself to him.

You're only wearing a bra, lace panties, and stockings underneath. It's cheesy, but he likes it.

"I came to make sure you were okay," you purr, smiling at how he swallows hard, his glassy stare.

"Baby..."

"Just let me give this to you."

You undo his belt, knuckles brushing against the soft fat of his tummy. Tim exhales in a low sigh when the belt releases its hold of him. With heavy-lidded eyes, he gazes adoringly at you as you unzip his pants. Softly, he trails his hands along your sides, goosebumps rising in the wake of his touch. Your nipples knit, and his gaze drop to the stiff pebbles showing through the lace fabric of the bra.

"You're too good to me, baby," he sighs, and then his eyes fall shut as you slide your hand inside his pants. "Oh."

You cup his still soft cock through the underwear, stroke in carefully as you lean in to kiss him. His lips betray a hurry that's he's loath to rein in, but when his tongue tries to pry in between your lips, you pull away with a smile. Tim doesn't smile back, but stares at you with a drunkenness in his eyes, mouth open and begging to be kissed again. You lean back in and nibble at his full lower lip, cup his cheek with your free hand, and stroke your thumb over his mustache. His cock hardens against your other palm, and you encourage it with a firmer touch.

"Tease," he groans, hands landing on your hips, fingers playing with the waistband of your panties. A shiver runs through you.

"Takes one to know one."

You press your lips to his anew, and now your hand slips in under the worn elastic of the waistband. His cock jumps at the direct contact and your feel a patch of wet rub off on your hand. Your fingers close loosely around his cock, thumb smearing out the precum as your tongue plunges into his mouth for a hungry kiss. Tim's strong arms wrap around you, the smell of his sweaty pits hitting your nose but not in a repulsive way, instead you feel the crotch of your panties get wet, and your kiss turns more insistent. You suck his lower lip between your teeth, pull it out, and release it with a pop. Still holding his cock, you step back, pulling him gently but firmly to make him follow you. And Tim follows, hands reaching all over you, eyes burning with desire, lips swollen with kisses. You direct him to his desk and pull down his pants and underwear before giving him a little push to make him sit down. His cock is now as stiff as it can be, and you separate his legs, keeping eye contact as you kneel between his thighs.

"Oh, baby..." he sighs, surrendering to you with a pleading look on his face. "Baby, you're so good to me..."

"You deserve it," you purr as you nuzzle his cock, kissing its length, flicking your tongue at it. "You work so hard, you deserve to relax a little."

He moans again when you hand closes around the thick root of his cock. You trail your tongue up his length, ending with a soft swirl around the head, the glistening precum bringing a sharp taste to your mouth.

A few night shift officers pass by the door, but apart from that you can only hear the drone of the air conditioning, and Tim's heavy breathing which turns into an audible gasp bordering on a moan when you open your mouth and take his cock into your mouth. He breathes your name, looks down on you as you smile up at him, his cock in your mouth, one of your hands wrapped around the root, the other cupping his balls. He draws his fingers through his hair before dropping both hands to your head, petting it softly as you pop his cock out of your mouth and proceed to licking and stroking it. The low lights are casting shadows over Tim's face, but you can see his eyes, half closed and staring down at you in complete surrender. You squeeze the root of his balls firmly and are rewarded with a sharp hiss as Tim draws in breath.

"Sweet baby..."

Your cunt is heavy and warm, and your arousal starts to drip into your panties. The mossy, heavy scent rises to tickle your nose through the musk of your man, and you moan low as you suck the head of his cock before flicking your tongue at the frenulum.

"Fuck, oh God..."

Second that. You enjoy sucking his dick, always have. The different textures, the scent, the way it makes him twitch and curse and finally beg you. The sloppiness of it when you drool, the rush of adrenaline when you manage to take all of him, the tip bumping down your throat, Tim losing it when you massage his balls while letting him fuck your throat.

You draw a deep breath and swallow all of him, balls deep. Your lips shielding your teeth from grazing him, you immediately start to salivate, the pressure against your throat almost too much. You will yourself to calm down, to breathe through your nose as you know you can, and start to fuck him with your mouth. Your eyes fill with tears, and when you look up Tim, he brings a trembling hand to wipe away the first one that falls. You pull back, a string of saliva connecting your lips to his cock, and lean into his palm cupping your cheek.

"Don't hurt yourself, sweetness," he mumbles hoarsely. "You're doing so good."

"I can do it," you promise him.

"I know you can."

You devour him again, tongue pressing flat against the veiny underside of his cock, your eyes falling shut as you focus on the act, on breathing, on controlling your gag reflex. Tim's breaths come in choked groans above you, his fingers tangle into your hair, petting and gently pulling while he showers you with gratitude and praise. The cold linoleum floor is hard on your knees, but you don't let that hold you back as you do your best to blow Tim’s mind. The taste of cum grows stronger, and you press your fingers against his taint while still fondling his balls. That's his undoing: his balls twitch and you feel the length of his cock pulsate as he shoots his cum down your throat. You almost choke, so you pull back, coughing as the last of his cum splatters your chin and chest. He crouches in front of you, wobbles like his legs don't carry him, panting like he just ran a marathon, but still searches your face as you fight to find your breath through the coughing.

"I'm good, I'm good," you wheeze, but Tim doesn't stop his scrutiny of you until you've found your breath.

"Okay?"

"Okay," you nod, smiling breathlessly. He smiles back then, and heaves a big sigh.

"Goddammit, woman..."

"What?" You bat your eyelashes innocently.

"Look at the state of you. A pornographic mess."

He wipes his thumb over your slick chin and closes his eye with a deep exhale when you grab his hand and bring the thumb to your mouth, sucking hard.

"You'll be the death of me."

"What a way to go, huh?"

His chestnut eyes are warm when he opens them anew.

"I'd prefer to live for as long as I can, as long as you're in my life."

"I'm here," you reassure him, your hand coming up to his cheek, which has not seen a razor in days. He leans in for a kiss, licks at your lips and into your mouth where you share his taste with him.

He finally helps you up and tuck himself in before grabbing a couple of tissues for you from his desk. You wipe yourself clean, but when you're about to wrap the coat around you again, Tim stops you.

"What about you?" His eyes are like molten chocolate when he slides his hand inside your coat and brings you snug against him.

"What about me?"

"You're so wet I can see it through your trench coat, honey."

You chuckle. You should have known.

"Sweetheart," you tell him, languidly wrapping your arms around his neck. "If you wish to pleasure me, you have to come home."

"Oh, so only you can do dirty things to me in my place of work?" he grins, hands sliding down to your ass cheeks, barely covered by the lace.

"That's right, detective." You kiss the tip of his nose. "Gotta have something to bring you home."

"I do have that," he replies softly, touching his lips to your forehead. "I'll come home in the morning, I promise."

Before you can answer, there is a hard bang on the door, followed by a call:

"Rockford, we brought in your suspect!"

His countenance changes: his eyes turn sharp, his lips austere, his shoulders squared. He is no longer your Tim; now he's Detective Rockford.

"I'm sorry, I gotta go - "

" - and you won't be home for breakfast," you finish his sentence with a practical shrug as you straighten out his tie for him. "I know. Go do your thing."

He dips his face down to kiss you.

"I'll be home," he renews his promise. "And I'll bring bread rolls from that place you like."

You smile against his lips, his warmth spreading through your body, your cunt bottoming out at the thought of a slow morning with him.

"I'll hold you to that, Tim."

He brushes his lips over your cheek, his breath warm when he whispers:

"Keep that underwear on."

#tim rockford x you #tim rockford x reader #tim rockford fanfic #merge mansion fanfic #my fic

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dancingtotuyo · 1 year ago

Text

“come here often?”

Javier Peña x female reader

Rating: Mature/Explicit

Summary: fucking men in bathrooms of dirty bars isn’t your usual cup of tea, but sometimes you make exceptions.

Warnings/Tags: strangers, alcohol consumption, sex (p in v), unprotected sex (wrap it up), mirror sex, dirty bathroom, rough sex, mentions of bruising, hair pulling (reader has hair long enough to pull), degradation, 1 slap on the ass, Javi is a menace, Javi touches reader in flirtatious ways without consent, hints of exhibitionism, use of “good girl”, dirty talk, aftercare, soft! Javi at the end. Let me know if I missed anything.

Notes: I’m hardly the first to write Javier fucking you over the bathroom sink of a bar, and I hope I am not the last. If I had a list of all the wonderful fics I’ve read with this scenario, I would supply one, but alas, my capacity to keep track of fics does not exist (believe me, I’ve tried).

This little fic came from a silly little writing game I’ve been playing with some friends. Thanks @wannab-urs for giving me the spark of inspo that started this. I also took inspiration from @ramblers-lets-get-ramblin and her fic, hand in unlovable hand, on this one! Shoutout @fhatbhabie for giving this baby a once over! @janaispunk for helping me sort out tags. @saradika for the dividers. And all my other amazing encouragers! You know who you are 🫶 ILYSM.

Words: 1171

You sit at the bar, swirling the whisky in front of you. You’re bored and in need of something to do on the hot summer night. Sweat collects in little beads across your skin, and you finish off the glass.

In the heat of the night, you don’t think you’d notice the presence of another behind you, but you do. It’s heavy and brooding. You feel it across your entire back as the person leans in beside you. His broad shoulders cover your frame.

“Ever heard of personal space?” You cock an eyebrow

He chuckles at you. A dark, thick mustache sits above his upper lip, highlighting his perfect teeth.

“A whiskey for me, and another for the lady,” he says to the bartender.

It is the least he could do.

He doesn’t move, keeping his eyes on you, letting his eyes roam across your body. He’s less than subtle about it. He catches a bead of sweat as it falls from your neck, tracking it down between your breasts, exposed in the sundress you wear. Finally, it slips out of his sight

He licks his lips, letting his forearm rest against the bar. “Come here often?”

You want to roll your eyes at the cliche words, but his lips are right at your ear, breath fanning over your bare skin. It sends a jolt straight to your core

You meet his gaze with stubbornness shining in your eyes. “No, I don’t tend to enjoy being eyed up by sleaze balls”

He chuckles deeply again, fingertips tracing your shoulder gently. “Good thing I’m here to keep them away.”

The bartender sets the drinks in front of you, giving you a look that asks if you want him to chase the man off. You shake your head. You can take care of him

“What are you? God’s gift to humanity?”

He smirks. “Some say that, yeah.”

You roll your eyes.

“C'mon, Hermosa. I think you’ll like it.” You brush him off, yet, he draws closer “I think you like sleaze balls like me making you feel good in seedy bars.”

“What makes you think you can make me feel good?”

“I like a good challenge” he winks

And god, if that doesn’t work. Your core clenches. Your stomach drops. You want to melt. Throwing down the whiskey, your eyes dart around until you find the sign for the bathroom. You don’t say a word. Adding a sway to your hips, you saunter off, heart pounding a million miles a minute.

You enter the bathroom. The door doesn’t even have a chance to close before his hands are on your hips. He kicks the door closed, making sure it’s locked. He pushes you forward, and your hands find purchase on the basin sink

The bathroom is small. It’s dingy and disgusting, but you don’t care.

“You are a filthy little thing, aren’t you?” he whispers in your ear, biting down on your earlobe

You let out a soft moan, tossing your head back. He cups your breast through the thin material of your sundress, and your nipples harden.

“Please” you stutter

“Please what, Darlin?”

“Fuck me” you moan.

He downright growls, shoving your hips into the sink. It hurts, but you can’t help but love it.

He flips your dress up to find your aching cunt dripping for him. “Just what I thought.” He clicks his tongue. “Such a good little slut. All this for me.” He runs his fingers through your dripping folds and then brings his finger to his nose smelling your juices before sucking his fingers clean. “Taste and smell so good for me, Hermosa.”

You whine.

“Just for me, right?” He says, running a hand over your ass, giving it a nice squeeze. You whine, core clenching around air.

You’re a pathetic, dripping mess

And you love it

His hand tangles in your hair, tugging you up roughly. “I said, just for me- right?” He smacks your ass and you moan.

“Yes, yes, just for you.”

“Good girl.” He lets go of your hair. You drop over the sink, panting heavily. You hear the buckle of his jeans.

Looking up just enough to see your reflection in the mirror, your hair is a mess. Mascara smudges under your eyes. Then, your eyes drift to him. His thick cock springs out of his jeans. The fucker isn’t wearing underwear, but you’re not complaining. It’s one less obstacle, and the sooner he’s in you, the better

He catches you eying him and smirks. “You like what you see, Hermosa?”

You nod, letting out a soft whimper

He smirks, hands moving back to your ass, squeezing and massaging it “You’re gonna take it so good for me.”

He lines himself up at your entrance. You only get a half second until he’s splitting you in two, forcing himself into you fully and completely. Your hips run into the sink again, the porcelain cool against your raging flesh. Your legs spread further of their own accord. You cry out, not caring if the whole goddamn bar hears you.

He withdraws and you feel empty until he’s ramming back into you. It goes on like that over and over and over. Tears drip down your face. Your moans of pleasure echo off the walls until you’re sure you’ve drawn spectators outside the door. With each thrust, your hips run into the sink. The balance between pain and pleasure quickly sends you to the edge, tension curling in your stomach.

Your legs shake. “Please, I’m so close.”

“You’re such a good girl, and a tight fucking cunt too.” He grits out, skin slapping against yours. “You gonna cum for me?”

“Yes, please.” His cock hits deep within you. Your breath catches. “Javier! I wanna cum for you.”

His fingers find your clit, his pace keeping steady and you’re coming in seconds, drenching his cock. He’s not far behind you, emptying himself inside you with a loud moan.

He pulls out of you, taking a second to collect himself. You’re draped over the sink, unable to move.

He pulls his pants up, tucking himself into his pants like it’s just another Tuesday.

He comes over to you, pulling you up gently, letting your skirt fall back into place. You struggle still to catch your breath. He cups your cheeks, wiping away the tears and smudged mascara, smoothing out your hair. You feel him leaking out of you.

“Too much?” He asks

You smile breathlessly “Just right”

He chuckles, kissing you softly, hands finding your waist. “Good girl.”

Once you’re home, he cleans you up, kissing your hips where bruises have already started to form.

He snuggles in close to you, both naked and without the comforter due to the heat, pressing soft kisses to your head.

His fingertips trail across your body aimlessly.

You let your eyes fall shut to his beating heart. “Wouldn’t mind doing that again sometime.”

He laughs, brushing your hair back as your breathing evens out. “I’ll keep that in mind, Darlin.”

#Javier peña #narcos #javier peña x you #javier peña fanfiction #javier peña x reader #javier peña x female reader #pedro pascal #narcos fanfiction #pedrostories #pedro stories #pedge boys #mature

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arvandus · 1 year ago

Text

Daily Drabble - Nails (Barbatos x GN!Reader)

No content warnings, just soft fluffiness 💕; reader has painted nails, but no gender-specific pronouns or physical body descriptors used.

Barbatos didn't often allow you into the grand kitchen at the Demon Lord's castle; occasionally you'd help put away the food he'd purchased that day, or allow you to assist in gathering the dinnerware after a meal. But you never cooked, and you never did the dishes. Such jobs were left to himself and the Little D's that he managed.

Except for today. With two of the Little D's sick and unable to work, it left the usually highly organized butler just a wee bit short-staffed. Tasks took longer, and time was even more precious than usual.

Which was why he didn't fight you when you offered to help with the after dinner clean up. He allowed you to wash the dishes while he handled putting away the dinner leftovers. Once that task was done, he began to assist you in drying the clean dishes, a towel in his gloved hands.

That was when he noticed it... the new color on your fingernails. He paused in his activity, his smile curling up slightly more than usual, transforming from professional to genuinely amused.

As your hand placed the chef's knife into the drip tray, his own hand caught yours, holding your fingers up for him to inspect.

"I see you have changed the color of your nails," he commented. He turned your fingers slightly for closer inspection, the purple lovely in the warm kitchen light. "An interesting choice..."

You froze instantly. Your eyes caught his and quickly looked away, back at the sink.

"Is it?" you said off-handedly as you pulled your fingers from his gentle grasp.

"Indeed. I wonder what inspired such a color choice," he teased as if you didn't both already know.

He watched as you struggled to suppress a smile. You grabbed the heavy pot off the counter and filled it with hot soapy water.

"I just liked it, is all..." you replied with a shrug. There was a pause, and then you added, "It was either that, or dark teal..."

Now it was Barbatos's turn to feel the heat on his skin. How bold of you...

You began to scrub at the pot, and he watched as your hands worked diligently against the caked on food. He gently removed his white gloves and covered your hand with his, halting your work. His touch was warm, the skin of his hand soft. You stared at the contact, at your matching nail polish on the tips of your fingers.

"Perhaps..." he said gently, "I should do the scrubbing."

Your eyes widened slightly as you looked at him. "Why?"

"You are assisting out of kindness. I would feel terrible if your newly decorated nails were to become ruined."

You froze, and for the longest moment the two of you stayed that way, your eyes locked.

Then you felt his other hand on the small of your back, his touch warm and gentle. "Please," he said.

He gently pulled you over where he stood as he passed behind you to take your place, his own hands taking the scrubbing tool from your loose fingers.

Now your positions were switched, and yet you were frozen in the past, reliving the past five seconds were you'd felt his breath against your hair, felt the brush of his body as he passed by you.

"Thank you," you finally said belatedly as you picked up the towel.

Barbatos didn't look at you as he began scrubbing the pot. But you watched the gentle smile return to his lips, a silent recognition of your gratitude.

You continued to work together quietly, although the peace of neutral friendliness and routine were long gone, replaced with something new, something... different. It made your pulse race, and made a smile blossom across your features, unable to be hidden under the warmth of Barbatos's attention.

Surprisingly, Barbatos was the one who broke the quiet. "It looks good on you."

You thought your smile couldn't get any wider, but you were wrong; your cheeks were hurting, every inch of your body feeling warm as you stared at him. Your joy escaped in the form of a small laugh. "Thank you, Barbatos."

He finally did look at you then, a flush appearing across his cheeks like skin warmed beneath the sunlight of your joy. He smiled in return, in a way you'd never seen him smile at you before, as if he wanted - no, needed - to release the happiness inside him, a happiness that you were responsible for.

"You're welcome."

#Arv's daily drabbles #Om barbatos #barbatos om #barbatos x reader #barbatos x mc #barbatos x you #barbatos x y/n

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seeingstarks · 2 years ago

Text

on the level of the devil

summary : maxwell / mjf finds a way to deal with his brat s/o after his double or nothing match pairing : mjf x afab!brat reader cw : teasing, chin grabbing, cmjf mention if you squint, general bratting, talk-back, choking, dom/sub dynamic, daddy/babygirl, punishments, blowjob, ball massaging, general filth. a/n : this is my first fic since dec 2022, writers block truly hit me hard & so did irl things but i'm v happy to share this with everyone and that i actually had the inspo to write for once!! as always reblogs are v much appreciated! <3 there may be a few spelling/punctuation errors. word count : 1,090 words tag list : @josiewrites , @omg-im-such-a-masochist , @baysexuality , ( for the guy you love, hate )

being one of mjf's so called ring girls came with it's benefits, no one would be able to tell you apart from the rest except for the devil himself.

your h/c hair tucked gently behind your ears with e/c eyes as you peaked out from behind the lilith mask, a pit of jealousy forming in your stomach when watching the other women reach toward maxwell as his entrance music hit.

you wanted to be his one and only girl but max was always extra. you reached your hand up further than you were supposed to, a hand lightly brushing up against his crotch.

a growl falling past his lips that only you were able to hear, almost as a small warning but you continued your actions briefly until max left your presence.

once retaining, he didn't take much time to grab you by the hand and pull you back toward his locker room. he was covered in blood and sweat from head to toe but didn't care in the slightest, he wasn't going to take that kind of teasing from you especially before one of his biggest matches.

hearing the locks click on the door, knowing you were in for it. especially since he put the devil mask back on and hadn't spoken a word since the two of you reached his locker room.

with a thick gulp, you stared up at his tall stature, towering over you. "not so brave now that we're all alone, hm?" he taunted and lifted his hand up, holding your chin. you were barely able to see his dark hues through the mask but they were ones full of lust and desire.

"m-max... y'know how i get jealous when you're around other girls. don't like their hands all over you." you admitted, attempting to look away but he kept your chin in place keeping a firm grip.

maxwell laughed and you didn't know whether or not you wanted to punch the man, kiss him, or both.

however, he didn't utter a single word. for someone so talkative on the mic he was rather quiet at the moment, his hand leaving your chin briefly while he removed the mask. a whine slipping past your lips at the loss of his warm touch.

"look at you... so needy to touch daddy earlier and now whining all from one simple chin grab? pathetic." you knew he could be rather arrogant at times after a big match but even this was pushing it. so why not meet fire with fire?

"what's pathetic is how anyone backstage could have me screaming their name except for you, maybe i should give phil a call - surely you would know. dunno' how you could even call that thing between your legs a dick." you stared at him with a smirk playing at the corners of your lips.

you watched as his dark hues flickered between lust and what seemed to be anger, slowly you pushed the man toward the edge and he was swift to act on it.

backing you up against the wall, maxwell spread your legs open. absentmindely, you opened them wider just as he taught you to many times before.

he reached his hand up, wrapping it around your throat and applying pressure to choke you just enough where you were still able to breathe.

"gonna say that to me again, doll? not'so brave now when daddy has himself pressed up against you-" his voice lowered and he leaned in toward your ear with a soft whisper, "here i was hoping you'd be a good girl so i didn't have to punish you..."

with the added pressure of him choking you and his hard on pressed up against your core, various moans and whimpers escaped your mouth. "daddy - promise you i'll be good." you glanced up at him with wide eyes, putting on a pout.

the man simply tsked and waved his finger, "you're not going to get off that easily, doll. daddy needs to teach you a lesson. no talking back. got it?" you simply nodded as he released his grip from your throat, you let out a much needed gasp of air.

"you're not on the level of the devil." tilting your head, simply confused as the man mimicked one of his promos. maxwell pointed toward the floor as you lowered yourself on your knees and looked up at him with hooded eyes.

"good girl, someone's finally listening. get to work beautiful and then maybe daddy will let you ride him on the throne later."

once your knees hit the floor, you swiftly removed his pants and burberry boxers. you never got used to seeing his massive size pressing up against the man's stomach.

after taking a deep breath, you placed your mouth on his tip, twirling your tongue in circles while sucking and making the perfect shaped "o". small groans fell past his lips as you licked the man as if he were your last meal or even a lollipop.

going deeper on his length, you began to bob your head slightly while taking his balls in your hands and massaging them at the same time. the noises coming out of his mouth were unknown to human.

he grasped the back of your nape, pulling at the ends of your hair which caused you to gag on the rest of his size, the locker room being filled with nothing but unholy noise as maxwell picked up the pace and started to thrust his hips in your mouth.

gagging and choking on his cock, maxwell quite enjoyed the sight under him as he twitched in your mouth feeling close to his release. knowing you had to come up for air at one point or another, you tapped at his thigh and the man simply just smirked. oh no.

momentarily, he thrusted into your mouth a few more times as you massaged his balls and he groaned out as you moaned around his cock, "mff-"

maxwell painted your mouth white, "clean up every last drop, sweetheart. don't want you wasting any."

you swallowed the salty white liquid with a big gulp and stuck your tongue out to show the man, he patted your cheek with a grin, "good girl, but i think you missed some."

he reached over to his dresser and pulled out a mirror showing you your face which was covered in drool and you had some of his cum dripping down your chin.

"such a messy babygirl... ready for round two with the devil?"

#mjf #mjf x reader #mjf x female reader #mjf smut #maxwell jacob friedman #aew smut #all elite wrestling #mjf x fem reader #wrestling fanfiction

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erisenyo · 1 year ago

Note

Since we’re talking max angst and interesting directions… perhaps something with Azula and Ozai? Not necessarily in a pairing way, though do what you will. Something to do with all the carefully-hidden fear and complete loyalty Azula has for him. If you’d like a prompt, everyone I’ve ever cared about has either died or left me, except for you.

For this prompt game! (And also this one!)

Warning for reference to canon child abuse ahead

“Father!” Azula snaps around, shocked outraged rising so unexpectedly through her control that it’s almost—almost, she’s not sloppy, not like Zuzu—enough to seep into the braziers burning around them. “What is the meaning of this!"

“I’ve decided to lead the fleet of airships to Ba Sing Se alone,” Father repeats, not even—not even looking at her as he says it, staring instead at those banners, at that--that phoenix.

“I thought we were going to do this together,” she grits out, clenching her abs and forcing herself to exhale slow and ignoring the way her fire wants to spark, wants to boil up out of her. She did everything right, everything he asked her to do and more!

She gave him Ba Sing Se, gave him Zuzu and her useless Uncle, gave him the Avatar dead and out of the way and so what if he came back, Azula did it and everyone knew, she did everything she was supposed to and now—

“My decision is final,” Father says, smiling up at the airship festooned with his new symbol, and Azula will perform fifty katas to perfection before dinner because the words unexpectedly burst out of her without her permission:

“You—you can’t treat me like this!” she snaps, nails digging into her palms. “You can’t—"

“Everyone I’ve ever cared about has either died or left me except for you, Azula,” Father interrupts, tone abstract and eyes nearly glittering with intensity as his gaze finally drifts to her, and Azula ruthlessly swallows the rest of it back.

“My brother,” he finally continues into the crystalline silence, pausing as if to see whether she will attempt another interruption—as if she’d be so foolish as to point out that the useless lump of a man left, and three times at that, and that just what Azula knows of it.

“My father.” Dead, and for the best.

“Your mother.” Dead, or she’d better be.

“Your brother.” A dead man walking, and Azula doesn’t permit herself to blink at his inclusion.

“All of them, every one of them, has left me,” Father murmurs, shaking his head as if in sadness, and Azula holds her shoulders back and loose and understands without allowing herself to think about it all the ways that left and died are the same.

“Except, of course,” he adds, almost as an afterthought, head cocked and his eyes hooded and intent on her face, “For you.”

Azula breathes in a steady, even breath, her inner flame perfectly still as she bows, perfectly correct. “Father—”

“You would never do that to me, Azula,” he interrupts, words soft and still cutting through the noise of the courtyard as she carefully doesn’t think of the everything he asked her to do and the more she gave him. “Would you?”

“Father—”

“You're so like your mother these days, you know,” Ozai interrupts, Azula holding herself perfectly at ease as he reaches out to brush a lock of her hair back into place, his right hand lingering over her cheek, his thumb tracing the ridge of her brow, fingers resting along her temple, her hair, firebender hot just like her own skin. “Do you remember her?”

They have spoken of her, occasionally, why would—

“No, Father,” Azula says, quickly adding on, “And I would never leave you, Father. Never,” she says, firm, confident, resolute with just that edge of brashness the way he likes it and never thinking of the new scar in the stone behind the throne in the catacombs, a scar from lightning she knows Zuzu can’t generate, he’s too stupid for it. But for all his uselessness Iroh on that ship had been able to—

Father suddenly smiles, slow, his fingers pressing over her hair, cradling the side of her head. “I know you wouldn’t, Azula,” he murmurs, and she keeps her eyes open as his palm drifts from the bridge of her nose to her temple, feeling the calm, calm, calm steadiness of her inner flame. “I know.”

#Not me replying to this...two months later?#I do enjoy all the angst and potential and tension in the Azula-Ozai relationship #that conundrum of your world view and sense of safety being predicated on being the best except if you show it too much...#asks and answers #fic writing #Azula fic #Ozai #my writing #Azula

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edenityy · 7 months ago

Text

( chapter eighteen ! )

"You shall be late should you take any longer!"

It is a simple evening, foggy but like every other day before it. Rain threatens to spill across the land and soak those in its path, creating a smell in the air that pleases the young Leah Barrett. If only carriages could ride better in the rain she would feel even better, preparing herself for the ride to Ciel's manor.

Outside of Leah's bedroom door, Daniel relentlessly knocks in an attempt to hurry his sister along per his father's orders. However, this doesn't push her to move any faster, and happily takes Anna's help when she fixes her hair and packs some of her items into a case.

She sits before her vanity with PomPom stationed on her lap and begrudgingly looks at herself through the mirror, while her pet chooses to observe Anna moving across the room. Despite her typical lack of patience — and the fact that she is extremely easy to irritate —, Leah is fine to ignore Daniel's calls in favor of smoothing out her champagne-colored dress or adding extra rouge to her cheeks. 'I don't understand why he doesn't just walk through the door? Nothing is stopping him.'

"Surely there is nothing more left for you to prepare? This is ridiculous!" Daniel huffs from the other side of the door.

Rolling her eyes, Leah allows PomPom to brush his soft nose against her hand with a small smile. "I am nearly ready!" she calls out.

Leah shifts PomPom around in her arms and stands up from her seat, carrying the dog over to where Anna is adding the last few items to the case. There aren't many items. Simply a few dresses and undergarments, paired with essentials like nightgowns or hygiene products and shoes that the girl can wear with her outfits.

The occasion is only a party at Phantomhive Manor that her fiancé invited her to, but with Ciel's permission — and Lucius' of course —, she shall be staying a couple of nights after. She hid the question behind stating it could be a late birthday gift, disregarding the fact that Ciel had gotten her three separate items besides the dog. But everyone knows that has never deterred the girl.

"I am packed, yes?" asks Leah, moving her face to the side to avoid PomPom attempting to lick her cheeks.

Stuffing a final pair of tights into the case, Anna gently shuts it and makes sure it can't be opened while traveling on the back of the carriage. "Yes, Mistress," she says quietly.

Leah doesn't respond when Anna answers her question and walks over to her door, swiftly opening it and coming face to face with Daniel staring down at her. Brushing past him as PomPom barks in his own form of hello, she sets off down the hall and towards the main staircase, more excited about leaving than she anticipated.

"Took you long enough," mumbles Daniel, following after her. "You do look pretty, though." he compliments her, admiring the half-up-half-down hairstyle that draws attention to her soft brown locks.

Turning her head around, she teasingly sticks her tongue out. "I know."

Footsteps fill the halls as Leah prepares to make her leave, a quiet and concentrated Anna following behind the siblings with the large case in hand. The women must leave within the next half hour to avoid the future rain that will begin to pour from the sky, but Leah is easy to sidetrack and the sight of her cat is no exception.

Laying on the center of the floor is none other than Samson, Sam for short. He is a large cat covered in long orange and white fur, only half of his breed is known to be a Maine coon. The feline is a notorious menace given by a family friend who no longer wanted him, falling into the arms of a young Leah who begged for her father to keep him.

Picking up her pace to shuffle over to Sam, Leah instantly appears much happier than before. "Sam!" she squeals. "Oh, you are just so cute!"

Leah sets PomPom down on the floor in favor of kneeling beside her cat, though she is hesitant to stroke him. 'If I pet Sam will I make Ciel sneeze?' she asks herself.

"Could you hand me a pair of gloves?" Leah questions a passing maid with a basket of laundry situated in her arms.

Startled by the sudden question, the maid fumbles around to give the teen a fresh pair of white gloves. "Yes, Mistress!" she stumbles over her words.

Offering a smile in return, Leah carefully sets aside the pair of gloves she is currently wearing to place the new ones over her hands instead. Cooing at Sam, she whispers many words of affection and runs her covered hands over his soft coat, trying to not rub herself against him and get any loose hair on her clothes.

"You are very skilled at wasting time," Daniel teases as he patiently waits behind his kneeling sister with Anna only a couple of steps behind him.

Leah pulls away from Sam with a roll of her eyes, picking off her gloves and listening to the subtle purrs. "I am merely saying goodbye. He will miss me while I am gone," she gives Sam air kisses as she stands and allows PomPom to wander off and play by himself.

"Yes, the cat shall miss you so much while you are gone for only.. three days?" he mocks.

Replacing her gloves with her original ones, she leaves the spare ones on the floor and sets off down the hall, reaching the main staircase and walking down. "Oh, hush!"

Near the bottom of the staircase, Lucius and Vivienne are in the middle of a discussion about household matters. It is nothing worth paying mind to, which is why Leah walks directly past them and beckons Anna to move along faster so the two of them can make their exit.

"Mama, Papa, I am leaving now," she announces but is met with no response. "Mama! Papa!"

The parents turn their heads at the sound of Leah raising her voice, not paying attention to the pout that sits atop her cherry-tinted lips.

Lucius is the first to speak up. "Yes, darling. Stay safe," he nods along to his words.

"Don't get into trouble!" Vivienne adds on to her husband's sentence, before shifting her attention back to their original conversation.

Facial expression hardening, Leah can't help but feel upset at her parent's lack of enthusiasm for seeing her off. 'Events end and everything goes back to normal..'

Sighing through his nose at his parent's reaction, Daniel steps forward to give Leah a crooked smile and brushes an out-of-place hair from her cheek. As sad as it is, he seems to be the only one who pays enough attention to notice that she simply wants someone to say goodbye.

"Be safe, yes?" he asks, though he knows she will.

Leah flashes a downcast smile and dives to wrap her arms around her brother, burying her face into his shoulder. "I will."

Hugging the younger girl in return, Daniel gently pats the back of her head before pulling her away by her shoulders. "You should get going now before the rain begins," he suggests.

Nodding in response, Leah and Anna both file out of the door to see Thomas waiting beside the carriage. Anna hands the case over to the stoic butler who places it on the back, situating it for the ride.

"You are prepared?" asks Thomas, wanting to double-check with the women.

The Barrett huffs at the sound of his voice. "Shut your mouth," she says, entering the carriage.

Anna can only offer Thomas a look of pity as she follows in after Leah, settling in a seat across from her. The most they can do is hope the girl's mood lightens up when they reach their destination.

— ౨ৎ —

Phantomhive Manor looks as expected, clean and pristine. However, this time around it is filled with guests of various occupations waiting for the Earl to descend from the stairs and allow the party to commence. The chatter fills the entrance room and no eyes fall upon a particular author who stands near the center.

Taking Thomas' hand, Leah steps out of the carriage with Anna in her footsteps, watching Finnian retrieve her case with ease. She chooses to flash the gardener a quick smile but doesn't stay still a moment longer, nearly jogging to enter Ciel's home after having sat for an hour in a carriage.

"Goodbye, My Lady," Thomas calls out, staring at the back of her head.

Stopping in her tracks, Leah turns her head to face Thomas with a hint of hurt in her eyes. "Goodbye," she grumbles in response as Anna opens the door for her.

Entering the building, the Barrett earns a couple of head turns but pays them no mind, choosing to focus on trying to find a recognizable face. To her luck, she immediately locks eyes on Ran Mao who stands closely beside Lau, a brown-haired man she doesn't recognize speaking with them. She glances behind herself to check that Anna has also entered before speeding over towards her friend.

"No such thing! I'm nothing special at all!" Arthur waves his hands to nervously deny something Lau has said. "I've never met the Earl before, so I really don't know why I've been invited.." he trails off.

Leah's brows furrow in confusion as she walks in on the conversation and stops Lau's chance to speak. "Ran Mao!" she calls out, stopping beside Arthur. "I am glad you are here, I'm afraid I don't recognize anyone else.."

The author nearly yells when he turns his head to see the girl below him, having not heard her abnormally quiet steps as she was approaching. Leah hardly even glances at him though and situates herself closer to Ran Mao, ready to begin talking away until Lau opens his mouth before her.

"Ah, the Lady has arrived!" he smirks in his own form of a greeting.

Flashing a tight-lipped smile, Leah dips her head in acknowledgment. "Hello, Lau.."

"How have you been? I trust seventeen has been treating you well?" the Chinese man asks, a reminder that it has only been a little over a week since her birthday. And the potentially scandalous events that occurred the night of.

"It has," Leah glances off to the side in disappointment. "My mother had my hems lowered, I am still getting accustomed to it. She says they will be at floor length before I know it."

Lau lets out a chuckle. "The dreaded debut into society, eh?" he teases the Barrett at the thought of the way she was acting during the Viscount Druitt's ball. "Have you met the wordsmith?"

Blinking in surprise at Lau's sudden change of topic, Leah shakes her head at his question. It isn't until he shifts his hand to a point that she follows it and trails her eyes up to Arthur's face, noticing the sweat dripping down his forehead.

Face freezing in surprise at the sudden acknowledgment, Arthur stands straighter and forms a crooked smile. "H—Hello!"

Lau adds to Arthur's nervous greeting. "He is a wordsmith! Claims he hasn't even met the Earl."

"Because I haven't!" Arthur stumbles over his words once more. "I don't understand why I received that invitation.

"Who knows? I don't know what that moody guy is thinking," Lau pokes a finger into Ran Mao's cheek, asking for backup on his statement. "Though I suppose his fiancé can be much more moody.."

His words earn a huff of annoyance from Leah, puffing out her cheeks and knitting her brows. She nearly turns around and walks away on impulse but Anna's entry into the scene stops her, the maid quietly standing a few steps behind her.

Arthur releases a breath. "Fiancé?" he asks.

Once again Lau points to the person he speaks about, earning a noise of surprise from the writer. He hadn't expected someone so young, though he can't be entirely surprised.

"I am Leah Barrett, daughter of Marquess Barrett. I am Earl Phantomhive's betrothed," she drones, beginning to become sick of having to repeat the words whenever she meets someone new.

Moving his head back in surprise, Arthur recognizes the name of her father. "Huh?!" he realizes that everyone in the room is seemingly attached to money or a good title.

"Without a doubt, something interesting will happen.." Lau interrupts and opens his eyes, staring at Arthur, "probably."

This time around, both Leah and Arthur send Lau a strange look. However, Lau simply pats Ran Mao's hair. It is the first time the Barrett has ever seen his eyes, assuming that he must just miraculously never open them. 'Strange, that one is.'

"Moreover, the Earl hates the staunch social life and is famous for being a rare character who hardly ever shows himself," Lau ignores their glances and lets Ran Mao shuffle over to Leah, continuing his explanation on Ciel. "I think this is the first time that he's invited people into his own house? Aren't you lucky, Mr. Wordsmith!"

Arthur once again becomes nervous and clutches his hands to his chest. "What kind of person is he?!"

"Let's see.." Lau places a finger to his chin in mock thought. "Basically he has either a sour or angry look and extremely high pride."

Arthur almost screams as he pictures a much older, stern-looking man in his head.

Adding another finger near his mouth, Lau begins to start becoming dramatic. "It's also said that he wears a pirate-like eye patch."

This time a real scream is earned from Arthur, now picturing a terrifying man in his head. However, Leah subtly shuts down Lau's fun when she gives him an unimpressed look.

She turns her head to Arthur, putting in minimal effort to calm his nerves. "I would say he just does not appreciate nonsense," Leah adds while Ran Mao nods in agreement.

"Why don't you leave your teasing of the guests at that?"

A voice rings from the top of the staircase, drawing the group's attention. Standing there with a hand on his hip and a cane in the other, Ciel Phantomhive holds his head high in a plaid suit as he looks over his guests. Stationed behind him as usual is Sebastian, prepared to follow in his master's footsteps.

"Huh?" Arthur looks up at Ciel in astonishment. "He looks a bit.. young?"

Nodding with a smirk, Lau points a finger at the boy. "Yep. That little boy is Earl Phantomhive. He's cute, right?"

"Little was unnecessary!" screams Ciel, a look of pure agitation painting his face.

"See, he's angry," Lau remarks in dismay.

Clearing his throat, Ciel announces himself with a soft look on his face, despite his dull eyes. "Thank you for accepting my invitation today. I am the head of the house, Ciel Phantomhive. After the dinner party starts, I'll once again call upon each of you in order to exchange greetings. This includes both my regular clients and the ones that I'm meeting for the first time," he takes a look at each of his guests and is alerted by a missing face. "But it seems that the guest of honor isn't here yet?"

"With this foul weather, his arrival seems to have been delayed," Sebastian leans down ever so slightly to speak in Ciel's ear.

Outside the windows, rain pours down against the glass and darkens the sky, creating an atmosphere that Leah quite enjoys. But as she aimlessly glances out one of the windows, Ciel and Sebastian are busy contemplating what move to take with the guests already standing in the room.

'I am glad we got here in time.. Surely this would be a nightmare to ride in.' Leah thinks to herself, fiddling with the gloves on her hand.

The ambiance is calming until Meyrin scatters into the hall, giving a small bow. "There is a guest arriving!" she announces, queuing Tanaka to open the door for two gentlemen.

Stepping inside, the two men approach Ciel who now stands near the door, entirely losing Leah's interest once they start introducing themselves. She huffs in annoyance and subtly begins to bounce on her heels, glancing around for a sign of another guest leading them to a different activity.

"This is a bit boring, Anna," she complains.

Releasing a quiet sigh, Anna looks up at Leah and tries to nod in an understanding manner. "Have patience, Mistress. It is only—"

Sebastian unintentionally cuts Anna off before she can finish speaking, holding a card in his left hand. "Well then, I'll call out your names so please proceed to the dining room in order."

"First.."

— ౨ৎ —

Gathered in small groups, the guests all host discussions and introduce themselves to one another. The largest group stands in the center of the room, filled with men except for Leah who sticks close to Ciel's side.

"The shrewdness with which his grandfather served the prime minister during his time was heard of even in Germany," Georg Von Siemens, the honorary director of the Bamberger Bank, speaks up from his spot and gestures to the man beside him. "He's just like his grandfather."

To the left of Ciel and Leah, Carl Woodley — president of the Woodley Company, a diamond polishing business — glances over at Georg with a smirk on his face. "If you're talking about Earl Grey, he's from such a distinguished family that even his name is attached to a flavor of tea. To think there would be a day I'd be able to greet him."

Charles Grey dismisses the words and peeks his head over at Ciel. "Because it has not been long since I succeeded as an Earl, Earl Phantomhive is more of an expert here," he chimes in with a smile.

"I'm not there by a long shot," despite his words, Ciel still smirks with pride and closed eyes. "The company wasn't founded until my generation, so if you're talking about enterprises I think that Master Woodley is the most capable."

Leah fights the urge to mimic clawing her face off, the conversation killing her inside to listen to. 'Dear God, do men only speak about business?! How boring must your life be?!' Glancing around the room, she spots Anna near a table admiring the refreshments but not bothering to attempt to strike up a conversation with anyone.

It isn't uncommon for Anna to be on her own, away from the nobles. Though, Leah often feels a sense of pity when she leaves the girl on her own. Perhaps it is for the better, as Anna's personality is quite dull. The Barrett can hardly remember the last time she saw Anna let out a laugh, always clouded by finishing her duties or generally not engaging in conversation.

"It's still just a humble business," Woodley pulls Leah out of her thoughts with a chuckle. "The technology used for polishing diamonds will be supporting the heavy industries from now. It will certainly.."

His voice starts to fade for Leah as she begins to tune him out, lacking interest in listening to men talk about how diamonds or partnerships. Taking in a breath through her nose, her eye twitches in slight irritation.

Leah leans her head closer to Ciel's, placing her lips right beside his left ear. "This is rather boring, no?" she keeps her voice low to prevent anyone from hearing her.

"Shh!" is all Ciel can offer in return, wanting to make sure her mouth is kept shut to avoid upsetting one of the guests.

Pouting dramatically, Leah huffs and looks in the direction of a wall in a display to show she doesn't enjoy being silenced. This doesn't work though as the men continue their conversation, the others even joining in on the main circle. 'My two-year-old cousin is more entertain—'

"From Kunlun..?!" Patrick Phelps — a supervision executive of the trade division of Blue Star Line Company — exclaims, drawing Leah's attention to his sudden discomfort and wide eyes.

His change in demeanor is not helped when Lau opens an eye to shift it over to the blonde, leaving Phelps shaking in his place. But just as quickly, Lau focuses on Georg to start mentioning potentially expanding to Germany, allowing Ran Mao to sneak up behind him and sensually rub herself against the man.

'As much as I love Ran Mao, she truly lacks a bit of shame and decorum..' Leah cringes at the sight and nearly shivers in discomfort.

Georg Von Siemens also clearly feels a sense of discomfort, forcing Ran Mao away by grabbing her shoulders. Though the flush on his face might say otherwise. With a blank look, Ran Mao shuffles back over to Lau's side who stands with Ciel and Leah.

"Seems like he doesn't like us," Lau says awkwardly.

Staring in annoyance, Ciel releases a breath. "What are you doing."

Leah opens her mouth to partake with a witty comeback but fails to let any words leave her mouth when a pair walks up to join the group.

"I'm sorry to disturb your conversation," says Grimsby Keane — a theatrical producer — with the opera singer Irene Diaz by his side. "Thank you for inviting us today."

Everyone turns their heads to look at the pair, most marveling at Irene's beauty whereas Ciel, Lau, and Charles seem unaffected. After introducing themselves, the topic of conversation quickly shifts to business once more, causing Leah to audibly groan. Peeling herself away from the group, she begins walking towards a window Anna also happens to be standing by.

On the other hand, Ciel notices his fiancé leaving and opts to follow after her as the group disperses to do their own things. He doesn't attempt to break Leah's silence, recalling what she expressed to him on the night of her birthday but he can't help but want to say something. After all, they've hardly spoken a word to each other.

Ciel's eyes wander over Leah's figure and come across a shining jewel drawing his attention. "You are wearing it," he points out.

"Wearing what?" Leah turns her head to furrow his brows at Ciel.

"The necklace I got you for your birthday," he lifts a hesitant hand to her collarbone, gently lifting the necklace from her skin to examine it as though it is his first time seeing it.

Glancing down, Leah's lips part in understanding. Wrapping around her neck is a gold necklace, adorning many small diamonds centering at the details of the item. It hangs low on her chest, the centerpiece of the necklace drawing attention with the many jewels or small, flower-like details.

"I thought it went well with my dress," she lifts her eyes to meet Ciel's. "Though I believe I've always been more of a silver," she teases.

Ciel's face covers in a blush, not having considered that she may prefer silver over gold when he was picking out her gifts. Attempting to reply, Leah beats him to it.

"I shall get a refreshment, yes? Do wait for me," she smiles softly, reaching her eyes and showing the boy that it is genuine.

Leah quietly excuses herself and makes her way over to a table holding drinks, though most of them appear to be alcoholic. Pursing her lips in frustration, she begrudgingly plucks a glass of champagne between her fingers and takes a hesitant sip. However, she nearly chokes at the sudden feeling of a hand rubbing her back and shoulder.

Looking up in discomfort and immediately shifting away at the touch, her eyes meet the face of a very drunk Georg smirking down at her. "Please do not touch me," Leah keeps her voice clear and steady despite wanting to scream.

Georg has a look of confusion painting his face, clouded by drunk judgment. "It's hard not to with that pretty face of yours," he disregards Leah's words in favor of grabbing her by the forearm and pulling her into him, also dragging Irene into the mix after previously harassing her.

"Do not touch me with your foul hands, you revolting creature!" she raises her voice with a sharp slap to his face, face contorting in pure disgust.

The sounds of anger begin to draw attention from the other party guests, particularly Anna. She fears that Leah may take her anger a step too far, as she normally does, and cause harm to herself or her reputation.

Huffing in annoyance, Georg stumbles back and shows his displeasure quite clearly. "Who are you to speak to me like that?"

Before Leah can start screaming at the top of her lungs, Irene has had enough. "I told you to please stop it! To have you all over me with your disgusting hands.. I can't take it anymore!" she crosses her arms over her chest in discomfort.

Phelps behind them is worried, trying to intervene. But Ran Mao remains firmly attached to Georg, seemingly not phased by the fact that the man is a disgusting pervert.

"What?" Georg sneers. "You're at fault for wearing those clothes! You really want to be touched, don't you? Don't pretend to be sweet and innocent now," he pulls Irene into his arms.

Irene's face darkens and she brings a gloved hand down onto his face. "Insolent jerk! Have some shame!"

Deciding to join in on the assault, Leah takes the glass in her hand and lifts it above her head, disregarding all of the guests watching her closely.

Anna's eyes widen at the scene and swiftly walks over, trying to reach out a hand to her master. "Mistress, please don't be rash!"

Not heeding the words of her lady's maid, Leah brings the glass crashing down onto Georg's face, spilling the liquid and shattering the item. The broken glass leaves an open cut on the man's nose, leaking blood that slowly trickles down his cheeks.

"Why you.." Georg, now on the floor, also grabs a class and tries to splash it on the women in anger.

But before the liquid can meet either girl, Ciel throws himself in the way to take the damage. Drenched in the champagne, he turns his head in disdain and uses himself as a wall between the three.

"This is a dining hall," he speaks up. "In any case, that will be enough from you three for today."

Leah lets out a cry of frustration. "It is not enough. I want him to die!" she whines.

"Mistress!" Anna cuts in, trying to silence the girl before she can say anything worse.

However, it seems like there are worse problems at the moment than Leah. Like Grimsby, who appears far from pleased at the display he is seeing.

"You old pervert! Don't touch my woman so.." he shoves a hand into a bottle of wine on ice, picking it up and sending it flying in Georg's direction, "easily!"

The bottle of wine spins in the air, aimed directly at Georg Von Siemens' face as he exclaims in shock. Raising his arms to block the blow, it is mere inches away from his face before Sebastian miraculously swoops in and catches it. Much to Leah's dismay.

Popping the cork mid-air, Sebastian gracefully lands atop a ladder to show a sudden display of stacked wine glasses. He pours the liquid from the top in the manner of a fountain, watching it drip down the glasses as they each slowly fill. All watching in amazement, the guests can hardly bring themselves to look at the butler stationed beside the display.

"It's a fantastic wine from the village of Purcari in South Eastern Moldova," he holds the bottle of wine in his gloved hands with a smirk. "Ladies and Gentlemen, please enjoy it."

The guests explode in lines of surprise and praise, particularly the men who merrily rush for a glass. But one remains unimpressed. Leah. Simply staring up at Sebastian, her head tilts to the side in confusion and judgment.

'He is just like Thomas.' Leah thinks to herself, starting up at the butler on the ladder, but her face slowly begins to drain the little color it has. 'He is just like Thomas..'

— ౨ৎ —

Dining with a content aura surrounding her, Leah doesn't even notice the chaos beginning to form around her. When the tablecloth is ripped from under everyone's plates, she can't help but gasp at the clattering sounds of the dishes.

"Oh my!"

"Oh? Where did the tablecloth go?"

Finnian and Baldroy are quick to rush to the scene, grabbing Meyrin on both sides of her arms and starting to drag the dizzy maid out of sight.

"A speck of dirt, most unsightly. I had the cloth removed so it wouldn't distract us. Think nothing of it," Ciel speaks with a light smirk on his face, holding a piece of raw meat in between his chopsticks before swiftly taking a bite.

'That pair are so strange.' Leah thinks to herself, awkwardly continuing to eat her dinner and trying to not acknowledge the now missing cloth.

— ౨ৎ —

Ciel gives a prideful smirk while Leah and Anna exchange a subtle look, "Then, I'll immediately go investigate and quickly research all the suspects' reports." Sebastian says with a smile.

Sebastian, the ever so elegant butler, bursts open the door to the moving carriage, startling the passengers inside. Calling back to Grell guiding the carriage, he speaks with the seemingly nervous woman before shifting his attention back inside the moving vehicle.

"Then, please excuse me if I leave now," slamming the door shut, Ciel appears unphased after previously shooing the butler off. The rest of the group, however, is very much filled with concern and surprise.

"Wait a minute?! Isn't this horse carriage still running?!" Madame Red shouts, Lau beside her as they peer out the window.

Staring off at the space that Sebastian previously occupied, Leah turns to Anna with a questioning blink. "My.. he is just as deranged as Thomas," she breathes out, which earns a faint giggle from the maid.

"Calm down, Madame Red. Let's first have a cup of afternoon tea and rest," Lau glances back at the red-haired woman, opening the door to the townhouse. "Ok..?" his words fall short when he notices Sebastian standing before him.

"Welcome back. I've been waiting for everyone for a while."

Ignoring Sebastian's bow, Leah and Ciel file into the house while Madame Red and Lau stay behind them, staring at the butler clad in black. The two teens hardly pay attention as Sebastian explains the tea and dessert, filing to the next room.

— ౨ৎ —

As much as the Barrett enjoys being in her thoughts, the train is quickly interrupted when she is brought back to hear Lau make exaggerated noises while impaling the box with Sebastian inside. The guests all look with utter shock and worry at multiple swords stabbed into the cupboard, a smiling Lau to accompany it.

"He suddenly went from the top?!"

"He really did it without restraint!"

Lau, who seems entirely proud of his work, sparkles, "Alright, let's see if he's alright?" he suggests.

Taking the swords out of the cupboard and undoing the chains, the door to the cupboard ominously begins to swing open. Everyone watches in silent worry before bursting into shouts of surprise when Sebastian steps out completely unscathed.

— ౨ৎ —

"My apologies. I've lived for such a long time, but it's only cats whose fickle emotions I cannot read." Sebastian cheerily smiles.

Furrowing her brows, Leah continues to walk to turn her head back to get a look at the butler clad in black. 'Lived for such a long time? He only looks to be no older than 30..' Pushing aside her questioning thoughts, she walks alongside her fiancé and makes small, unneeded adjustments to her coat to busy her hands.

— ౨ৎ —

"Then, I'll be earnestly teaching Smile knife-throwing," Dagger smiles eagerly. "What about you, Black?"

Sebastian's expression hardly moves, "I don't have any particular preferences."

"You've got good reflexes, don't you? If there's something you see and it looks like you can do it, give it a try," Dagger encourages, not expecting Sebastian to speed past him with a simple 'yes.'

Running across the tent, the demon butler is quick to get up on the trapeze and perform a flying blanco. Mere moments later, Sebastian is juggling, followed by pole climbing, passing through fire, high wire, and trampoline. Though, just as he attempts to perform sword-eating, Dagger is quick to cut in.

Waving his hands in a sweat, the blonde stares up at the butler clad in black. "Enough, enough!"

"Show off.." Leah mumbles. "Just like Thomas."

William, under the name of Suit, glances down and releases a breath of air. "I thought I sensed an unpleasant aura. So it was you, was it? Honestly," stabbing his death scythe into the floor, Ciel nearly throws Leah out of the way before she can be impaled. "What did you come to fish around for this time? You devilish fiend!" he points the scythe to Sebastian's neck, now gaining a crowd of scared individuals.

The demon remains unexpressive, keeping himself in front of the two nobles. While Ciel is staring in dread, Leah is quick to fix her clothes around to hide any piece that came out of place when she was moved, determined to show as little skin as possible.

"De..vil?" The crowd begins to talk amongst themselves with wide eyes.

"Even under the best of circumstances, in this time of Grim Reaper shortages.. With a demon appearing like this, I suppose it will throw off my schedule," William complains.

Leah pauses and tilts her head. 'Demon?'

— ౨ৎ —

The memories play in Leah's head like a movie, leaving her trapped in her spot, staring up at Sebastian with wild eyes. 'Oh my God..' Her breath gets caught in her throat. 'It was right in front of my eyes.' The two lock eyes. 'If Thomas exists, surely other demons do as well!' Sebastian tilts his head and gives a condescending smile, trying to appear sweet to the girl.

"Mistress..?" Anna calls out to the frozen Leah, noticing that she seems off when she doesn't reply immediately. "Mistress!"

Coughing when she attempts to simultaneously take a breath in and out, Leah is pulled from her thoughts as she turns to look at Anna with a forced curl of her lips. "Hm?"

"Are you alright?" asks Anna.

Leah nods with a strange demeanor, showing her mediocre acting skills when she pulls herself away. 'Does Ciel know? Am I wrong? Perhaps I am just dramatic?' She fights the urge to shake her head like a dog before the group of people, approaching Ciel's side as he attempts to dry himself.

"So once that solemn man gets some alcohol into him, this is how he becomes?" Ciel directs his question towards Sebastian with annoyance, speaking in French. "From the looks of it, he's a repeat offender."

Sebastian closes his eyes with a smirk. "Even so, showing how little self-constraint one has.. I won't whether he's just an immense fool or whether he knows no shame at all," he drags an eye over to Leah.

"He is a man. Of course he knows no shame," Leah replies in fluent French. "After all, you men are known for your egos."

Eyes widening in shock at the sound of Leah's voice speaking articulate French, Ciel wonders just how many things she knows that she's never mentioned. "Seems like the incurable type of guy that'd make a doctor hopeless," he retorts, subtly enjoying the giggle he pulls from his fiancé.

A laugh sounds from the side of them, pulling the trio's attention to Arthur who sits in his seat with a hand to his mouth. While Leah and Sebastian stare rather blankly, Ciel smirks and places a finger to his lips.

"Shh."

— ౨ৎ —

The night drags on and the rain shows no sign of stopping, pattering against the windows. Most of the guests surround the lounge in the room, staring at Georg who has now fallen asleep after his night of drinking and acting like a fool.

"Has Master Siemens fallen asleep?" Charles takes a sip of wine as he glances at the man beside him.

Phelps also takes a look and a bead of sweat drops from his forehead. "Seems like it.."

Seated in his chair beside Arthur and Leah, Ciel fakes feeling tired as he observes the scene. "Sebastian. Take the Lord to his room. I'll retire too," he says as he stands up with a yawn.

Moving over towards the door, everyone watches as Sebastian easily lifts Georg on his back.

"I'm very sorry, but I'll excuse myself as well," Ciel announces.

"Ahh, the Earl is going to sleep already?" Lau asks in surprise.

"For a boy such as myself, it's bedtime already," Ciel walks over to press his cheek against Leah in a mock kiss. "Please relax yourselves."

With that, the master and butler take their leave. The guests decide on playing billiard, which Leah wants to join in on, but Anna has other plans.

"I believe it is time for you to retire as well, Mistress?" she suggests.

Leah gasps dramatically and an upset look spreads across her face. "Anna, no! I am not even tired yet!" she whines, earning a chuckle from Lau who watches.

"You know how you get. You'll become tired any moment now and suddenly you become mean to everyone," Anna clearly knows Leah better than she knows herself, trying to spare everyone from the wrath of the girl's mood swings.

"But—" Leah tries to object, but almost like clockwork, she begins to feel a slight sense of fatigue. "No.."

Anna doesn't listen to her protests, guiding Leah towards the door and having her wave everyone off with a goodnight. The earlier she can get the teenager to sleep, the earlier she can retire from her duties for the night. Even if she has to listen to initial whining.

— ౨ৎ —

As much as Leah doesn't want to sleep, she finds herself sitting in front of the vanity as Anna performs her night routine. Her eyes hold a sense of sleepiness that betrays her words, ready to collapse onto the bed that is mere feet away from her and enter the land of dreams.

It isn't that simple though, as a loud scream pierces through the halls and draws alert from everyone in the manor. Both Leah and Anna glance at each other and the door, going back and forth.

"What was that?" Leah asks hesitantly, suddenly wide awake.

Anna places a cream down on the table with a nervous shake of her head. "I do not know, Mistress," she whispers.

Against her better judgment, Leah rises from her chair and opens the door, looking around to see if she notices anyone. When she doesn't, she gestures for Anna to follow and navigates through the sound of voices that come from down the hall. She shouldn't have.

Leah comes across the room where all the noise is coming from, sighing in irritation. 'Must they make so much racket?'

"Do you people have no respect for those that are trying to sleep?" she walks in wearing only her nightgown and a robe, her bare feet stopping against the floor when she sees Georg Von Siemens' lifeless body in the chair. "Oh!"

Turning around at the sound of his betrothed's voice, Ciel swiftly takes hold of her and buries her face into his shoulder. "Don't look!"

If this was any other scenario, Leah's face would be as red as a tomato. But unfortunately, she is in the same room as a dead body.

"Is he dead..?" Leah can't bring herself to raise her voice above a whisper.

Anna behind the pair has wide eyes, though nothing else about her expression seems to be disturbed. Despite her fear, she aims her focus at Leah and her comfort, bringing a hand to her hair and running it through. But at the sound of Arthur's words, her hand can't help but pause.

"He's dead!"

#ciel phantomhive #fanfic #black butler x reader #female oc #oc #black butler #sebastian michaelis #elizabeth midford #lau black butler #book of murder #agni black butler #prince soma #slow burn #ran mao #charles grey

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mostlydeadallday · 1 year ago

Text

Lost Kin | Chapter XXXVI | So Thin a Thread

Fandom: Hollow Knight Rating: Mature Characters: Hornet, Pure Vessel | Hollow Knight, Quirrel Category: Gen Content Warnings: dissociation, description of injuries, past abuse, flashbacks, unintentional misgendering, panic attacks, referenced child death, intrusive thoughts, unwanted touch AO3: Lost Kin | Chapter XXXVI | So Thin a Thread First Chapter | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter | Chronological Notes: Hornet makes a mistake. Hollow suffers the consequences.

Writing has slowed down recently due to receiving some monster edits (nervous laughter) and also due to having a houseguest. I've also encountered a lot of foreshadowing issues that I had previously said "nah, I'll save that for later" about and guess what? now it's later (I'm fine)

○

Quirrel was slipping. Hornet did not know him well, not enough to tell what it was that took up space behind his distant eyes, but she could see that it was something other than the present moment’s concerns.

She did not need this. She needed him here. She needed to know if this would work.

Hollow did not like him. Again, she had not dared to hope for much, but she had thought, perhaps, that they would not find him objectionable. His presence was steady, calming. Respectful in a way she could not quite quantify. Certainly he had a better bedside manner than hers. He had done nothing wrong that she could see—although he handled Hollow as if they were wrought of glass, he spoke to them like any other traveler he might meet along his way.

They might have been on a path toward accepting him; she could not tell. Not now that she had ruined it, though she still did not fully understand how.

Her sibling was locked down as tightly as she had ever seen them, refusing to even shift their gaze to follow her. Their throat crackled with each regimented breath, fist closed, claws tucked away where she could not see them twitch. They refused to react to her voice, to lean into her touch. They refused to do anything at all.

It was no use grasping at why they had reacted so strongly. They could not tell her, and any guesses she made would be pure speculation at best.

The best she could do was sit at their side, stroke their horns, and hope that she was providing something of a distraction, rather than contributing to the strain. They did not object to Quirrel’s touch, exactly, but they did not relax into it, as they often had before, with her. It was gentle, businesslike, carrying no intention of comfort—

But then again, neither had hers, at first.

They were not pulling away, though she’d given them leave to. She tried to content herself with that, as Quirrel slowly shifted from drying their shell to a closer inspection of the wounds she had cleaned, touching lightly, in case they were still tender.

She wasn’t sure how they could fail to be. Soul healing aside, they were still bereft of shell, and she winced as Quirrel ever-so-cautiously probed at the twisted scars and pockmarks in their charcoal-colored skin.

Hollow did not. There was no indication that they were not lost in their own mind somewhere, except that this was exactly how they had been while under her knife, and to take that inaction for apathy had been a grievous mistake.

Slowly, she reached down and pulled their hand into her lap, brushing their knuckles with her thumb, waiting for any indication that they might lash out at Quirrel, as they had attempted to do with her. No matter the guilt they appeared to feel regarding that action, no matter that she had deserved it. She would not risk her ally’s life on so thin a thread as this.

Quirrel looked up and met her eye, one hand keeping contact with her sibling’s side, below the worst of the injury. “This is good work,” he said, and when she glanced aside, he added, “I know you are not proud of it. Nonetheless, there was little else that could be done. And I would be hard-pressed to find anyone alive in this kingdom who could do better.”

She had nothing to say to that. I should have been gentler or I shouldn’t have rushed it or I should’ve noticed that it hurt them—all lodged below the lump in her throat that she knew would squeeze her voice thin if she tried.

He did not comment, although he did clear his throat uncomfortably in a poor attempt to break the stillness before going back to his task.

“These, here.” He indicated one of the empty blisters, the largest of them, looking like nothing more than a burst waterskin, empty and shriveled. Though not quite the right color to match Hollow’s skin, it was close enough that she suspected it had originally been part of them. He lifted the upper corner of it, showing her where it was separating from their shoulder like a dried-out scab. “They’re beginning to detach. I’d advise removing them before you continue.”

She nodded, unsure if she could manage anything more. Thankfully, he accepted her silence and moved on to the active infection in Hollow’s chest. He refrained from touching the swollen growths, only laying his hand down to measure them against the shrunken, half-filled sacs that had reappeared a day or so after her efforts.

“You did well to wait, I think, before attempting more.” He spoke almost absently, peering closer at the dull, diluted color of the looser cysts. “As hostile as the infection is to all forms of life, I recall that it seemed to have an especial antipathy to void.”

“Oh?”

“Well, yes.” He straightened. “The two are diametric opposites. Soul-based life was the primary target. As both are forms of light, the process of infection was simple. Void, however, proved extremely difficult to contaminate. Soul and void can co-exist, even synergize. But void and infection, or, more properly, void and dream, cannot. They are in constant conflict. One will always snuff out the other.”

Hornet had to take a moment before she could speak again. Her hand had tightened on Hollow’s without her knowledge.

When had she grown so attached? She could not point to a single moment. Not the first time they fell asleep under her hands, or the first time they spoke to her, or the moment she awoke sheltered in their arms. But somewhere in between, sometime during the mundane work of keeping her sibling alive, she had begun to see them as more than an obligation, more than a debt she must pay. When she imagined the Old Light extinguishing what life remained within them, it was not only the thought of her work being wasted that made her gut roil with cold, sick anger.

“And yet you say I did well to wait,” she muttered, unable to keep that anger from tainting her voice.

Careful. Hollow did not need to think that she was angry at them again, and it would only confuse Quirrel if assumed her wrath was meant for him instead.

Fortunately, he seemed too taken with his theory to have noticed. “I believe so. The synthesis of void and soul is more resistant to dream than either alone. Hence the creation of vessels.” He paused, glanced at her. “What you have done is given the void a chance to regroup and fight back against the intrusion. As well as forced the infection to concentrate at the surface, rather than raging unchecked as fever through their body.”

Hollow’s breath shuddered briefly. Her attention snapped to them, to the break in the pattern of repression, but they gave her no more—only stared at the ceiling, their fist half-clenched in her lap, their mask lying still beneath her hand.

“That said,” Quirrel continued, oblivious, “I would not wait much longer. Allowing the infection to persist will do more harm than good, now.”

“I know,” she whispered. There was more that she intended to say, but the enormity of the situation rushed over her and she could not breathe.

She would have to hurt them again. She would have to cut them apart and pull poison from their veins, and the worst part was that they trusted her to do it, had trusted her even while she laid them open, and afterward when she left them alone in a dark room with their wounds still bleeding, when she should have been there to console them, to make up in some trivial way for what she had done—

Someone said her name, soft and expectant, and for a blank, thoughtless instant she thought it could have been Hollow, until she shook herself and lifted her head, and it was Quirrel, of course it was Quirrel.

“Tomorrow,” she said. “I-I will do it tomorrow.”

Quirrel looked like he might want to say more, but he only bowed his head and removed his hands from her sibling’s shell. “Of course. I think… that would be best.”

○

It did not move.

This was as it had always been. As it always should be. It lay still for examinations. It lay still for the spells to weave over and around and through its body. It lay still when it was alone, when the walls and ceiling shone so brightly and for so long that its eyes burned, when all its joints ached from the chill of the marble and the core-deep scars of blade and soul. And it lay still when the others were there, whether its father’s cold, careful hands were working over it, or the warm, blunt, indifferent touch of the scholars and spellwrights. It lay still.

No one had ever held its hand while it lay there. No one ever saw a need to.

And it never had needed it, before now.

Its sister’s touch was constant, distracted but continuous. A slow rasp of her palm along the inner curves of its horns. A graze of her thumb over the crack through its eye. A warm weight on the back of its hand, with an occasional stroke across its knuckles.

It should feel ashamed of what she knew of it, of how quickly she had picked out its weaknesses and made use of them, turning fault against fault, keeping it calm with just the tangible pressure of her presence.

Or as calm as it could be. Though the warmth of her beside it was more comfort than it had ever dared to ask for, every brush of the scholar’s hands across its shell made the void beneath churn with unease.

He did not call himself a scholar, he had said, but the cadence of his words and the paths of his thoughts were identical to the ones that it had known, enough so that the distinction meant little. His touch, too, was… familiar. In a way that it intimately remembered. It could not stop its own response to that. It could do nothing about that at all. Everything about him was gentle, every word well-measured and softly spoken, and yet it could not stifle the expectation that—

That what? There would be pain? There was always pain, even though its sister had done everything she could to reclaim its body from the light. Every breath, every heartbeat hurt; it could not remember the last time its own existence had been painless.

No, it was not pain that its fragile body feared. What, then?

It was not meant to be examining its own thoughts like this. It was not meant to have thoughts to examine, or a mind to examine them with.

Yet it was already corrupted, far too faulty for its original use. Should it put those faults to use to better serve its wielders? If it could not now be sacrificed again, if its impurity had damned it, what else could it be used for? If that use demanded anything like its former standard of control, it was already doomed to fail.

Perhaps that was irrelevant. It could not stop its cursed mind stirring, any more than it could stop the twist and writhe of void beneath Quirrel’s hand. But it would not crack where he could see, would not let loose the terror that strained to break free, would not—

Was this what it feared? This newcomer becoming aware of its faults? His gaze was as sharp as his mind, piercing it through to its essence. He was certain to find out. There seemed to be only so long it could go without descending into helpless panic. But though that familiar fear pulsed beneath its mask now, it was not alone; there was another joining it. A new fear, too bright to see directly, as sharp and hot as the invading light, and just as damning.

He knew of vessels, its sister had said. He had worked beside the Teacher-Dreamer Monomon. He—

“These marks.” Quirrel’s voice came from near its knees; it could not see him well, not with its head resting stiffly on the pillows placed to keep its horns off the floor. “They’re left by offensive soul-spells, yes?”

“Yes.”

“Mm.” His warm hand skimmed across its shell, then lifted. The pain that woke under his touch was different than the rest, a slow-burning throb that sank down through its shell and into the flesh beneath. “Thankfully, these should heal without intervention. The damage to their legs goes deep, but will right itself with time.”

That word again. Their. A crooked plate, a limb out of joint. Its sister and the scholar spoke over it, as it was familiar with, but they did not do so as they should. As it expected. As it had always heard before.

It… was not to respond in any way. It must remind itself of that. The way its wielder referred to it was none of its concern. It understood that people often grew attached to inanimate things: weapons, tools. That did not make those things deserving of affection, or of respect. It was not deserving of this way that they spoke of it, or the gentleness with which they handled it, or the needless comfort its sister insisted on bestowing.

She had paused as he explained, her hand falling still on its horn. Deserving or not, it could not stop its tension spiraling higher, a painful pressure swelling in its chest, independent of the mass of light that still beat there. This was all its own: its own weakness, its own twisted desire, a desire it had not known it had—a gnawing hunger acknowledged only after it was sated.

She resumed after a moment, and the pressure eased—fortunately before the strain in its tattered lungs could give it away. Its heart settled back into rhythm, pain drumming in its mask with every rapid beat.

It could endure this. This was a test like any other. A test simple enough that, even in its broken state, it would be a disgrace to fail.

Previously, there would have been no question of its ability. Inspections were routine, especially between molts, or after healing from wounds acquired in training. This was unnervingly similar, in fact. The whispering rain, the persistent ache of its missing arm, and the idle touches on its face and hand grounded it in the present, but in many other ways, it could have been laid out upon a marble slab in the Palace while its father’s assistants performed one of their many assessments.

But why would the press of his hands and the weight of his gaze sicken it so? Simply because he was a scholar, like the many others it had known, faces and masks that came and went, voices and words that meant nothing more to it than the motes of drifting soul? Had it feared them then, and merely forgotten, or denied itself the knowledge of that weakness?

It should have no reason to fear a scholar. They were merely the hands of its father, instructed by him to bring it closer to its intended perfection. And yes, their touch had often hurt—but then again, so had his.

Its body was determined to ignore these facts. Its body wanted to shrink away, to press back into the blankets, to cringe from the touch that stirred some urge within it that it did not understand.

The past felt close, closer than it had for an age, as if the vessel could reach out and pierce the membrane with its claws, allowing its former life to bleed through to the present like the insides of an egg.

If only it could summon the clarity and stillness with which it had once been so familiar. If only it did not require the constant stroke of its sister’s hand along its horns to keep it calm.

If only it could pretend to be empty once more.

“What I wouldn’t give for a clock,” the scholar muttered. “And a thermometer.” His hand was on its shell again, just above its hip, and it suffered through a wave of nausea that threatened to sweep it away. Its heartbeat surged.

He could feel none of that, the vessel knew, from his palm against its plating. He did not know of its fear.

“A what?” Hornet asked.

“Thermometer? A device that monitors temperature, using predictable expansion in certain liquids.” His hand moved higher, closer to the infection, and he was silent for a moment before shaking his head. “The Madam sponsored its development. It was, among other things, a much more precise method for detecting fevers, which proved useful in the early stages of infection.” He sighed, stepped back, and raised one hand to his chin. “Unfortunately, the plague progressed too quickly for such things. They never became common, and I would not know where to find one.”

Its sister hummed, politely sympathetic, and it felt the way her voice moved through her body, the ripple of sound transferring to its mask through the weight of her hand. A nameless warmth unfurled over it, a strained, aching sweetness rising to answer the pull of her voice upon it, something inside it reaching up toward her, longing to be seen. She did not seem to notice anything amiss, even as it fought to bury the feeling. “And the clock?”

The silence lasted a beat too long. Quirrel took a long breath. “A clock, or a chronometer, measures the passage of—”

“I know what a clock is,” Hornet interrupted. A tautness had crept into her posture, her hand going stiff before she breathed out, low, faintly hissing, and relaxed. “Why do you need one?”

“Ah. Um.”

The scholar had the sense to be taken aback, at least. Its sister was formidable, whether armed with steel, silk, or nothing at all, and she did not take kindly to insults, even unwitting ones.

She had been the cause of many muttered oaths from its father shortly after her arrival in the Palace. The royals had soon learned that their glancing slights were met with bared fangs and an immediate invitation to duel—and, later, a reprimand from their monarch, scribed into stone with the king’s seal glowing in the corner. The vessel itself had witnessed multiple offenses and as many quick rebukes, as well as its father’s frustration: the tightness in his voice as he dictated the messages, the stiffness in his shoulders as he pushed aside guard reports and City maintenance projects to reach for his notes and missives on Deepnest.

Its sister came from a strange culture, it knew. A place far less refined than the palace, wilder and darker than anywhere within the borders of the kingdom. Its father’s light did not shine there, and his laws held no sway. It was no surprise that such a land’s inhabitants would be fierce and hardy, quick to strike with both their weapons and their words.

When Quirrel spoke again, it was muted, perhaps in tacit apology. That seemed wise. Perhaps she would not need to challenge him after all. “A clock would be helpful in much the same way a thermometer would. I would very much like to establish a baseline—temperature, duration of sleep, heart rate, respiratory function. Without having precise measurements of time, however, much of that information would be subjective. Guesswork, at best.”

“Guesswork is better than nothing,” Hornet said. “Can we start now?”

The tension was back in her shoulders, in her arm with every stroke, and it felt a similar strain drawing its body tight despite her efforts.

It had known that it would be exposed, but it had hoped—do not—it had thought, perhaps—do not—

No, no, it was broken, defective, it could not help but think, but hope, and it had hoped that this would not come so soon. If he intended to pin it down, to measure and catalog its faults, it had no choice but to submit; its sister wanted this, regardless of how the prospect made the void twist and knot within it.

“We can,” Quirrel mused. His voice was warbling, distant, and the vessel attempted to refocus, to bring the world back into clarity. To control that which it no longer had a grasp of—regardless of how steadily it breathed, how intensely it stared at the ceiling, the beat within its chest sped higher, and a bright haze crept farther and farther into its vision. “It will certainly suffice until we can do better.”

“Then what should I do?”

Hornet stopped petting it, her hand unmoving on its mask, and it nearly pressed its face into her touch, nearly begged for her to have mercy on it. No, it could not do that, it must endure, should not even need this comfort in the first place. Lie still. Lie still.

“Heart rate should be simple to record, if you know of a place to take it.”

“I have an idea.”

Lie still. It had only to lie still. It had only to obey, to push its fears away, to breathe in and out and ignore the sensation of its traitorous, fluttering heart attempting to beat free of its ribs. It could not hide any longer, though it wanted to; it wanted to crawl into the dark and curl into itself and press its face to its knees until the world disappeared.

Why, why was this so difficult, why was its mind a labyrinth of blades and spikes and thorns, hostile at every turn, why was this one thing enough to take it apart when it had experienced the same and worse, much, much worse before—

Its sister tugged on its horn. She was whispering something soft; its own name, the name she had given it, surfaced from beneath the enclosing fog, but it could hear nothing else besides the ringing in its skull. Her grasp was gentle, not enough to truly stir it, but it moved with her, obeying, as it was meant to.

She inched closer, crossing her knees beneath her and guiding it onto its side. As she laid its head in her lap, it felt the warmth of her legs against its cheek through the thick weave of her cloak. Its hand was still trapped beneath hers, it could not pull away, no matter that she had told it that it might; it would not.

This was what she wanted for it. She wished to know of its flaws; it was powerless to hide them from her. She wished for this scholar to record its faults; it must allow him to do so.

Please please please—it would obey, it would be good—

Sister’s claws brushed beneath its chin. Just the barest touch, before she grasped its jaw and tilted its head up, exposing its throat.

No. NO.

Her wrist rested on its mask, holding it still, her fingers draped over its jaw, across its mouth, trusting, trusting it—

She should not. There was a hiss building in its throat, a crawling itch inside in its teeth. It should hold still, it should not move, but its instincts drove a hot current beneath its shell, a crackling charge that set every plate on edge.

It felt the buzz of her voice through its mask. She spoke to the scholar, and he stepped closer, a bluish blur against the shadows in the room—

Four eyes staring down at it. Pale knife in a pale hand.

It felt the thrum of void through its throat, swift and thin, and the pulse of pain through its cracked mask, and—

The press of soul-bands round its wrists.

Wrists not its own, hands too small, claws chipped, cracked, and worn blunt, carving valleys in the marble—

The chill of void-loss in its limbs.

Far more void than it had ever lost, far more cold than it had ever felt, the final chill of a death it had never been granted—

The echo of its breath: panting, panting, panting.

It knew, suddenly, with the swift certainty of lightning and the finality of thunder. It knew what the scholar was here for.

He had come to finish it.

○

Something was wrong.

Perhaps it was only because she was holding Hollow’s face in her lap, but Hornet felt a chill spreading through her. This pose was meant to offer Quirrel a better view as she took their pulse, with their head across her legs to bare their throat. She’d been prepared to reconsider if they seemed hesitant, but they had gone with her almost eagerly, she thought. Now, though, the skin beneath her fingers was drawn taut, and a nervous spasm rippled down their throat, shifting their jaw until she felt the grate of their teeth through her shell.

This was a spectacularly bad idea.

The impression came too quickly for her to do anything more than lift her head and draw breath to speak; Quirrel was already too close, reaching down to steady himself as he knelt in front of her, and an icy certainty pierced her mind—Hollow was going to hurt him, and there was nothing she could do.

Her grip curled tighter on their mask, claws clenching, a helpless reflex that would do no good against their strength, their speed, their terror that she had not sensed until too late—

She nearly shouted as Hollow jerked back. Quick as a wasp, moving far faster than she’d thought them still capable of. She nearly did not have time to let go, nearly hooked and dragged her claws into their throat as they yanked their head away from her.

Blind fear took hold. She scrambled back, shoving Quirrel to the side, bowling him over and out of reach. Soul flooded to her fingers, cold air pouring into her lungs, vision narrowed to the white of Hollow’s mask and the black daggers of their claws. Now, they would strike out, her instincts cried. Now they would lurch up and snap at her, knock her over and pin her down, drive those void-touched talons straight into her heart.

Nothing. Nothing but the slow curl of her sibling’s shoulders into a mortified hunch, and the sudden, rough sawing of their breath through their throat as they began to sob.

Quirrel propped himself on one elbow, his confusion bleeding rapidly into shock. “Stay back,” she hissed, already moving. She did not need him trying to help and making things worse. Whatever had set Hollow off this time, his presence had no doubt contributed. She could have cursed herself for pushing them too far, for not noticing how close they stood to the edge.

To his credit—and Hornet’s relief—he did not test her.

She forced his presence from her mind. She wanted to be alone, to comb over her actions and pick out her own faults, but she could not have that, should not even want it. She could not afford to be so selfish, not now.

Instead, she crept back and knelt at Hollow’s side, ignoring their obvious flinch, though the wretched fear in their eyes cut her to the quick. Their chest was heaving, mouth and vents both gaping open as they gulped breath after quivering breath.

She had frightened them. Despite everything, she had forgotten how terribly afraid they were, how little reason they had to trust her. She had asked of them something she doubted she could do herself, a vulnerability she would find more than difficult to show, and lost sight of the fact that they had as much reason as she to object to it.

As much and more. It would be no small thing, to bare her throat to a stranger. And, despite all her scars, she had still not been hurt as deeply as her sibling had.

She’d miscalculated. She’d taken their obedience for granted, and now here they were once again—breathless and scared and expecting far, far worse than she could ever have the heart do to them.

“Hollow,” she breathed, and the way her voice shook was not important, not important at all. She reached for them, incautiously, hoping against hope that whatever misplaced loyalty they held for her would not fail her now. And when they flinched again, her fragile calm nearly shattered, except that they halted before pulling further away, seeming to hold themselves down against the bed as if bound there.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, “I’m sorry,” and she didn’t know why it was so easy now, why it took seeing her sibling shaking and fighting to breathe before she could say it, but she meant it, meant it for all the times she had been too proud to say it before. “I didn’t mean—I didn’t—”

All the rest of her air escaped in a meaningless rush, pushing out of her throat like a sob of her own, but she couldn’t cry now. Quirrel was there, still in the room, and more importantly, Hollow needed her. Needed her to be present, as she had not been before, needed her not to ignore their distress for the sake of easing her own.

They had not taken a full breath since pulling away from her, trapped in the same quick, shallow rhythm that she remembered from the day they had first spoken of their own accord. She wanted nothing more than to take hold of them and drag them free somehow, but they’d already flinched away from her once; she did not think she could take it if they did so again.

Instead, she slowly reached down to touch their hand, giving them time to expect it, although the void behind their eyes still spasmed at her touch.

“Easy,” she said. “Easy, I’m here. You’re—you are safe.”

Something caught in their throat at that, a high, choked-off keen wavering just at the edge of her hearing. Behind her, Quirrel groaned softly, a sound of heart-torn sympathy that she hadn’t the space to think about now.

Turning their hand until she could slip her own into it, she wrapped her fingers around as many of theirs as she could manage, squeezing tight, offering what she could—something to hold onto, an anchor against the encroaching tide. Her own heart was racing still, and she could think of nothing that would fix this.

They trusted her. And her actions had worn that trust thin enough to snap.

She could do nothing now but reach out again, spinning a single thread over empty space and hoping it would hold.

Hornet had to swallow once before she could speak. She would not push forward again, not until she knew they would accept it, not until she could be sure she was not terrifying them. She would have to try something else. She would have to talk them through it.

Could they even hear her? Whatever panic had them lying rigid in its jaws, it was bad enough that their vacant stare went right through her, the movement of the void within their mask erratic and unfocused, as unstable as their breath, as the helpless quiver in their hand, even as she tried to hold it steady.

“Listen. Listen to me,” she said, and try as she might, the words came stilted, distant, nowhere near as strong and sure as they needed her to be.

It would have to be enough.

○

Someone was speaking to it.

It could not answer—would not—could not. Was an answer expected of it? That was not right; it was not meant to answer, surely. It was a test—another test—

Another test that it would fail, another way in which it was broken, another flaw, another crack in its façade—

When would it happen? It should feel the blade at its throat at any moment now. It was damaged, dangerous; it could not be trusted, not even with the smallest of the tasks it had once performed with ease. Not even with the first orders that had been given it.

Lie still.

It could not bear the strain any longer. It could not push back the growing fear. That was plain to see now, when it could not even hold itself together for the simplest examination, when the presence of a single scholar in the room was enough to send it into madness.

Madness it was, truly; the vessel had no cause to act on its own, no grounds to do what it had done. And oh, even thinking of it was enough to make the vessel cower, to make its head go light, to squeeze the air from its aching lungs in a silent cry that none would ever hear.

It had defied its sister’s will. It had pulled away from her, resisted her purpose for it, and it should be punished. It could not be trusted, and she knew that—her instincts served her well, to push away from it. The appalling nature of its actions was proof of its treacherous nature. It no longer knew what it might do.

Its mind was an uproar, a chaotic clamor of panic and pain and things better left forgotten, things it had not even known it could remember anymore.

The scholar had made to approach it, and its sister had stretched its head out upon her lap, and it had thought—

It had almost seen, flickering before his face, another. It had almost felt blunt fingers on its skin. And it had known what would be next. The cold bite of a soul-blade, the numbing bitterness of void. The desperate surge of a thoughtless, maddened shade against its bonds—

A trace of warmth against its hand. It could not see, not truly; what should have been a high, arched room washed in blue was nothing but a blur filled with flickering shadows. And its sister’s voice as she tried to comfort it—to comfort it—quavered like a fading song, its hearing gone as vague and faithless as its sight.

“Easy,” it heard, and then, “I’m here,” and the simple solace in her words crushed its chest tight, wringing another soundless whine from its throat. She was trying, again, to give it what it never should have needed, and it hurt, and the vessel did not know why.

It should have been far beyond asking why it suffered. Far beyond trying to make sense of its pain. But this was something new. Somehow, even after enduring every whim of the goddess, every taunt and torture she could fathom, there were still ways it could be hurt, fresh wounds opening alongside old scars that had long ceased to bleed.

It was a terror to be seen, to be known. It was a long-feared, wrenching horror to be something capable of being known. And yet the fear was not simple, not any longer. There was something else, now, something deeper, something hot and heavy and ready to crush it.

It was no longer only afraid that its sister wished to understand it. It was afraid that she would stop.

What had she done to it?

Between one choking breath and another, her hand wrapped around its own, her grip tighter than she had held it yet, tight enough to startle it—and warm, singing with life against its cold, dead shell. It could not rightly see, or hear, but it could feel this. It could feel her here with it, despite every reason for her to walk away.

Its mind was a broken blade, shards of steel that lay strewn about, still sharp enough to cut a careless hand. This new memory… this thing that it had seen… it was a danger to her, just as the others had been. If it tried to remember, if it tried to forget once more, it made no difference—eventually, it would slip. It would slice itself open on the edge of its own mind, and perhaps this time it would not be the only one to bleed.

She should stay away from it. What was she doing? Why did she not give it what it deserved? It was useless. It kept on disappointing her. It would hurt her, sooner or later. Its frayed control would snap, and she would pay for it.

Why?

“Listen,’’ she said, intent, and her voice sent another tremor through it, another quake through the fractured resolve at its core. “Listen to me.”

Anything. It would do anything for her, as long as it was able.

Her face came into focus before it, beyond the strangling shadows in its vision, beyond the glaring after-images from its past. She was… unsettled, it thought. It heard a quiver in her breath, and her eyes darted over it, again and again, searching with a hunter’s eye for some enemy to seek out and destroy.

There was none, nothing it could offer her, unless she could part it from its terror. It had faith in her; she was quick and strong and clever, but it did not think even she could manage that.

She could not see into its mind—it would not wish her to be witness to the horrors there, all the many ways that the Radiance had warped it, all the dreadful visions that had been forced into its thoughts. Hornet could not see, could not know, all the myriad ways it had found to be afraid, all the traps it had set for itself, its former control turning against it as every step revealed another pitfall.

But this—this was something the Radiance had had no hand in. It was sure of that. The gleam of this new memory was untarnished, untouched by rot; it was one that the goddess had never uncovered or had simply passed by. Whatever terror awaited, it was fully to blame—the grasping tendrils of its past were reaching out to embrace it, to pull it down as soon as it stumbled.

It trembled, briefly, violently, and a soft, hushing chirr left its sister’s throat, a sound that struck it through to its heart.

“You have done well, Hollow,” she said. “You’ve done what I asked. I said that you could pull away from anything you please, as long as I did not tell you otherwise, and that is what you’ve done.”

She did not understand. It would not have done so, had it had any choice—had its fear not seized hold of it, had it not bowed to baser instincts that it thought long worn away. The action was to its shame alone—there was nothing to praise it for.

Whether the phantom it had seen foreshadowed its fate, whether she intended to do away with it or had another use in mind, did not matter. It was created by and for the will of others. Its only purpose was to bow to the whims of those who wielded it, and it had, once again, gone against that, doing something it was never meant to do.

It had stared into the face of its own destruction, and it had flinched.

Foolish, to have ever considered itself a knight. An empty title for an empty being—an empty role, for a thing so filled with faults that it could not live up to any of the names that had been granted to it.

It was not empty. Not as it should have been.

It wheezed again, attempting to lock its breathing down, attempting to do what she wanted, to accomplish one of the few things she had asked of it, pitiful as that effort was now.

In response, she wrapped her other hand around it, too, where its fingers had gone numb, seized by that same terrible, buzzing haze that had invaded its vision. Her voice reached it, pleading, still, trying to calm it. “It’s… it’s all right. Hollow, it’s all right. I’m here.”

Yes, and that was the problem. She should not be. She should leave it behind, for her own good. There was nothing for her here, nothing but disaster.

Its breathing caught up on this snag, a lurching hiccup that it could not quite stifle. Sister’s hand squeezed tighter in return. “I am sorry to have frightened you. You have nothing to fear.”

When she said it, the vessel almost wished it could believe her.

It dared to shift its fingers, to squeeze her hand back, gently, gently, not so much that it would hurt her. The warmth of her grip seemed to thaw it, little by little, sensation reaching back up its arm and toward its frozen heart. And she was whispering to it, still, things that it could barely understand, but with every shift of its fingers in hers she would praise it, stroking its knuckles, offering it little half-heard words of approval, words that made something inside it go as weak as water.

Every breath was lighter than the one before. The fog began to recede, rolling back from its sight like a curtain pulled away from a window. Its sister’s head was tilted, staring intensely into its face, and it recognized the moment she realized that it could see her once more.

“There,” she breathed. “There, that’s it.” Her hands crushed its own, clinging so tightly that it could begin to feel the pricking of her claws into its palm. Nowhere near as large or strong as its own grip, but so warm, so alive—and so fragile.

It could hurt her so easily. It would take so little. A forbidden fear. A misplaced memory. An instinct, long ignored.

But if she did not intend to leave it, it must try. It must learn. To master its own mind, to make itself strong enough to save her. To protect her. To be sparing with its strength, to be soft, as soft as she was with it.

It would try to learn not to fear, if she wished for it to do so. If that was what would keep her safe.

It might be a hopeless cause. The vessel would be afraid forever, it seemed. There was little she could do to change that.

But the faith she placed in it, misguided though that was, almost made it hope it might be wrong.

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#lost kin fic #lost kin chapter #hollow knight #hollow knight fanfic #mywriting #hk the hollow knight #hk hornet #hk quirrel #hk

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