#good luck to them both of their new chapter

[redux-iterum]

Charred Legacy: Chapter Forty-Three

(AO3 counterpart here.)

Before Fireheart could really ponder over Yellowfang’s words, he was back to work—though now, at least, with a strengthened, newly bloomed energy. Whitecloud gave him orders and discussed tasks with him, looking at him as keenly as he had before Fireheart had talked to him about deputyship. Perhaps he sensed Fireheart’s returned willpower… not that it really mattered. Fireheart had a job to do, and he was going to do it.

As if to praise him for his brightened attitude, the oppressively cloudy skies turned ragged and patched, revealing the stars and the moon. Suriin’s half-shut eye grinned as the air’s chill lost its biting edge, apologetically pulling the fog back.

“Don’t let that ease you,” Yellowfang said to Fireheart one clear night. “Things that frolic in the mist are still about. Follow not a silhouette or a scent you do not recognize.”

Not the least of which being the dogs, Fireheart thought as he nodded respectfully.

The snow was not keen on going away; it hardened and crunched under paws, sticking to the ground and turning brown, losing its oddly calming beauty. Cats had to step carefully to avoid making too much sound, often following well-trod paths where the soil rebelliously fought back and reemerged. Granted, it was still freezing, but it was so good to have solid ground under Fireheart’s paws again.

However, despite what Fireheart had been told, prey did not return as quickly. The plant life of the forest had not grown back yet, leaving most of the prey that had not retired underground or fled south in the fall to wander further away from the usual hunting spots in search of anything they could eat. What could be caught was still skinny and stringy, and most of it went to the nursery’s tenants and the elders. Fireheart wondered more than once, going to bed with a growling gut, if this was how ShadowClan felt all the time.

That wasn’t the end of their troubles. The dogs were still wandering around, now in the south, never spotted but always scented to varying degrees of freshness. The Clan was left with very little fresh ground that had anything to hunt, but no one was bold enough to risk heading south and testing their luck.

Greystripe, though, had an idea, one that he whispered to Fireheart for him to suggest (“I don’t think Whitecloud would be keen on hearing it from me,” he said). Fireheart quickly went to the deputy as he was visiting his aunt in her stinking den and reported it to them both.

Whitecloud blinked. “You think we should try it?”

“I do,” Fireheart said, trying to ignore the squint of puzzlement Bluestar was giving him. He had long given up on her remembering him. “We really should have been hunting there earlier, but, well, the dogs made that a bad idea. But now that they seem to be near Sunningrocks…”

“I understand.” Whitecloud’s eyes were lit with approval. “Get a patrol together and head that way. I hope you find something good.”

Fireheart bowed his head to both of his leaders and backed out of the den, turning around and trotting back into camp. It was still very early; only a few cats were awake, none of them eating the meager rations that could hardly be called a prey-pile.

“Teaselfoot, Sandstorm, Frostfur,” he called. “Could you come with me, please?”

The cats in question looked up and joined together in front of the smaller warrior, but they all regarded him with the same respect they gave Dustpelt and Whitecloud. It did, admittedly, make Fireheart feel just a little bit taller.

“I’ve spoken with Whitecloud about an idea of where to hunt,” he explained. “You don’t have to come with me if you don’t approve, but I think it’s going to guarantee us a meal or two.”

Teaselfoot’s ears perked. “Well, well, Fireheart’s going to suggest something unusual. That’s new.”

Frostfur swatted him with her tail. “Where are we going?”

Fireheart braced himself for protests. “The Houses.” Before any of them could react, he hurried on. “The humans constantly have their seed-bags full in their yards. I know how well those squirrels and birds eat. We couldn’t go there before because, you know, the dogs, but I think we should try our luck while the dogs are elsewhere.” Sandstorm narrowed her eyes. “Yes, I know, the Clan doesn’t really know how to hunt there, but I do. I can give you some tips as we go. Are you interested?”

The older warriors looked between each other, silently trading curiosity and skepticism. Fireheart held his breath, waiting for all of them to say no.

Frostfur was the first one to speak. “I think we should do it. I’m in.”

“Yeah, I’ll go too,” Sandstorm said. “If for nothing else, for a chance at a decent meal.”

Teaselfoot sighed dramatically with good-natured teasing. “You’re really twisting my tail here, Fireheart, but I suppose I can’t refuse the offer to feed my Clanmates.”

Fireheart snorted. “Feel free to turn around at any time. Come on.”

The patrol was in the woods in moments. The snow outside of camp had been trampled down enough that there were plenty of paths to take to keep their steps quiet, even as they thinned out the further away from home they got. Fireheart picked the one he knew best and started off at a brisk pace, his Clanmates following and chatting behind him.

“If only the dogs hadn’t been here this winter,” Frostfur said. “We could’ve gotten so many good meals.”

“Yeah, but then we’d have to contend with kittypets whining about strangers taking their food,” Sandstorm said. “No offense, Fireheart.”

Fireheart looked back at her. “Actually, I didn’t know any cats who hunted when I lived there. One cat told everyone he did, but I know for a fact he never left his yard.”

“Ooh, kittypet lore.” Teaselfoot craned his neck forward. “Was he the one that told you about us?”

“Oh, no, everyone knew about you,” Fireheart said, turning around again. “Even far back into the neighborhood, kittens were warned to never go into the woods, or they’d be eaten by giants. I don’t think the grown-ups believed it, but it kept everyone behind the fences.”

“As they should be,” Sandstorm said. “You think you’ll see any cats you know, or are they scared of the snow?”

Rosy and Smudge, please don’t find me and give the game away, Fireheart thought. “It’s a little too cold and dark for them right now, I’m sure. My one friend only ever came out at night because I liked to, and I’d make him explore with me. If he’s still around, he should be asleep.”

To his relief, his Clanmates accepted this, turning to each other now and talking about hunting. Fireheart led on, offering a word or two when a question was lobbed his way.

They were within sight of the Houses when a strong scent hit his nose. He stopped, lifting his tail for everyone to copy him, which they did.

“Humans are close,” he said in a low voice. “Look and see if you can spot them before we get to the street.”

Sandstorm growled under her breath. Hesitantly, the patrol continued on, their eyes, ears, and noses keen. The evergreen plants were reoccurring through this part of the forest, blocking their usually clearer (albeit branch-infested) views. Wherever the humans were, they were being quiet, too, and this close to the Houses, their scents were more or less everywhere.

Finally, a voice sounded off, shouting into the woods and making all of the cats jump. Fireheart crouched and scooted to the right until he was well-hidden by a bush and could peer out of it, his Clanmates following suit.

Through the stiff leaves and bare twigs, there was a pair of humans. Both were garishly colored with their heads covered and hair hidden. The shorter one was speaking to their companion—from the tone, they were scolding them, and by their loud whisper, they were not eager to be heard. The second one’s face twisted and stretched in a grimace, but they said nothing, just shifted the long grey thing in their paws and lifted it slightly.

“Stars help us,” Teaselfoot whispered, sounding almost scared. “I know that thing.”

Fireheart looked at him. “What is it?”

“A rronakrak*.” Teaselfoot’s tail puffed out in agitation. “I’ve heard of them in stories. They’re the claws of humans.”

Fireheart peered at the thing. “It doesn’t look too dangerous to me.”

“You’ve never seen one before?” Sandstorm hissed. “I thought you had a stone that showed you things.”

“I guess it didn’t have one of those on there.” Fireheart rolled a shoulder as best as he could. “What’s wrong with it?”

Frostfur now, calmer than the younger warriors. “Stories say a human just points that thing at something, and the end of it explodes with thunder and fire louder than any noise in the world.”

“And then whatever it was pointed at dies instantly,” Sandstorm added with another muted growl. “See, this is why humans are mucked up. They have the audacity to steal the fire of Horoa and turn it into a tool of murder. So many animals just trying to live their lives get killed by what should be ours, and should never be a weapon used by some random mortal.”

 Fireheart frowned in confusion. “I thought Horoa kills things, too.”

“Monsters and wraiths, sure,” Sandstorm said flippantly. “But they don’t count. They’re dangerous and ought to be dead.”

Fireheart was about to ask, “Well, didn’t his fire nearly kill us?”, but the humans started walking forward, heading past the faces of the cats, still talking to each other. Human-like, they never noticed their audience, and shuffled through the snow further into the forest. The rronakrak was pointed down the entire time, harmlessly cradled in its bearer’s hold.

“What do you think they’re going to kill?” Teaselfoot whispered, as if the humans could hear them from this far away.

Fireheart immediately perked up. “I think they’re looking for the dogs!”

“We should be so lucky,” Frostfur muttered. “They’re probably going after a deer or one of us.”

“We have no reason to be killed,” Fireheart told her with a bit of sternness, like she was a paranoid apprentice. “If they wanted us dead, they would have done it before I ever came to ThunderClan. I saw the humans before the fire with one of those things, and never before that. It’s most likely dog-related.”

His Clanmates didn’t look convinced, but he could see the hope dawning in their eyes. He gave a firm, supportive nod, then beckoned with his tail.

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s get some prey before they come back.”

Whitecloud was somehow calmly startled when Fireheart’s patrol burst into camp, each carrying a piece of prey (Fireheart had two; he hoped some cats noticed). They tossed their prey onto the pile and rushed up to Whitecloud, ignoring the surprised looks on everyone’s faces.

“We saw some humans in the woods,” Fireheart said immediately.

Hisses and growls, as he had assumed, followed this news. Whitecloud waited for the noise to stop before asking, “Did you see where they went?”

“They were on the Houses border,” Fireheart explained, “and they went deeper into our territory. We didn’t see them again—we just hunted and came back here as quickly as we were done.”

“Then they could be anywhere,” Dustpelt said, coming to stand beside Whitecloud. “Would you say they went south…?”

Fireheart nodded, finishing Dustpelt’s thought. “Where the dogs are.”

“They had a rronakrak,” Frostfur added. “Fireheart thinks they’re looking for the dogs.”

Murmurs followed this, cats looking at each other questioningly, as if their Clanmates had the answers.

“Humans don’t usually hunt dogs,” Whitecloud mused. “They hunt with them. But the deer aren’t around yet, either, and the pheasants are gone…”

“There’s no other reason for them to be around,” Fireheart said. “They don’t kill cats with those, do they?” At Whitecloud’s headshake, he continued eagerly, “So the only thing here of interest is a pack of cat-killing dogs. I’m sure of it now—they’re here to help us.”

Dustpelt frowned. “That’s very ideal, Fireheart, but we can’t count on that to be the end of our problems. You have the chance to be wrong.”

“As in anything,” Fireheart replied simply. “But I have the chance to be right, too.”

Dustpelt gave him a skeptical head-tilt, but he said nothing else. The Clan spoke to each other—and, to Fireheart’s delight, a few of them seemed optimistic at the prospect.

“What’s our next move?” Mousefur asked. Fireheart wasn’t sure if she was asking Whitecloud specifically, from how her head turned to him and Dustpelt too.

Whitecloud took a moment to close his eyes in thought, before opening them again and moving to the meeting stump. The Clan gathered around immediately; all faces turned up to him with hope and fear.

“As long as the dogs are still scented in the south,” he announced, “we will continue to hunt in the north. Fireheart, it’s clear that your hunting patrol to the Houses went well—” Exclamations interrupted him as cats stared at Fireheart. “I approved it, everyone, stay calm. I think that we can make a couple trips here and there beyond that border, if hunting doesn’t improve here in our own territory. Fireheart, you won’t mind leading more patrols that way?”

“I’d be happy to,” Fireheart responded, his own voice loud and clear.

“Then that will be an emergency plan.” Whitecloud’s tail waved and curled. “For now, we’ll keep our noses to the ground and watch the humans if they continue to tramp around our territory. Stay north, and stay close to camp if you can help it.”

“When can we train outside again?” Brackenpaw shouted, clamping his mouth like he hadn’t meant to say that out loud.

Whitecloud gave him an amused look. “When we can safely say the dogs are gone. If Fireheart’s right, and those humans are here to take care of them for us, that may come sooner than later.”

Out of the corner of Fireheart’s eye, Cloudpaw shuffled his feet uncomfortably, his tail tucked between his legs. Fireheart made a mental note to keep an eye on him tonight.

“Is that all the news?” Whitecloud asked Fireheart. At Fireheart’s nod, he said to the Clan, “For now, let’s stay inside camp tonight. We’ve got prey to last us for a night, and we’ll send out multiple hunting patrols tomorrow.”

Like a waterfall, he smoothly jumped down from the stump and passed through the crowd as it dispersed. Willowpelt caught up to him and asked something Fireheart didn’t catch; he disregarded it and padded to the prey-pile (thankfully larger than usual), picking out one of his catches, a fat squirrel. He immediately turned and walked to the nursery, where Goldenflower was sitting alone.

“Where are the ants?” he asked, setting down the squirrel in front of her.

“Asleep, thankfully.” Goldenflower licked his ear. “You look starved, honeymouse. Why don’t you have this?”

Firehear couldn’t help staring down at the squirrel, his stomach threatening to growl. Looking back up at his mother, he said brightly, “I only need half.”

Goldenflower purred and crouched, nudging the squirrel until the bottom half was pointed at Fireheart. He crouched himself and started to eat, forcing himself not to rush.

As he ate, he eyed the cats around him. They were talking about the dogs and the humans, mostly. It pleased him that more of them looked hopeful than afraid.

You have faith that StarClan’s looking out for us, he thought to them. Have faith that this might be their doing, too.

*”Rronakrak”: a gun - literally “thunder-stick”.

[pernillecfcw]

Seeing P and Magda officially sign for Bayern Munich 🥲

[peppertoastuniverse]

pep reads: fluffiest fluff edition

I've just been CONSUMING so many jjk fanfics... here are the softest fluffiest fic recommendations since I think we all need it right now. This list is in no particular order – there's so many talented writers out there! These ones just made me MELT extra hard. Mostly no smut, I just needed to be held.

gojo satoru

☆ only you by Kaiseriin [A03: mini series] [status: unknown] [Cursed speech!reader] Other than Gojo, not many people understand the sign language you use to communicate as a cursed speech user. When some students from Kyoto arrive, one tries to learn so he can get closer to you.

☆ summer skies, winter lies by miyaspudding [A03: long fic!][status: ongoing]

"how cruel was fate? how much had he sinned in his past life, for the woman he loved to belong to his best friend? how little did god love him?"

in which gojo satoru learns that emotions are not weaknesses but consolations; and geto suguru realizes that he's always been a little too late for everything. because the furthest distance is an inch away, and the furthest thing from truth is "just friends".

☆best of luck. by reinerispretty [A03: one shot! part of a mini series] [status: unknown] In which Gojo Satoru shows up unannounced, twice.

☆Ah, you were both equally idiotic by Hiroka [A03: mini series] [status: unknown]

4 times others realized something was going on between Gojo and you, and 0 times you both realized it.

[Oneshots from the Old Beats Cinematic Universe]

☆ For A God, Shopping Is a New Adventure by Bun_sun [AO3] [status: on going!] [Baker!reader]

“Would you like anything else?” “Actually, yeah.” He flashes you a grin that only promises trouble, pushing his sunglasses down with a way too exaggerated flirty expression. “Can I get your number too?” “Haha, really funny Gojo. Now, I have more clients so...” But he's already getting his phone out, as if he hasn't listened to a single word you've said. “...Oh, you're for real.” ~ ~ ~ ~ Reader owns a small cafe with their own baked goods. Gojo comes in one day, and absolutely falls in love with their pastries (and with them).

☆ I Want to Kiss You / キスしたい by arminsumi [A03][status: unknown]

You and Satoru falling in love despite a language barrier.

You've come to visit Japan to meet these two boys you met online. Though Satoru can't speak English and you can't speak Japanese, the two of you still fall in love. There's seems to be romantic tension between you and Suguru, too.

geto suguru

it's so hard to find suguru fics without him being used as a plot device for gojo

☆ gentle glow / deep thought by waffiez [AO3: one shot] [status: completed] "I thought about you, you know." Despite the softness of his voice, it cut through the otherwise silent atmosphere profoundly and made your heart skip a beat. "Is that so?" "It is." ☆☆☆ in which you awake to your best friend suguru asleep at the edge of your bed, having returned from a lengthy mission and only really wanting to see you.

☆ unnamed drabble by @twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat [tumblr: drabble] [status: completed]

comfy fluff w sleepy needy sugu <33)

☆ Wash It Away by @shadowsandshapes [A03/tumblr: drabble][status: completed]

Sometimes you forget Geto is just a guy. But then he shows a sense of vulnerability that surprises you. After a particularly emotionally draining battle, you run him a warm bath and take care of his aches. ☆ Wisteria and Ciabatta by @hayakawalove [A03/tumblr: mini fic!][status: completed, chapter 2 has smut!]

Traveling merchant Suguru has led a relatively tame life thus far. Growing his flowers, baking his bread. One day, when he ventures out further than normal he comes across something more beautiful than all the flowers in the world. You. ☆ the paint doesn't move the way the light reflects by @twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat [tumblr: long oneshot!] [status: completed]

bonus!

☆ Digest Your Feelings (DYF) – First Years! by @whalesforhands [A03/tumblr: part of a longer series of fics] [status: completed] new classmates, new life, new friends(?). a look into the life of the dyf au characters in their first year.

[cressidagrey]

Such A Mystery - Part 6

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Colette Leclerc (Original Character)

Summary:

Max Verstappen fell in love at the ripe old age of 12 and never looked back.

Colette Leclerc really regrets posting that particular Taylor Swift Lyric to her private Instagram account, because it made George Russell go insane.  

The rest of the world has absolutely no idea that the Dutch Lion and Charles Leclerc’s twin sister have been a couple for 15 years and are expecting a baby. 

Warnings: 

Pregnancy, Mention of multiple miscarriages, Pregnancy complications, George Russell Bashing (he's probably really nice in real life but in this, he's the bad guy, sorry), Jos Verstappen

Author Notes: Huge thanks to @llirawolf for holding my hand through this. Happy New Year! Chapter count is continuing to go up, because I need to halve this chapter after hitting 6k. Should be 10 parts. Hopefully.

Colette woke up slowly, for a moment disoriented and confused, before she remembered what had happened the day before.

It was dark in the room still, the sun not yet up, and the house was eerily quiet. She groaned quietly and slowly got to her feet, shuffling across the room to the bathroom. She closed the door behind her softly, switched on the light and turned on the faucet to wash her face.

The water stung at her eyes, but she relished the cold, biting pain.

By then Sassy and Jimmy were both demanding to be fed as well, and she padded out of the bedroom into the kitchen. The house was still dark and quiet, and the cats were both weaving around her legs, meowing and demanding food.

She flicked on the lights in the kitchen, blinking against the brightness, and then bent down to feed the two screeching cats.

Screeching cats and back pain, like somebody pushed a hot knife right into her lower back. What wasn’t there to love?  

Colette groaned slightly, wincing as the pain in her lower back flared, and carefully straightened back up again. She ran a hand over her back with a grimace, trying to soothe the ache.

The cats behaved like Colette had let them starve for days and she rolled her eyes at their usual behaviour as she reached for her phone that laid on the kitchen island. Somebody, she was quite sure that it probably had been Lorenzo, had simply deleted every single social media app from her phone.

That was also a solution, she reflected drily. She checked the time, finding it shortly after six. Which meant that she could probably catch Max before he was stuck in pre race preparations.

Her heart sped up slightly the mere thought of him, and a small smile tugged at the corner of Colette’s mouth. Without giving herself time to second guess herself, she pressed his contact and hit the call button.

He picked up immediately. Not that she had expected any differently from him. 

"Mon Coeur," she greeted him softly. "Good luck."

"Liefje," his voice was groggy but warm, and Colette could hear by his rough tone that he hadn’t been awake for long. There was shuffling on the other end of the line, and a low yawn, as he probably sat up in bed.

"Did you sleep well?" she asked him.

"No. I missed you horribly," he answered and she knew he was saying the truth.

"Well, you'll be back soon enough and I'll go back to torturing you with my icy feet," she teased him. And hog all the covers, because Max always ran hot at night and sleeping next to him was like having her own personal furnace. 

"I can't wait," Max said, his voice low and soft, and she could hear the smile in his voice. But there was something else...something else in his voice that she couldn't quite place.

"How are you feeling?" he asked her. "How is bébé?"

"Kicking a lot..." she answered softly. "I have some backpain, but nothing major."

"Keep resting, alright?" Max requested.

His voice was warm, normal…but she couldn’t help it…she couldn’t help but hear that something was wrong. She would have sworn on nearly everything that something was wrong. 

So she asked him. "What's wrong?" Colette asked. "What aren't you telling me, Maxie?"

Silence. For a long moment on the other side of the line, before Max sighed quietly, sounding a little guilty. "If I tell you that it's nothing that you need to know, nothing you need to worry about...will you let it go?"

Colette was quiet for a moment, trying to process this.

Whatever it was, Max didn't want her to worry about it. He was probably trying to protect her. She swallowed, before slowly saying. "I will...if you make me a promise."

"Which is...?" Max's voice was hesitant.

Colette took a deep, somewhat shaky breath. "Promise me that you're okay," she said firmly. "Promise me that...that there's no reason for me to be upset." She hated not knowing, hated that he was keeping things from her. But as long as she knew that he was okay...then she would let the matter go.

Max was quiet on the other end of the line, for what seemed far too long. He was hesitating, and that worried her.

But eventually, he answered her.

"I promise, liefje," he promised her. "Talking with you makes everything better."

The tension, that had slowly built up in her stomach started to dissolve, and she released a breath she hadn't realized she was holding.

"Okay," Colette whispered into the phone, and hoped she sounded more confident than she actually felt. "Keep your secrets. We'll talk when you are home," she promised him. And then he would tell her what was actually going on. 

"We will," he agreed. "I can't wait. Did you get the flowers?"

"You sent me flowers?" Colette asked, her voice soft. "You didn't need to do that. And no, not yet,” she said with a smile. “But I bet they will be beautiful.”

"Not as beautiful as you," Max told her simply. "Now, go eat breakfast, and take it easy, alright?"

"See you soon," Colette said softly. "Go drive around in circles." She could hear him laugh, a soft sound.

"Take care of you and bébé," Max told her before he hung up.

She lowered her phone to her lap and let out a sigh, a mixture of relief and worry still coursing through her veins.

He was okay. He had promised her, and Max never lied. He probably just didn't want her to worry about anything.

The ring of the doorbell, made her pull on a dressing gown, and going to open the door, to get the flowers Max had bought her.

But when Colette did open the door...the bouquet of light pink tulips wasn't the best part of what was waiting for her: 

"Surprise!"

Colette's head shot up, and her eyes widened in shock as she stared at the person on the other end of the threshold.

There, in a pair of torn jeans and a hoodie, a travel bag thrown over her shoulder...and holding an enormous bouquet of pink tulips...was Victoria. 

Max's Sister.

"Vic!?!" Colette blurted out, taken completely off guard. "What are you doing here!?!"

"I thought you could use the company," Victoria answered simply, hugging her tightly, and Colette was already holding back the tears. "You know, while you deal with all this bullshit," Victoria said darkly. 

Colette quickly nodded in agreement, feeling her eyes water as she clung onto Max's sister. The tears starting to well despite her best efforts, and her emotions starting to overwhelm her yet again.

"You've -... You've no idea how good this is, to see you," she tried to say past the tears, and Victoria pulled her into a tighter hug.

"I know, I figured as much," Victoria said brightly. "Can I get in, or are you going to make me to stand on your threshold for the rest of eternity?" she teased.

She looked down at Colette and at her baby bump with a grin. "How is my niece doing?"

"You don't know that it's a girl!" Colette complained, wiping away tears as Victoria entered their apartment.

"Max seemed quite certain a few weeks ago," Victoria teased her.

Colette rolled her eyes, but she was smiling through her tears. She closed the door behind them, and turned to look at her friend, and the enormous bouquet of tulips.

"I guess we're going to need a vase," she said pointedly, at the massive arrangement.

"The poor doormen gave that to me, got delivered this morning for you," Victoria told her. "I also got you that Acai bowl you like from the bakery own the street and croissants!"

Colette looked at the tulips, taking in their pastel colours and delicate petals. Max really could be sappy sometimes, and it warmed her heart immensely.

"Pink tulips," she said out loud. "Of course he goes all in the pink.”

"You two really are kind of adorable," Victoria teased her, and Colette felt her cheeks heat up.

"Sometimes we are," she relented, taking all the tulips into the kitchen and reaching for a vase underneath the sink.

As she filled up the vase with water, she asked, "You didn't come all the way from Belgium just to visit me, right? I feel bad, taking you from Tom and the kids."

Victoria huffed a little bit, and leant against the counter before answering.

"Oh, shut up," she said fondly. "I wanted to come here… Mama is helping Tom with the kids and Tom knows I've been worried about you, besides they are fine on their own for a few days.”

"I'm fine -.." Colette started to protest, but Victoria fixed her with such a look that she fell quiet.

"Please, you've been going through hell," Victoria said firmly. "Don’t try to pretend you're fine when you aren't."

Colette exhaled slowly, staring at the flowers in the vase.

"I'm not going to deny that things have been hard," she said quietly. "But I'm trying to take it easy...for bébé's sake at least."

"How are you feeling about it?" Victoria asked her curiously. "About it all...getting out there?"

Colette paused for a moment, her hands absently fiddling with the tulips in the vase.

"Honestly..." she admitted after a moment. "I...hate it," she admitted weakly. "We kept it secret for so long...that's all I ever knew, Vic. Like that's the benchmark. Max comes back home to me...and here...right here, we are just us. Everybody important does know, but we have our privacy...we have...nobody gives us a second glance. And now it's out there. And everybody talks about it...and judges us...and makes up this picture in their head that has nothing to do with us."

She paused for a moment, shaking her head and then exhaling slowly to try and keep the tears that were threatening to spill under control. Victoria stayed silent, watching her closely.

"It's...weird," Colette said then, her voice sounding as shaken as she felt. "I know...a part of it is the stupid hormones…Some of it was my own fault, because I really should have thought twice before being bitchy on instagram,” she said with a snort, making Victoria laugh. “But all the people on social media…all these articles…the journalists…None of them know anything about us. Yet they judge us and speculate, and write whole articles about us and how fucked up our relationship is,” she said darkly.   "I don't like it," she said flatly, fighting back the sob that was threatening to rise up in her throat. "They act like they own a piece of us...like they know anything...it just...it makes me sick. "

She fell quiet, her hand shaking slightly as she fiddled with the tulips. The flowers were beautiful, but she was struggling to take pleasure in them, when her emotions was feeling like a storm in her chest.

Victoria was quiet for a long moment, and then she walked over to her and put her hand over top of hers to stop her from fiddling with the tulips. Instead, she gently pulled her into a loose embrace.

"It doesn't matter what some person on the internet says about you," Victoria said simply. "let them write their idiotic comments. It doesn't matter."

Colette rested her head of Victoria's shoulder, and exhaled slowly.

"I know it doesn't really," she admitted after a moment. "But it still hurts, in a way."

"People are stupid," Victoria said bluntly. "They make drama to fill their miserable lives, and write bullshit on social media, because they think they're entitled to everything. And that their opinion is somehow relevant. Don't listen to anything they say," Victoria continued. "They know nothing about your life. They know nothing about your and Maxie. They don’t know how fantastic you are. And they don’t know a thing about your  happy home, the little baby on the way, and an the amazing, loyal and insanely talented man who loves you beyond all rhyme and reason."

"So let them eat their hearts out, and let's get you some decent breakfast. An I'll stay with you as long as you need me to, okay?" Victoria said, pulling back and gently grasping her shoulders. 

Colette sniffed and nodded softly.

Victoria was just like Max. They didn't sugar cost, she cut it straight to the heart of every issue, and didn't let her bullshit herself.

"That sounds good," she agreed softly. 

It did sound amazing. Better than anything else. 

The Acai Bowl from the Bakery/cafe down the street was as amazing as always and so was the Croissant that Vic had brought with her. 

“You can finally show me the nursery!“ Vic said brightly.

"You're a little bit too excited," Colette scolded her with no real force behind her words. "We are only talking about I think four pieces of furniture, Vic. And some animal themed decor,” she said with a snort. 

Victoria gave her a dry look, and raised a perfectly arched brow. "You are underestimating me if you think I would not be interested in how my niece's rooms will look," she said with a scoff. “Besides I brought you some hand me downs from Hailey! We can put them in the closet!”

“Or nephew!” Colette pointed out, making Victoria laugh.

“How are you doing with names?” Vic asked her curiously. 

“We have an agreement,” Colette said drily. “Max got to name the cats and the baby gets his surname, so first names are my choice.”

"You're not giving my niece 6 names like yourself, are you?" Victoria teased her. "Please don't give me a hard time to pronounce my own niece's name if you can avoid it."

Colette rolled her eyes. “ I only have four names,” she gave back drily.

"Four names is still two too many," Victoria said bluntly. "One is enough. Two is more than enough. You're not a French noble woman from the eighteen hundreds."

“You mean I shouldn’t name our son Perceval Verstappen?” Colette gasped, wide eyed, making Victoria stare at her.

"...Oh my god...no, you absolutely can't!" Victoria exclaimed in horror, before bursting into a peal of laughter.

“Excuse me, I happen to think Colette Marie Eugénie Veronique Leclerc sounds great,” Colette deadpanned before growing serious. “No, I am thinking only one middle name,” she told Vic with a shrug. “If it’s a boy I was thinking Emilian Hervé. After Max and my father.”

Victoria's face softened at that. “That’s so sweet,” Vic gushed. "Hervé is a nice middle name, and Emilian is beautiful as well. But what if it's a girl?"

Colette huffed and shrugged. "I...don't know yet," she admitted honestly. "But I have a few ideas. I figured I would see what feel right once they are here...but I do really think it will be a boy..."

"You know it's only a fifty/fifty chance, right?" Victoria teased her. Colette rolled her eyes.

"Of course I know that," she huffed. "I just…I just feel it, y'know?"

"You're just really hoping it's a boy so you can dress him in cute little race overalls that match Maxie’s," Victoria said with a smirk.

"That would be adorable! How can you fault me for that?!" Colette protested immediately. 

Victoria laughed and gently squeezed her shoulders. "You have terrible taste," she teased Colette. "But I gotta say the baby will be cute, no matter the gender….though you do realize the chances are, if you get a mini Max, it will be a chaotic little hell raiser, right?"

Colette sighed. “I knooooooow,” she muttered. “He woul make me go gray before even reaching pre-school…”

“Besides Mini Colette would be just as cute,” Victoria teased her. “Max would be melting.”

"Max would absolutely melt," Colette admitted, a soft smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. "He would be completely wrapped around her tiny finger and spoil her rotten."

"And she would be an absolute angel," Victoria continued with a smirk. "She'll be a daddy's girl and have him do her every bidding. She'll get away with murder."

Colette could only laugh at that description. 

“What do your brothers think it will be?” Victoria asked curiously.

“Max has gotten to them,” Colette said darkly. “All think it’s a girl. Hasn’t stopped Charles from buying enough Ferrari onesies to dress a dozen babies though.”

Victoria guffawed, and covered her mouth with her hand.

"Charles bought an entire Ferrari-themed wardrobe?" She asked between giggles.

“Which then made Max decide that the kid also needed Red Bull merch,” she said with a sigh. “I thought I woul get at least one closet in the house that does not have these damn Polo Shirts in it, but nooooo…”

"Of course it did," Victoria said, sniggering again. "You really are in a family with more red bull merchandise than common sense..."

“I don’t care if it’s a boy or a girl, I just hope the baby is healthy,” Colette said seriously. Regardless if it was a boy or a girl…she didn’t actually care…she just thought it would be a boy.

Victoria nodded, her expression softening.

"I know," she said quietly. "Everything else, like boy or girl, eye colour, hair colour...who cares? All we need is a healthy baby."

[thewidowsledger]

Good Luck, Babe

Chapter 3: A Fool | 4.2k

© thewidowsledger - DO NOT REPUBLISH AND PLAGIARISE

Summary: The once secret, a forbidden love hidden from the world. Those stolen moments together had been thrilling, but ultimately, drove the person you truly love away from you. But when she left, she didn't just leave you; she also left you a part of herself that would constantly remind you of her for the rest of your life. This fragment of her essence became an indelible mark on your soul, shaping the course of your life in ways you never could have imagined.

You know what they say, when someone leaves, someone else will come.

Pairings: Natasha Romanoff x Female Reader

Tags | Warnings: ANGST, r trying to win Natasha back and getting her attention, Natty being cold, heartless and mean (but still secretly possessive), cutie Aliah unintentionally trying to make Natasha jealous (daughter did the assignment🤙)

Author's Note: I wrote the lines of Aliah based on how toddlers would speak. Also, I have been meaning to ask what you all want to see next for this series after reading this chapter. Thank you in advance.

Navigation | Masterlist | Series Masterlist

⧗

You found yourself in a difficult situation, having to explain to your daughter that a significant change was about to take place. The truth was that the woman she had met at the store was her mama, and that the two of you were going to get married, well, she kind of blackmailed you into it but of course you're not going to tell your daughter that.

All she cared about was the beautiful dress that was sent to your apartment, as well as your wedding dress, which you're sure Natasha had chosen. She was so focused on the thought of wearing the dress that she didn't understand the implications of the situation or the fact that this wedding was a desperate attempt for you to keep her with you.

All she cared about was the chance to wear a beautiful dress to be a part of a special day with her mama and mommy.

"I do," Natasha spoke with her velvety voice. She was so calm compared to you.

"Do you take Natasha as your lawfully wedded wife?" The solemnizing officer turned to ask you.

Your world literally stopped. This is it, it's happening and there is no turning back. Your heart raced and your palms grew clammy as you hesitated to say the words. You froze, feeling a sense of panic wash over you as you realized the enormity of what would happen if you finally it. Natasha could feel your trembling hands and see the fear in your eyes, but then you looked over at your daughter, her face was filled with so much joy, excitement and innocence. In your entire life, you had never seen Aliah this happy—you couldn't take this away from her, so in that moment, all your doubts and fears faded away.

You took a sharp breath, closing your glossy eyes as you utter the words…

"I do."

⧗

Your daughter, Aliah, had immediately clicked with both her mama and her auntie Yelena. She was particularly excited and playful around Yelena, who was a person who matched her energy. As you all made your way to Natasha's place, where she told you, you would now be living together, Aliah was buzzing with excitement, eagerly asking questions about what your new life would be like.

She was sitting on Natasha's lap in the back seat, while you sat beside them, watching as she looked out the window with excitement. Suddenly, she turned to Natasha and shouted, "I wan' a wower coaster in house, mama!"

"That's quite a request, kiddo." Yelena, who was driving, chuckled from the front seat.

"I could do that for my princess." Natasha assured with a wink.

And there you are sitting in silence—disassociating. Your mind was elsewhere as you stare at your wedding ring, replaying the events of the ceremony and the circumstances that had led to this moment. What if you didn't go to the groceries that night? Or what if you didn't ask your daughter to get the tub of your favorite yogurt? What if you came early that day so you could've gone to the market early as well? Then Aliah won't meet her mama, you wouldn't have to beg Natasha in court and look like the one desperate for you to marry her, but at the same time you wouldn't see Aliah this happy which you hadn't seen her since the day she was born.

The sound of Natasha's soft voice as she spoke to Aliah and the hum of the car's engine all faded into the background as you became lost in your own thoughts. You were physically present, but your mind was elsewhere entirely.

Your mind couldn't help but dwell on the memories of your past affair with Natasha, the woman who was now your wife. The irony wasn't lost on you as you sat beside them, listening as they laughed together.

Your daughter and your wife.

It was difficult to reconcile the idea that you were now married to her when just a few years ago back in college, you had always been averse to the idea. She had always wanted more from the relationship affair, she used to have plans for the both of you but you refused and always avoided it when she brought it up.

Gods, they both looked like each other.

"Okay, we're here." Yelena said as she pulled up the car. Your disassociation was cut through as you looked around—the imposing figure of the palatial mansion loomed in front of you, the soothing sound of the fountain in the entrance hall cutting through the fog in your mind.

In college, you had known about Natasha's family's generational wealth. Whenever you teased her about it, she would brush it off, saying her parents were the rich ones, not her. And for some reason, she never seemed comfortable talking about her parents, her father in particular. It was always a conversation that she tried to avoid.

Your daughter raced past Natasha, her little legs scurrying as she excitedly explored the unfamiliar surroundings.

"Aliah! Don't run!" You reminded your daughter, finally, there are words getting out of your mouth.

Once you get inside, there is already some extravagant meal prepared for you. And then after, Natasha took you and your daughter on a tour of the expansive home.

She knelt down to speak with your daughter. "This is going to be your room," she said warmly, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "Do you like it?"

"This is mine, m-mama?" She whispered. Your daughter's eyes widened as she looked around the room, taking in the new surroundings. She walked over to the bed, her small hands reaching out to touch the soft blankets.

Natasha stood, watching the amusement of her daughter, "All yours, princess."

Your daughter turned to look at you as if waiting she's for your approval, when you finally nodded she let out a loud shout, her voice echoing through the room. "Mommy! Mommy! I have my own room!" she exclaimed, her face lit up with a huge smile. "Thank you, thank you, thank you Mama!"

A wide grin spread across her face as she plopped herself onto the bed, burying her face into the pillows.

"A' we all gon' sleep here?!" She turned to look at you again, but this time her eyes landed between you and Natasha, her excitement palpable but yours died down with her question.

Natasha walked towards your daughter. "No, baby, we'll be in our separate rooms," she spoke oh-so-gently. "But I suppose we can...sometimes? You know?"

Well, you really thought you would share the same bedroom as Natasha, guess you're not.

Your daughter is still too young to fully comprehend that and everything at all, she looked up with innocent eyes at her mama and to you who hasn't stepped inside her room just yet. But she eagerly nodded and turned to sprint around her new room.

"You have your room just across, Aliah." Natasha told you nonchalantly as she walked towards you. You were tempted to ask where hers is, but you held your tongue. Instead, you replied, "I think I'll stay with Liah for a few more nights, at least until she's adjusted. We share the same bed back in my apartment; this is her first time having her own room."

You couldn't help but feel impressed with yourself for maintaining a calm tone with her. It was a far cry from your unexpected reunion a week ago in the courtroom, where you had literally begged her on your knees for her not to take Aliah. Even when she kind of blackmailed you into marriage to keep your daughter with you which you had agreed with no hesitation. This was the first time in a long time that you had spoken to Natasha without letting your emotions take control.

But now, you couldn't help but hope that this marriage would mark a new beginning for you and Natasha. A chance to leave the past behind and start anew. Deep down, you knew it wouldn't be easy to make amends, but you were determined to do whatever it takes to make things right between the two of you.

Because you still love her. After all these years, it's still her.

⧗

Natasha informed you that she had enrolled Aliah in an international school and classes would start in a week to allow for adjustment. With your interactions limited to discussions about Aliah, you felt a growing desire to initiate conversations with her.

"Hey, Nat. I prepared breakfast." You greeted Natasha with a warm smile. It had been a week since you had moved into her home together, and it had been a week since the two of you had married. However, you had rarely seen Natasha during breakfast as she was always busy with work. Today, you woke up early and prepared breakfast for her, along with a packed lunch to take with her to her work. You packed her some teriyaki chicken, onigiri and some grapes. It was the go-to lunch you two always have in college.

You even pampered yourself, putting some make-up on early in the morning, so you'd look…beautiful? No, definitely not, presentable is the right word to put it…or is it not? You, yourself don't even know what you're trying to look like. You just want to look like the wife who prepares food for her partner, that's it, nothing more. You're definitely not trying to attract her.

Natasha's reaction to your offering was unexpected. She regarded you with a lingering stare from head to toes, but instead of accepting your gesture or at least noticing your…pampered self that's just for her? She simply walked away. She didn't say a word, leaving you standing there like a sales lady offering some products to a customer only to be ignored by them.

You tried to rationalize Natasha's behavior in your mind, not realizing the tears that started to fall down your cheeks. You told yourself that maybe she was tired from her demanding job which you have no idea what is, what you only know is she is now an owner of a big transportation company.

You were painfully aware that Natasha hadn't forgiven you yet, and you knew it was going to be a long and challenging journey to earn her forgiveness.

As for your daughter, there is not a single day went by without Natasha having a playdate with Aliah and sometimes you couldn't help but feel jealousy, unsure of who to be more envious of—Natasha or your own child. It was funny and heartwarming to watch the two of them spend time together. You couldn't help but notice how Aliah had picked up on some of Natasha's mannerisms, like the way she would pull her hair up just like her mother, or how Aliah had mimicked the little huff that Natasha does when she's upset. You also had noticed how Natasha and your daughter moved in sync, their movements mirroring each other's as if they were connected on a deeper level. Whether it was the way they walked, the way they gestured, or even the way they carried themselves, there was an uncanny similarity between the two of them.

"Teriyaki!" Your daughter shouted as she charged towards the table, you immediately wiped your tears carefully not to ruin your make-up and of course for your daughter not to see.

"You wook beautifuw, mommy." Aliah hugged your waist and you leaned to kiss her forehead.

"It's make-up baby." You giggled lightly as you put her down her chair. She probably noticed your make-up on.

"You stiw beautifuw. But I wike it more when you don' have 'em because a wot of guys wooks at you. Wike the man in the mawket yestewday." Your daughter muttered as she recalled the moment where a guy boldly went out and offered to help you reach a tray of eggs that is literally on your level to reach. At first, you thought the guy was just being kind but when you kind of flexed your wedding ring as you reached some seasonings with your left hand, you swear, the man almost bolted out of the market.

"So you're saying people just look at me when I have make-up on, young girl?" You asked playfully, trying to sound hurt and offended.

"No! Mommy is beautifuw even without cowors in her face!"

Natasha had been within earshot and overheard the exchange between you and Aliah. She had intended to give her daughter a quick kiss goodbye, but Aliah had already darted towards you and the teriyaki you originally prepared for her but she painfully ignored.

After she's done lingering like a creep staring at you, she finally gets going and shuffles her car key. As she walks towards the front door, Rick is there, the butler of her manor.

"Make sure she never has to go to the market again, especially alone."

⧗

Every single day, you would wake up early and put in the effort to prepare breakfast and pack a lunch for Natasha. But despite your earnest efforts, she would either not show up for breakfast or stealthily leave the house without a word, leaving you clueless and baffled. When you asked the housekeeper where she was, they would simply inform you that she had already left for work. It was a constant, frustrating cycle that left you feeling more and more confused and neglected each day—it was an endless loop. But no matter how frustrated and disheartened you felt, you still insisted on doing something for Natasha every day. It was as if a part of you held onto the hope that eventually, she would acknowledge, appreciate your efforts and forgive you. Every gesture, every attempt to connect with her, felt like a desperate plea to earn her attention and love.

Despite the continuous rejection from Natasha, you decided to take extra care of your appearance. You would make sure your hair was perfect, your makeup was flawless but simple. You told yourself that it was for your own self-confidence and not an attempt to grab her attention. You definitely didn't want her to notice you more, definitely not…

Do you get frustrated having to meet your own needs every night? Definitely not.

Natasha didn't outwardly soften her heart towards you, but she wanted to see how far you were willing to go, how much effort you were willing to exert to win back her favor. Of course, she secretly took notice of every gesture you did, every breakfast and packed lunch that she had painfully ignored just to look heartless and cold, and every time you put in extra effort to put into your appearance made it not easy for her. She definitely did not jerk herself off first thing in the morning at work after seeing you with just a huge shirt and dolphin shorts that did nothing to cover your legs. She felt like you were testing her…teasing her but she knew you were just trying to earn her forgiveness—that you would be on your feet to earn it.

She found a twisted sense of satisfaction in witnessing you trying to hide your disappointment and how your eyes become teary everytime she ignores you. Natasha was able to keep you on edge, constantly striving to earn an ounce of attention. This subtle form of control kept you unbalanced and unsure of where you stood with her, which only served to make you try even harder to win her back.

You were so amenable, submissive, and desperate. God, she wants to break you.

You had carefully planned a dinner for the three of you, and you decided to reach out to Natasha about it as soon as you woke up. You framed it as if it was your daughter's idea, even though it was really your own idea. Fortunately, Natasha agreed to it without much fuss, as she would do anything for her daughter. After the small talk she immediately excused herself once again ignoring the packed lunch you awkwardly handed her.

To your surprise, during the dinner Yelena was present, a factor you hadn't initially factored in, but you ultimately decided not to pay it much mind since Aliah was really happy to see her auntie again. The three of you sat down to eat together for the first time in many weeks.

During dinner, Yelena took it upon herself to strike up a conversation. "Do you still work, Y/N?" she inquired.

"Oh yeah, I just took some work break…before the wedding." You nodded, trying not to sound so awkward. You actually took a break since you were summoned to court about the custody of your daughter. The shit had you stopping everything you're supposed to do.

Yelena turned her attention towards Aliah. "And you huh?" she scrunched her face on your daughter who cannot stop giggling whenever she sees Yelena, "Is your new school okay?"

"Yeah! I got new friends, tata!" She clapped her hands together, a broad smile on her face. You couldn't help but giggle faintly at her reply reaching over and gently ruffling her hair. "But mama I wan' you to come with mommy to pick me up next time because someone asked for mommy's phone."

"Oh that's…that's not. That's the school's—"

"Shit!" Natasha cursed under her breath when her wine glass suddenly hit the ground.

"I got it," you quickly spoke, your voice filled with eagerness to please…her.

"Natasha! What are you doing?!" Yelena whispered to her sister. Well, let's just say that she wanted to test your desperation and she enjoyed the thrill of having you so consumed by her, trying so hard to gain her approval. And she hated hearing that you were getting attention from others.

She watched you as you scrambled to stand up and circle your way to the table, you knelt down to her side.

Fuck, she cannot definitely have these thoughts during dinner with her daughter right in front of her.

As you continued to clean up the mess on the floor, Yelena spoke up, eyeing her sister intently as if she's trying to scold her using just her eyes. "Y/N, the housekeeper can do that," she said gently. "You might hurt yourself."

There was a brief moment of silence in the room after Yelena spoke up. Natasha simply said, "Yeah." Then, without waiting for a response, she rose from her seat and avoided your kneeling form on the floor and walked towards your daughter, she kissed her good night, and announced that she needs to retire early because she has an important meeting tomorrow.

You watched her disappear as you're still crouched down on the floor, the blood from your ring finger threatening to fall as well as the tears in your eyes.

⧗

You made sure to talk to her before she left for work so you woke up early and reheated the dinner you had last night. Just as she's about to head out the front door, you call out to her immediately. She was rushing as if she already knew you were waiting for her. Natasha rolled her eyes before turning around, her expression guarded as she looked back at you.

As always, she noticed you were wearing a little make-up on and a packed lunch in both of your hands.

"G-good morning, Nat." Of course, you're stuttering, this is the 8th time you will talk to her and once again, about your daughter. Before she could even get bored of you, which you noticed she was, you immediately flashed her a smile, "I-uh Aliah has a performance later and she wanted you to be there. I wasn't able to tell you last night b-because you left early. Also, I…I uh reheated dinner last night so you'll have lunch at work." You stuttered out.

"Okay, time?" She asked flatly, noticing how you tried to hide your ring finger that is wrapped with a small patch of gauze.

"Uhm, 4 p.m." You nodded, awkwardly clutching the packed lunch on your right hand while you move to hide your left on your back.

She takes it with a heavy, almost reluctant sigh, her fingers barely brushing against yours. "You know you don't have to do all this right? Someone gets paid to do this."

"I just wanna do something nice," you smiled awkwardly at her. It's not too late for that right?

God, she hated that smile. She rolls her eyes skyward, the gesture hidden from your view as she quickly turns away. Not bothering to reply.

"Bye, take care, Natty."

Natasha's shoulders tense briefly, upon hearing the nickname. It was the one you coined during college and she hasn't heard it not until now. The temptation to whirl around and scream that you have lost the right to call her that burns like fire in her chest. She envisions the shock, the pain, the breaking in your eyes at her words and she would love every bit of it.

But she bit back as she continued her way to the door handing the lunch she took from you to one of the housekeepers.

"Throw that away."

⧗

The minutes tick by slowly as you wait for Natasha. You called her phone number, it was actually her work phone number that she gave you and strictly told you to only call or text if it's about Aliah. Your daughter who was backstage keeps on peeking through the curtains, looking at you with hopeful eyes, checking if her mama is already with her mommy. You can only give her a thumbs up and a big smile whenever you see her.

But the performance is wrapping up, still no sign of Natasha.

As soon as the final curtain falls, you rush to where Aliah is sitting, a bouquet of her favorite flowers in your hand.

"Hi baby, you did great!" you beamed but you found her sitting with her head down, her usual bright eyes dimmed. Aliah wraps her arms around you tightly as soon as you pull her into your embrace, burying her face in your chest.

"Are you sad because mama wasn't here?" Your daughter nodded, you are too, you were sad and disappointed. But you covered up for your wife. "Mama called me and she was busy because she said she is preparing a surprise for you."

Aliah pulls back slightly, her eyes wide with curiosity. "A suwpwise?" she repeats. You force a smile, you don't like lying to your daughter and this makes your heart heavy with disappointment but determined to shield your daughter from the truth that her mama didn't show up even though she said yes to it. "Yes, sweetheart. Mama's been really busy preparing something special just for you." You pinched her cheeks that made her finally smile and giggle, "Don't tell mama I told you okay?" You whispered to her, your point finger resting on your lips while your daughter mimicked the act nodding eagerly.

You carefully tuck Aliah into bed, making sure she's fast asleep before Natasha even has a chance to get home. You know your daughter will be bombarding her with questions if you two both waited, and you're not sure Natasha has an answer ready for her. Besides, Natasha has no idea about the surprise you told your daughter she prepared for her, unless she read the text messages you flooded her with.

So you waited alone.

Natasha was just steps away but you immediately catch a whiff of something other than her usual perfume you use to smell every morning when you wait for her—the distinct scent of alcohol. She's been out drinking instead of showing up to your daughter's performance? You sigh internally, knowing this is going to be a long night. But still, you gave her a benefit of the doubt.

"Hey," you say quietly.

She tries to avoid you by heading towards her office, but you follow closely behind her.

"Natty, I cooked dinner for you. If you're hungry, they're downstairs or I can bring them to you."

"I'm not hungry," she husked, as she entered her office she left the door slightly open. You hesitate for a moment before following her inside, closing the door behind you.

As you were inside you immediately noticed Natasha leaning against her desk, trying to steady herself. You reach out to support her, but Natasha suddenly straightens up, pushing your hand away with a harsh grunt. "Don't fucking touch me," she snarls. She stumbles slightly, almost falling, before managing to catch herself on the chair.

"I-I'm sorry…" came as your second nature of response and you don't even know if she heard it.

"Can you fucking…" Natasha closed her eyes as if to calm herself, then opened again. She looked at you with half-lidded eyes. "Just stop doing all this, stop playing house. Stop cooking stupid breakfast, lunch or dinner for me…just, just fucking stop, okay? Stop playing like a caring wife 'cause you're not."

But you do. You care. You love her—you still do.

But you have been a fool to think that she asked you to marry her for the two of you to start over with your daughter. This marriage is just for Aliah and now it's clear to you.

You nodded slowly, biting your inner lip to suppress the tears that were threatening to fall. "I uh…I told Aliah that you were preparing a surprise for her since you didn't show up to her performance earlier. Just make sure you have it prepared first thing in the morning tomorrow. Good night, Natasha."

[mountainsandmayhem]

BDSMaid - Chapter 5 (Part One)

Series Summary: After recently graduating you take what is supposed to be a job to save money before you go back to university to get your law degree. Your best friend offers you a job cleaning luxury homes for clients you’ll never know. Easy. Simple. Mundane. Until one of your clients is home and everything you felt was missing in your life starts to fall into place. This goes against the NDA you signed and you could get fired. Or worse, you could fall in love.

Chapter Summary: You let Mister Miller help you out of a slump and learn you might like a little pain

WC: 8.9k

CW: Reader as some descriptors (freckles, long hair etc) so this might be more of an original character vs female reader. Dom/Sub dynamics, pet names (sweet girl, baby, baby girl etc). More CW in red below the cut but will contain spoilers.

AN: THANK YOU for being sooooo patient with me while I delayed this chapter. This is only HALF of the chapter and as soon as my lovely @lotusbxtch beta's the other half I will post it. No pressure thought, bb!! I just couldn't WAIT to share this since you've all been so wonderful and supportive. Moodboard by me, dividers by the wonderful @saradika-graphics

CW: riding crop, oral (male and female receiving), male masturbation, female orgasms, hand cuffs, deep throating/face fucking, descriptions of self doubt and panic attacks; reader is going through it, ok? Hair pulling, Joel is a bit mean but he does it with love and care. Joel being a consent and aftercare king.

Joel

Joel sits on the Trocadéro platform of Café de l’Homme, the birds chirping and the sound of rustling papers keeping him from getting too lost in his thoughts of you. Sarah sits across from him, a stunning view of the Eiffel Tower to their left, and a buying agreement typed out in French taking up most of the table. Joel might not look like it, but he can see himself eventually living out his years in either Paris or Italy. He speaks enough French and Italian to get by, but relies on Sarah to read over the contract for her new condo. His baby girl is a doctor and now that she’s almost a year into her surgery residency, this condo is her graduation present finally coming to fruition. 

He looks down at his phone, opening the text thread he has with you. He’s been trying to give you space to study this week, telling himself each day that this isn’t what you signed up for but he can’t help himself, and when you responded with a selfie of yourself in your maid discreetly polo the other day he knew there was no way he’d be able to keep that pledge to himself anymore. Joel looks at the time, factoring in the time change, and your LSAT retake is in a few hours. His thumbs move on their own.

Good Morning. Good luck on your LSAT today.

He attaches a picture of the coffee he had that morning before hitting send. 

The waiter comes by to take their orders, Sarah’s French flowing from her lips as easily as she breathes, happily telling the waiter what both her and her dad will have. Joel mutters a ‘merci’ as the waiter nods. 

Thank you. That coffee looks a lot better than mine.

A selfie of you, all pink cheeked and smiling follows. A paper to go cup with a plastic lid in your hand beside your face. 

Were you running?

“How’s it going over there?” Joel says over his phone screen to Sarah, her focus is intent on the stack of papers in front of her. 

“Shh, I’m reading,” she says lightly as the waiter opens an expensive looking bottle of white wine and pours a little for her to try. After taking her small sip and nodding at the waiter she looks to her dad. “What? I thought we were celebrating!”

He shakes his head, laughing at his daughter as both of them look back at what they were doing.

Yes. I run most mornings. Gotta clear my head.

What’s bothering you, sweet girl?

You know, you calling me that has the same effect as me calling you Mister Miller.

Ok, we’ll just call each other by our names then.

Joel is so wrapped up in his little bubble with you that he doesn’t notice Sarah sitting back and watching him as she sips her wine.

That’s no fun, let’s come up with safe nicknames.

He feels the side of cheek tug up. She’s so fucking cute.

Alright, I’m calling you giggles

What am I, a rodeo clown?

Joel laughs silently to himself, not realizing that he’s sporting a full and cheesy ear to ear grin across his face. 

Fine - Freckles

Eww, that’s what the mean girls in high school used to call me

Well the hot, successful man who owns a sex club and supplies your orgasms finds your freckles incredibly sexy. What’s my safe nickname?

“Who are you texting?” Sarah says, her voice thick with amusement. 

Joel clicks his phone shut, laying it face down on the table. He wipes the smile off his face and looks up at Sarah like a child who just got caught stealing candy. “No one. Just work stuff.”

“Uh huh, sure dad. I know that smile. Did you meet someone?”

Joel grabs his wine, taking a larger drink then necessary. A drink of someone who’s lying. There’s no way he can tell his daughter about this. Sure, Sarah knows about the club but they never talk about what goes on there. “No! Of course not. I’m too busy for that.”

Her eyes blink to his phone as it vibrates on the table, but he keeps his attention on Sarah, his wine glass looking comically small in his large hand. “I’ll just ask uncle Tommy.”

“Funny story, he’s been removed from the family.” He deadpans.

“Tess will tell me then,” Sarah says, her and her dad both challenging each other jokingly.

“Who? Never heard of a Tess before,” Joel says, crossing his arms. 

Sarah laughs into her wine glass, “Ok dad. Look, I want you to meet someone, so don’t hold back on my account. Seriously, you’re a catch and have been alone for a long time.”

“I don’t want to talk about it with you, Sarah. Not yet at least.” His phone vibrates again and she cocks an eyebrow before going back to her papers.

Joel scoops up his phone to read your texts.

Huh, suddenly I’m over being bullied. Weird.  Oh, I have the peeerrrfect nickname for you!

Go on, Freckles…

Sweet Cheeks, cuz seriously Miller, dat ass. 

Daaaammmnn!

You’re treading on mighty thin ice, baby girl 

Joel, I have a serious question…

Go on?

Are your suit pants tailored TO your ass?!

Joel chokes on his wine, trying to stifle his laugh.

“Alright, who is she?”

“Fine. I met someone, but she’s really young, like younger than you, Sarah. And she’s leaving soon for law school so it’s just best if I don’t talk about it.”

Sarah smiles at her dad. “First of all, I don’t care if she’s younger than me, especially seeing you smile like that. Do you have any idea how many of the girls at college wanted you? You're my dad, so it’s gross to say, but you were the campus DILF.”

Joel feels himself blushing as she continues, “Second of all, you don’t have to end things just because of school. Me and Wyatt maintained our relationship while I was in New York and he was in Seattle.” As she wiggles the pear shaped diamond on her left hand the waiter brings out their food, and Joel changes the subject to the condo that he just bought for his incredible daughter. 

Our little girl did it, Tiff. Thank you for giving her to me, he thinks.

You

“That’s time, everyone,” The proctor calls from the front of the stuffy, windowless room that you and forty five other law school hopefuls have been in for just over three hours. 

You let out a slow breath, cheeks puffing and eyes fluttering closed. You didn’t finish, last time you finished, and the proctor has been eyeing you the entire time. He knows, he fucking knows you aren’t nearly as qualified or as smart as the rest of the people in this room. That line from Gilmore Girls, something about having shiny Harvard hair is all your anxiety can focus on. The people in this room have Havard hair, even the men. You don’t belong here.

You’ve never been in a lower spot and after the high of the flirty text conversation with Joel this morning you didn’t anything could get you down. In the span of just a few hours you’ve been completely torn apart, you can feel the panic attack clawing greedily at your chest. You fucking blew it, all of it. You blew your chances at law school, you blew your future as a lawyer and, in turn, your future as a judge. You’ll be cleaning houses forever, and not that there’s anything wrong with being a professional maid, but it’s not your goal.

Maybe I was fucking stupid for only having one goal. Maybe I need to do something else with my degree. Maybe my father was right, I’m nothing and I’ll always be nothing. Maybe my mother was right too, I’m the smartest girl at home but the world is going to chew me up and spit me out. It’s doing that right now, isn’t it? 

Your feet take you to the locker where your phone’s been locked up, and then out to your car. You don’t notice the warm late March air when you leave the testing building and there's a good chance that you jay walked, narrowly missing being hit by a car as you walked to the parking lot. Before turning the key in the ignition you open your phone, there’s a little red bubble on the JMK app. When you tap on it you have a new calendar section and Joel has invited you to the club tomorrow night. You stare down at it, waiting and hoping to feel something. That excited giddiness you usually feel, or the butterflies that typically erupt in your stomach, but nothing comes. You close out of the app without accepting the invite and drive home. 

A soft knock on your door pulls you from the anxiety-ridden nightmares you’ve been slipping in and out of. In the first one, you were having your degree taken away. In the second, you were sitting on the end of the bed in Joel’s private room looking out a window into the voyeur room. Joel was walking another woman around, similar to how he did with you the first time. The one that your roommate interrupted involved you being completely naked while trying to find your first class at Harvard.

“Babe?” Odette’s calm voice fills your room, “You ok?”

You tap your phone screen: 9 pm. You’ve been passed out all afternoon and evening. 

“Ya, just had a hard day.” You try to move out from the blankets, but they’re tangled around your limbs; a clear sign that you were restless in your sleep.

“Are you hungry? I ordered pizza. You have a few more college letters too, I think three were in the mailbox today.” Her voice is light and excited, as if she’s trying to pump you up. 

“Thanks, O. I’ll, umm, I’ll be out in a sec.”

The door shuts gently and the tears finally come. Five minutes, you tell yourself, before you start sobbing into your pillow to not alert Odette. After your allotted crying time is up, you open your phone. Messages from Jamie and Laren are left on read before you slide into the JMK app and accept Joel's request to meet at the club tomorrow night. You join Odette for a late dinner, but there’s no way you’re opening those letters tonight. 

Cap drops you off outside of the club the next night. This seems to be the officially unofficial routine of being Joel’s sub and you aren’t sure why. Cap confirmed last time that he didn’t do this for the other girls; you don’t deserve special treatment.

Any treatment, really, you think. Even the little box of feelings in your mind feels the same way, sulking sadly in the dark corner you banished it to. 

The black marble foyer feels cold and mocking tonight, even with the beautiful hostess smiling brightly and greeting you by name. As you turn towards the entrance to the club, a man dressed in an impeccable black suit holds his arm out for you. 

“Good evening, Miss. Joel asked me to escort you to his room tonight.”

You nod, forcing a smile and a thank you. All this black feels like he’s walking you to your own funeral. As you step into the club there are people everywhere. Couples are dancing, people are taking up the tables and the barstools. The deep bass of the music thumps through the club and the nagging pressure behind your right eye threatens to pop it right from its socket. 

The security guard holds his wrist to the pad on the door and holds it open for you.

“Thanks,” you say again through another fake smile. 

The door clicks behind you and the music dulls, the only light on this side of the door comes from the propped open door of Mister Miller’s room. You rap your knuckles lightly on the door frame and Joel steps into view. Your eyes travel from his shiny black dress shoes, up the perfectly tailored black dress pants and fitted white dress shirt. His sleeves are rolled to his elbows, exposing the strong muscle lined forearms that usually drive you wild. You stand there, waiting and hoping to feel something, but just like in your car yesterday, nothing comes. Meanwhile, he’s smiling at you as if he’s just discovered the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. 

“Hi, my sweet girl,” Joel’s voice usually coats you like warm molasses, especially when he calls you his. But the rejection letters feel like they have plastered themselves onto you, seemingly creating a hard shell, keeping that miserable gray fog from escaping. 

“Hi, Mister Miller,” you say obediently, hoping he doesn’t notice anything is wrong. 

He motions for you to come inside, and pulls you into his arms as the door quietly clicks shut behind you. You wrap yours around his waist subconsciously as he presses his lips to your forehead. You’re sure the two of you have embraced like this before but right now it feels foreign. “What’s wrong?”

Fuck.

“Nothing. I’m sorry, it’s just been a long few days. I’m sorry, I can go. I don’t want to drag you down.” Your hands fist his dress shirt, a silent cry for him to not let you leave as an annoying dry lump forms in your throat. 

“Hey, no. Don’t be sorry, baby girl.” His hands run long, slow lines up and down your back as he brings his forehead to meet yours.

The pounding of the music on the other side of the club fades away completely as his eyes melt into yours. It's absurd that you missed him, isn’t it? You are his submissive, nothing else. But when he looks at you the way he is now it’s hard to remember up from down. The pressure behind your eye dissipates as one of his hands cups the nape of your neck and squeezes gently. From the outside eye, you could almost argue that he’s acting as if he missed you too.

His voice is a soft whisper as he continues, “Did you want to talk about it?”

Maybe it’s his years of experience as a dom and taking care of his subs. Or maybe this is just normal for him, but you aren’t used to someone wanting to talk about it. You’re used to a quick hug and a shitty pep talk. His hands felt heavenly on your clothed body, but as they brush against the bare skin of your neck to cup your cheeks they’re out of this world. This strong, successful, handsome man is giving you his full attention, wants to give you his full attention, and as his nose runs down yours it finally happens. 

Your body is flooded with that familiar desire. Your breathing catches as you practically moan, “No, I need you to make me forget. Help me, Mister Miller. Please?”

A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, exposing that dimple that makes him so damn endearing as he pulls his face back from yours. “I’m going to push you tonight, sweet girl.” He slides your faux leather jacket off, letting it hit the floor. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

“Yes, Mister Miller,” you say, your voice turning husky. 

His eyes dance around your features and with a single blink he switches. You don’t think you could ever describe it, but it’s like he puts on a mask. His soft brown eyes turn almost onyx, the muscles in his jaw seem flexed, but it’s his voice that really gives away when he’s transformed into his fully dominant form. Joel’s voice is deep yet has a soft aura. Mister Miller's voice on the other hand is full of gravel, and nothing is a suggestion. 

“Take off your clothes.”

Joel steps back, watching as you slip your bare feet out of your sandals. You felt underdressed tonight, but you just couldn’t convince yourself to put together an outfit. Your denim shorts and oversized black t-shirt come off easily and after stepping out of your shorts you look up at Mister Miller. His tongue runs along his bottom lip as he takes you in, eyes widening at your lack of bra and panties tonight.

“Dirty little girl.” He accentuates every word as his eyes travel a burning path up and down your exposed skin and then to the side of the room behind you. “See that pillow?”

You spin slowly, a black velvet pillow sits on the floor, handcuffs hanging above it from a chain connected to the ceiling. You look over your bare shoulder at Joel who simply juts his chin towards it in a silent command. As you walk towards the pillow, the metallic clink of his ring hitting the ceramic dish washes over you. Goosebumps spread across your skin and you feel the anxiety leaving your body. The doubt that has been screaming at you dulls to a barely-there whisper. For a second you feel weightless, floating towards the black pillow like the little styrofoam packing peanuts you used to place in rain run off as a kid.

‘No one has ever made you feel like this’. The little box of feelings says from the dark, ‘He’d take care of you, if you let him.’ You push that box deeper into the archives of your mind as you stop in front of the pillow.

Joel’s voice is deep, almost a menacing growl from behind you as he says, “Kneel.”

Your mind shuts off completely as you comply, dropping to your knees, facing the wall, and tucking your feet underneath you.

“Toes planted on the floor, sweet girl.” You adjust how you're sitting, exposing the soles of your feet to Joel as he walks towards you, his expensive dress shoes clicking slightly on the hardwood. You can feel the heat of his body as he stops just inches from your bare skin. “Good. Hands up.”

His touch is gentle as he places the cuffs around your wrists. “What’s your safeword?”

“Stegosaurus,” you say softly.

“Louder!” He barks.

You jump slightly before saying it again with confidence, “Stegosaurus.”

Joel takes a small step towards the wall and tugs the other end of the chain to pull it tighter, stretching your arms up above your head. You’re almost lifted off your knees. A small piece of leather running up and down your spine and your breathing starts to speed up. The anticipation of what’s to come almost has you bursting at the seams.

“This is a riding crop. You said you’re interested in impact play, as well as paddles, whips and crops. Is that correct?”

You nod, your throat going dry and voice cracking as you say, “Yes, Mister Miller.”

“How’d your LSAT go, baby?”

“I…I th-think I failed,” you murmur.

A sharp snapping sound fills the room, quickly followed by red hot pain on your right ass cheek; you gasp at the sensation.

The soft leather goes back to tracing your spine, slowly up and down, almost feather light and ticklish. “Again, how did your LSAT go?”

“I’m sorry, Mister Miller. But,” your try to swallow the dry lump in your throat. “I think I failed.”

As if he’s had years of sniper training, he strikes you in the exact same spot. This time your body jerks, the chains rattling above you as you cry out. However, the heat of this strike spreads right to your clit, and your cry morphs into a whine of pleasure.

“Sweet girl, do you belong to me?” He trails the leather along your hip, slowly teasing up your side.

“Y-Yes, Mister Miller.” 

“Does it look like I own things that aren’t perfect?” The soft end of the crop continues its trail, over the side of your breast and to your armpit.

“No.” You whisper. 

I can’t do this, he’s going to ask me to say I’m perfect and I can’t do it. 

“I don’t appreciate you talking bad about something I own.” A strike lands on the sole of your left foot, you hadn’t even realized the crop had moved from your arm. He taps the foot again, lighter this time but the pain from the first strike hasn’t ceased, a strangled cry passes your lips. “Especially when what you’re talking about is yourself.”

Another strike hits your right ass cheek and the red hot stings of it causes you to shoot up onto your knees. The chains above you rattle and go slack. Joel makes a noise similar to a growl behind you before two quick snaps land on the back of both of your thighs. “Kneel, sweet girl.”

You’re shocked by the moans and gasps that are filling the room, sounds that are unconsciously coming from your own mouth. Your pussy is throbbing and as you settle back onto your heels you realize how wet you are. You didn’t think you’d like this this much. 

“You need to learn how to stay still without being tied down.”

“Sorry, Mister Miller,” you whine through the panting breaths you’re taking. 

“I’m going to ask you one more time,” he says, striking your left cheek and then gently rubbing along your ass. “How did your LSAT go?”

“I…It…I don’t know,” you say defeatedly.

He hits the sole of your left foot again, then your right ass cheek and this time your body acts on its own, your hips tilting to push your ass out towards Joel, a needy moan filling the room. “Come on, baby girl. Use your words.”

“It was harder then I remember,” you hum, your body practically vibrating with need. God, you can’t believe how good this feels.

The crop makes a slow line from the top of your ass, up your spine again and you tense up, sucking in a big breath. “Relax, my sweet girl. Until we talk about it, I will never strike you anywhere above the waist.”

“In fact,” he continues. “Anywhere here,” he draws a big circle along your entire lower back, “Should never, ever, be hit.”

“Ok, th-thank you.” You sink onto your heels again, your inner thighs are almost slippery with how turned on you are. 

Joel laughs lightly, “You’re welcome. So, it was harder than you remember?”

“Y-yes. I think I failed, Joel.” As soon you say it, you know you’ve fucked up. Eight quick, sharp snaps of the crop hit; two on each ass cheek and two on each foot, all at random. It’s over faster than you can apologize, and the walls of your pussy spasm with each crack of leather on skin. “Sorry, Mister Mill, hnng, M-Miller.”

Your head falls back, eyes fluttering closed as he speaks. “Again, it was harder than you remember?”

You whine before whispering, “Yes, but I tried my hardest.”

“Up,” Joel commands, pulling the chain so you’re up on your knees. “Good girl. Spread your legs.”

He bends down behind you, the heat of his broad upper body warming your back. His strong hands grip your waist to steady you as you walk your knees out. “That’s it, good job sweet girl.”

His praise shifts everything. Sure, maybe you failed, but you are stronger than a little test. You are bigger than law school. If you don’t get in, you’ll try again and you’ll keep on trying, because you can do anything. A bright light shines on the little box of feelings.

The crop lightly tapping your inner thigh brings your back to the moment. “Please, Mister Miller.”

“You don’t have to ask, sweet girl. If this is enough to make you come then let go for me.” He whispers, trailing the leather of the crop up your thigh before trailing down the other.

“I need you to touch me,” you whine, letting your head fall forward. 

“Aww, poor baby,” he mocks before bringing the little leather square between your legs and taps lightly against your swollen clit.

“Oh god, oh god, don’t stop,” you moan.

“Yea? My perfect sweet girl gonna come?”

“Yes,” you cry, head now falling back, your mouth falling open in a silent scream.

"Tell me,” he commands, stopping the tapping and just letting the soft leather rest against you, “Tell me you're perfect.”

“No, please,” you murmur.

“Tell me you’re perfect and you can come, sweet girl.” The crop is barely touching you now. 

“I’m perfect,” you whine.

He smacks your clit harder once, twice and with the third snap of the crop you fall over the edge. The chains rattle as pleasure consumes you. Your orgasm rolls through you so hard and all you can do is take it. You moan loudly and your legs start to give out beneath you, the handcuffs and chain above you the only thing holding you up.

Joel

Fuck, she looks absolutely stunning when she finally submits. My beautiful, broken girl. She’s so smart, so driven, always pushing, pushing, pushing. Always taking care of everyone else. I wish she’d just let go, let me take care of her. 

As you slump forward he drops the riding crop, wrapping his arms around your waist to hold you up, as he undoes the cuffs. You go completely boneless in his arms, your back pressed to his front, his soft lips peppering kisses along the top of your glistening shoulder. “You did so well, sweetheart. God, you’re so beautiful.”

He supports your weakened body, lowering you to the floor and rolling you onto your back. He pushes the hair that’s stuck to your sweat soaked forehead back. The soft and mischievous smile across your face is exactly what he was hoping for; you’re not ready to be done yet and luckily, neither is he. 

“I’m not done with you,” he whispers, gravel in his throat, before kissing your forehead.

Joel stands and takes a few long strides across the room, sitting on the edge of the bed. He can feel your eyes glued to him as he walks away. After your joke about his pants he picked a pair that's extra snug, just for you. He’s never picked an outfit for a sub before, and this just further proves that even if he’s not ready to fully admit it to himself yet, you are so much more than just a sub. 

“Sweet girl, come here.” He pats his thigh. As you sit up he says, “No, I want you to crawl to me.”

Your eyes widen, cheeks flushing, and his heart nearly flutters right out of his fucking chest as you say, “What?”

He leans forward, forearms resting on his knees. He wants to wrap you in his arms and praise you, but you’re responding so well to him being mean and he knows you need him to keep going. “I said to fucking crawl.”

When you get on your hands and knees, his cock swells to its full potential, pushing painfully behind the zipper of his dress pants. He begins memorizing every inch of your glistening skin and the lust-filled expression on your face as you move so beautifully across the room. 

“Like this, Mister Miller?” You ask innocently, wetting your lips and effectively ruining his life at the same time. 

“Just like that, my sweet girl,” he praises, sitting back up and patting his thigh as he adds, “All the way, then rest your head right here.”

You finally reach him, settling yourself in a kneeling position again and laying your head on his lap, big eyes looking up at him sweetly. His short nails scrape along your scalp as his fingers card through your hair and butterflies fill his stomach as you melt into his touch. “You look so pretty like this. So sweet and submissive. I’m a bad man for the thoughts I have about you when you’re like this.”

You hum quietly, eyelashes hitting your cheeks as your eyes flutter closed. You’re fully at his mercy, trusting him to do what he thinks is best. It’s not a role he takes lightly, not like when he was younger. If this was fifteen years ago you still be handcuffed to that ceiling as he fucked you, but after breaking a lot of hearts he’s reformed his ways. No sex, that’s the rule, as badly as he’d love to sink into your tight, wet heat, you’re trusting him to keep you safe. 

A sense of calm and comfort washes over him as he continues to massage at your scalp, and he smiles to himself as your body gets heavier between his spread thighs. There’s lots of things he likes about you, but the thing he loves the most is how he never knows what’s going to come out of your mouth next. And you prove that when your eyes flutter open and you confidently say, “I want to suck your cock.”

“Fuck, baby. Gonna give me a heart attack sayin’ shit like that outta the blue.”

Your perfect pink lips curl up into a shy smile, his hand moving from your hair so he can brush his knuckles lightly down your cheek. “S’ that what you want? To suck on my cock?”

Your head comes off his lap as you nod up at him. “Yes, Mister Miller. Please?”

“You know that you don’t have to do that. Right? I don’t do this for orgasms, it’s about so much more than that for me.” He asks softly, knuckles trailing your jaw. 

“I know, it’s more than that for me too, but I want to.”

The two of you look at one another for a while, eyes dancing along each other's faces. His voice comes out thick and full of sand, “Take it out.” 

He sits back, resting his hands on the bed behind him as your hands go to his belt, quickly undoing the buckle and then opening his pants. His thick cock springs free as you pull down his soft black boxers, the tip already leaking a bead of milky precome. As you eagerly press the flat of your tongue to the tip, he stifles a moan and watches as your eyes widen. He knows that look, it’s the same look every other man and woman has when they see it for the first time. Joel’s never been with someone of the same sex, but on the rare times he’s shared a sub with another man they have the same expression too.

“You have a piercing,” you say, curiosity thick in your voice, eyes glued to the nickel sized silver hoop that sits at the very bottom of his pelvis, the bottom of the hoop sitting just above the base of his cock.

“Yes,” he confirms, watching the questions about the unusual placement of it run behind your inquisitive eyes. 

Your hand is wrapped around the base of his cock now, your pinky grazing the shiny metal, and his hands fist the sheets behind him to stop himself from grabbing you. “I didn’t know that was a place people pierced.”

He smirks. “Welcome to the wonderful world of kink, sweet girl.” 

He got the piercing shortly after he began his journey to become a dom. In certain positions it can be very beneficial for his partner, and even though he’s vowed over and over again to himself that he’s not going to cross that line with you, he can’t help but imagine your perfect face as you find out exactly what it can do. A little piece of metal that would stimulate your clit as he fucks you.

Your soft pink tongue wets your lips before you begin to suckle on the sensitive rosy pink tip of his cock. His lips part with a quiet sigh. The entire tip of his cock slips into your mouth and his hands clench harder at the fluffy white sheets, desperately trying to let you explore him when all he wants to do is wrap your silky hair around his hands and hear what you sound like when you gag. His efforts double as you hum and then swirl your tongue around the leaking tip, big doe eyes looking up at him. 

“Fuck, baby,” he almost whimpers. “Do that again.” You smile up at him sweetly and his heart starts to thunder behind his ribs. This isn’t a good idea. He should just focus on you, he gets off on that too, just in a much different way. 

Submissives come to him for many different reasons but he’s a dominant for one reason only. From the minute Tiffany passed, Joel has been responsible for everything. From raising Sarah, to bailing out Tommy whenever he got in trouble. Not to mention his construction job, which eventually led to being a business owner. Everyone needed everything from Joel. He had to pivot plans or multitask, nothing ever went as planned; but when he’s Mister Miller it goes exactly how he wants it to. He can say no, he can make them beg or say please, he plans what happens and it goes just how it’s supposed to. For a man who is supposed to be “the boss”, he only feels in control when he’s playing the role of dominant. 

And then came you. This beautiful little ray of light. From that first gasp and wide eyed stare in his office he had a feeling about you. And then everything that came out of your mouth took him by surprise. And right now, how good your mouth feels has him even more surprised. 

You haven’t looked away as you’ve worked more of him down your throat, your hand moves in tandem with your mouth, and your tongue flicks against the ridge along the bottom of the tip each time. 

“Feels s’good, sweet girl.” One of his hands moves on its own, tucking your hair behind your ear. “You can take more though. Come on. Be a good girl and take it all.” 

A small humming giggle vibrates along his length as you work more of him into your mouth and he can’t fight it anymore. Both his hands come to your hair, pushing it back as he wraps the soft strands around his fingers and grips tightly, guiding you down and holding you as low as he can get you before you gag. “Good fuckin’ girl. Jus’ like that.” 

You

Joel’s salty precum is like a drug. You want it. Need it. And know you’re going to crave it forever. He’s been mean tonight, something you haven’t really seen from him, but it was exactly what had to happen to get your head back on straight. You needed a harsh hand to snap you out of the dark looming cloud that’s been threatening to swallow you whole. 

You’ve probably always suffered from depression or high-functioning anxiety, not that your parents would have noticed or said anything. And even if they had, they wouldn’t have gotten their braggable daughter diagnosed. God forbid you weren’t something for them to hold over their friends’ heads.  

Joel’s hands tighten in your hair as he starts to take over. He let you taste him, let you get his cock nice and sloppy with your saliva. He looked down at you softly while you started, but now he’s back to full dominance. Full Mister Miller. 

He pushes you down onto his cock, the tip just kissing against your gag reflex. Your scalp burns under his strong fingers and you can feel yourself submitting. Everything goes quiet: your limbs feel heavy yet ready to move or adjust as he commands, the sides of your vision darken, and the only thing that matters now is him. His wishes. His desires. His commands.

He pulls you off of him, and you gasp in air, a string of your spit landing on your chin, your eyes watering. “You snap if you need me to stop, got it?”

“Yes, sir, Mister Miller,” you say hoarsely. “Fuck my mouth, please.”

“Open,” he says growls.

You do as he says, opening your mouth wide while looking into his dark obsidian eyes. You can see his cheeks and tongue working behind his closed lips before he spits into your mouth. 

“That’s my fucking girl,” he rasps and then roughly guides you back onto his cock. He doesn’t take his time or stop at that point of resistance this time. No, this time he pushes you further than you’ve ever been. The cool metal of the ring on his pelvis touches your nose. The juxtaposition of his hard cock meeting your soft mouth and his cold piercing meeting your warm face is staggering, yet comforting.  

“Breathe through your nose,” he instructs. 

You switch your focus, sucking air in through your nostrils slowly. “That’s it, sweet girl. Relax.”

You let your body sink again into his muscled lined thighs. He starts to move you up his cock. He gets about halfway before he forces you down again. You gag as he hits the back of your throat, shocking yourself when the gag ends in a moan and your pussy starts to weep for him. In fact, almost everywhere is weeping for him. Salvia drips from your lips and onto his lap, tears run down face. 

You’re a mess.

‘His mess’, says that annoying little box in the corner of your mind which now has ‘Mister Miller’ written across it in loopy cursive handwriting, the dots of the i’s little bedazzled hearts. 

Joel uses your hair to pull you up to the tip and you gasp in a few breaths before he starts moving you up and down his now obscenely wet and fully erect cock. Your jaw aches with how wide you need to open your mouth to fit him. Your fingertips just met around the tapered base earlier. You’ve never looked at man’s cock before and thought much, but Joel’s might be enough to ruin your life.  

 “Fuck, this mouth. Feels s’ fuckin’ good. Look at you, takin’ it so well. You like this, don’t you?”

“Yes,” you say, although it’s muffled around his cock. He pulls you off fully, releasing his grips from your hair. You sit back on your heels, his eyes raking over your body, pausing to watch your heaving chest; a mixture of needing to catch your breath and being insanely turned on. You don’t take your eyes off his face.

“Stay.” Joel’s voice is deep enough that you feel it reverberate through you. You lick your lips, swallowing down the taste of him that you’ve become addicted to and place your hands on your lap. 

One of his hands comes up to his mouth and he spits into his own palm before bringing it down to fist his cock. Your eyes flick down to watch as he pumps himself slowly. “You have me doin’ shit that I didn’t plan, sweet girl. I give in to you, let you take the reins. But I’m in charge here.”

He pumps faster, and you fight to stay where you’re supposed to. “You need to remember that, so you don’t get to be the one to make me come today, you don’t get to feel it or taste it. No, you’re going to sit there, like a good little obedient submissive, and watch.”

You whimper, your right hand moving on its own to between your thighs. 

“I didn’t say you could touch yourself. Keep your hands on your lap.” His voice is strained as the movement of his hand becomes less fluid. His free hand comes to his balls, massaging them lightly and you try to commit the sight of him like this to memory. Tall, wide, and commanding, yet falling apart as he looks at your naked and kneeling form in front of him.

“Mister Miller?” You ask, your voice small and cracking, the back of your throat raw from the way he fucked your mouth. “I’m so wet. Please, can I just touch for a little bit?”

His mouth falls open, pleasure etched across his features, his focus never leaving you. “Show me how wet you are. Spread your legs for me.”

You raise off your heels slightly and slide your knees apart, exposing your wet and swollen cunt to him. Then you lean back, hands resting on the floor behind you, tilting your hips up so he can see all of you. 

“Good girl. So fuckin’ pretty,” he moans and then you watch as white ropes of cum spill over his hand. Your name passes his lips in a groan as he comes simply from the sight of your pussy. His hand stills and you lock eyes. You should feel shy like this, but instead you smile at him, a mischievous giggle bubbling up your chest as you bite down on your bottom lip.

His head nods towards the small dresser by the door, the one with the ceramic dish where his ring is on top. “Bring me a small towel from the top drawer and then get on the bed.” 

You saunter to the dresser, trying your hardest not to look too eager, and then back towards him with a small fluffy white hand towel. He takes it from you and cleans himself up as you lay on the bed. He stuffs his softening cock into his boxers and then removes his pants and shirt. If you thought you were turned on before, it’s nothing to how you feel now seeing him almost naked in front of you. 

That whole looking like you’re carved from stone gene is strong with the Millers, you think, watching the muscles behind his toned skin flex beneath his tanned skin as he climbs onto the bed. He grabs you by the ankle and pulls you to the end of the bed, a squeal leaving your lips. You had almost forgotten about the riding crop welts, but the friction against the sheets has them burning slightly and you wince as the heat settles. 

“I’ll fix those sore spots, but first I need to taste you. Is that ok?”

You spread your legs wide for him, “Y-Yes. I need you, Mister Miller.”

“Tell me what you need,” he hums, settling himself between your legs. 

“What you said,” shyness seems to have finally caught up to you, although you aren’t sure why.

He raises a thick dark eyebrow at you. “Ask for it, tell me how you like it.” He nods at you encouragingly as you take a few breaths. “Come on, my sweet girl. You can do it.”

My sweet girl, you melt. That fucking bedazzled box of feelings is fully in the spotlight now. He has years of experience in this role, but you can’t be imagining it. Looking at someone the way he’s looking at you now isn’t something that someone can fake. You can’t be the only one to feel whatever this invisible teether is between the two of you.

“I like fingers curled inside while the tip of your tongue flicks at my clit. I like suction too.” The pride in Joel’s face is almost overwhelming as he listens. God, he’s beautiful. 

He hums slightly, readjusting himself between your spread thighs. “My pretty girl gets what she wants,” he whispers before using the tip of his tongue to gently work at the soft folds of your cunt, working his way from your tight entrance to your clit. 

Your body jerks when he reaches your most sensitive part and you can’t stop the salacious moan that fills the room. “Oh god, Mister Miller.” 

He runs his tongue in slow, teasing circles around your clit. Not with enough pressure to actually make you orgasm, just enough to taunt you, and your entire body breaks out in goosebumps and a thin sheen of sweat at the same time. He slides his right arm under your leg, hooking his elbow under your thigh and reaches his hand up and over towards your pussy. His thick pointer finger and thumb easily slip to each side of your puffy clit. Just as you’re about to float off into another dimension he pinches hard. You scream out in a delicious mix of pain and pleasure, your back arching off the mattress. 

He holds your clit in his fingers, easing up the pinch to tease at it with his tongue again while he works the middle finger of his other hand inside of you. 

“You’re so tight,” he hums between licks. “Gotta relax for me. Let me into this tight little cunt.” 

You whimper at the push of his finger inside of you. One of his fingers is easily one and half of yours, and if he’s having a hard time getting just one of them in, you can’t imagine how it will feel to have two. 

“Eyes on me, sweet girl,” he rasps, releasing your clit from his fingers. His strong hand presses lightly on your mound. “You’re safe here, baby. Open up for me.” 

As always, you follow exactly what your dom says. Craning your neck slightly and opening your eyes to lock your gaze with his. The honey flecks in his dark brown irises warm your skin and as your body relaxes he smiles up at you. You feel Joel’s finger slide the rest of the way in with minimal resistance and it sends a wave of pleasure from your core to your toes.  

“There’s my perfect sweet girl.” He groans as you let out a euphoric whimper. And then he’s back on you. Soft lips pressing to your wet heat, the flat of his large tongue circling your clit. 

Your head falls back to the mattress, “Fuckfuckfuck. Oh god!” 

Your orgasm is embarrassingly close. Joel is hitting almost all the spots you love. No man has gotten you to the edge this quickly. Just as that tingle at the base of your spine starts to spread he curls his finger forward and sucks your clit into your mouth. 

“Mis…hnnng…fuck. I’m - I'm gonna.” You can barely think outside of the pleasure, nevermind form a sentence. 

A second finger slips inside of you, “Give it to me, sweet girl. Show me what I do to you.” 

Your orgasm hits you like an earthquake, making you shake harder than you ever have. The walls of your pussy clench hard on his strong fingers. His mouth is back on your clit, sucking it between his soft, warm lips. The lewd sounds of his sucking mix with your cries of pleasure. Joel is ruthless, never stopping as you absolutely crumble underneath his touch. Another strong wave of your orgasm rushes through you when he curls his fingers forward again, pressing right on your g-spot.

“Oh fuck, fuuuck Mister Miller.” You whine.

He slows the motion of his tongue as the convulsions of your body slow, working you through the aftershocks of your earth shattering orgasm. 

“Good girl,” he whispers before placing a light kiss to your spent clit and slowly slips his fingers out of you. As your gazes lock he licks your arousal off his fingers and then rolls you onto your stomach. You hear him suck in a breath through his teeth when he sees the aftermath of his riding crop punishment earlier. “I’m sorry, sweet girl. Just stay on your stomach for me.”

His lips press to your shoulder blade as the mattress baubles under his weight leaving the bed. You glance over at him, watching his broad, tanned back as he grabs a few items. He spins to face you, coconut oil in one hand and an orange juice and a bottle of water in the other. He places the drinks on the bedside table then scoops a bit of coconut oil onto his fingers. 

You wince as he makes contact with your right cheek, “Ouch, Mister Miller.”

“I know. This will help, and hopefully you learned your lesson about talking badly about what belongs to me.” His voice is sweet yet serious and he moves onto the other cheek, then the back of your thighs before his hand wraps around your right ankle, guiding you to bend your knee so he can look at the sole of your foot. 

He places a light kiss on the light pink spot and you giggle, “Your beard tickles.”

He laughs and does the same thing to the other foot before lining his body up with yours and pulling you in to be his little spoon. “How are you feeling, sweet girl?”

“Mmmm,” you hum, sinking back into his warmth. “Much better. Thank you.”

“You don’t need to thank me,” he holds you tighter, biceps flexing around your body like a ring of muscled safety. You're both quiet for a few minutes before he breaks it. “You kinda scared me tonight if I’m being honest.”

“Sorry,” you whisper, hiding your face in the arm he has under your head.

“No, don’t be. I’ve always been good at reading people, it’s probably more of a curse than a gift, but I just - I could feel that you weren’t in a good space when you got here.”

“Ya,” you agree.

“I know I can’t fix it, it’s not my place, but I hope I at least helped.”

You fixed it.

“You did help. I feel much better. Plus,” you turn to face him, both of you using one of your own arms to support your heads and your other arms wrapping around the other person. “Plus, you were right. I am smart. I can do this. I need to not be so hard on myself.”

Joel smiles sweetly, straight white teeth shining at you. 

“If I can be spanked with a riding crop while handcuffed, fuck, I can be aaaanything.”

You and Joel laugh together and it all feels so natural. Maybe too natural. There’s something comfortable and familiar about him. It might be that southern hospitality, but in all the years you’ve been in Texas you’ve never felt this content with someone else. 

“Mister Miller?” you say as the laughter subsides.

“You can call me Joel now,” his eyes widen just for a fraction of a second after it leaves his lips, almost as if he didn’t intend for it to come out before adding, “The scene is over.”

“Ah, so you’re saying this is a safe nickname zone now?” His smile makes your stomach flip.

“Careful, freckles.” He laughs, raising an eyebrow at you. 

You give him a closed lipped smile, “Hey, if you’re gonna use it then so am I, sweet cheeks. Don’t think I didn’t notice the extra tight pants tonight.”

He shrugs a strong shoulder to his ear as you continue. “So, if you don’t sleep with your subs, why the piercing?”

He takes one big breath and licks his lips before he starts, his fingertips trailing up and down your arm. “I got it a long time ago, I wasn’t always as strict with my rules. I’m not proud of it, I broke a lot of hearts when I first started this whole thing. I haven’t taken it out because…well, I don’t really know. I guess because when I do finally reach that point with a partner I want them to experience the benefits.”

Always the giver, you think. 

“Can you have a traditional partner while living this lifestyle?” You immediately begin to back track, realizing that you don’t want to seem like you’re getting attached. “Not you in particular. What you do outside of this room isn’t my business. I just mean like, are there doms that have subs that are married? Again, not you.”

He stares at you as you continue to ramble. “That whole thing came out wrong.”

“Relax, freckles, I knew what you meant. You’re kinda cute when you get all flustered and start to ramble though.”

The lid of the now pink painted box of feelings in your mind lifts a little. It seems to have gained an entire personality, and has the voice of Mrs. Potts from Beauty and The Beast as it says, ‘oh he definitely feels that tether too.’ 

“To answer your question,” his voice pulls you out of your own mind, “There are doms that do this professionally. I did have paying subs at one point myself and had a fairly serious girlfriend.”

Jealousy churns in your stomach. It’s irrational and you really hope it isn’t whoever Tess is. 

“But,” he continues, “It’s a tricky situation and involves a lot of trust and communication. Probably more than a sub-dom dynamic. But, yes, I’ve seen lots of happily married people who live and explore the kink lifestyle.”

You shiver slightly and he pulls you in closer, tucking your head into his chest, inhaling that ash, leather and natural Joel musk. His hand runs up and down your naked back, the calluses on his fingers scratching slightly. 

His body tenses, almost as if he’s nervous before he speaks. “Did you want to come to a Shibari class with me this week? We are hosting a demonstration at the club on Wednesday.”  

You glance up at him, “I’d really like that, Joel.”

He tucks your head back into his chest. His lips press to the crown of your head at the same time that yours meet the soft skin of his sternum. “It’s a date.”

Part Two

[vivwritesfics]

Hooked On A Feeling

Chapter Six - Danny Goes Racing

Daniel is a Formula One driver, but, more importantly, he was a single dad to a wonderful little girl. He wants her to be a normal little girl, to have a normal social life, so he sends her to daycare. That was where she met Milo, her future best friend.

Milo's mother was incredibly stressed. She worked so hard to provide a good life for her son. But then he makes a new friend, a friend who has a hot dad (ofc they fall in love)

1.2K

Single Dad!Daniel x Single Mum!Reader

Series Masterlist

Y/N picked Olivia up from her mother’s house on Sunday. She left Milo in the car as she ran up to the front door of the incredibly nice house and knocked. Patiently she waited for Olivia’s mother to open the door.

It took a good few minutes before the door opened. Olivia stood at the door, a bag on her back and a child size AlphaTauri hat on her head. “Hi, miss L/N!” She called, beaming wide. She looked back into the house and shouted a loud ‘goodbye’ before shutting the door. It was something Y/N would have done as a teenager, not a five year old.

“Olivia, are you sure your momma is okay with you just leaving like that?” She asked and Olivia nodded her head, quickly taking her hand.

Y/N walked Olivia back to the car. She climbed, sitting on the cushion’s Y/N had put down (because she didn’t have a spare car seat) and secured the buckle of the seat belt. Immediately Milo began talking to her as Y/N walked to the front seat and climbed in. She shot Daniel a quick text before driving the children back to her house.

The kids were excited, that was clear. They unbuckled themselves and jumped out of the car as soon as Y/N opened the door. Milo led Olivia up the path and the two of them waited by the front door. Y/N locked the car and followed the kids, unlocking the front door and letting them in.

Olivia and Milo ran into the living room and jumped onto the sofa. “Put on the race, momma!” Milo shouted as they settled back against the sofa cushions.

Y/N did just that. She turned on the TV and put on the race, allowing the kids to watch the last of the F2 race before the interviews for the F1 race began. She left them there while she got them both something to drink and put some snacks in a bowl for the both of them.

Before she left the kitchen, she pulled her phone out of her pocket and texted Daniel once again. He hadn’t responded to her previous message, but he was busy, he was about to complete a Formula One race. Still, she sent him a good luck text and brought a drink in for the kids.

When Y/N returned with the snacks, the interviews before the race had already started. “That’s my uncle Christian,” said Olivia as an older man in a Red Bull shirt spoke to the camera. “My daddy used to work for him but then he moved to Renault and then McLaren and now he’s in AlphaTauri,” she said and Y/N found herself nodding along.

All she knew about Daniels career was that he was a Formula One driver. She didn’t know anything about teams and how it worked, so she hadn’t thought to ask. But Olivia wasn’t explaining it well. She wasn’t explaining in in great detail, but Y/N was still learning something.

Suddenly she shrieked. “Uncle Lando!” She shouted, pointing at the screen.

Olivia considered almost every driver that her dad had been teammates with to be her uncle. Her favourite uncle was her uncle Max, but she’d never tell the others that. She had her Uncle Max, Uncle Checo, Uncle Lando, Uncle Hulk (Nico Hukenberg), and Uncle Yuki as her dad’s current and ex teammates. But she also had her Uncle Christian, Uncle Zac and Andrea, uncle Pierre, Uncle Charles, Uncle Lewis, Uncle Nando and more. The entire grid was a family to her.

She told Milo and his momma all about her Uncle Lando as they interviewed him. They couldn’t hear what the man on the television was saying, but they happily listened to Olivia as she spoke. “He came to visit us once and took me to play crazy golf because my uncle Lando loves golf.”

And then Lance Stroll appeared on the screen. Olivia launched into a full on explanation into her Uncle Scotty and how he married her Uncle Lance’s sister, and then about how her Uncle Lance bought her a playhouse for their garden when she turned five.

For any driver that appeared on the screen Olivia told Y/N and Milo everything about them.

And then her father appeared on the screen. Milo and Olivia were both shouting, until Daniel started talking. He answered all of the interviewers’ questions, always wearing a smile on his face. He looked so damn happy to be there, Y/N realised as she watched him.

The interviewer went to move on, but Daniel stopped him. “Can I say something?” He asked, his eyes wide and that typical Daniel grin on his face, microphone still in his hands.

“Go for it,” the interviewer replied.

Daniel held his microphone up to his lips. “Hi Livvy, hi Milo!” He said and waved to the camera.

Y/N’s heart thudded in her chest as the kids both shrieked, the two of them excited as ever. That was maybe the sweetest thing anybody had ever done for her son. She couldn’t believe it, couldn’t believe he’d just said hello to him over the television. F

Daniel left the interview, seemingly skipping off. It wasn’t long before the race began and he was already in his AlphaTauri racing suit.

As the interviewer moved onto one last driver, Y/N’s phone buzzed in her pocket. She pulled it out and looked at the message

daniel riiiiiciaaaardoooo

thank you, milo's momma

She smiled down at her phone, threw it to the side, and watched as the adverts before the race started up.

The race began. Y/N and Milo had no idea what was was going on, but Olivia was more than happy to explain it to them. They didn't even have to ask and Olivia was telling them everything there was to know.

Y/N learnt that her eyes should have been following the number 3 car. She felt an immense amount of panic whenever two of the cars nearly collided.

Daniel spent the entire race in the midfield. When the two cars in front of him touched wheels and two of them went off the track, Y/N held onto her chest. Holy cow, how did anybody do this for a Jon? It was insane just how anxious she was feeling. The poor mothers of the drivers.

Milo was loving it. His eyes were glued to the screen for the entirety of the race.

As soon as the race was over, Y/N couldn't stop herself from texting Daniel about just how terrifying that race was to watch.

y/n (milo's momma)

Milo loved it, though

As soon as the text was sent Y/N got up to make the kids some dinner. Sausage and mash potato. It was a safe bet, something she hoped Olivia would enjoy.

After Dinner Y/N had to take Plivia back home. She didn't want to go, tried to hold onto the banisters to stop Y/N from taking her.

But she took her home, stood with her at the doors while she waited for her mother to open the door. "By Livvy," she said before she left. Olivia threw her arms around her before she trudged into her mothers house.

Taglist (CLOSED): @biancathecool @rewmuslupin @prettiest-at-the-party @hellowgoodbye @cassie0sstuff @spideybv28 @andydrysdalerogers @aundercover @lou-bean28 @landossainz @purplephantomwolf @ggaslyp1 @layazul @phantomxoxo @minkyungseokie @gills-lounge @hollie911 @annispamz @lillians-world-is-f1 @cixrosie @notyouraveragemochii @charli123456789 @amalialeclerc @stay1strongbeautiful @tallrock35 @teenwolf01 @chiliwhore @darleneslane @sava207 @thatsusbitch @formulaal @leptitlu @angiesw0rld @yunakynn @landosgirlxoxo @msolbesg @cherry-piee @catmouseggy @bathedinheat @chanshintien @ilove-tswizzle @woozarts @evie-119 @trouble-sistar @mysticalnightenthusiast @lewisvinga @spilled-coffee-cup @starkeyellow @fxrmuladaydreams @viennakarma @radiator101 @lightdragonrayne @angelxxrose @millinorrizz @xemiefx @ellies-world61 @the-depressed-fellow

[onlyangel4]

healing a heart i didn't break. LH44. MV1. SMAU. part one.

cheater! lewis hamilton x reader. max verstappen x reader.

when your boyfriend of three years fumbles, his rival is there to put the pieces of your heart back together bit by bit.

warnings: 14 year age gap with lewis. cursing. cheating. mentions of the anniversary of a family member's death.

author's note: in this reader is 25 years old. lewis is a jerk but just for the plot. this first chapter is just the cheating. max will show up in the next chapters.

part two

faceclaim: camilla morrone

y/ninsta

liked by alexandrasaintmleux, lewishamilton, y/bffinsta and 678,901 others

tagged lewishamilton and y/bffinsta

y/ninsta: the best summer break with my favourite people

view all 19,028 comments

alexandrasaintmleux: looking forward to seeing you all in the netherlands

y/ninsta: i can't wait to see you alex !

lewishamilton: i think this was the best summer break out of them all

y/ninsta: we keep bettering ourselves every single year

y/bffinsta: thank you for letting me tag along

y/ninsta: wdym he was obviously third wheeling us

user 12: i love the friendship between lewis, y/n and y/bff it is so wholesome

lewishamilton posted a story tagging y/ninsta

written: last beach day with y/n before back to work

y/ninsta posted a story

written: back at it

y/ninsta

liked by lewishamilton, carmenmundt, y/bffinsta and 560,982 others

written: forever the proudest girlfriend. last slide is me and y/bff hardly working while my boyfriend secures p2.

tagged lewishamilton and y/bffinsta

view all 12,348 comments

lewishamilton: the luckiest of lucky charms

y/ninsta: that was all skill baby

y/bffinsta: we do our best

y/ninsta: that we do

carmenmundt: gonna miss you in the merc garage next week honey

user19: i'm new to the y/n fandom. how come she won't be there next week.

y/nfan: her father died on the 31st of august five years ago. she has a family tradition to go home and let go of balloons, so she is never at the race that week.

y/bffinsta posted a story

y/ninsta replied to your story: i didn't know you were going

y/bffinsta: yeah lew had a paddock ticket reserved and as you are busy he gave to me

y/ninsta: oh. have a good time, wish him good luck from me

y/ninsta

liked by alexandrasaintmleux, carmenmundt, max verstappen and 320,982 others

y/ninsta: oh dad, i have a love hate relationship with day. i love it because i get to sit down with everyone and talk about my favourite memories of you. but i hate it because it reminds me that you are really gone. i hope you are proud of me and the woman that i have become. i know you are looking down on us.

view all 6,902 comments

carmenmundt: thinking of you darling

y/ninsta: thank you carmen

mercedesamgf1: we love you y/n

y/ninsta: i love you admin

alexandrasaintmleux: forever in my thoughts

user32: guys wtf is going on. every year y/n posts a similar thing and lewis and y/bff are always the first people to like and comment on it. this has been up all day and all the other wags have liked it and even max fucking verstappen has but not a peep from y/bff or lewis. something is going on.

user12: shit open twitter

f1updates

liked by user23, f1fan12, user22 and 120,987 others

f1updates: the internet is in shambles after pictures of lewis hamilton and y/bff were posted by papparazzi. y/bff is best friends with lewis' long term girlfriend y/n. y/n was not in italy this weekend as she was at home honoring her late father. admin doesn't tend to like to take sides but this is awful behaviour from lewis and y/bff and we hope that y/n is okay.

view all 22,398 comments

user23: this is awful. y/n is grieving her father and her two favourite people betray her.

f1fan12: lewis hamilton i am in your walls

user22: there is no innocent explanation to this. this is cheating.

y/ninsta posted a close friends story

written: and they both blocked me with no explanation. like i'm in the wrong

alexandrasaintmleux replied to your story: where are you

y/ninsta: my childhood home

alexandrasaintmleux: i'm coming

[seospicybin]

TASTE.

CHAPTER III: AFTERTASTE.

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. (21,1k words)

Author's note: Your reservation at Farfalle is ready. Hope you enjoy it! Don't forget to leave a 5-star review ★

Aftertaste. /ˈɑːf.tə.teɪst/ (n) a taste, typically an unpleasant one, remaining in the mouth after eating or drinking something.

Do you know that you food can taste different when it has become cold? When the food is sweet or salty in particular, its taste would change depending if they're hot or cold. That, Minho learned the hard way, eight years ago in culinary school.

The kitchen was alive with the sounds of chopping, sizzling, and the occasional bursts of laughter from students, each consumed by their own culinary experiments. Minho stood at his station, his brow furrowed in concentration as he meticulously kneaded pasta dough. The faint scent of flour and olive oil hung in the air, mingling with the aromas of freshly baked bread and simmering sauces.

Across the counter, Sara leaned on her elbows, watching Minho with an amused smile. Her hair was tied back into a loose bun, a streak of flour smudged across her cheek.

“You’re so serious when you cook,” she teased, breaking the silence.

Minho glanced up, his lips twitching into a small smile. “And you’re so distracting,” he shot back, though there was no malice in his tone.

Sara grinned, straightening up and walking over to his side. “Come on, show me what you’re working on.”

Minho hesitated but eventually relented, stepping aside to reveal a small bowl of ginseng root. “I’m making a ginseng pasta,” he said, his voice brimming with excitement. “It’s going to be my entry for the summer competition.”

Sara raised an eyebrow, picking up a piece of the root. “Ginseng? That’s bold. How are you planning to deal with the bitterness?”

Minho smirked, the confidence in his expression unmistakable. “That’s the genius part. I’m using Barolo wine to balance it out. The earthy notes in the wine will complement the ginseng perfectly.”

Sara nodded thoughtfully, placing the root back into the bowl. “Well, good luck with it,” she said, her tone warm and genuine. “You’re going to need it against me.”

Minho chuckled, shaking his head. “We’ll see about that.”

Minho and Sara were not only young and bright, both of them were passionate about cooking, they were also very much in love with each other. Their rivalry was as much a part of their relationship as their love for cooking. They pushed each other, critiqued each other’s dishes, and celebrated each other’s successes. It was why they were the top two students in their class with Minho reigned on the first place and Sara stayed closely on the second.

On the day of the competition, the grand hall buzzed with anticipation, the scent of spices and freshly cooked food wafting through the air. Minho stood confidently by his station, his ginseng pasta plated and ready to be presented. He glanced at Sara, who gave him a small, encouraging smile from her own station.

When it was his turn, Minho carried his dish to the judges with steady hands. They took their first bites, their faces revealing nothing. But as they continued, a subtle crease formed in one judge’s brow, followed by a quiet murmur among them.

Minho’s confidence faltered. He hurried back to his station, his mind racing. What had gone wrong? He quickly checked his ingredients, his heart sinking when he tasted the wine. It was oxidized, the rich flavors replaced by an unpleasant sourness.

His hands clenched into fists as realization dawned on him. He had only shared his recipe with one person.

He looked across the room at Sara, who stood before the judges, presenting her dish with radiant confidence. When they announced her as the winner, her smile was triumphant, her eyes meeting his for a brief moment.

Minho’s stomach churned as he saw the satisfaction in her gaze. She had sabotaged him.

Sara approached him afterward, her tone light and breezy. “I’m sorry, Minho. But I need to go to Rome,” she said, her smile sweet but unmistakably victorious.

Minho said nothing, his jaw tight and his knuckles white as he gripped the edge of his station. You see, even once the food is served, sometimes you don't eat it right away so the food becomes cold while you are talking or taking pictures of it but the last thing you'd remember is how it tastes before you leave the table.

And that day, his love for Sara was replaced by something colder, sharper—a lingering aftertaste that rivaled the bitterness of his ruined ginseng.

-

Today, that lingering aftertaste not only tainted his tongue, it starts pooling in the pit of his stomach, making him sick from the inside.

Minho exhales sharply, his patience thinning to a dangerous edge. His knuckles ache from clenching his fists. He stares at Chris, his gaze demanding an answer he already suspects but needs to hear aloud.

“Don’t tell me that she's already here?” he asks, his voice a low, controlled growl.

Chris nods, and Minho’s stomach twists. “She's here.”

The words barely register before the sound of her footsteps announces her presence. Minho’s body tenses as Sara steps into the kitchen. She’s every bit as he remembers—confident, calculated, and exuding a saccharine charm that feels like a slap to the face.

“Nice to meet everyone,” Sara says, her voice sweet and cutting all at once. Her gaze lands on Minho, and the playful malice in her tone is unmistakable. “I hope no one plans to chase me out of the kitchen just because someone here has… issues tolerating women in the kitchen.”

Minho’s jaw tightens further but he stays silent, watching, waiting, his anger simmering dangerously close to the surface.

Sara turns back to him, feigning sweetness. “I’ll follow your instructions, Chef. Tell me where to stand and from which stove I should work.”

Her words feel like needles, each one designed to provoke. Minho’s grip on the table tightens, his knuckles whitening.

Sara tilts her head, mock innocence dripping from her tone. “Should I pick the station myself, then?”

Then she does the unthinkable. Her hands slide onto the chef’s table—his table—as if claiming it for herself.

The last thread of Minho’s restraint snaps. He spins around, his movements sharp and deliberate, his eyes locking onto hers with unfiltered fury. For a moment, the air between them crackles, thick with unspoken conflict.

Sara doesn’t flinch, meeting his gaze with calm defiance, and that only stokes his rage further.

Without a word, Minho storms past her, his shoulder colliding with hers hard enough to send her staggering. The door swings shut behind him, the sound echoing like a final note in a symphony of chaos.

Minho storms out of the kitchen and into his office, slamming the door with enough force to make the frame rattle. The echo reverberates through the small space as he rips his apron loose, the knot giving way under his angry hands. He hurls it onto the floor, the fabric crumpling into a heap. His chest rises and falls with sharp breaths, and he begins pacing, his shoes clicking against the polished floor in a rhythm that matches the racing of his thoughts.

She’s in my kitchen. That backstabber. That audacious, smug—

His fists clench, the tendons in his forearms straining as he tries to shake off the fury boiling inside him. But it’s futile. The image of Sara standing there, smug and triumphant, invades his mind again and again.

A knock on the door interrupts his spiraling thoughts. He ignores it, his back turned to the door as he continues pacing.

A second knock comes, firmer this time. Before Minho can bark out a refusal, the door creaks open, and Chris steps inside, calm and composed as always.

Minho stops, planting his hands firmly on his hips as he turns to face him. His glare is scorching, his voice sharp and biting. “What is it that you want? Are you trying to make me leave?”

Chris closes the door behind him, leaning against it with an ease that contrasts starkly with Minho’s barely-contained rage. His calm demeanor is infuriating.

“I’m trying to revive Farfalle,” Chris says, his tone measured. “That’s all this is about. Don’t make it more complicated than it needs to be. It’s just a new menu item.”

Chris raises an eyebrow, unfazed as he continues. “You chose her dish to be the new menu and you agreed the winner gets to cook here. You signed off on that.”

Minho’s jaw tightens, and he boldly steps forward, closing the distance between them. “Do you really think this is just a trivial matter to you, huh?”

Chris doesn’t flinch, his gaze steady. “It’s still your kitchen, Chef. You’re the head chef. Nothing has changed. Ninety-seven percent of the kitchen is yours, and no one’s taking your authority away.”

Minho lets out a sharp, humorless laugh, the sound cutting through the tension. He tilts his head, his eyes narrowing as a sinister smirk spreads across his lips. “My kitchen? In my kitchen, there would never be two chefs. Ever.”

Chris straightens, his calm demeanor cracking just enough to reveal a flicker of challenge. He steps closer, their faces now inches apart. “You’ve made countless changes to this kitchen. You’ve built it into something incredible. Are you really going to throw it all away because of this?”

Minho’s breath is steady, but the fire in his eyes burns hotter than ever. He leans in slightly, matching Chris’s intensity. “If you’re making the changes, then why don’t you just take it, Chris? Take the ninety-seven percent. Hell, take it all. Make it one hundred.”

For a long moment, they stand there, locked in a silent battle of wills. The air between them feels heavy, suffocating, as if the entire restaurant is holding its breath.

Neither of them blinks. Neither of them backs down.

-

The kitchen feels like it's on the verge of collapse. The clanging of pots and pans is louder than usual, overlapping with shouts of orders being repeated and corrected. Seojun, normally composed, is frantically trying to keep everyone in line, his voice hoarse from barking instructions. Felix has just served the wrong table, and the mistake sends a ripple of frustration through the staff. Taesoo, rushing to clean up a spill, nearly crashes into Seungwan, who looks like he might collapse at any moment.

The tension is suffocating, lingering in the air like the aftermath of a thunderstorm. And you know exactly why. Minho is gone. He left. Completely abandoning his post and the team.

You feel anger simmering beneath the surface, threatening to boil over as you throw down your knife and step away from your station. If no one else is going to fix this, you will.

Without a word to anyone, you slip into the freezer, the sudden chill biting at your skin. Pulling your phone out of your pocket, you scroll through your contacts and hit Minho’s name. The ringing feels endless, each tone tightening the knot in your stomach.

Finally, he picks up, but instead of his voice, you’re met with the thumping bass of loud music. The sound is almost deafening, making it hard to tell if he’s even aware you’re on the other end.

“Hello?” you say, your voice sharp, laced with urgency. “Chef, can you hear me?”

A moment of static, then his voice comes through, lazy and sarcastic. “Wow, you sound so happy right now that I'm not there.”

You grit your teeth, biting back a sharp retort. “Where are you? The kitchen is falling apart, Chef. Are you coming back or not?”

His laugh grates on your nerves, light and dismissive. “Why don’t you come here instead?” he says, his voice almost drowned out by the music. “Don’t bring anyone, though. Just you. Come have some fun.”

Your grip tightens on the phone, your frustration bubbling over. “Are you kidding me right now?” you snap, but he doesn’t respond, his laugh echoing faintly before the line goes dead.

With a growl of frustration, you shove your phone back into your pocket and push your way out of the freezer, the warmth of the kitchen hitting you like a wave. But before you can even get back to your station, your phone buzzes again.

You hesitate for a moment, debating whether to ignore it, but curiosity wins out. Pulling it out, you glance at the screen.

It’s a text from Minho. An address.

You stare at it, your stomach twisting. A club, no doubt the one where he’s currently drowning his responsibilities in music and alcohol.

Your grip on the phone tightens as you slide it back into your pocket, your jaw clenched. The chaos around you feels even louder now, the weight of Minho’s absence pressing down on your shoulders.

You know you can’t leave, not with the kitchen on the verge of disaster. But the thought of him out there, laughing, carefree, while everyone else struggles to keep things afloat, makes your blood boil.

-

The thumping bass of the club vibrates through your body as you push your way through the sweaty crowd, your frustration mounting with each passing second. Neon lights flicker overhead, casting garish colors over the sea of dancing bodies. The smell of alcohol and perfume is overwhelming, but none of it distracts you from your mission: finding Minho.

After what feels like an eternity, you spot him on the second floor, lounging in one of the booths like he doesn’t have a care in the world. His head is tilted back, a bottle of beer dangling lazily from his fingers, and his foot taps idly to the beat of the music.

He left the kitchen in chaos for this?

Without thinking, you grab your purse and fling it at him. It hits him square in the chest, making him jerk forward in surprise. His eyes widen momentarily before recognition sets in, and a slow, infuriating smile spreads across his face.

“Well, look who decided to join me,” he drawls, leaning forward and reaching for a fresh bottle of beer. He holds it out to you. “Here. Have a drink.”

“Are you kidding me?” you snap, refusing the bottle and plopping down on the ottoman across from him. “What the hell? How could you do this—not just to me, but to everyone in the kitchen?”

He sighs dramatically, tipping his head back as though he’s the one being inconvenienced. “I’m off the clock,” he mutters, taking another sip of his beer.

You narrow your eyes. “You’re the head chef! There’s no such thing as ‘off the clock’ when the kitchen is falling apart!”

Minho groans, placing the bottle down and covering his ears with his hands like a petulant child. “I don’t want to hear any of it,” he says, his voice laced with mock annoyance.

You’re livid now. “Don’t you dare act like this isn’t a big deal! Tell me what the actual problem is, huh? Is it because Chef Sara’s a woman? Or a chef? Or is it because—”

Before you can finish, Minho shoots up from his seat and grabs your hand, dragging you down to the dance floor without a word. You protest, trying to yank your hand free, but his grip is firm.

“Let me go!” you shout over the pounding music.

He ignores you, spinning you around and pulling you close, his arms wrapping around your waist. “Relax,” he says, his breath warm against your ear. “Do you know how to relax?”

You glare at him, refusing to be distracted. “I want you to answer me.”

But Minho is relentless. He moves to the rhythm of the music, swaying with a casual confidence that only makes you more frustrated. “How could you constantly think about nothing but work?” he asks, his lips dangerously close to your temple. “Just dance with me.”

You’re about to demand an answer again when he suddenly cups your face with both hands and presses his lips to yours. The kiss is unexpected, firm yet tender, and for a moment, you freeze.

When he pulls back, his eyes lock onto yours, their usual sharpness softened by something you can’t quite place. “You’re the only girl in my kitchen,” he says, his voice low and sincere. “And that’s more than enough for me.”

Your heart skips a beat, his words throwing you off balance. But as quickly as the moment sweeps you up, you snap yourself out of it.

“Don’t think you can sweet-talk your way out of this,” you say, stepping back and crossing your arms. “You’re still at fault, and I’m not forgiving you just because you—”

“Just leave,” Minho interrupts, exasperated. His playful demeanor vanishes, replaced by irritation. “If you’re just going to keep nagging, then leave.”

His words hit harder than they should, but you refuse to let it show. Straightening your shoulders, you glare at him one last time before spinning on your heel and storming off, leaving him standing alone in the crowd.

The ache in your chest surprises you, but you shove it aside. Minho asked you to leave, and you’ll do exactly that.

-

The kitchen is eerily quiet, the faint hum of the refrigerator the only sound as you step through the back entrance. Despite your anger at Minho, you can’t bring yourself to ignore his instructions about prepping for tomorrow. Frustration bubbles up in your chest as you head straight to the kitchen, only to find Taesoo squatting on the floor, painstakingly peeling shrimp from a massive bucket. His head bobs slightly, a yawn escaping as he struggles to stay awake.

A pang of guilt settles in your stomach. You remember those long nights when you were just a kitchen assistant, exhausted but determined to prove yourself. Setting your purse and jacket on the chef’s table, you quietly approach Taesoo and tap his shoulder. He jolts awake, his eyes widening before softening when he recognizes you.

“Sorry for leaving earlier,” you say, your voice gentle. “Where’s Felix? Wasn’t he supposed to stay after dinner service too?”

Taesoo shrugs, looking just as clueless as you feel. “No idea. Either he forgot or decided not to show up.”

You sigh, shaking your head. “Alright, go take a nap. I’ll finish this for you.”

His face lights up with gratitude, and he doesn’t need to be told twice. With a quick “thank you,” he scurries off, leaving you alone with the bucket of shrimp. You slide on a pair of gloves and get to work, the repetitive task giving your hands something to do while your mind drifts back to earlier at the club.

Minho’s smug grin. His infuriating refusal to take responsibility. And that kiss—your cheeks heat at the memory, quickly replaced by anger when you remember how he dismissed you.

The sound of approaching footsteps pulls you from your thoughts. You glance up, surprised to see Chris entering the kitchen. He’s still in his suit, hands casually tucked into his pockets, looking a little out of place in the quiet, industrial space.

“Chris? What are you still here?” you ask, pulling off your gloves.

He smirks faintly but doesn’t answer your question directly. “It’s my first day as the manager,” he says. “Aren't you worried about me?”

You catch the slight sulk in his tone and can’t help but smile warmly. “You weren’t that bad for your first day,” you tease.

He chuckles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. There’s something subdued about him tonight. Deciding to lift his spirits, you stand and gesture toward the door. “Come on. Let me buy you dinner.”

Chris raises an eyebrow, his trademark dimpled grin returning. “What’s the catch?”

“No catch. I realized I haven't eaten anything,” you say, pulling out your phone. “What do you feel like eating?”

He watches you scroll through the food delivery options, his gaze softening. “You’re a chef. Shouldn’t you be cooking instead of ordering takeout?”

You roll your eyes, a small laugh escaping. “I’ve been cooking all day, Chris. The last thing I want to do is cook more.”

He lets out a mock gasp, dramatically clutching his chest. “I don’t trust you with your food choices,” he says with narrowed eyes. Snatching the phone from your hand, he starts scrolling through the menu himself.

Every now and then, he lets out an excited gasp or hums in approval at a dish he likes, grinning as he scrolls. You find yourself smiling despite the fatigue weighing on your shoulders.

The dining hall is eerily quiet, the soft hum of the air conditioning the only sound as you and Chris sit at one of the tables, takeout containers spread out in front of you. The dim lighting gives the room a serene, almost intimate atmosphere, a stark contrast to the chaos earlier.

You take a sip of your canned beer, letting out a satisfied sigh. The exhaustion of the day seems to melt away, replaced by the quiet reward of good food and company. Chris leans back in his chair, staring at the ceiling as he absentmindedly taps his can against the table.

“Do you think he’ll come back?” Chris suddenly grumbles, his voice breaking the silence. “There’s a chance he might not return to the kitchen, you know.”

You set your can down, frowning slightly. “No way. Chef wouldn’t just let go of his kitchen like that. He’s too... territorial.”

Even as you say it, you hate how easily you’ve defended him after everything he’s done tonight. Chris gives you a curious look, his eyebrow quirking. “You seem to know a lot about him.”

You wave a hand dismissively, trying to downplay it. “It’s nothing. We went to the same school, that’s all.”

Chris doesn’t look convinced, but he doesn’t press. Instead, he leans forward slightly, his tone turning more thoughtful. “Did you know about him and Sara?”

The question catches you off guard. You pause, picking at the edge of your takeout container. “Yeah, I know they dated back in culinary school. But I don’t know much about it beyond that.”

Chris hums in response, swirling his beer in the can. His gaze is distant for a moment before you decide to flip the question back on him.

“You seem close to Sara too,” you say, narrowing your eyes at him. “What’s the story there?”

A faint smile tugs at Chris’s lips, and he shrugs. “We tried dating once. Didn’t work out.”

That piques your curiosity even more. “Why not? You’re both attractive, popular... I’d imagine you’d make a power couple.”

Chris looks at you then, his gaze steady and unreadable. “Doesn't matter. I like someone else,” he says casually, like it’s not a bombshell of a revelation.

You lean forward on the table, your curiosity now fully ignited. “Who?”

Chris chuckles but shakes his head. “Not telling.”

You narrow your eyes at him, determined to pry the truth out. “Oh, come on! Who is it? Someone I know? Is it someone in the restaurant?”

Before you can press him further, a loud snore cuts through the air, startling both of you. You glance around, trying to locate the source of the sound, and eventually spot Taesoo sprawled out in one of the booths, fast asleep.

The sight is so unexpected and absurd that you can’t help but laugh. Chris’s laughter soon joins yours, the sound echoing through the empty dining hall. For a brief moment, it feels like you’re both exactly where you need to be, uplifting each other after a long, hard day.

-

Minho leans against the hood of his car, parked across the street from the restaurant. The glow of the streetlights illuminates the familiar sign above the door, casting long shadows on the pavement. His eyes linger on the name of the restaurant, the place he’s poured everything into. The memories of your question from earlier in the club replay in his mind like a haunting echo.

What’s your actual problem with Sara?

The question nags at him, forcing him to confront the truths he’s been avoiding. He exhales slowly, gripping the edge of the car.

Was it because Sara is a woman? No. That had never truly been the issue.

Was it because she’s also a chef? Maybe, but not entirely.

Or was it because Sara is his ex-girlfriend? The thought stirs an uncomfortable weight in his chest, but it’s not the root cause either.

The truth settles in the pit of his stomach, sharp and undeniable. It wasn’t Sara herself—it was the possibility of losing to her again. His ego couldn’t handle it. Back then, she had left him behind, proving she could succeed without him. The thought of her doing it again, this time in his kitchen, had twisted his pride into knots.

But standing there, staring at the restaurant, Minho realizes the futility of clinging to the past. This isn’t culinary school anymore. It’s not about winning or losing. It’s about what’s best for the restaurant. Sara deserves the chance to prove herself, just like anyone else.

He pushes off the car and climbs back inside, the engine roaring to life as he heads home.

The next morning, Minho steps out of his apartment and while adjusting the strap of his bag over his shoulder, he walks toward your apartment. He rings the doorbell, he knows he's here to talk to Sara but he's also expecting to see you open the door.

When Sara answers instead, her bright smile is a stark contrast to his composed demeanor.

“Minho,” she greets warmly, but he skips the pleasantries.

“About your menu... you can make it in the kitchen,” he says bluntly, getting straight to the point.

Sara’s eyes widen in surprise, her smile growing as she processes his words. “Really? Does that mean I’ll start working in the kitchen tomorrow?”

Minho nods, his tone even and detached. “Let me be clear. I need your skill and your recipe, nothing more. Don’t misunderstand—this changes nothing.”

Sara’s smile softens as she nods in agreement. “Understood.”

There’s a brief silence before Minho clears his throat, his voice lowering. “Where’s your roommate?”

Sara tilts her head slightly, confused. “I don’t think she came home last night.”

Minho’s jaw tightens, but he nods once and turns to leave. As he walks toward the elevator, his mind races with questions. Where could you have been all night? And why does it bother him so much to think about it?

-

It’s barely morning, and the kitchen of Farfalle is already buzzing with activity. You’re elbow-deep in prep work, chopping, blanching, and arranging ingredients for the evening’s service. The reservations for today are over 100, and the pressure is palpable. Still, you keep your focus sharp, refusing to let exhaustion creep in.

As lunchtime approaches, you finally step out of the kitchen for a breather. In the dining hall, a press conference is underway. Sara stands confidently in front of a sea of reporters, eloquently describing the inspiration behind her new menu. Her charisma commands the room, and as you watch, you’re reminded of the days back in culinary school.

She’s always been talented, but her success didn’t come from talent alone. It’s her unwavering drive and passion that elevated her career. You admire that about her, even if you’ve never said it aloud. Watching her now, you feel a flicker of determination to push yourself even harder—to be as good as Sara, if not better.

Dinner service is chaos in the best way possible. Orders for the new menu fly in nonstop, and the kitchen hums like a well-oiled machine. For hours, it’s all hands on deck, assembling full-course meals for over a hundred guests. By the end of the night, your feet ache, your hands are sore, and exhaustion clings to you like a second skin. But despite it all, there’s a deep sense of satisfaction.

The reopening of Farfalle has been a success.

Minho strides into the kitchen just as the last of the orders go out, carrying two pristine plates in his hands. He places them carefully on the chef’s table, the gleam in his eyes unreadable.

“Gather around,” he says, his voice cutting through the lingering chatter.

Everyone stops what they’re doing, curiosity sparking as they crowd around the table. Minho gestures to the plates, introducing his new menu item. He insists that everyone taste it and provide brutally honest feedback.

“No sugarcoating,” he warns, his gaze scanning the group. “I want the truth.”

Silence hangs in the air. No one moves. The tension is almost comical as everyone exchanges hesitant glances, none brave enough to be the first to critique the head chef’s work.

“What? You don't feel comfortable being honest with me here? Is that it?” Minho exhales, clearly exasperated. “Fine, then go home and criticize to your heart's content. Taste it and you are to turn in your review anonymously by tomorrow morning, understand?”

Relieved laughter ripples through the team, and forks are finally lifted. One by one, your colleagues sample the dish, their faces lighting up with appreciation. You linger at the back, arms crossed, observing their reactions.

Minho’s eyes find yours, and for a brief moment, his gaze lingers. You glance away dismissively, the sting of yesterday’s events still fresh.

Minutes later, Sara walks in, carrying her own dish—a plate of triple-flavored pasta that looks as stunning as it smells. She sets it on the table next to Minho’s dish. “Please, have a taste of mine too.”

Sara smiles then her eyes lands at Minho, silently asking if she can taste his dish. Minho subtly nods. “Have a taste.”

She picks up a fork and take a piece of the foie gras, processing the taste as she's chewing it.

“It's very good,” Sara praises, her smile genuine. “It's not too rich but refreshing and yet it retains the nutty flavor of the liver.”

Minho gives a curt nod, though his shoulders relax slightly at the compliment. He steps back, addressing the room.

“You’ve all done a great job today. Clean up and head home.”

“Yes, chef!”

After a while, Sara also excusing herself to leave. “Thank you for your hard work today, everyone!”

The team begins to disperse, buzzing with pride from the night’s success. Sara also thanks everyone for their hard work before heading out.

As you start to remove your apron, Taesoo nudges you with a grin. “You haven’t tried the dishes yet. Go on!”

Reluctantly, you grab a fork and approach the table. First, you sample Minho’s creation. The flavors explode on your palate—balanced, bold, and unmistakably his style. Next, you try Sara’s pasta. It’s equally impressive, with layers of taste that linger long after the bite.

You can’t help but smile to yourself, begrudgingly acknowledging that despite everything, they’re both culinary geniuses.

The flavors still linger on your tongue as you exchange notes with Taesoo and a few others about the dishes. The general consensus is clear—both Minho and Sara’s creations are exceptional. The team buzzes with excitement, debating which dish edges out the other, but you stay quiet, appreciating both for their unique strengths.

As you laugh at Taesoo’s dramatic reenactment of his “first bite,” a gentle tap on your shoulder pulls you out of the moment. You turn around to see Felix standing there, looking sheepish yet hopeful, his signature soft smile lighting up his face.

“Hey,” he begins, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just wanted to say sorry for bailing last night. I know I should’ve been here to help you and Taesoo.”

You raise an eyebrow but don’t say anything, crossing your arms as you wait for him to continue.

“To make it up to you,” Felix adds, “I’m buying you two drinks tonight. My treat.”

You glance over at Taesoo, who’s already grinning like he’s won the lottery. Putting your arm around his shoulders, you lean into him conspiratorially. “Drinks, huh? What do you think, Taesoo? Is that enough for all the work we did without him?”

Taesoo shakes his head, playing along. “Not even close.”

You look back at Felix, raising your eyebrows in mock expectation. “Sorry, Lix. Drinks won’t cut it. You’re buying us meals too.”

Felix groans, his shoulders sagging in defeat. “Meals and drinks? You guys are gonna bleed me dry.”

“Yup,” Taesoo chimes, grinning wickedly. “Better start saving up, Felix.”

“Alright, alright,” Felix relents, throwing his hands up in surrender. “Meals and drinks. But only if you promise not to order the most expensive thing on the menu.”

“No promises,” you tease, smirking as you turn back to the others.

Felix lets out a resigned chuckle, shaking his head as he mutters, “You two are impossible.”

Despite his faux annoyance, you catch a glint of amusement in his eyes. Moments like these—lighthearted and filled with camaraderie—make the long hours and exhausting shifts worth it.

-

The smell of sizzling meat fills the air as Taesoo flips slices of pork belly on the grill with precision. Felix leans back in his chair, watching the meat char while you mix soju and beer into an improvised cocktail for the three of you.

Taesoo serves the freshly grilled meat onto your plates, and you all lift your glasses. “To surviving another day in Farfalle,” Felix says with a grin, and you all clink your glasses together.

The first sip burns warmly in your throat, and the exhaustion of the day begins to fade. Taesoo’s dramatic gasp after his first sip makes you laugh, and soon you’re all eating and chatting between bites.

“I don’t know about you guys, but I’m still starving,” Taesoo announces, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“That’s no surprise,” you reply. “There’s a study that says professional cooks have the worst eating habits. We cook during mealtimes and then get too tired to cook for ourselves after work.”

Felix nods enthusiastically. “I thought it was just me. Sometimes even looking at a pan makes me feel sick.”

“Same with laundry,” you add, eliciting groans of agreement from both Taesoo and Felix.

Just as Taesoo starts another round of grilling, Felix’s phone buzzes on the table. He picks it up, speaking animatedly while looking out the window. His expression changes, and he waves at someone outside.

You follow his gaze, and your stomach drops when you see Minho walking through the door, phone pressed to his ear.

Of course Felix invited him, you think, sighing as you sip your drink. Minho approaches the table, his sharp gaze scanning the three of you.

He gestures for Taesoo to move, squeezing into the seat next to you. He nudges you lightly. “Mix a drink for me too,” he says casually.

You down the rest of your glass, setting it down firmly on the table. “I’m done for the night,” you announce, standing up. “Thanks for the food and drinks, Felix.” You grab your things and head for the exit, not sparing Minho another glance.

Just as you think you’ve escaped his grasp, you hear footsteps following closely behind. Turning around, you see Minho jogging to match your pace, his expression a mix of frustration and something unreadable.

“Where were you last night?” Minho’s voice cuts through the night air as he jogs to match your pace.

You glare at him. “Unlike someone, I don’t run away from my responsibilities.”

Minho flinches but presses on. “Why are you still upset about last night?”

You stop abruptly and whirl around to face him. “Why can’t I be upset when you’re playing with my feelings?”

He steps closer, his presence overwhelming. “You better shut your mouth,” he snaps, but you press on, determined to get answers.

“You don’t allow women in your kitchen, but you keep me. And now there are two women in the kitchen. What’s your game? Why do you keep confusing me?”

Minho’s jaw tightens. “I swear if one more word comes out of your mouth...”

But you’re relentless. “What am I to you? A piece of meat on your cutting board? Is that it? You’re not afraid because you’re the one holding the knife?”

His eyes darken as he leans closer. “Even if you were a piece of meat, you’re not fresh. You’ve been in the freezer too long, you’re tough, hard to handle, and take too much work to prep. After all that effort, there’s not much left worth eating. You’re not an appealing ingredient, and I would never put you on my cutting board.”

Your chest tightens, but you refuse to back down. “So you want me off the cutting board?”

“Yes,” he says firmly.

“There’s only the trash can left for me then,” you say bitterly as you wistfully look at him.

Minho doesn’t answer, but he grabs your wrist, pulling you toward his car. “Let's go home.”

You yank your hand away, turning on your heel to walk the other way. “I’m going home myself.”

“Fine! Go home by yourself then!” He shouts as you walk away.

Despite of what he said, he doesn’t let you go that easily. He follows you with relentless determination, matching your pace until you reach the bus stop. He sits down beside you, the weight of the day pressing down on both of you in the cramped space.

For a moment, neither of you speak, the only sound the distant hum of traffic and the faint music playing from nearby. Finally, Minho exhales deeply, his voice barely above a whisper. “I have so many reasons why I shouldn’t like you. If you weren’t working in my kitchen, I wouldn’t even think about it.”

You remain quiet, completely ignoring him and pretend that he's not there at all as you wait for the bus to come.

Minho’s shoulders slump slightly, the fight in his eyes dimming just enough. “Think about it yourself,” he says quietly. “Why can’t I just do what I want?”

Before you can respond, the bus arrives with a screech of brakes. You stand up, your patience worn thin. “You think about it yourself,” you say firmly, not giving him the chance to argue.

As the bus doors open, you turn to board, feeling a mix of relief and lingering frustration. Without looking back, you step inside, the doors closing firmly behind you, leaving Minho standing alone at the bus stop—his silhouette framed by the fading light.

The ride home is quiet, your mind racing with thoughts and emotions. You can’t shake the confrontation, the weight of his words lingering like a shadow. But as the city lights blur past the window, you remind yourself that you deserve better, that you won’t let his turmoil dictate your own path.

-

The familiar scent of freshly baked bread fills the cozy bakery, a comforting reminder of your childhood. The sun filters through the large front window, casting a warm glow over the wooden countertops and the assortment of pastries neatly arranged in the display cases. You stand at one of the workstations, hands deep in a bowl of dough, kneading with more frustration than precision.

Your dad walks in, a pan of golden-brown bread in his hands. He sets it on the counter, the metal tray clinking softly, and gives you a critical look. "What are you doing to that dough?" he scolds, his voice a mix of irritation and exasperation. "You're stressing it out instead of softening it!"

Before you can respond, he snatches the bowl from you, examining your work with the practiced eye of a seasoned baker. His sigh is heavy with disapproval. "Why are you still here? Shouldn’t you leave for work?"

You wipe your hands on your apron, avoiding his gaze. "I don’t want to go to work today," you mumble, hoping the conversation will end there.

He raises an eyebrow, his expression sharp. "What did you do? Did you cause any problems?"

You frown, crossing your arms. "Why do you always think it’s my fault? I didn’t cause any problems!"

He sets the bowl down with a thud, his arms crossing in a mirror of your stance. "Then why don’t you want to go? What’s going on?"

You hesitate for a moment, then blurt out, "Do you not like having a woman in your kitchen, dad?"

Your dad’s expression shifts, a mixture of confusion and concern. "What kind of question is that? Is someone looking down on you at work because you’re a girl?"

You look away, your hands fidgeting with the edge of your apron. "Not exactly," you say vaguely, hoping he won’t press further.

But of course, he does. "Listen," he says firmly, his voice carrying the weight of years of experience. "You chose this job yourself. Did you think it would be easy to survive in a kitchen? It’s tough, and you knew that going in."

His tone softens slightly as he adds, "But as your dad, I don’t like the idea of anyone belittling you when you’re doing your job right so tell me who is it?"

You’re spared from answering by the buzz of your phone. Glancing at the screen, your stomach tightens as Minho’s name flashes across it. You shove the phone into your purse, ignoring the call, and quickly grab your things.

"I have to go," you say hastily, avoiding your dad’s probing gaze.

He frowns but doesn’t stop you. "Don’t let anyone push you around, okay?"

You nod, forcing a small smile. "Bye, Dad."

As you step out of the bakery and into the crisp morning air, your thoughts are already racing ahead, dreading the day that awaits you at Farfalle.

-

The dining hall is humming with quiet murmurs as everyone lines up for the morning briefing. You find a spot behind Felix, adjusting your apron as you focus on the busy day ahead. The sound of approaching footsteps silences the chatter, and you glance up to see Minho stride into the room, his presence commanding as always. His eyes land on yours almost instantly, a fleeting moment of intensity that feels like a challenge. You meet his gaze head-on, refusing to back down, your expression calm but unyielding.

Minho’s lips press into a thin line, and he looks away just as Sara and Chris join him at the front.

Chris claps his hands once, his usual easygoing smile brightening the room. "Good morning, everyone! I’ve got an exciting announcement today. As many of you know, we have a new addition to the Farfalle family."

He gestures to Sara, who steps forward with a confident smile. "This is Chef Choi Sara. She’ll be joining us as the head of the pasta line and will oversee the execution of the new menu, including her signature triple-flavored pasta."

Sara’s posture is straight and authoritative, her voice calm yet firm as she adds, "I look forward to working with all of you. Let’s make sure this transition is smooth and that we maintain Farfalle’s reputation for excellence."

Her words carry weight, and you notice how everyone straightens up a little more. Even Seungwan, who often tries to mask his nerves with humor, looks unusually attentive.

After a moment of silence, Seungwan speaks up, voicing the question that’s likely on everyone’s mind. "So... does this mean there’ll be two head chefs in the kitchen now?"

Chris and Sara exchange a brief glance before answering simultaneously. "Yes."

Chris continues, "Chef Minho and Chef Sara will work together to ensure everything runs smoothly. This is a collaborative effort, and I trust both of them to lead the team."

Sara nods in agreement, her smile still professional but not overly warm. "We’re here to elevate Farfalle’s standards even further. Let’s focus on that."

Minho remains silent, his arms crossed as he leans slightly against the counter. There’s a tension in his jaw, his expression unreadable but clearly restrained. You can’t help but notice the slight twitch in his fingers, as if he’s holding himself back from saying something.

You shift your attention back to Sara as she continues outlining the day’s plans, though you can’t shake the nagging feeling that the tension in the room is only going to grow.

-

Minho stands at the base of the steps leading to his office when Sara steps in front of him, her gaze steady.

"Minho," she begins, her tone measured. "Don’t think of me as a woman. Don’t think of me as your ex. Just think of me as a chef."

Minho narrows his eyes slightly, watching her.

She continues, her voice unwavering. "I won’t play dirty this time. I won’t compromise my integrity, either."

There’s a pause before Minho nods slightly, his face unreadable. "Let’s try it, then," he says simply. He gives her one last look, then sidesteps her and heads up the stairs.

When he reaches his office, the kitchen staff is already gathered outside, shifting uneasily under his sharp gaze. "Get in," he orders, pushing the door open and gesturing for them to line up.

Inside, he picks up a stack of papers—the reviews they’d written about his dish. His lips curl into a sardonic smile as he flips through them.

"You all really wrote whatever you wanted, didn’t you?" he remarks, tone dripping with sarcasm. "Let’s see."

He pulls out the first sheet and scans it quickly. A dry chuckle escapes him. "This one doesn’t even critique the dish. It’s just a love letter." He reads aloud: ‘Chef Lee, you’re my idol. Chef Lee, you’re the best chef in the world.’

His eyes snap to Taesoo, who grins sheepishly.

"How did I know it was you?" Minho mutters, shaking his head.

Taesoo laughs, unabashed. "Because it’s true, Chef!"

Ignoring him, Minho pulls out the next paper. His brow furrows, then he looks up at Felix, holding the page between two fingers, showing the review says nothing but a drawing of three stars on it. "What’s this? Are you a food critic?"

Felix flashes a cheeky grin. "Your foie gras was perfect. Didn’t think you needed a critique."

Minho’s jaw tightens. "I said to critique the menu, not to flatter me. I asked for the good and the bad points on my dish. How can I improve if all you do is stroke my ego, huh?"

Felix shrugs, his grin unrelenting. "I genuinely had nothing bad to say."

Minho scowls, twisting both of their ears until they're wincing in pain. "Both of you. Out."

Taesoo and Felix exchange glances but quickly obey, leaving with amused expressions.

Minho reads a few more reviews, his scowl deepening with each. "Ah, here’s an actual critique," he says, raising an eyebrow. He glances between Seungwan and Hyunwoo. "‘Too expensive for fish liver.’ Let me guess—you two."

Hyunwoo groans. "You told us to write anonymously!"

"And yet, here we are," Minho deadpans, waving the paper. "Out. Both of you."

The room empties, leaving only Souschef Seojun and you behind. Minho leans back in his chair, crossing his arms.

"You two didn’t even bother with anonymity," he remarks, a hint of amusement in his tone.

Seojun steps forward. "It would’ve felt cowardly not to own up to it."

Minho nods. "I appreciate that. Go on, then. Tell me your critique."

Seojun doesn’t hesitate. "The ingredient isn’t easy to source. It’s seasonal and from warm waters. How will we maintain a consistent supply? How can it be a regular menu item?"

Minho considers this for a moment, then responds with practiced ease. "Flash freezing, salt preservation, smoking—there are methods. But next time, discuss it with me directly instead of on paper."

Seojun nods, satisfied. "Understood."

"Good. You're dismissed, souschef," Minho dismisses him with a wave, and Seojun exits, leaving you alone with Minho.

Minho’s eyes lock onto yours, intense and probing. He crosses his arms, his posture exuding authority. "Your turn."

You take a deep breath, steeling yourself. "Your dish tastes cowardly."

Minho arches an eyebrow. "Cowardly? Let me guess—because the chef is a coward, so the food reflects that?"

You nod, unfazed.

He leans forward slightly. "And what does a cowardly dish taste like?"

You don’t flinch. "It tastes good at first but leaves a bad aftertaste. It tastes good but the first bite is different from the last."

Minho’s expression darkens, but you press on. "It tastes good, but it gives you indigestion."

For a moment, there’s only silence as Minho processes your words. Then his voice drops, low and challenging. "Are you talking about the dish or about me?"

You meet his gaze without hesitation and the tension in the room is palpable, the air heavy with unspoken words. Minho looks like he wants to say something but hesitates.

Not wanting to give him the answer, you excuse yourself, turning on your heel and leaving his office without looking back. Let him figure it out himself.

One thing that Minho knows for sure is that you're still upset with him.

-

The kitchen is charged with pre-service energy as you meticulously arrange your station, ensuring every utensil and ingredient is in its place. You’re focused, your hands moving with practiced precision, when Sara enters the room.

Her presence draws subtle glances from the staff, but her stride remains confident and poised. When your eyes meet, she offers you a smile—a genuine, warm gesture that catches you slightly off guard. You return the smile, tentative but sincere.

Sara makes a slow circuit around the kitchen, her gaze sharp as she observes the setup. Eventually, she stops beside your station, leaning casually against the counter.

"I have to say," she begins, her tone light but genuine, "I’m surprised to see you’re still a line cook."

You blink, her words catching you off guard. There’s no condescension in her voice, only honest surprise.

Before you can respond, she reaches over and gently fixes the lapel of your chef’s coat, her movements precise and almost maternal. "It may feel far away now," she continues, her voice soft but firm, "but the journey to the chef’s table—it can take a moment or a lifetime. The difference is entirely up to you."

Her words settle over you like a soothing balm, and for the first time, you feel seen. A small smile tugs at your lips as she flashes you one of her own, radiating warmth.

"Let’s work hard together, mmh?" she says simply.

You nod, your chest tightening with gratitude. "Thank you, chef," you manage, your voice quiet but heartfelt. For the first time, it feels like someone in the kitchen might actually be on your side.

As Sara straightens up, her expression shifts slightly, her eyes sparkling with determination. "That being said," she adds with a teasing edge, "don’t be surprised if I push people hard today. I have to set the tone—it’s my first day, after all."

You chuckle, a genuine laugh bubbling up. "It’s about time they got a taste of a woman’s wrath."

Sara laughs at that, the sound bright and infectious, and for a moment, the tension of the kitchen feels lighter.

The moment doesn’t last long, though. The sharp call of the Chef signals that the lunch service is about to begin. You straighten your posture, slipping back into the focused mindset the kitchen demands, but Sara’s words linger in your mind, a quiet source of encouragement as the chaos of the day begins.

-

The kitchen hums with its usual chaotic energy, but today, there’s an added tension—something almost tangible in the air. It’s not the knives, the flames, or the hot oil; it’s the heat radiating from the silent war between Minho and Sara.

They stand at the front of the kitchen, their gazes locked, the unspoken weight of their history filling the space. No one dares to say anything until the familiar sound of the first order prints through the machine, breaking the silence.

"Table number five, four Triple-flavored pasta!" Minho shouts, his voice sharp and commanding.

Everyone springs into action. Sara moves to the stove next to yours, her movements precise as she begins preparing her new dish. You try to focus on your own station, but the tension is impossible to ignore.

Minho prowls the kitchen like a hawk, watching everyone’s work, shouting reminders, and ordering the pace to quicken. As the chaos grows, Sara moves to Felix’s station.

“You should add balsamic vinegar right before the sauce is done,” Sara says, her tone calm yet firm. “If you heat it, the sourness fades and leaves just the sweetness—it’ll balance the tomatoes perfectly.”

Felix hesitates, looking unsure, when Minho suddenly appears.

“No,” Minho says sharply, crossing his arms. “The sourness is what makes the dish fresher. If you kill that, you kill the tomatoes’ intrinsic flavor.”

Minho shifts his glare at Felix. “Don’t add it!”

Felix’s eyes dart between the two chefs before he sheepishly nods at Minho. “Yes, Chef.”

Sara sighs but says nothing, retreating to her own station. Everyone think that’s the end of it, but the disagreements continue.

Sara suggests adding egg yolks to Taesoo’s pasta dough. Minho counters with water and milk. Sara advises salting the pasta water more generously. Minho claims it will overpower the sauce.

The tension mounts with every disagreement, and you feel yourself sinking further into the inferno when their eyes land on you.

You’re midway through cooking vongole when Sara steps beside you.

“Use sliced garlic,” she says, gesturing to the minced garlic in your dish. “It’s subtler and more aromatic.”

Minho snorts. “Sliced takes too long to cook. Minced is faster and better for the clams.”

You glance between them, feeling the weight of their stares. Without a word, you compromise by adding half minced and half sliced garlic, hoping it’ll satisfy both.

As you add the clams and a splash of wine, Sara speaks again. “Lid it immediately. It’ll trap the aroma and infuse the clams.”

“Flambé it first,” Minho interrupts. “Burn off the alcohol before lidding it. Otherwise, the wine will overpower everything.”

The two begin arguing over the right way to cook vongole, their voices rising over the chaos of the kitchen. You focus on finishing the dish the way you’ve always done it, ignoring their conflicting advice as best as you can.

By the time you plate the vongole, your nerves are frayed. The heat between Sara and Minho feels suffocating and it's getting too dangerous that you feel like the kitchen is on the verge of exploding.

You step back from your station, taking a steadying breath, and glance at the two chefs still locked in their verbal sparring. It’s going to be a long day and it's just the lunch service.

-

Lunch service ends, and the tension in the kitchen dissipates like steam, leaving you drained. With your lunch tray in hand, you head to the coffee station, hoping for a moment of solitude. You pour yourself a glass of water and settle into a corner table, savoring the quiet.

Not long after, Felix joins you, plopping down across from you with his own tray. The two of you eat in silence for a while, the clinking of cutlery against plates the only sound.

Then, out of nowhere, Felix lets out a heavy sigh, setting his fork down dramatically.

"What is his problem?" Felix grumbles, shaking his head. “Why did Chef even let her work here? Like, what was he thinking?”

You glance at him, your expression calm despite the chaos brewing inside you. "What are you trying to say, Felix?"

Felix leans closer, his brows furrowing in deep thought. “I mean, with his temper, Chef should’ve quit ages ago. So why is he still here? What’s keeping him around?”

You raise an eyebrow, waiting for him to continue.

Felix suddenly sits upright, his expression lighting up as though he’s cracked some grand mystery. “Oh no—what if he still has feelings for her? That’s why he’s letting Sara walk all over him!”

You nudge him hard, your eyes darting toward the coffee counter just as Taesoo appears, holding a pot of coffee. Felix quiets immediately, his face turning red as you both watch Taesoo approach.

Taesoo sets the cups of coffee down in front of you and Felix, then leans forward conspiratorially. “I agree with you guys. It’s hell having two chefs in charge.”

You manage a small, polite smile but don’t respond, feeling the weight of too many secrets hanging in the air. You can barely eat your lunch anymore so you decide to escape for real this time. You make your way up to the rooftop, hoping the open sky will offer some clarity.

The city stretches before you, bathed in golden afternoon light. You sit on a bench, taking in the view and letting the distant hum of traffic drown out your thoughts.

The door creaks open behind you, and you sigh, already regretting your choice of hiding place.

Minho steps out, his figure silhouetted against the sunlight. He strides over to the other bench and sits, his gaze immediately locking onto you.

“You know I’m the only chef you have,” he says, his tone steady but commanding. “Listen to me. Only me.”

You don’t respond, keeping your eyes on the horizon.

The silence stretches, and Minho shifts, his impatience palpable. “Are you seriously trying to frustrate me by not saying anything?”

First you're wrong for speaking, and now you’re wrong for staying quiet too? You mumble inside your head. You sigh deeply, pushing yourself to your feet and head for the door,

Minho blocks your path, his eyes boring into yours. “You!” he demands. “Talk to me now!”

You hesitate, but his unrelenting gaze forces the words out. “I envy you two,” you admit finally. “The way you two are so certain, so right—even when you’re disagreeing with each other. You don’t care about the rest of us caught in the crossfire.”

Minho scoffs, his lips curling into a bitter smile. “You envy that? Really?”

“At least you’re communicating,” you say quietly.

“That’s not communicating,” Minho counters, his voice tinged with frustration. “That’s arguing.”

You cross your arms, meeting his gaze steadily. “For you, it’s basically foreplay.”

The corner of Minho’s mouth twitches, and he chuckles softly. His laugh lingers in the air, but you don’t join in. Without another word, you turn and walk past him, leaving the rooftop behind. The weight of envy sinks deeper into your chest, heavy and unshakable.

-

You emerge from your bedroom, adjusting your bag on your shoulder, ready for another day in the kitchen. The scent of freshly brewed coffee greets you, and you glance toward the living room to see Sara seated on the couch, a steaming mug in her hands.

“Good morning,” she says with a warm smile, setting the mug down. “I was hoping we could leave for work together.”

You blink, caught off guard but nod in agreement. “Sure.”

Together, you exit the apartment and step into the elevator. As the doors begin to slide shut, a hand suddenly presses the button from the outside, causing them to reopen.

Minho steps in.

The atmosphere shifts immediately, the air growing tense. You glance between Minho and Sara, feeling the awkwardness settle like a heavy blanket.

You reach for the button to the lobby, but before you can press it, Sara gently takes your hand.

“Hey,” she says, looking at you with a soft smile, “why don’t you come to work with me in my car from now on? It’ll be easier.”

Before you can respond, Minho reaches out and grabs your other hand, his grip firm but not forceful.

“No,” he says, his tone resolute. “You’re taking my car today.”

Sara’s smile vanishes as she glares at Minho. “Why are you doing this? You’re making her uncomfortable.”

Minho doesn’t back down, meeting her gaze with equal intensity. “I’m making it comfortable. What’s the problem with going together?”

You let out a quiet sigh, feeling their gazes burning into you from both sides. Taking a step forward, you pull your hands free from their grip.

“I’ll take the bus,” you announce, keeping your tone neutral. “I have a few errands to run before work anyway.”

It’s a weak excuse, but it’s enough to break the standoff.

The elevator dings as it reaches the lobby, and the doors slide open. Without waiting for their responses, you step out and make a beeline for the exit, eager to escape the suffocating tension.

As you walk away, you can’t help but shake your head. How did I get caught in this mess?

You arrive earlier than planned at the restaurant, despite your best attempts to stall. Determined to avoid the kitchen, and more importantly, Minho, you head straight to Chris’s office.

Knocking softly on the door, you pop your head inside and greet him sweetly, “Good morning, Mr. Bang.”

Chris looks up from his desk, a warm smile spreading across his face. “Well, this is a pleasant surprise. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

You step inside and close the door behind you. “I was wondering if we could have coffee together before work starts?”

He tilts his head to the side and slightly pout. “But I don’t drink coffee.”

You think for a second and sheepishly grin. “Tea?”

Chris leans back in his chair, nodding with a grin. “Okay. Come in.”

You settle onto the sofa as he moves to the coffee maker, pouring you a cup. He places it on the table in front of you and sits down across from you, watching as you take a careful sip.

“Thanks,” you say, the rich aroma of coffee helping to steady your nerves. But you notice Chris is still watching you, his expression thoughtful.

Tilting your head and grin, you say, “You’ve got something on your mind. Go ahead, spill it.”

He chuckles lightly, setting his mug down. “Well, I was wondering if I could ask you for a favor.”

You raise an eyebrow but nod for him to continue.

Chris hesitates for a moment before saying, “I think Sara could use some help in the kitchen. You know, since you’re both women working in the same environment.”

Your smile falters slightly. It’s not an easy favor to grant, especially considering the tension in the kitchen. “I’m not taking sides, Chris,” you reply carefully.

“I’m not asking you to pick sides,” he says, leaning forward. “But she’s fighting an uphill battle in there, and it would mean a lot if you had her back.”

You glance away, unsure how to respond. Chris leans forward further, taking both your hands in his.

“And I’ll have your back too, yeah?” he says earnestly.

You scoff lightly, trying to ease the moment. “You only say that now.”

Chris grins and pouts theatrically. “You always say yes, Chef to a certain someone without question. Don’t forget, I’m the one who signs your paychecks.”

You smirk at that, narrowing your eyes. “Are you threatening me?”

He laughs, squeezing your hands. “Maybe I am.”

You roll your eyes but smile, taking another sip of your coffee.

Chris’s tone softens, and his gaze meets yours again. “Actually, I have another favor to ask.”

You give him a wary look and slightly roll your eyes to the side. “What now?”

His eyes don’t waver. “Show me a little attention too. It costs you nothing.”

You chuckle, shaking your head while lowly chuckling. “If it costs nothing, then why do you need it?”

Chris’s smile deepens. “Because it’s nice to have your attention.”

You don’t respond immediately, instead lifting your cup for another sip, quietly mulling over his words. The warmth of the coffee lingers, along with the weight of his request in your chest.

-

Minho finishes buttoning up his chef coat, his frustration simmering just beneath the surface. He slams his locker door shut, the loud clang echoing in the empty room. Something about the way you've been acting these past few days unsettles him—ignoring him, not listening like you used to.

He mutters under his breath as he strides toward the kitchen, his shoes clicking against the tiled floor. Turning a corner, he catches sight of you stepping out of Chris’s office. The sight stirs something in him, a sharp annoyance he can’t quite suppress.

“Hey, you!” he calls out, his voice cutting through the air.

You flinch at the sudden sound, looking startled as you turn to face him.

Minho marches up to you, his brow furrowed. “What were you doing in there?” he demands. “You never come to my office unless I call you, but you walk into the manager’s office like it’s your own house. Is it your break room?”

Your eyes narrow, and you cross your arms. “Because every time I come to your office, all I get is scolded. Why would I want to go there?”

Minho glares at you, his frustration bubbling over. “You get scolded because you deserve it!”

You hold his gaze, unfazed by his anger. “Well, Chris never scolds me—even when I make mistakes.”

The comparison stings more than Minho wants to admit. He lets out a sharp laugh, more disbelief than humor. “You listen to me,” he snaps, his voice rising.

Before he can say more, you turn on your heel and walk toward the locker room. Minho grits his teeth and follows, his irritation fueling each step.

As he steps into the locker room, he sees you leaning against your locker, arms still crossed. “What is it?” you ask, your tone clipped.

Minho takes a step closer, his gaze locked on yours. “What’s with you lately? Are you braver now because there’s another woman in the kitchen? Do you like it?”

You sigh, rubbing your temple. “I’m not answering that. I’m just trying to survive.”

Your nonchalance only fuels his frustration. “Survive this then,” he mutters, stepping forward and flicking your forehead with his finger.

“Ow!” You wince, rubbing the spot as you pout. “This is exactly why I don’t go to your office.”

Minho feels a pang of something deeper than anger—guilt, maybe, or worry. But he doesn’t let it show. Instead, he takes a step back, his voice sharp. “Where is everyone?!”

He turns on his heel, pushing the door open with unnecessary force and letting it slam shut behind him.

Walking away, Minho feels the weight of something he hasn’t wanted to acknowledge. For the first time, he wonders if he’s losing his hold on you—if he’s slowly losing you.

-

Minho’s eyes scan the tickets lined up above the kitchen counter, ensuring everything is running smoothly during the hectic dinner service. His focus is interrupted when a service staff approaches and announces, “Chef, there’s a special order—one truffle tagliatelle.”

Souschef Seojun immediately protest, “That’s not on the menu.”

Chef Sara pauses her ravioli preparation, throwing in, “We’re too busy to make it. Tell the customer we can’t do it.”

The service staff nods and starts to leave, but Minho stops him with a raised hand. “Wait. Tell the customer, we'll do it.”

The room falls silent, every chef momentarily pausing their work to look at him. Minho smirks, sensing their apprehension. “Isn't it exciting to have this kind of order after making the same dishes over and over again like a bookwork?”

Sara steps forward, frowning. “Truffles are expensive. This isn’t just some experiment, and it’s not a dish anyone can make on a whim.”

Minho doesn’t respond directly, turning to the rest of the team instead. “Anyone want to give it a shot?”

Felix’s hand shoots up enthusiastically. “I’ll try, Chef!”

Minho smiles faintly but his eyes land on you. He picks up a dough roller, pointing it at you. “What about you? Want to try making it?”

Sara glares at him. “I'm telling you, we can't.”

Ignoring her, Minho points at you again, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Let's do it. You and I, together.”

Sara’s patience snaps. “I’m in charge of the pasta line. This is my responsibility.”

Minho dismisses her protests with a wave of his hand. “Go get the truffles from the freezer,” he orders you.

As you rush off, Minho grabs a pan and begins prepping. Sara, clearly unwilling to back down, steps next to him. “Fine,” she says curtly. “I’ll make it with you.”

You return with the truffles and the aphrodisiac smell wafting around the kitchen, holding them carefully. Sara immediately commands, “Peel the skin.”

“No,” Minho interjects. “Keep the skin. It adds depth.”

The crease between Sara’s eyebrows deepens as she meets with another disagreement. “The skin is too rough so it ruins the texture of the pasta. It's better to add truffle oil at the very end.”

“Keep the skin.” He doesn’t entertain further debate, instructing you instead. “Slice them.”

You nod, grabbing mandolin and delicately slicing the truffles as directed. Minho watches briefly before turning back to his pan. When you’re done, he gestures for you to add the truffle to his pan.

As you do so, Sara lets out an exasperated huff. “This is all wrong. Now, we have to do it all over again,” she says sharply, yanking a pan from the rack.

The motion is too forceful, sending the other pans on the rack crashing into others, causing a loud clatter. One pan falls onto the stove, sending hot oil splashing across the counter.

“Chef!” you call out, your voice filled with alarm.

Before he can react, you lunge forward and push him out of the way. Minho stumbles and falls to the floor. He quickly regains his balance, only to see you clutching your forearm, the skin red and raw from the oil.

Panic floods his system as he scrambles to his feet. “Are you okay?!” he asks, his voice tight with worry.

Sara rushes over with a cloth, also checking if you're okay but Minho snatches it from her, gently covering your burns. “You need to see a doctor,” he says firmly.

“I’m fine,” you reply softly, trying to pull your arm away.

“Fine?” he repeats, his frustration spilling over. “Who asked you to interfere like that and get hurt?”

You look down, avoiding his gaze. “At least let me finish the dinner service.”

Minho’s patience snaps. “Are you deaf, or do you think having two chefs means you can ignore half of what I say?”

“I didn’t mean—”

Before you can finish, Minho grabs your uninjured hand, tugging you out of the kitchen. He leads you to the locker room, his grip firm but not harsh.

Once there, he carefully examines the burns, his jaw clenching at the sight. “You’re going to the hospital. Now.”

You start to protest again, but his glare silences you. “Why did you jump in like that?” he demands, his voice softer now but no less intense.

You don’t answer, your gaze fixed on the floor as you clutch the cloth against your arm.

Minho exhales heavily, running a hand through his hair. “Go. Before it gets worse.”

When you don’t immediately move, he softens slightly. “Please,” he adds quietly.

Your hesitation finally melts, and you nod, turning to leave. As the locker room door swings shut behind you, Minho exhales sharply, leaning against the cold metal of the lockers. His heart is still pounding, the image of your reddened arm burned into his mind. He clenches his fists, replaying the events in his head—Sara’s defiance, the clatter of pans, the searing splash of oil.

It wasn’t just bad luck; it was his stubbornness.

Minho presses a hand to his face, his breath uneven. Why had he insisted on making that dish? Was it just to prove a point to Sara? To remind everyone who was in charge? And now, because of his ego, you got hurt.

The thought gnaws at him. For all his years in the kitchen, he prided himself on maintaining control. But today, he let his pride and frustration blind him, and it almost cost someone he cared about.

The realization hits hard. He’s been so focused on asserting his authority, pushing people to their limits, that he hadn’t noticed the cracks forming around him. You were one of the few people who never hesitated to follow his lead, and now even you had started to push back.

And maybe you were right to.

With a heavy sigh, he presses a hand against the locker, his head bowing. He’s always believed that the kitchen was no place for weakness. But now he wonders if his idea of strength—of control—has been wrong all along.

-

You wince as you struggle to put on your jacket, the pain in your arm making even the simplest movements unbearable. You push open the back door of the restaurant with your shoulder, stepping into the cool night air, when you hear the hurried clatter of footsteps behind you.

Turning, you find Chris descending the steps in a rush, his face lined with concern.

“I heard you got hurt,” he says breathlessly, his eyes locking on your bandaged arm. “Are you okay?”

You offer a small, forced smile. “I’m fine, really.”

But his gaze drops to your forearm, and he winces, hissing through his teeth. “That doesn’t look fine.”

“I can handle it,” you insist, trying to wave him off, but Chris shakes his head firmly.

“Nope, not happening,” he says, snatching your purse from your hand and slinging it over his shoulder. “I’m taking you to the hospital.”

You sigh in defeat, trailing after him to his car.

At the hospital, the doctor examines your burns with practiced care, cleaning the wound and carefully wrapping it in fresh bandages. He suggests an IV shot for hydration and recovery, but you shake your head.

“I need to get back to work,” you argue.

The doctor frowns. “I’ve yet to meet a chef who isn’t worn down by their work. You need rest.”

Chris places a gentle hand on your shoulder, his thumb rubbing small, soothing circles. “Just listen to the doctor, mmh?”

Reluctantly, you nod, and before you know it, you’re being ushered into a small recovery room. Chris fusses over you like a mother hen, tucking you into bed.

“Stop treating me like a baby,” you tease, grinning despite yourself.

Chris laughs softly, sitting on the edge of the bed. His expression shifts to something more serious, his brows furrowed with worry.

“I’m fine,” you assure him again, your voice softer this time.

He nods, but his eyes don’t quite lose their concern. “Get some sleep,” he murmurs.

You glance at him, raising a brow. “I can’t sleep with you staring at me like that.”

Chris chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck. “Alright, alright. I’ll pick you up in the morning.” He hesitates for a moment, then leans down to give you a quick, warm hug. “Goodnight.”

You watch as he leaves, the door sliding shut behind him. Settling back into the bed, you close your eyes, hoping to find some rest.

The sound of the door sliding open wakes you, and you groggily lift your head. Your first thought it's Chris coming back to make sure you're resting and you're about to scold him when you notice that it isn't who you thought he is.

Instead of Chris, Minho steps inside, his chef’s coat replaced by a simple shirt, pulling an IV pole beside him. His sharp features are shadowed in the dim light, but his usual smirk is nowhere to be seen.

“Why are you here?” you blurt, startled yourself by sounding so worried. “Did you get hurt?”

Minho arches a brow as he settles himself on the bed next to yours. “Do I look hurt?”

You narrow your eyes. “Shouldn’t you still be working?”

He shrugs, settling onto the bed beside yours. “What, you think the kitchen can’t survive without you?”

You let out a scoff, lying on your side and turning your back to him. Silence stretches between you, but it doesn’t last.

“Why are you lying there with your back turned so disrespectfully?” Minho’s voice cuts through the quiet.

You fight the urge to snap at him, instead replying, “Why don’t you do the same then?”

Another stretch of silence, broken only by the soft hum of the IV machine. Minho speaks again, his tone uncharacteristically calm. “Burns need proper treatment. You’ll have to come here every day until it heals. It’s not good for a woman to have scars.”

You stiffen but refuse to respond.

“I’ve seen your scars,” he continues. “From knives, I’m guessing. Are you a cook or a gangster?”

You refuse to take that bait and keep your back to him.

“You should’ve let me get hurt,” he says, his voice quieter now. “Why did you interfere like that? You’re a woman—”

“Don’t start with the ‘woman this, woman that,’” you snap, finally turning to glare at him. “I’m tired of it.”

Minho smirks faintly, but it falters when you continue.

“I’m also tired of being caught in the crossfire between you and Sara. This is the last time I’m getting involved.”

His silence is deafening, and you don’t wait for a response.

You make it final by pulling the curtain between the beds to separate the two of you, also as a gesture that you want to stop interacting with him.

Turning away again, you close your eyes, but sleep doesn’t come easily. Your chest aches—not from the burns, but from the frustration bubbling inside you.

-

Minho lies awake most of the night, staring at the ceiling. Your words from last night replay in his mind like a broken record.

“I’m tired of getting caught between you and Sara. This is the last time I’m getting involved.”

The weight of them lingers, pressing on his chest. Do you mean it? Are you giving up on him entirely? The thought churns restlessly in his head.

You’re just a bed away, close enough that he can hear your steady breathing. But even with you so near, you feel unbearably far. Sleep evades him, no matter how many times he closes his eyes. When morning finally comes, he feels heavy, his body sluggish from the lack of rest.

Then he hears your voice from the other side of the curtain. It’s soft, measured, and at first, he assumes you’re talking to a nurse. But another voice follows, distinctly male, with that irritating Australian accent that grates on his nerves.

Chris.

Minho sits up abruptly, his fatigue evaporating as irritation spikes. Without hesitation, he yanks the curtain aside in one swift motion.

You freeze mid-conversation, your arm lifted as Chris helps you into your jacket. Both of you turn to look at him, startled by his sudden appearance. Chris recovers first, his brow furrowing in concern.

“Are you feeling unwell too, chef?” Chris asks.

Minho doesn’t bother answering. He scoffs instead, his sharp eyes fixed on Chris’s hand, still adjusting your jacket. Then Chris steps back, smiling at you like it’s the most natural thing in the world, and—Minho’s jaw tightens—reaches out to fix a stray strand of your hair.

The audacity of it.

Minho crosses his arms and leans against the bedframe, his tone sharp. “Do you always stay by your employees’ sides when they’re sick, or is this just a special case?”

Chris looks at him, puzzled. “What do you mean?”

“Showing favoritism like this,” Minho says, gesturing toward you. “Is this how you treat all your employees?”

Chris pauses for a moment before answering. “Favoritism?” he repeats, as if testing the word. “Yeah, it’s favoritism.”

Minho raises an eyebrow, his irritation growing. “Why?”

“Because she’s a great employee,” Chris says matter-of-factly. “Why can’t I be good to someone who works so hard?”

Minho clicks his tongue in disbelief. It’s a good answer, but it doesn’t make him feel any better.

Chris steps closer, meeting Minho’s gaze with quiet intensity. “How about you, chef?” he asks, his tone sharper now, “how much longer does the kitchen have to feel like a battlefield?”

Minho tilts his head, feigning nonchalance. “And you think that’s because of me?”

Chris doesn’t hesitate. “Are you saying it’s Sara’s fault?”

Minho looks away, unwilling to give a direct answer.

Chris presses on. “It’s both of you. I don’t know what happened between you and Sara back in Italy, but you’ll need to find a way to work together for the sake of the restaurant.”

Minho bristles. He doesn’t need a lecture, least of all from Chris.

“And honestly, you and Sara have a lot in common. You look good together,” Chris adds, his tone light but deliberate,

“It’s because you’re so similar,” Chris continues. “You argue because you’re alike. But that also means you could be great partners. Rivals, sure, but partners too.”

The words hit a nerve. Minho’s fists clench at his sides. He can’t stand hearing it—being compared to Sara, of all people. He’s nothing like her.

You, sensing the tension rising, step forward and gently take Chris’s arm. “Let's go home,” you say softly, your voice cutting through the thick atmosphere.

Turning to Minho, you add, “I’ll call the nurse to help you with the needle.”

Minho doesn’t respond, his lips pressed into a tight line as he watches you leave the room with Chris. The door clicks shut behind you, leaving him alone.

His chest tightens, anger and desperation swirling inside him. He can’t do this anymore—watching everything he cares about slipping through his fingers. He’s done standing idly by.

Today, Minho decides, is the day he starts reclaiming what’s his. Starting with you.

-

Even with the burns on your arm, you're ready to face another day in the kitchen. You step out of your apartment and immediately freeze when you see Minho leaning casually against the wall opposite your door. His head tilts slightly in your direction as he notices you, his expression unreadable. You aren’t sure if he’s been waiting for you or if this is just a coincidence, but the moment he starts walking toward you, the answer becomes obvious.

He stops just a step away, close enough that you can see the faint shadows under his eyes—proof of a restless night. You adjust your bag strap on your shoulder, bracing yourself. With Minho, you’ve learned to expect the unexpected.

He tilts his head from side to side, his gaze sweeping over you as if you’re some intriguing statue in a museum. You stand still, waiting for him to speak first.

Finally, he breaks the silence. “I don’t like it,” he says.

You blink, confused. “Don’t like what?”

“When someone else treats my kitchen staff better than I do,” he answers, his voice firm. “Or gives them a harder time than I do.”

Your lips twitch involuntarily. “No one’s meaner to anyone in that kitchen than you are.”

At that, he steps closer, his movements deliberate, closing the small distance between you. His eyes lock onto yours, and his voice drops to a lower register. “That’s the thing. I’ll be the one who treats you better than anyone else does. And I’ll be the one who’s meaner to you too.”

You let out a laugh, the absurdity of his declaration catching you off guard. “Why would you want to do that?”

Minho raises an eyebrow. “Why are you laughing?”

“Because it doesn’t make sense,” you reply, the corners of your mouth still tugged into a smile. “How exactly do you plan to be nicer to me?”

He smirks, though there’s a sharpness behind it. “I said I’d be meaner too, but it seems like you only heard the ‘nicer’ part.”

You shrug lightly, choosing to focus on the less daunting half of his claim. “Well, you being mean isn’t exactly news. I’d rather hear how you plan to be nicer.”

Minho narrows his eyes at you, as if you’ve just challenged him. “Do you have selective hearing, or are you just ignoring the other part?”

You meet his gaze, your smile fading slightly as you study him. You know Minho well enough to understand he doesn’t say things he doesn’t mean. Still, imagining him being genuinely kind to you feels… out of character.

The thought crosses your mind before you can stop it. “Are you saying you’ll be nicer to me than Chris? I think that will not be easy for you.”

Minho’s expression hardens, his body stiffening at the mention of Chris. He leans in closer, his voice quiet but pointed. “And how would you know that?”

You hold his gaze, refusing to back down. “Because it doesn’t suit you.”

He leans in even further, close enough that you can see the flecks of gold in his brown eyes. “You’ve never even seen my nice side. So how would you know?”

For a moment, you’re silent, the intensity of his proximity stealing your words. There’s something both challenging and intriguing in his stare, something that makes you wonder what he’s really thinking. Then, before you can respond, Minho grabs your bag off your shoulder.

“Hey—” you start to protest, but he cuts you off by taking your hand, his fingers lacing with yours effortlessly.

“Let’s go,” he says, his tone leaving no room for argument. Minho glances back at you, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips. “We're going to work together.”

-

The lunch service is in full swing, and the kitchen is alive with the clamor of pots, pans, and orders being barked out. You’re in the zone, filling pasta orders as fast as you can and setting them on the chef’s table for Minho to inspect. He wipes the edge of the plate with precision, his expression unreadable as he checks the presentation.

You can’t help but think about what he said earlier about being nicer to you, and the memory makes a small smile tug at your lips.

“You have three more to do,” he reminds you, his voice firm and cutting through the chaos. Then his sharp gaze flicks to you. “What are you waiting for?”

“Yes, Chef,” you reply with a bit more enthusiasm than usual, your smile lingering as you turn and head back to your station.

You’re halfway through preparing three vongole when you realize you’re out of clams. Grabbing a container, you make your way to the freezer to restock. The cold air greets you as you step inside, and you quickly locate a fresh container of short-necked clams.

You hear the freezer door creak open behind you. The sound of footsteps echoes in the cold, and when you glance back, you see Minho entering. His eyes find you immediately, and he gestures for you to follow him to the far corner of the freezer.

Curious, you clutch the container of clams to your chest and follow. He stops near the wall and turns to you, his expression unreadable.

“Stand there,” he orders, pointing to the wall.

You blink but comply, leaning against the icy surface as he steps closer, his frame blocking your escape. His tone sharpens. “What was that smile for earlier?”

“Smile?” you ask, feigning innocence, though you already know what he’s referring to.

“Yes, that smile,” he snaps, but there’s a suppressed tug at the corner of his lips. “I’m warning you—if you keep smiling at me like that, I’ll clamp your lips shut.”

You giggle at his threat, clutching the clam container tighter. “I can’t help it,” you admit. “I’ve been waiting to see how you’d be nicer to me. Am I being obvious?”

Minho lets out a small, exasperated sigh, but the faintest smile finally breaks through. “Are you really that happy?”

You don’t answer, but the way your smile widens says it all.

He leans in closer, the sudden proximity making your breath hitch. His voice dips, quieter and more serious. “Close your eyes.”

Your eyes widen at his words, your mind racing as you try to guess his intention. “Chef, are you—”

“Close your eyes,” he repeats, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Swallowing nervously, you obey, your lashes fluttering shut. The cold air nips at your skin, but the warmth of his breath ghosting over your cheek sends a shiver down your spine.

He wouldn’t dare kiss you here… would he? And then—clamp!

Your lips sting in sudden pain as something hard presses against them. You yelp and snap your eyes open to see Minho holding a clam shell against your lips.

“Chef!” you cry out, your voice muffled.

“I warned you,” he says coolly, though his tone holds a teasing edge. “You should’ve known better than to test me.”

You whine in protest, but Minho continues, his eyes narrowing. “Do you know what will happen if people find out about us? I’ve fired people for this before, and you know it. I can’t show my face if this gets out. I’d have to leave Farfalle—and maybe the earth—out of humiliation.”

Finally, he releases the clam, and you immediately touch your lips, wincing at the dull ache.

“Does it hurt?” he asks, his tone almost mocking.

You shake your head, trying to save face. “No, chef,” you lie.

Minho smirks, clearly satisfied with your answer. “Good. Now get back to work.”

He turns and leaves the freezer, his coat billowing slightly behind him. The moment he’s gone, you groan, rubbing your sore lips. “Fuck! It hurts so much. When is he ever going to be nicer to me?” you mumble under your breath.

But then, to your dismay, you find yourself giggling softly. You hate how weak you are when it comes to Minho, but you can’t help it. With a resigned shake of your head, you grab the clams and head back to your station, still smiling despite yourself.

When you get back to your station, Chef Sara comes between you and Felix, but she looks at you as she talks. “Pasta line, gather during prep time.”

You and Felix exchange a quick, confused glance at each other before replying to her. “Yes, chef!”

-

The prep time for dinner service is underway, the kitchen buzzing with activity as everyone rushes to prepare. Felix comes out of the back with a pot of stock, placing it carefully on the counter next to you. He adjusts his bandana before standing still, his expression neutral but his posture tense.

Chef Sara claps her hands to get everyone’s attention and announces, “Starting tonight, the kitchen will use chicken stock instead of vegetable stock. Additionally, we’ll need a lighter stock for pasta and risotto.”

She turns her attention to Felix, adding, “Since you’re in charge of stock, make sure it’s prepared by dinner service.”

You glance at Felix and notice his jaw tighten. His lips press together in a line, and you can sense his irritation building. Before he can respond, you decide to step in with a polite tone.

“Chef, the kitchen’s been using vegetable stock without any issues,” you say carefully. “Changing it so suddenly feels... off. Stock is the base for most dishes, and it could affect consistency.”

Sara’s eyes narrow slightly as she looks at you. “Vegetable stock tastes clean, but it’s not as savory as what our guests prefer. Chicken stock will bring a more rounded flavor.”

Felix folds his arms and speaks up, his tone firm. “Vegetable stock can be just as flavorful as meat-based stock. It’s all about how you make it.”

Sara’s expression doesn’t waver. “The flavors from vegetables are inherently different. Vegetables have a sweet and tangy profile, but chicken adds a savory, mellow depth.”

You can practically feel the heat radiating off Felix as his anger simmers beneath the surface. He opens his mouth to counter, but you quickly glance at the pot and realize something alarming.

“There’s not much stock left,” you point out, cutting into the argument. “If we don’t start a new batch now, we won’t have anything ready for dinner service.”

Sara’s jaw tightens as she feels resistance from Felix. She looks at him, then at the pot, and without warning, grabs it and dumps the remaining stock into the sink.

The sound of the liquid swirling down the drain is deafening in the stunned silence that follows. Felix’s eyes widen in disbelief, his lips parting as he processes what just happened.

Sara crosses her arms. “There. Now you have every reason to start a fresh batch. Ten liters of chicken stock. Do it now.”

Felix’s head snaps toward her, and for a moment, he looks like he might explode. Instead, he roughly yanks his bandana off, sending his bleached hair tumbling messily around his face. His fiery eyes meet Sara’s.

“Well,” he says sharply, “if there’s no stock left, I guess my job is done for the day.” He spins on his heel and storms out of the kitchen, leaving everyone frozen in place.

Your eyes flick between Sara, who’s watching Felix leave without a hint of regret, and the door he just exited through. You can’t survive the dinner rush alone, and Felix’s expertise is irreplaceable.

“I’ll try to bring him back, chef,” you say quickly to Sara before rushing out after him.

Felix is fast—too fast. You have to jog to keep up, weaving through the back corridor and out to the restaurant’s rear entrance. You finally spot him near his car, the door already open.

“Felix!” you call, your breath hitching as you catch up. He’s halfway into the driver’s seat when you reach him, knocking on the window.

“Come on, don’t do this. We need you in the kitchen,” you plead.

Felix rolls down the window, his expression unreadable. “Get in.”

“What?” you blink, taken aback.

He tilts his head, his voice calm but firm. “Get in. I’ll go back to the kitchen if you get in.”

You hesitate, knowing you’re walking into some kind of trap, but the thought of him not returning pushes you forward. “Fine,” you say reluctantly, opening the passenger door and sliding in.

The second you’re seated, Felix starts the engine and pulls out of the lot.

“Felix!” you exclaim, twisting in your seat to look at him. “What are you doing?”

His lips curve into a sly smile as he keeps his eyes on the road. “We’re bailing dinner service, obviously.”

Your jaw drops. “You can’t be serious!”

“Oh, I am,” he says, his tone light but unshakably determined. “If they don’t want to listen to me, why should I stick around?”

You slump back in your seat, realizing there’s no reasoning with him right now. As the restaurant fades into the distance, you can’t help but feel both dread and an inexplicable thrill at what you’ve just done.

-

You're clutching your phone so tightly that your knuckles ache, your stomach churning with anxiety. Felix sits beside you, his hands loose on the wheel as he aimlessly drives, looking more relaxed than someone who just abandoned their station mid-shift should be.

“I can’t believe we’re doing this,” you mutter, stealing a glance at him. “Do you even have anywhere to go? Can we just... go back? Please?”

Felix shrugs nonchalantly, his eyes fixed on the road ahead. “Going back means giving in to Sara. She dumped the stock on purpose, and if we let her win now, we’ll be following her orders forever. I’d rather make her quit.”

Your head falls back against the headrest as you groan in frustration. “But this isn’t the right way to protest, Felix! Let’s just go back before it’s too late. Do you know how furious Chef is going to be?”

Almost as if on cue, your phone buzzes violently in your hands. The name on the screen makes your heart lurch: Minho.

You jolt upright, clutching the phone like it might explode. A cold shiver runs down your spine as you stare at his name, your mind racing with all the ways he could end your career—and possibly your life.

“Answer it,” Felix says, glancing at you briefly.

“I don’t want to answer it,” you whisper, shaking your head.

“If you don’t, it’ll be worse,” he points out.

He’s right. You take a deep breath, swallow the lump in your throat, and swipe to answer.

“What the hell are you doing?” Minho’s voice snaps through the line, skipping any semblance of pleasantries. “If you and Felix aren’t back in the kitchen by dinnertime, neither of you will ever work with me again.”

Your throat goes dry. “Chef, I—It wasn’t my idea!” you blurt, trying to plead your case.

“I don’t care whose idea it was,” he cuts you off sharply. “You walked out. If you don’t fix this, I’ll take back what I said about being nicer to you.”

That hits you like a punch to the gut. You’d rather be fired than lose that tiny shred of hope he dangled before you.

“Wait! Chef, please—”

The line goes dead. You stare at your phone, horrified, before turning to Felix and grabbing his arm. “Turn the car around! Now!”

Felix raises an eyebrow. “Relax. We’ll go back eventually.”

“Eventually?” you shout. “If we don’t go back, Minho is going to kill us both—probably literally!”

Felix sighs in protest but doesn’t argue, spinning the wheel to make a U-turn. Your phone buzzes again, and your heart skips a beat as you glance down.

It’s not Minho this time—it’s Yura. You answer, your voice shaky. “Hello?”

Yura’s voice is calm but tinged with curiosity. “Hey, we were called to Farfalle to cover. I heard some cooks are walking out. What’s going on?”

Your stomach drops. They’re replacing us. The thought sends a fresh wave of panic through you. “I’ll call you back,” you say hurriedly, hanging up before she can ask more questions.

You turn to Felix, your voice rising. “They called in other people to take our places. Do you get it now? We’re being replaced!”

Felix’s jaw tightens, and he mutters something under his breath as he speeds up. “Seriously? For leaving early one time?”

“One time?” you snap. “We abandoned the kitchen before dinner service! That’s not early—it’s a death sentence!”

Felix doesn’t respond, his grip on the wheel tightening as he pulls into the restaurant parking lot. The moment the car stops, you throw the door open and sprint toward the back entrance.

Your lungs burn as you push yourself to run faster, Felix close behind. You burst through the door, only to stop dead in your tracks when you reach the kitchen.

Yura and Minji are standing at your stations, their hands moving efficiently as they prep for dinner service.

Minho turns around at the commotion of your arrival. His eyes lock on you and Felix, fiery and intense, and you immediately drop your gaze to the floor.

“Get out,” he growls, his voice low but dripping with menace.

Felix takes a shaky step forward, his voice stuttering as he tries to explain. “Chef, we didn’t mean—”

“I said, get out!” Minho roars, cutting him off.

The kitchen falls silent, every pair of eyes watching the scene unfold. You don’t dare look up, your head hanging low as you feel the weight of Minho’s fury pressing down on you.

“Now,” he snaps, his voice cold and final.

With no other choice, you and Felix turn and leave, the sting of failure and humiliation following you out the door.

-

You sit slumped in the passenger seat of Felix’s car, nerves frazzled and stomach in knots. Felix, on the other hand, hasn’t stopped ranting since the two of you left the kitchen.

“It’s not fair, you know,” he says, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel in frustration. “Chef treats us like we’re expendable. And Sara? Don’t even get me started on her.”

You glance at him out of the corner of your eye, unable to muster a response. You’ve used up every ounce of your energy trying to wrap your head around the situation. Instead of responding, you focus on the quiet night outside, watching the back entrance of Farfalle.

Hours crawl by, each one amplifying your dread. Finally, the door swings open, and Minho steps out, a dough roller in his hand.

You jolt in your seat, instinctively shrinking back. “Oh my god, is he serious?”

Felix freezes mid-rant and slumps lower in his seat, muttering, “He wouldn’t actually…”

Minho approaches the car with a calm but terrifyingly deliberate pace. He reaches your window and knocks, his expression unreadable.

“Out,” he orders.

You and Felix exchange panicked glances, neither of you moving.

“Now,” Minho snaps, the dough roller tapping against the car door for emphasis.

Heart pounding, you push the door open and slide out, feeling like a child caught red-handed. Minho points toward the doorway. “Wait over there.”

You nod mutely, scurrying to the steps and sitting down. From your vantage point, you can see Minho climb into the passenger’s seat of Felix’s car. Through the windshield, you watch as he speaks to Felix. You can’t hear what’s being said, but Felix’s head stays bowed the entire time, his usual cockiness completely deflated. The dough roller, thankfully, remains unused, but it’s clear the conversation is one-sided.

After a few tense minutes, Minho gets out of the car and walks toward you. He points the dough roller at you like it’s a weapon, his eyes narrowing. “Sit.”

You blink, confused. “I am sitting.”

“On the steps,” he clarifies.

Scrambling to obey, you shift to the stone steps leading to the dining hall. Minho sits down beside you, the dough roller resting across his knees.

“I’m sorry, Chef,” you start quickly, hoping to preempt any punishment by putting on a pitiful look.

Minho leans back slightly, his gaze fixed on you. “You made a big mess today.”

“I know,” you reply, frowning deeply. “What are you going to do to me?”

He raises an eyebrow. “What do you want me to do? I will do whatever you want.”

You pause, sensing a trap. “That’s scarier than you just telling me,” you admit.

Minho sighs, his voice low and measured. “Because of you and Felix, I got humiliated today. The sisters worked hard to help me, but honestly? I’m scared to face them now.”

Despite the tension, you can’t help but chuckle at the thought of Minho—the infamous Head Chef—being afraid of two line cooks. You stop immediately when his glare shifts to you.

“When I was reading the orders earlier, I kept waiting for one of them to throw a frying pan at me.” He shares with a low sigh.

“You can tell them that you're grateful for their help tonight,” you suggest, trying to suppress another laugh. “But if you’re scared of them, why did you choose them?”

Minho’s gaze softens slightly. “Because you and Felix walked out on your own. Those two? They didn’t get a choice. I pushed them out. It wasn’t easy for them to come back, but they did. That’s more than I deserved from them.”

You nod slowly, realizing the depth of his regret.

Minho taps the dough roller against his palm before pointing it at you again. “You’re helping Taesoo with the mussels for tomorrow’s special. Don’t even think about leaving until it’s done.”

“Yes, Chef,” you mumble, accepting your punishment.

He stands, brushing off his apron. As he turns to leave, you grab the corner of his apron and tug gently. “Chef?”

He looks down at you, one brow arched.

“Are you… still going to be nicer to me?” you ask hesitantly.

For the first time that night, Minho smirks. “We’ll see.”

With that, he walks off, leaving you to sit on the steps, equal parts relieved and terrified.

-

The kitchen is silent except for the faint trickle of water as you and Taesoo scrub the last bucket of mussels. The clock above ticks closer to three in the morning, each passing second making the ache in your back and arms more noticeable. Taesoo sits beside you, head bobbing slightly as sleep tugs at him.

You nudge his elbow. “Hey, no falling asleep on me now.”

He jolts awake, blinking rapidly. “I wasn’t sleeping,” he mutters, though his slurred words say otherwise.

You stifle a laugh. “Sure, you weren’t.”

Taesoo groans loudly. “I swear, if I see another mussel or shrimp special, I’m quitting. Can’t we just ban seafood altogether?”

You chuckle, rinsing another mussel. “Oh, you’ve got no idea what’s coming. Octopus, blue crabs, clams, lobsters… and that’s just the seafood. Then there’s beef, chicken, lamb…”

He looks at you, horrified. “There’s more? For a whole year?”

“And who knows how many more years after that? But hey, I survived it, so can you.” You encourage with a playful bump to his shoulder.

He groans again, rubbing his face. Feeling a pang of sympathy, you wave him off. “Go nap. I’ll finish the rest.”

Taesoo hesitates, looking torn. “Are you sure?”

“Go. Before you fall face-first into the bucket.”

With a grateful smile, he mumbles his thanks and wanders off to find a quiet corner to sleep.

The silence that follows is almost comforting, and you work steadily, scrubbing each mussel clean. By the time you finish and drag the buckets to the freezer, exhaustion weighs heavily on you. You tidy up the kitchen, then slump into the chef’s table, letting your body relax for the first time in hours.

The empty kitchen feels vast and eerily still. From where you sit, you can see Minho’s usual spot, his apron draped neatly over a hook, his cutting board spotless.

You sigh, leaning back against the table. Your eyes flutter shut as you take in the rare peace, only for the sound of the kitchen door creaking open to jolt you upright.

Before you can fully scramble to your feet, Minho’s voice cuts through the silence. “Stay there.”

Your heart skips a beat as he approaches, his footsteps slow and deliberate. His presence fills the space effortlessly, his expression unreadable but his gaze locked onto you.

“Chef—”

“Quiet,” he says softly, his tone carrying a weight that stops you in your tracks. He steps closer, caging you in with his arms on either side of you.

His scent reaches you first—faint traces of soap and the sharp, warm hint of alcohol. You glance up at him, your heart hammering as his eyes study your face with an intensity that leaves you breathless.

“You sent Felix to have drinks with Sara. You went drinking with the sisters. Why am I the one not having fun?” you grumble, more to fill the charged silence than anything.

He doesn’t respond, his gaze dropping to the bandages on your arms. His brows furrow, and his voice comes out low and sharp. “You skipped your doctor’s appointment.”

Caught, you glance away. “I didn’t have time.”

“You didn’t have time?” he repeats, his tone bordering on scolding. “Do you want it to scar? You should at least listen to the doctor, even if you won’t listen to me.”

You groan, covering your ears. “If you’re about to give another lecture about women in the kitchen, I’m not listening.”

He leans in closer, the warmth of his breath brushing against your cheek. “I’m not giving you a lecture.” His voice softens, dropping into something that sends a shiver down your spine. “But you’ll regret it if you don’t listen to what I’m about to say.”

Curiosity wins out. Slowly, you lower your hands.

He tilts his head, his gaze flicking over your face as if committing every detail to memory. “I’m only going to say this once.”

Your breath catches, and you nod, urging him to continue.

“Even though you’re not the most appealing ingredient,” he begins, his lips curving into a teasing smile, “and this might be the alcohol talking… you have one thing that’s very pretty.”

The words make your heart skip, but you manage to ask, “What is it?”

Instead of answering, Minho leans in, his lips brushing softly against the corner of your eye. The touch is fleeting but sends warmth rushing to your cheeks. He pulls back just enough to see your flustered expression, a small, mischievous smile playing on his lips.

“Since it’s uneven…” he murmurs, leaning in again to press a matching kiss to your other eye.

You’re left speechless, your heart pounding as he lingers close.

He smirks, leaning back slightly. “If you get off my cutting board, you’re dead.”

His words draw a soft laugh from you, though you’re too stunned to fully process them. “What… what does that even mean?”

“It means,” he says, his voice dropping, “I like you.”

Your heart skips again, the words hitting you like a bolt of lightning. “We’re in the kitchen,” you blurt out, your voice barely above a whisper. “Does that mean you like me... even in the kitchen?”

“Yes,” he replies without hesitation, his gaze unwavering.

“What if we get caught?” you ask, suddenly nervous.

“They won’t,” he says simply and lower his voice into a whisper. “We’ll keep it a secret.”

Feeling overwhelmed, you look away, only for him to gently cup your chin and guide your face back toward his. His lips capture yours in a kiss that’s soft and slow, yet leaves no doubt about his feelings.

When he pulls back, he lingers close, his lips brushing yours as he murmurs, “Let’s go home, mmh? So I can discover more parts of you to like.”

Still dazed, you nod, warmth spreading through your chest as he takes your hand. Together, you leave the kitchen, the weight of exhaustion replaced by a giddy, fluttering feeling you can’t quite shake.

-

Minho holds your hand firmly as the two of you step out into the stillness of the night. The cool air brushes against your flushed cheeks, but it does little to soothe the heat still lingering from his kiss. He walks you to his car, his strides confident, but his silence speaks volumes.

You glance at him nervously, the fluttering in your chest growing more intense. He opens the passenger door for you, his expression unreadable. The gesture is uncharacteristically gentle, and it leaves you feeling both comforted and on edge.

The drive to his apartment is quiet, save for the soft hum of the engine. You keep sneaking glances at him, wondering if he regrets what just happened. But when his hand casually reaches over to rest on your thigh, giving it a reassuring squeeze, your doubts dissipate.

Once inside his apartment, Minho guides you in, his hand still holding yours. The space is dimly lit, cozy, and smells faintly of him—a mix of cedarwood and something uniquely Minho.

“Sit,” he instructs, his voice firm but not unkind.

You obey, perching on the edge of his couch, unsure of what to expect. He disappears into the kitchen for a moment and returns with a glass of wine, which he hands to you.

“You worked hard tonight,” he says softly, sitting down beside you. “Now drink.”

You blink, taken aback by his change in demeanor and take a small sip of the wine. “Is this... still part of my punishment?”

His lips twitch into a smirk, but there’s a tenderness in his eyes now. “No. Your punishment is over. Now it’s time for your reward.”

Before you can ask what he means, Minho leans in again, his hand cupping your cheek as he kisses you deeply. This kiss is different—more deliberate, more consuming. It pulls you in, leaving no room for hesitation or doubt.

When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, and his voice drops to a whisper. “You drive me crazy, you know that?”

Your breath hitches, your heart pounding. “Minho…”

He trails his fingers along your jaw, his gaze locked on yours. “You’re stubborn, reckless, and you never listen. But you’re also everything I can’t seem to get out of my head.”

You feel your cheeks burn, his words settling in your chest like a warm flame. “I didn’t think you…”

“Liked you?” he finishes, his smirk returning. “Maybe I didn’t want to admit it. But tonight… watching you push through, even when I know I was too harsh on you… I couldn’t ignore it anymore.”

Your lips part, but no words come out. Instead, you lean into him, your hands finding their way to his chest as you kiss him again, this time with all the emotions you’ve been holding back.

The kiss deepens, his arms wrapping around you and pulling you closer until you’re practically in his lap. The exhaustion of the night melts away, replaced by the warmth of his touch, the softness of his lips, and the steady beat of his heart against yours.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, his hand brushing a stray strand of hair from your face. “Stay,” he murmurs, his voice low and full of promise.

You hesitate, your mind racing with thoughts of what this might mean for both of you. But when he presses a gentle kiss to your forehead, whispering, “Let me take care of you,” all your resistance crumbles.

Nodding, you let him lead you to his bedroom. And as the night unfolds, what started as a punishment turns into something far more tender, intimate, and unforgettable—a reward neither of you could have anticipated.

-

The clothes are littering the bedroom floor and the air is quiet, save for the subtle rustle of fabric as he shifts beside you on the bed. His intense gaze locks onto yours, and the way he looks at you makes your chest tighten, your breath catching in your throat.

“You have no idea, do you?” he murmurs, his voice a low, husky whisper that sends a shiver down your spine.

You blink up at him, the warmth of his presence overwhelming. “What?”

His lips quirk into the faintest smile as he leans over you, his hand sliding up your arm to cradle your face. “How absolutely beautiful you are,” he says, his eyes softening as he speaks.

Before you can respond, Minho dips his head down, his lips brushing against your forehead in a kiss that feels like a vow. “Here,” he whispers, his voice reverent. “This is where you frown too much, always worrying about things that don’t matter.”

His lips trail lower, brushing over the bridge of your nose before he presses a soft kiss to the tip. “And here… so perfect, so adorable, it drives me insane.”

Your cheeks burn, and you reach out to push at his shoulder, embarrassed by his sudden affection. But Minho catches your wrist, pinning it gently to the bed as he smirks down at you. “Don’t hide from me. Not tonight.”

He shifts lower, his lips finding your cheek, then your jawline, his kisses slow and deliberate. His other hand skims along your side, sending sparks dancing across your skin.

When his lips press against the curve of your neck, just below your ear, you can’t suppress the soft gasp that escapes you. Minho chuckles against your skin, his breath warm and teasing. “Here,” he murmurs, “where I can feel your pulse. Proof that you’re here, with me.”

His hand moves to your collarbone, his thumb brushing over the delicate line before his lips follow, pressing kisses there that are both tender and possessive. “And here,” he continues, his voice growing quieter, “because it reminds me how strong you are. Even when you think you’re not.”

You can’t look away, his devotion leaving you utterly captivated. Minho’s lips move lower, grazing the curve of your shoulder, then down your arm, where he peppers kisses along your wrist and the inside of your palm. “Your hands,” he murmurs, intertwining his fingers with yours for a moment before kissing the back of your hand. “These hands are capable of so much, but they’re also so soft, so perfect.”

Your heart swells, the intensity of his words and actions making you feel like you might burst. “Minho…” you whisper, your voice trembling slightly.

He leans back up, his face hovering inches from yours as his hand comes up to brush a strand of hair from your face. “I’m not finished,” he teases, his voice playful but his gaze serious.

His lips move down again, finding the sensitive skin just below your collarbone, then along the curve of your chest, his kisses slower, deeper, as though he’s memorizing every inch of you. “And here,” he says, his voice barely audible now, “because it’s where your heart beats strongest.”

When he finally meets your gaze again, there’s a warmth in his eyes that steals the breath from your lungs. “You don’t need to say anything,” he whispers, his forehead pressing gently against yours. “Just let me show you.”

And as his lips return to yours in a kiss that feels like both a promise and a confession, you can’t help but feel utterly cherished, as though every part of you is loved in a way you’ve never known before.

-

The warmth of Minho’s lips against your skin sends a cascade of shivers through your body as he tenderly shifts you onto your stomach. His touch is careful, as if you’re something precious he’s afraid to break, and his hands gently trace the curve of your shoulders, coaxing you to relax beneath him.

“You don’t know how long I’ve wanted this,” he murmurs, his voice husky and low, almost reverent.

You sink further into the bed, his words wrapping around you like a comforting blanket. The softness of the pillow beneath your cheek contrasts with the heat radiating from him as he leans over you, placing a kiss at the nape of your neck. His lips linger there, the sensation drawing a soft sigh from you, your fingers curling into the sheets.

Minho moves slowly, purposefully, his lips trailing down your back. Each kiss feels like a confession, a piece of himself he’s baring to you. He pauses at your shoulder blades, his hands smoothing down your sides as his lips continue their gentle exploration.

When he reaches the small of your back, you feel a soft moan escape your lips, muffled against the pillow. He chuckles softly, the sound vibrating through you. “Don’t hold back,” he says, his tone teasing but affectionate. “I want to hear every sound you make.”

You bite your lip, trying to stifle another sound, but it’s impossible as his lips travel further down, tracing the curve of your hips with painstaking care. Minho’s hands are warm as they knead your thighs, his lips following, pressing kisses to the back of your knees and down to your calves.

By the time he reaches your ankles, you’re trembling beneath him, the slow, deliberate pace unraveling you in ways you didn’t think possible. He shifts, leaning up to place a kiss on the sole of your foot before trailing back up, this time turning you onto your back with gentle hands.

Minho hovers above you, his gaze intense yet soft, as if he’s searching for something within you. “You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, the sincerity in his voice making your chest tighten.

He leans down, capturing your lips in a kiss that feels like a culmination of every unspoken word between you. It’s slow, tender, but there’s a hunger beneath it, a need to show you what he can’t put into words.

As his body moves against yours, the intimacy of the moment feels like a key unlocking a door you never thought you’d open. Minho’s movements are deliberate, unhurried, as if he wants to savor every second, every sensation. His hands explore your body with a reverence that makes you feel worshipped, loved in a way that’s almost overwhelming.

You find yourself whispering his name, the sound barely audible but enough to make him pause, his lips brushing against your ear. “I’m here,” he murmurs, his breath warm against your skin. “I’m not going anywhere.”

The way he moves with you feels like a conversation, each touch, each kiss a response to the unspoken questions in your heart. By the time the night draws to a close, you feel as though you’ve glimpsed a side of Minho that he keeps hidden from the world, a vulnerability that he’s chosen to share only with you.

As you lay tangled together in the aftermath, his arms wrapped securely around you, you can’t help but feel that the cracks in his armor have finally begun to let you in, allowing you to see the man he truly is beneath the surface. And in that moment, as your head rests against his chest and his fingers lazily trace patterns on your back, you know this night has changed everything.

-

Minho leans against the sink, letting the cool water wash over his hands before glancing up at his reflection. The man staring back at him feels different—softer somehow, less burdened. For a moment, he studies the faint curve of his lips, the way they betray a smile he didn’t even realize he was wearing.

He exhales deeply, brushing a hand through his damp hair, and chuckles under his breath. What are you doing, Minho? he thinks, shaking his head at himself. This feeling—this warmth spreading through his chest like sunlight—feels almost foreign, like a distant memory of who he used to be. He didn’t think he’d ever find his way back to this version of himself, someone unguarded, someone willing to let another person in.

And yet, here he was, standing in the dim light of the bathroom, smiling like a fool because of you.

When he steps out of the bathroom and sees you lying on the bed, your body draped lazily across the sheets, waiting for him, the smile threatens to return. But Minho quickly schools his expression, an idea sparking in his mind. Let’s see how far I can push you.

Without a word, he climbs into bed, settling himself on his side with his back turned to you. He keeps his movements calm and casual, feigning exhaustion as he pulls the blanket over himself.

The quiet stretches between you, and he doesn’t have to look to know you’re frowning.

“Are you just going to sleep?” you ask, your voice laced with disappointment.

He suppresses the urge to smirk and mumbles, “We have work tomorrow.”

He can almost hear you preparing a playful jab or a protest, but instead, the room falls silent. Then, after a moment, he feels you shift on the bed. Your low sigh reaches his ears, followed by a soft, unexpected compliment.

“Gosh,” you murmur, “you even look good from the back of your head.”

Minho bites the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. He doesn’t respond, feigning indifference as he feels your hand lightly brush against his shoulder.

“And your shoulders,” you add, your voice softer this time, “so broad… they look so strong.”

That’s it—he can’t hold back anymore. Without turning to face you, he says with a teasing lilt, “You don’t have to sweet talk me anymore. You already have me.”

Before you can respond, Minho grabs your hand and tugs you closer, pulling you flush against his back. Your giggles spill out, warm and light against his ear as he traps your hand against his chest. He tilts his head slightly, feeling the soft press of your breath against his neck as you settle against him.

“That's right,” you whisper, your voice tender now, your words wrapping around him like a promise. “You are mine.”

Minho closes his eyes, a small smile tugging at his lips. He doesn’t say anything aloud, but in the quiet of his heart, he whispers back, And you are mine.

-

Minho sits in his office, staring blankly at the untouched cup of coffee on his desk. The once-steaming liquid has gone cold, but he barely notices. His mind isn’t here; it’s still tethered to last night. The memories replay in his head like a film reel, fresh and vivid.

The taste of wine on your lips, the way your breath hitched when he kissed the corner of your mouth, the sound of his name falling from you in a breathless murmur—it all feels so real, like he could reach out and touch it again. A small smile tugs at his lips, one he doesn’t even realize he’s wearing.

He leans back in his chair, letting the warmth of the memories wash over him. Last night… It wasn’t just good. It was perfect.

The sharp knock at the door breaks his reverie, pulling him back to reality. For a moment, he doesn't react, too lost in the haze of his thoughts. It isn’t until the second knock that he swivels his chair toward the door and calls out, “Come in.”

To his mild surprise, Taesoo steps into the room, his posture rigid and hands shoved deep into the pockets of his apron.

“You should be in the kitchen,” Minho scolds, straightening up. “Dinner prep doesn’t wait for anyone, Taesoo.”

Taesoo hesitates, his head slightly bowed, avoiding Minho’s piercing gaze. “I... I have something to say, Chef.”

Minho’s brow furrows, irritation flickering to life. “It better be important,” he warns, pushing himself up from his chair. He rounds the desk and leans against it, crossing his arms over his chest. “Speak up. We don’t have all day.”

Taesoo shuffles awkwardly, his shoulders hunched as though trying to make himself smaller. “It’s... I mean... I didn’t expect you to turn back on your word.”

Minho’s eyes narrow, confusion replacing his earlier irritation. “What are you talking about?”

Taesoo looks up for a brief moment, his gaze meeting Minho’s before darting away again. He swallows hard, visibly gathering the courage to continue.

“I saw it,” Taesoo mutters, his voice trembling slightly.

Minho straightens, his arms uncrossing. “Saw what?” he asks, his tone sharp but still laced with confusion.

Taesoo shifts on his feet, the air between them growing heavier with every passing second. “I... I saw you... and her,” he stammers.

Minho’s heartbeat quickens, a slow thrum of unease spreading through his chest. “What exactly did you see?”

Taesoo lifts his head, his expression both anxious and accusatory. “I saw you kiss her in the kitchen last night.”

For a moment, the world around Minho seems to freeze. His pulse pounds in his ears, drowning out the muffled sounds of the restaurant beyond the office door. His usually calm and collected demeanor cracks, his face turning cold—not from anger, but from a deep-seated fear that his secret is about to unravel.

The silence stretches between them, heavy and suffocating. Minho’s jaw tightens as he stares at Taesoo, his mind racing for a way to contain the situation. He doesn’t know whether to deny it, deflect it, or confront it head-on.

This can’t get out, he thinks, his chest tightening. If it does…

He exhales slowly, but the weight in his chest doesn’t lift. Minho feels cracks forming in the walls he’s spent so long building and for the first time, he isn’t sure he can stop them from breaking apart.

-

Support my writings by kindly reblog, comment or consider tipping me on my ko-fi!

@svintsandghosts @abiaswreck @ppiri-bahng @drhsthl @idkluvutellme @biribarabiribbaem @skz-streamer @biancaness @hanjisunginc @elizalabs3 @laylasbunbunny @kpopformylife @caitlyn98s @hann1bee @mamieishere @is2cb97 @marvelous-llama @bluenights1899 @sherryblossom @toplinehyunjin @hanjisbeloved @sunnyseungup @skz4lifer @stellasays45 @severeanxietyissues @avyskai @imseungminsgf @silentreadersthings @army-stay-noel @rylea08 @simeonswhore @yubinism @devilsmatches @septicrebel @rairacha @ven-fic-recs @hyunjiinnnn @lostgirlinthewoodss @schniti-is-in-the-house @jisunglyricist @minh0scat @simplymoo @inlovewithstraykids @eastjonowhere @seochangbinnnnnnnnnnn @whosanaanyway @skzswife @nightmarenyxx @vixensss @lailac13 @kissesmellow21 @sushiinmidnight @angstraykids

[ckret2]

Chapter 82 of you can really tell the writer got a new art program this week and went apeshit with it instead of doing anything productive: the Mystery Shack is in terrible peril from the government and only one thing can save them:

Teaching Bill Cipher how to flirt with humans!!

####

The Stans explained the plan to Dipper and Mabel as briefly as possible—that Bill had to save them all by flirting with the head fed—and that was about as far as they got before Mabel started squealing. They wished her good luck with Bill, wished him good luck with Mabel, and beat a hasty retreat, with Dipper tagging along after Ford on the pretense of helping figure out how to get the flash drive out of Gompers.

"This is perfect!" Mabel slammed the door closed—and Bill had the sneaking suspicion she'd trapped him on purpose—then grabbed both his hands to drag him further into the room. "I can see it now! He'll fall in love with you, and then he'll realize that living in a small logging town is so much more emotionally fulfilling than his high-pressure fast-paced big city government job, and he'll see what a special, magical place Gravity Falls is and he won't wanna do anything that could change it, and Washington will call him like, 'Your report is late! Have you forgotten your mission?' And he'll go 'I have a new mission now: my WIFE!' And—"

"Hold on!" Bill pulled his hands back. "I think you skipped the part where you married me off to a government agent."

"No I didn't! Because he says that and everyone gasps and then he gets down on his knee in front of you and pulls out a ring and—"

"In your dreams, star girl." He dropped onto Mabel's bed and crossed his legs. "Think a little less cheesy Christmas romcom, and more noir spy movie with a double-crossing femme fatale."

Mabel measured that up against her limited spy movie knowledge, and asked dubiously, "You're gonna drop him in a tank of sharks?"

"Hey, if you have one...!" Bill laughed. "But, no. The plan is just for me to keep him distracted long enough for the nerd squad to get the flash drive, wipe any sensitive data, and leave it somewhere that'll make the agents think the goat dumped it naturally."

Mabel considered that. She inhaled deeply. "Okay," she said. "But. What if it's one of those movies where the evil girl spy has a change of heart because of the good guy's charm and you do fall in love."

"Do you remember who we're talking about?" Bill asked. "Fine! If we fall in love, you can be the ring bearer, best maid, and officiant—but don't start stapling together a white dress just yet."

Mabel completely skipped past his main point. She whispered, "You'd let me make your wedding dress?"

"I'd turn down every fashion designer in Milan, Paris, New York, and London combined."

Her eyes widened. "I've gotta start drawing wedding dresses." She rummaged around the floor for an unused piece of paper and the nearest crayon and/or marker box.

"Draw me as a triangle," Bill said automatically. "So there, you're caught up on the plan!" He slowly slid off Mabel's bed toward the door. "So if you'd let me out so I can prepare..."

"Ohh no. Grunkle Stan and Grunkle Ford brought you to me to learn how to flirt, and I'm going to teach you how to flirt."

He groaned, but plopped back down on Mabel's bed. "I don't need to be taught how to flirt! I'm a pro! While your universe was still gearing up for a Big Bang, I was fending off marriage proposals from lovelorn generation ships and sentient oceans."

"You're not seducing ships and oceans." Mabel had already flopped onto the floor and drawn a triangle with an eye, and was trying to figure out how to put a dress on it. "You're seducing a man."

"Which is even easier! You people barely last a century, you're desperate! Humans fling themselves at me left and right!"

"Then you'll have no trouble passing my love quiz."

Bill automatically frowned. There was a part of him that still tensed up at the word "quiz" even if he did know more about romance than the entire human race combined. "What, like the one you put the guys through on your dating show?"

"Yes, but with all new questions! So you can't just copy all of Soos's answers to get a perfect score!"

"Psh! Like I need to copy anyone's answers," said Bill, who had never taken a quiz in his life without copying someone else's answers and had been planning to do just that. "All right, hit me."

"Question one! Uh..." She tapped a crayon to her chin as she thought. "What's the best gift to give on a first date? Jewelry, chocolate, a wedding ring, or flowers?"

"Ooh, we're starting with bribery, huh?" When in doubt, the right answer was usually C; but "jewelry" and "wedding ring" seemed kinda redundant. Well—cheating had never failed him before, why stop now? "None of the above! I've got a better answer than all of them!"

Mabel lowered her crayon to give him a skeptical look. "Oh yeah? What?"

"Sneak into their dreams the night before, find out their heart's desire, and surprise 'em with that," Bill said. "That's not even a romantic move. It'll let you win over a human in any context! Birthday parties, baby showers, job interviews, criminal trials, hostage negotiations..."

"What if you don't know their heart's desire?"

"Then you're not me."

She set down her crayon, laced her hands under her chin, and said, "Okay, then. If you were trying to win me over, what's my dream birthday gift?"

"Replacing your bedroom with a bouncy castle with inflatable furniture."

"Ha! No it's n..." She trailed off. "Wait. Ohmigosh."

"Told ya."

"I've been dreaming too small," Mabel whispered. She shoved aside her first drawing and started drawing her fantasy bedroom.

Bill picked up one of Mabel's dolls—a floppy tiger—and started talking to it like he was lecturing it. Forget this whole "taking a quiz" thing; he was much more comfortable in the roll of the teacher than the student. "And if it's a blind date and I can't stalk 'em beforehand, nobody's ever disappointed by a solid gold brick," he told the doll.  "It's both practical and pretty, and it appeals to humans' natural greed without making them feel sleazy about accepting a wad of hundreds from their date."

"What's Agent Powers's heart's desire?"

Heck. He didn't actually know. He'd ducked in on the guy's life a handful of times, but he'd never needed to pay that close attention to him. What did boring people like? "A really nice leather wallet," Bill said.

"Okay, you're off to a strong start," Mabel said. "Question two: what's the ideal location for a first date?"

"What are my options?"

"Fooey to the options! I wanna hear your thoughts."

"Then that's easy: anywhere they can't escape from until they love you," Bill said. "Even better if you can serenade 'em."

Mabel nodded in approval. "Perfect answer, full points! Every Inkwell princess movie and vampire novel on the market agrees! Question three: best first date outfit?"

"Sexy."

"Okay—yeah," Mabel said, "But specifically, what does that look like?"

"Tallest hat you can find," Bill said.

Mabel waited. Bill didn't say anything else. Mabel said, "What about the rest of the outfit?"

"Bow tie. Outfit complete."

"That's just what you wear."

"And it's always sexy!" Bill insisted.

"Maybe in Flatworld, but this is earth! If you go out dressed in nothing but a hat and a bow tie, you'll be having your date in the back of a police car!"

"Fine," Bill huffed. "Fifty pairs of gloves—and the more of them you have hands to fill, the better! A dress made out of blank checks! Two snakes! A fur coat made out of live kittens!" Bill shook the stuffed doll emphatically with each point. "Good enough?!"

Mabel squinted thoughtfully at him. "The kitten coat has potential."

"Damn me with faint praise, why don't you."

"What about more traditional romantic outfits? Like... a red velvet suit with a leopard print shirt? Or short shorts that say 'too hot' on the butt?" Mabel asked. "Or a t-shirt with your date's face on it in a heart! That shows your date 'I'm here to focus on you!'"

"What if my date's face is ugly, did you think about that?" Bill asked, mainly to cover up the fact that he was chagrined he hadn't thought of the velvet suit himself. "Forget about fashion. Next question!"

"Okay, how would you prepare yourself for the perfect date? Aside from finding a tall hat and stalking your date's dreams."

"Hygiene's the most important thing," Bill said. "Humans are very attuned to pheromones. It's one of your base instincts."

A look of relief cross Mabel's face. "Yes! Good start. So we're talking a shower, or...?"

"Oh yeah, if you're going on a date in this country, you've gotta scrub that skin raw. There is no smell Americans hate more than the natural smell of other human beings." 

Mabel nodded enthusiastically. "Right!"

"And once you've gotten rid of your real scent you've got to make sure you smell appealing. And that means making sure you smell the most! Cover up any competing suitors' scents with your own!"

Mabel made an uncertain hum. "Okaaay, sooo... what would you call an appropriate fragrance for a first date?"

He wasn't sure he liked the sound of the hum. "First date? You've got to make a strong impression, and set the mood for romance," he told the doll, so he didn't have to watch Mabel pass judgment. "So, I'm thinking... decaying salmon, deer pee, and ambergris."

Mabel was silent for an uncomfortably long time. Bill glanced at her. She immediately pulled her sweater up to hide her mouth. Voice strained with suppressed laughter, she said, "You don't think, maybe... floral scents...?"

Who did she think she was laughing at! He directed his attention back to Mabel's doll. The tiger didn't judge him. The tiger thought all his ideas were brilliant. "Is this guy looking for a garden or a girlfriend? I know ninety percent of the soaps and shampoos on the market are designed to make you smell like a fruit salad on the beach, but you humans don't know the first thing about what activates your own monkey-brained reproductive urges! Trust me: decaying salmon, deer pee, and ambergris! They reek of raw sex appeal!"

"What's ambergris?"

"It's a staple fragrance in the perfume industry! Some of the most popular scents in Hollywood have ambergris base notes!"

"Okay," Mabel said, "but what is it?"

"Okay so," Bill said, "when a sperm whale gets so constipated it kills 'em, the rest of its body rots off while the turd floats to the surface, and after it's bobbed around baking in the sun for a few decades—"

Mabel lay a hand on Bill's knee and gently said, "No." 

"Hey, I'm not the one who invented ambergris, that's your species's idea!"

"Bill, I'm sorry. But you've got the best and worst romance ideas with no in between, and you don't know the difference," Mabel said. "But I promise you're in good hands! I'm the best matchmaker in Gravity Falls! I helped hook up Soos and Melody, Robbie and Tambry, Waddles and Gompers, the Hand Witch and that hunky hiker guy..."

He threw Mabel's doll down on the bed, slumped back against the wall, crossed his arms, and sulked. Then he muttered, "But I've got the best ideas?"

"Oh yeah. You're like an untrained romance prodigy! You just need a liiittle help filtering out the diamonds from the coal."

He grunted. Then he grudgingly admitted, "Getting Waddles and Gompers together is pretty impressive. They have complete opposite political opinions."

"See? I'll have you date ready in no time!"

Bill heaved a frustrated sigh. "Fine. But I'd better at least get a killer makeover out of this."

"Definitely! I'm getting an expert on the case!" She pulled out her phone to send a text. Plus, whatever you're wearing tomorrow? I'm bedazzling the crap out of it."

"Good!"

"But first," Mabel said, "Let's talk about your technique."

####

"Lesson one of Mabel's Guide to Flirting With Humans: pick-up lines! First impressions are super important!"

"Pick-up lines are easy," Bill said. "I know a million of them!"

"That's great! Then this should be easy." Mabel pointed at the picture of Creggy G in the middle of her Sev'ral Timez poster, whom she'd designated as their attractive human for Bill's flirting practice. "Try one out." 

Bill sized up Creggy calculatingly, and said, "You know, your eyeballs are so beautiful."

"Yes!" Mabel cheered. "It's romantic! I love it!"

"—and they'd look even better in my mouth."

Mabel stared at Bill.

"What?" Bill asked. "Too forward? Should I save that for the second date?"

The flirting lesson quickly switched track from teaching Bill how to use a pick-up lines, to teaching Bill what pick-up lines not to use.

And from there, the conversation drifted to a list of subjects Bill wasn't allowed to discuss with the federal agent, which necessitated relocating to the living room so Mabel could set up an easel pad and record all the banned topics. Partway through, Stan drifted in and started throwing in his two cents.

The list of banned flirtation topics included: eyeballs; cannibalism; squid kings; dragonfly mating habits; mandibles; the time and method of living people's future deaths; the cold and lonely heat death of the universe ("Why?! It's a perfect excuse to suggest cuddling for warmth!"); fun get-to-know-you questions like "would you rather kill your mother or your father" or "which conspiracy theories would you most hate to be true"; which conspiracy theories were true; the agent's embarrassing middle school secrets that Bill shouldn't have known about but did; the agent's bald spot; cancer flavors; pending global disasters...

Bill flung his hands in the air. "So what does that leave to talk about?!"

"Anything else," Stan snapped.

"The Chuquicamata open pit copper mine."

"Anything normal."

Bill gave him a look akin to that of a vegetarian who'd just been asked to discuss his favorite cuts of beef. "Have you metme?"

"Try topics that get him in the right mindset for romance," Mabel said. "Like, 'what do you want your future wife's favorite color to be?' Or 'you look like dad material!'"

Bill nodded slowly. "So we're aggressively leading him on. I can work with that. I've never been a fan of subtlety."

"And call him charming," Stan said. "Guys love hearing they're charming. Oh, and tell him his jokes are funny."

"What if he doesn't tell jokes."

"All guys tell jokes when they're flirting! If he's not telling jokes, you're doing something wrong."

"It's true," Mabel said. "Watch any high school romance!" Bill gave them both a dubious look.

Stan glanced up as Ford and Dipper walked by the doorway with Gompers. "Tell 'im, Ford."

"What?"

"All men tell jokes when we're flirting! It's probably in our DNA or something."

Dipper thought about that, and nodded. "I tell jokes when I'm flirting."

Mabel shouted, "You try to tell jokes when you're flirting! Heyooo!"

"Hey."

Ford grimaced. "Usually when I'm flirting, I forget every joke I've ever heard and start asking as many questions as I can think of."

Bill said, "That's because you only flirt with things you want to add to your bestiary!"

"The point still stands." 

Dipper had leaned into the room to read the banned topic list. "Why are conspiracy theories off-limits? He came to Gravity Falls in the first place because he was looking for a paranormal conspiracy."

"Dipper's right," Ford said, "he'd probably be interested in the topic."

Bill flung his hands in the air. "Thank you! That's what I was saying!"

Stan shook his head, "Too close to discussing politics. What if they believe in different conspiracies!"

"Plus, watch this," Mabel said. "Hey Bill, what do you think about Flat Earth theory."

Bill groaned. "I was drunk, those statements were taken out of context, and I can't be held responsible if some idiot with a boat misinterpreted me."

Mabel looked at Ford and Dipper.

Dipper grimaced. "Got it."

Ford nodded. "Conspiracy theories are off-limits."

"This is why you're all single," Bill said.

####

Stan said, "And if you're gonna lie about your job—"

"Which you always should," Bill cut in.

"Obviously! But make sure it's not something too easy to verify. Like, you can't claim to be the governor, what if your date actually voted and knows who the governor is?"

"That's a good point! Margaret was not impressed."

"You're telling me! My suit smelled like broccoli cheese soup for weeks!"

"You shoulda suggested she get the house salad."

"Yeah, I—" Stan cut off. "Wait. How do you know about Margaret? That was twenty years ago!"

Dipper and Ford were in the kitchen, looking for every ingredient they could find that might coax Gompers to release the flash drive the old-fashioned way and listening to the discussion in the living room. Gompers nibbled at a dish towel, oblivious to the fate awaiting him.

Mabel trotted in and patted him as she passed. "Hey, you! You're giving us major trouble, you rascal!"

He bleated at her.

Mabel pushed up to the open fridge next to Dipper, and when he stepped aside to make more room for her, she stepped into his personal space again and leaned into him with her shoulder. "Why are you in the way, bro, jeez!"

"You're in the way!" He leaned against her in turn. "What are you doing in here? Aren't you supposed to be training Bill?"

"Grunkle Stan's taking the lead right now," Mabel said. "My talent is helping people find true love! But his talent is suckering someone into liking you for a day. So I think he's better suited to the task at hand."

"Oh, yeah." Dipper chuckled wryly. "His advice will get you a first date, but not a second date."

Ford muttered, "His technique hasn't changed since high school, I see."

Dipper found the bottle of prune juice he'd been looking for, pulled it out, and stepped back. Mabel yelped when her counterweight disappeared and stumbled sideways into the fridge door.

As Dipper emptied the juice into a mixing bowl, he said, "I'm not sure about this plan. Even with both you and Stan helping. I know Bill's good at tricking people, but... he's so annoying. And not in a lovable way."

"Don't undersell him!" Mabel said. She'd retrieved a pitcher of Mabel Juice and was dumping a full bottle of sprinkles into it—hardcore romance training required high stamina. "He has the potential to be a dreamboat!"

Ford muttered, "He's a manipulative, murderous monster." He was searching through all the cans they'd moved to the kitchen counter for beans.

"Those don't have to be mutually exclusive," Mabel insisted. "Serial killers get girlfriends. Sometimes after they're arrested!"

"I'mmm not seeing a dreamboat," Dipper said. "More like a shipwreck. I mean, when you were trying to come up with a list of romantic date foods, he suggested blood licked off your date's teeth."

"And he was right!" Mabel said. "Vampires, bro-bro!"

"Okay, but I don't think he was talking about teeth that were still attached to his date's skull!"

"He didn't say they weren't attached," said Mabel, with flagging conviction that suggested she hadn't considered that and was realizing Dipper was probably right.

"And five minutes ago you and Stan told him he should pretend to be a princess, and he told you he'd be great at that because he started an Internet dating service that matches up lonely widows with overseas con artists pretending to be deposed princes."

"Well," Mabel said sheepishly.

"And then he tried to talk you two into investing in a pyramid scheme to fund his dating service."

"But we didn't invest!" Mabel said.

"Only because you looked it up on your phone and discovered he'd made it up!"

"I mean, until then, it sounded romantic!" Mabel flung her hands out in a wide shrug. (Something about the gesture looked strange to Ford.) "Finding a second chance at love with a mysterious foreign criminal with a glamorous false identity? That'd be great if it was real!"

"Mabel, it's a scam," Dipper said exasperatedly.

"And do scam artists not deserve love, too?!" Mabel pounded a fist on the table emphatically. "What about Grunkle Stan! He deserves love! A rich overseas widow would be perfect for him!"

"That's not— The point is, Bill's not romantic!" Dipper said. "This plan isn't going to work!"

Ford set half a dozen bean cans next to Dipper's mixing bowl. "He doesn't need to be romantic," he said. "He only needs to be charismatic. And for all his flaws, he's certainly that." Planets will orbit stars and black holes just the same—and not even realize the difference. "He doesn't have to actually win Agent Powers's heart. He only has to keep his attention for a few hours. By the time Bill stops dazzling Powers long enough for him to see the red flags, we'll have the flash drive." He nodded toward Gompers. "If we get it before the agents return with a warrant, we might not even need Bill to distract him."

Dipper sighed. "Then let's hope Gompers likes prunes."

"Come on! Show a little faith!" Mabel said.

Ford muttered, "The last time I put my faith in Bill..." Dipper gestured emphatically at Ford in agreement.

"Not in Bill! In me! Mark my words, Grunkle Ford—I'll get this Cinderella ready to meet his Prince Charming if I have to summon every mouse in Gravity Falls to help sew his ballgown!"

"Please don't summon the wildlife again," Dipper groaned. "The last time you did that, huge spiders kept appearing in our room for a week."

Mabel's pocket vibrated; she pulled out her phone and gasped. She chugged down the rest of her juice in three sickly sweet gulps and bolted from the room. "Biiill! Your personal style consultant texted back!"

"My who?"

She dragged him out of the living room by the wrist. "Come on!"

Ford watched them run up the stairs, then started searching through their cereal boxes for the high fiber one. Tentatively, he asked, "Mabel doesn't actually think we're trying to get Bill and the agent together, does she?" The Prince Charming comment was concerning.

"I don't know," Dipper sighed. "A few days ago she started talking about trying to get Bill a love life? Maybe she sees this as a practice round."

"Really? Why, did he say he wants to date people?" If he wanted to get out of the shack to emotionally prey on the locals one-on-one without supervision...

"I don't think she's even told him yet. It's part of her project to... reintegrate him into society? She probably thinks the power of love can rehabilitate him." Dipper sighed. "She's setting herself up for disappointment. He's been conning people into thinking he's a good guy for billions of years, right? If being loved could fix him, he'd be an angel by now."

"Instead, he's just gotten better at pretending to be an angel," Ford said ruefully. "I'm inclined to agree with you." He found the cereal he'd been looking for and set it on the table by Dipper. "But then... we let him live, didn't we? Because we all hope we're wrong. I suppose that doesn't make us that different from Mabel."

Dipper shook his head emphatically. "Not me." He dumped one of the cans of beans into the prune juice a little harder than necessary. "I let him live for two reasons: because of Mabel, and because of that prophecy. And he doesn't have to change to fulfill some prophecy to save us—when it comes, he might just be trying to save his own stupid butt, too."

"I suppose so." Right—of course, even if he'd agreed to spare Bill, Dipper still didn't have any real hope for him beyond his usefulness.

Over the past month, Ford hadn't seen anything more sympathetic out of Bill than Dipper had. He wondered at himself for even being willing to consider Bill might change. When had Ford changed enough to consider it? Or was he just more susceptible to Bill's same old tricks?

"You don't remember the whole prophecy yet, do you?" Ford asked. "What if this is what it was about? Saving our family from the government because he's the only person the lead agent finds attractive enough to distract him?"

Dipper pulled a face. "I hope not," he said. "After everything he put us through? He owes us a fight to the death with an interdimensional eldritch god."

"Now that's a sight I'd pay to see."

####

MABEL: Heyyy Paz, can I ask for a small favor. I have a friend that needs a MAJOR MAKEOVER!! 😿 Like the FULL PRINCESS TRANSFORMATION treatment!! Can you help him?

PACIFICA: Can't, I'm suuuper busy today. I have the lunch shift AND grooming day at the ranch.

PACIFICA: Plus, why would I help some total rando? 😒

MABEL: Because it's my friend with the beautiful golden hair.

PACIFICA: asldkfggh

PACIFICA: OK fine come by the ranch after work

PACIFICA: and send me a picture of his skin next to a white paper so I can grab some foundations to try out.

####

Bill took a piece of paper and a marker, wrote "Make me beautiful!" and dotted the I and the exclamation point with hearts, flopped the least sunburned part of his arm next to the paper for Mabel to take a picture, and leaned away to keep his face out of it.

As Mabel snapped a couple pictures, she said, "Okay, before we visit Pacifica, I have to warn you. She can be a liiittle bit mean when it comes to fashion. So don't get mad at her, okay? It's how she shows she cares!"

"No it's not," Bill said.

"No, it's not," Mabel conceded. "But it doesn't mean she doesn't care. That's just... how she relates to other people! By insulting their fashion, style, and body. And family. And finances."

"Don't worry, star girl. I can take it."

"But I mean, she might be really, really, super mean about your looks," Mabel said. "And you cannot curse her or threaten to turn her bones into flutes or do anything Bill-ish like that. Promise me."

"Hey, bone flutes! That sounds like a fun arts and crafts project, right?"

"Bill!"

"Re-lax, it'll be fine," Bill said. "She's just your garden-variety pageant girl with an overly-critical mom who tried to relive her glory years through her daughter! I can handle a teenage ex-beauty queen. I'm an expert on those types."

Skeptically, Mabel said, "Really?" She was slowly coming to realize that, in Bill's opinion, he was the expert on everything.

"Oh yeah. I spent years eyelid deep in the pageant scene."

"You did?" she said, surprised. "How come? Did you try to trick a beauty pageant into building your portal or something like that?"

Bill stared at Mabel.

####

Outside the flat hospital, it was a beautiful, peaceful morning. The air was clear, the unseen sun was shining brightly from some unknown dimension, and some 2D equivalent to a bird was chirping in some 2D equivalent to a tree.

And then the hospital doors crashed open with such force that passing shapes momentarily suspected that someone had set off a bomb.

"—don't give me that look, if you'd hustled your hypotenuse and had your birthday yesterday, we wouldn't be in such a rush! You're just lucky you came out so cute, or—" An exhausted, dull pinkish triangle charged out the doors with a very tiny, squishy yellow triangle in her trembling arm. She turned to shout behind her—"Hurry up! There's only two hours until the Best Baby Pageant and he is not going to miss it!"

—and was followed closely by a horrified blue triangle carrying a hat in one hand and a cane in the other. "But Scalene, the doctors still have to do those tests to check for—"

"They can test him later! If he's got some horrible birth defect, he'll still have it after he's won a trophy!" Without slowing, Scalene turned and held the baby out toward the other triangle. The squishy new shape gawked at him in mild befuddlement. "Look at this kid, Euclid! Most newborn brats look like cranky raisins, but he's less than an hour old and he's already bright-eyed and smooth-sided! He was born with the face of a pageant winner—"

Not looking where she was going, she ran into a tree. The bird flew off in a panic, Scalene lost her balance, and she nearly dropped the baby. Euclid caught him, caught her, and held her steady while she leaned dizzily against the tree. "Lene. You should be on bedrest right now. Maybe we should just, you know, take a moment to process..."

"Process what! We have our little angle. Am I supposed to sit in a hospital bed staring at the afterbirth?!"

While Euclid stared at her in shock, she snatched the child back, pushed him away, and wobbled back upright. "What kind of a lazy mother would I be if I was sleeping instead of making my child a winner! You want him to start off life on the right foot, don't you?"

Defeated, Euclid said, "All right. I'll take care of the... the paperwork. At least bring your cane."

"I don't need it. I'm fine."

"Fine?! You just..." He gestured at her, gestured at the brand-spanking-new baby, gestured at her again, then flung his hands up in defeat. "If you drop our baby, I'm divorcing you."

She sighed huffily. "You're so dramatic." But she snatched the cane out of his hand anyway and stormed away, declaring loudly enough that shapes on the other side of the street turned to stare: "If the mayor doesn't declare my Billy the greatest baby in the whole godforsaken world, I'm grabbing the biggest trophy in the room and bashing his eye in!"

####

Bill shrugged at Mabel. "Sure," he said. "Something like that."

####

Gompers stared down at the bowl set on the floor in front of him.

It contained black beans, broccoli, coffee grounds, fiber-enriched whole-grain cereal, oatmeal, and an avocado and half a sweet potato mashed together into an orange-green mush, all stewing in a prune juice soup.

Gompers looked up.

Dipper and Ford were crouched across from him, watching expectantly. 

Gompers bleated balefully at them.

"Go on!" Ford nudged the bowl closer. "It's good for you."

Gompers knew a lie when he heard one. He turned his nose up at the mix.

"I don't get it," Dipper said. "He eats everything. What's wrong with this stuff?"

"I haven't a clue."

"Maybe it's the broccoli?" 

Ford gave him a quizzical look. "Why broccoli?"

Dipper shrugged. "I don't like broccoli, I don't know why he would."

"Hmm." Mystified, Ford propped his chin in his hand and stared into Gompers's eyes. Gompers stared back. Gompers stared into his soul. Gompers didn't blink.

Ford was dragged from this session of nonconsensual soul-searching by the sound of footsteps and Mabel's voice drifting down the stairs: "Listen, you know I love your sense of fashion! All I'm saying is everyone loves kittens, but snakes? That's a pretty niche fashion market! You're not gonna get a lot of takers."

"No, hey, hear me out," Bill said. "I listened to your professional matchmaker advice, now you've got to listen to my professional heartbreaker advice. You'll thank me for this one day! This is my number one romance tip: if you wanna impress a date, strap cobras to your arms and call yourself 'Johnny Cobra-Arms.' It works every time. Guaranteed."

(Dipper snorted.)

"Whaaat? No way," Mabel said. "Seriously, what?"

"It's true! I workshopped this! I've experimented across parallel timelines! It works."

"Quit messing with me, Bill."

"You think I would ever mislead you? No. Picture this." As the pair turned the corner on the stairs, Bill was spreading his hands in front of himself as though gesturing to the scene he wanted Mabel to imagine. "You see a guy, maybe a year older than you, kinda cute but nothing to write home about, maybe a 6/10. Got him in your mind's eye?"

A look of intense concentration crossed Mabel's face as she engaged her Imagination. "Yeah?"

"Okay, now imagine he—" Bill reached the bottom of the stairs and looked around. "Where are my shoes." He raised his voice, "Who moved my fisshoes! I left them right— oh, there they are." He disappeared into the living room. "Imagine your 6/10 has two big snakes wrapped around his arms. And he catches your eye from across the club, comes up to you, and says..." Bill's voice dropped to a pitch that was nearly in the range of an average adult human male, "'Hey. Name's Johnny Cobra-Arms. What's yours?'"

Mabel thought about it. Her eyes slowly widened in amazement. "Oh my god, it would totally work on me."

Bill re-emerged into the entryway, fish shoes donned. "See?" 

"It made him hot! What the heck, how did that happen!"

"See?! It works every time!" He shouted toward the kitchen, "Hey, we're leaving for Alpaca's! I'm taking the car!"

"No you're not," Ford said.

Bill spread his hands in a shrug. "Worth a shot!" He grabbed his umbrella and the magic friendship bracelets from the coat rack and waited for Mabel to open the door. "See, it's the best possible first impression. It shows he's got a sense of humor, he's quirky, he's a little bit dangerous, he's got a great sense of fashion, he's a world traveler, he's good with animals..." The door swung shut behind them. 

The way Bill had shrugged stuck in Ford's mind. 

In his true form, Bill didn't have shoulders. His arms extended out of his sides like the trunks of saplings extending from the surface of flood waters, and they glided around his perimeter in a way that defied conventional physical biology. No joints. 

When he shrugged in his human body, sometimes he'd bob his shoulders up and down in a deliberate mimicry of how humans performed the gesture; and lately, as Bill got used to moving his new body, Ford had seen him sluggishly raise a shoulder when he was too exhausted to gesture more expressively. But most of the time, he shrugged like he still didn't have shoulders. He'd spread his arms, bend his elbows, usually forming a W shape but sometimes when he was particularly emphatic forming a shape like football goalposts, and if he really wanted to make his meaning clear he'd twitch his upturned palms up the way a human would twitch their shoulders.

He did it all the time. He'd done it just now. The gesture was so natural on Bill that Ford had never realized how unnaturalit was on a human—until he'd seen Mabel make the exact same gesture earlier.

She was copying Bill's body language. He wondered if she knew.

He'd have to keep an eye on that.

"Hope Agent Powers is into snakes," Dipper muttered.

Ford laughed—then wondered whether someone pulling the Johnny Cobra-Arms trick would've worked on him. If by now nothing had made him take an interest in a basic, garden-variety human being, he doubted anything could... but, admittedly, he'd at least consider hanging out with Johnny. He sounded like an intriguing character. "If that's the worst thing Bill subjects him to, he'll be getting off light."

With a twinge of guilt, Ford realized just how true that was. Ford was no stranger to having to turn down the volume on his conscience for the greater good—and there were few greater goods than protecting his family—but...

He might not know Powers, but he did know that, whether Bill succeeded in seducing him or not, the man didn't deserve what he was about to be subjected to.

####

(Now that this chapter's finally out, may there be no further delays for a good long while, ugh.

Here's your "what was changed in the wake of TBOB" update: obviously, since we got five whole pages on Bill's beliefs about romance, a lot of that got incorporated into this chapter—the first and last scenes were basically written entirely in response to TBOB.

The scene with Scalene & Euclid, obviously, got their names & descriptions from TBOB & TINAWDC (and yeah, yeah, i'm eventually gonna go back to earlier chapters and edit out Bill's mom being a line so it matches up with canon), and it's obvious what the "best baby pageant" is a reference to (so you can guess whether Bill won)—but Bill being a pageant kid due to his mom was already part of the plans long before TBOB, so I just stuck a couple canon details into the story I was already writing. We were already gonna get into Bill's childhood this chapter & next (as you'll see next week).

Beyond that, most of the chapter was already in its present form before TBOB—up to & including Bill having a list of topics he thinks are acceptable for dates that no rational human would agree with—and all TBOB added was a couple tiny details (like... "mandibles".)

The fact that the list of things that were influenced by TBOB is so much longer than usual is part of the reason this chapter's two whole weeks late lmao.

Anyway, hope y'all enjoyed, happy new year, and I'm looking forward to (finally) hearing your thoughts on the first fresh chapter of 2025!

[bloodblanks]

one umbrella cover two [mr. scarletella x reader] — prologue.

You think playing dead will save you. It does. The killer dumps your—still alive—body in an abandoned apartment complex. You’re fortunate to survive, but that’s the extent of your luck, seeing how you’re now trapped in another world. A world inhabited by monsters whose language you don’t speak and a myriad of secrets waiting to be unravelled as your humanity crumbles away.

note: reader is not player (mc).

author’s note: dead dove: do not eat. this fanfiction will contain dark and explicit content, including heavy dub-con, stockholm syndrome, violence, and similar themes.

please read at your own discretion.

Just where is the line between human and monster drawn?

One look at the ashen skin on your hand was enough to show that you weren’t human. A quick glance at your left forearm would dispel any lingering doubts. The crooked bone and mangled flesh—resembling the pulp of a crushed fruit—where the crowbar had struck you mere moments ago was already beginning to repair itself.

The wielder of the crowbar stood just over a metre away from you, her weapon raised, a glistening crimson hue smeared across its metal surface. You wondered just how much of her was human. Her hands appeared to possess a muted tint of plum, but with the blood caked over the vast majority of her fingers, you couldn’t be certain. While the raincoat’s hood obscured her face, you were still able to make out her features, which appeared humanlike. Her irises, however, were a bright, glaring scarlet, just wide enough to contain the darkness seeping from her dilated pupils.

People often said eyes were the window to the soul. If that was true, then what stood before you was nothing short of a monster; her eyes glazed over with madness.

You supposed you couldn’t judge, not with your arm having entirely regenerated within the brief timeframe of your musings, a feat only possible for otherworldly beings. You flexed your wrist—it was good as new.

You raised both hands, holding them in front of your face. You never had much knowledge of physical combat; not in either of your lives. The chances of you being able to incapacitate her with your sorely lacking combat skills would already be low, even had this just been a fistfight, which it wasn’t.

An explosive pain shot through your freshly repaired arm as you used it to block her attack, though it lasted barely over a second before fading into an aching numbness. The grotesque cracking sound of your radius shattering echoed through the desolate chamber. Unlike the first time, she swung at you again, her movements precise with a practiced ease. Your right hand imploded next, though you couldn’t be sure which specific bones had broken in it. Not that it mattered—her next strike was aimed at your head.

Your skull’s ability to mend after being smashed into fragments was unclear to you. While you were enough of a monster to potentially survive such an injury, even inhuman bodies had their limits.

But as you squeezed your eyes shut, bracing yourself for the oncoming impact, you found yourself unable to stop the man clad in red from flashing in the forefront of your mind, a brilliant sanguine blossoming over your vision like a myriad of equinox flowers.

Dying for the person you love is a rather human thing to do. 

next chapter ->

[hana-no-seiiki]

WHAT’S UP DANGER?

— [ CH 01 ] WITH GREAT ABILITY COMES GREAT ACCOUNTABILITY

pairings: yandere! various (batfam, spiderverse) x miles morales! reader

tw/cw: no yandere themes for this chapter, characters get aged up later on but are teens to young adults now, reader is gender neutral but characters refer to them with masculine terms (hijo, man, dude), spoilers for spiderverse movies. but ofc since this is a crossover it won’t be completely the same.

status: unedited

[masterlist] [next]

REPLY TO BE ADDED TO THE TAGLIST

“Mama, stop you’re covering me with your saliva—!” You groaned as you made a half-assed attempt at pushing your mother away.

It was the first day of your attendance at Gotham Visions and you weren’t the least bit nervous. Not at all. Totally. It wasn’t as if you were just thrusted into this situation with no choice whatsoever in addition to the pressure of your family’s wholeass livelihood on your shoulder. No. You were completely cool with this situation. In fact, you were so cool that you’re almost late to your first day of classes.

“But you look so adorable, mi hijo!” Your mother rubbed her face all over yours, messing up whatever you decided to put on.

“Papa what are you doing? Arrest this woman at once, for gross misconduct or whatever—“

“You do look adorable, and if I do I’d have to be fair and arrest you for vandalism.”

You freeze at your father’s not so subtle call out, before swiftly slithering away from your mother’s bear-like grip.

“Augh! I’m going to be late! Hasta luego!”

It was August. The start of a new school year for you. A new life away from your family and friends.

Gotham Visions University. A campus filled with elitists; fancy rich people. The cream of the crop. Your future school. Being a scholar there would have been fine, amazing even! If it wasn’t something you won through a lottery. You felt like a thief, an imposter. Going to a school for prodigies and rich kids as an average old joe is one thing, going to a school for prodigies and rich kid as a poor lottery student is another.

“[Y/N]! How you doing man? Lookin fancy. The uniform so fits ya.” A kid hangs his arm around you. If you were being completely honest you weren’t sure about his name, but you hung out often for basketball and other activities around the neighborhood. With the amount of people that knew you around the community, it was difficult keeping all those faces in your head so you often covered it up with nicknames.

“Psh. See ya next friday for shawarma?” You winked, cringing a little inside for your actions.

But to your utter surprise, the kid in turn blushes before giving you a massive grin. “You bet. My treat!”

And just a few seconds afterwards, he hits you at the back of the head before leaving, “Hey! Ow.”

“[Y/N]! Good luck on school dude! We’ll miss ya! Don’t be a stranger okay? We’re still friends even if he isn’t here.” He waves you goodbye before returning to your mutual posse of friends.

You wave back at them, your expression slowly turning into a solemn one. “I’ll miss ya guys too.”

Grabbing your trusty wireless headphones, you make your way down the block. Sticking random name-tags you drew this morning to distract yourself from the overflowing anxiety in your system.

Unfortunately, it never is a good idea to be so distracted when walking by yourself.

“Contra!” You hissed as your body hit the pavement. No doubt ruining your uniform that your mother painstakingly agonized over getting perfect and neat for your first day.

Then, the sound of a police siren entered your ears.

Can your day get any worse?

“What did I tell you about not looking both sides twice before crossing the streets?”

Your father’s sermon began.

This . . . was going to be a long ride.

“That I shouldn’t do it.” You replied, completely uninterested in the conversation and looking out from the window.

“You’re lucky it was me y’know! What if some deranged man decided to run you over?”

Your faced smooshed on your hand as your elbow rested on the window sill. “I’d send my cop of a father after them then.”

“Don’t act cute with me [Y/N].”

“But it works oh, so, well.”

Your father sighed, “It does.”

“But with great ability comes great accountability!

“Yeah yeah, that isn’t how the saying goes! . . . It was my bad it won’t happen ag…” Right as you were about to tune out of the interaction with your father once more you notice a bunch of people looking towards your direction.

People you knew.

And now they were taking pictures.

“Wow, aren’t you the popular kid?”

“Mier — Can’t you run the red light or shout at them or something? My poor privacy is being invaded!” You desperately tried to hide yourself with your hands but to no avail. The sounds of clicking only grow louder, and your father’s pace on the car slower.

“Yeah yeah~ not this cop.”

“Papa!”

Suddenly, the attention is ripped off of you as a loud crashing noise resounds from above. “Woah.”

Your dad flicked his tongue in annoyance as he checked the damages. “Those vigilantes! Red Hood is one thing, but that Spider-man partner of his. I swear. He just swings by without a care in the world. I just got this repaired last week!”

“I think he saved you from having to get yourself fixed as well. You know, in a hospital. The place with all the bills that just tears holes into your wallet.” You checked the situation outside, confirming the lack of interest in your situation as people crowded spider-man’s fight. “And myself from a mob too. That man’s a whole multitasker and a half.”

“If you ever get a sibling, remind me not to teach them cheek.”

“That if depends on you, yknow.” You gave your dad the smuggest grin you can muster.

Hey, if he’s going to make you face hell for the next few years you might as well give him a portion of it while you had the time.

The car halts, signaling your arrival at the aforementioned hell. “Study well. Our future depends on you, [Y/N]. Love ya.”

“I know.” You groaned, struggling a little to pull your baggage outside of the vehicle and leaving as soon as you got it secured within your grasp.

You are only able to take a few steps when your dad interrupts with the police car’s loudspeaker.

“Where’s my ‘I love you too, papa’ huh?”

“Papa! Seriously?” You screeched, unimaginably embarrassed beyond belief.

“I love you.”

“Right in front of my future peers?”

“I loovveee youuu.”

“On the first day of class?!”

“Mwah mwah—“

“I LOVE YOU TOO!” You relented. Making a sharp turn from facing the originator of your future bully’s material, towards the entrance of Gotham Visions.

Once you get in you make an attempt to greet the people there, but is cut off by their mocking voices referring and imitating the situation earlier.

The embarrassment fills you up once more and you fail to notice your path intersecting with another.

Directly bumping into people seriously knocks the wind out of a dude. That’s probably why those people in those ‘mangas’ he always made you read fell in love at first sight. They were just so light-headed that they couldn’t think clearly.

“P-pretty girl—“

“It’s nice to meet you too.” said pretty girl as she steadied your form. Noticeably less affected by the impact “You’re quite the looker yourself.”

“Ack, sorry! I just get nervous around- yeah.”

She giggled. Oh lord, even her laugh was pretty. “Lovely papa you got there.”

“Augh, you don’t have to remind me.” You pinched the bridge of your nose, slowly regaining your balance.

The bell rings. The real hell has officially begun.

Once pretty girl made sure you were alright, she began running off.

Wow, even the way she ran was pretty.

“W-w-wait, what’s your name?”

“Gwen!”

You sighed as left you behind in the crowd of students.

This wasn’t so bad, you thought. You made one acquaintance at the very least. Maybe your new life at this school would be better.

Your new life at Gotham Visions was, in fact, not getting better.

You were fumbling through the motions like a newborn thrown to the wolves. If you hadn’t built a relatively tight knit friendship with Gwen you were sure you would have ran away by now.

Everyone always ignored you when you greeted them. Your dormmate didn’t even see you as someone worthy to interact with and would often stay awake at ungodly hours doing whatever the hell he was doing on his laptop while you suffered from his ‘background music.’ Your parents only ever talked to you about academics when it was the last thing you wanted on your mind at weekends. You were always, always late to class.

You were practically falling apart at the seams.

You just . . . wanted everything to end. But you couldn’t bring yourself to defy your parents and so you brought it up to your studies. Purposely failing exams so you’d be kicked out soon enough.

“A zero. How terrible. A few more of those and you’ll have to kick me out huh?” You looked at your Physics teacher with a loosely smug look on your face. You hated Physics, the sciences and mathematics the most out of all subjects. Everything second you spent learning about it could have been spent drawing or doing something you actually adored.

You shrugged, “Maybe I’m just not right for this school.”

“If a person wearing a blindfold picked the answers on a multiple choice exam at random do you know what score they would get?”

“. . . Around 25%?”

“That’s right!” She flicked her pen towards you face before pressing the butt end of it to your paper.

“The only way they would get all the answers wrong . . . “ She then twirls around, marking your grade from 0 to 100 by placing the respective numbers to each side. “Is to know which answers are right.

“You’re trying to quit, and I’m not going to let you.” The smug look only your face slowly dissipates and transfers to her own visage. “Now I know you’ll probably try to worm yourself out of this which is why I’m calling in back-up.”

“Wayne.” The woman moved her gaze to your classmate. A strained smile on her lips as she stared him down.

You didn’t know the billionaire’s son that well, or any of your peers but Gwen for that matter. Just that he was as stuck up as his gelled up hair. Always sneering at you whenever you had to sit beside him with those uncannily pretty green eyes of his. You thought that it may have been your smell or something. Maybe he could tell how poor you are in comparison by your scent. But judging by the fact that he was just as much of a loner as you were if not more, you’re beginning to think otherwise.

“I’m assigning you two an essay, not on physics but on yourselves. What kind of person you want to be. I know you two are quite different in terms of personality and backgrounds, but I have a feeling it’ll all work out.” She walked behind the two of you, roughly placing her hands on both of your shoulders before squeezing you closer together. “And no, Damian. I’ll know if you decide to finish it all yourself. Don’t test me.”

“You two are dismissed!”

Damian takes one look at you and you can tell he’s listed a thousand things he disliked about you already. He re-secured his backpack prior to giving you one, heftily stern warning. “Listen, we’re going to meet at my house this weekend. 6pm. Don’t be late.”

“Sure! Where’s your . . .” and before you could even complete your question, he was gone. Just like that. “. . .house. . .”

You grabbed your own belongings with a moan; betting that the trust fund kid’s own probably costed a hundred if not a thousand more times than yours.

You swiftly go to your room. Mind completely empty and disassociated before an idea crosses your head.

You dial in the numbers on your phone before you could even think properly.

“Hey, Unc. Mind if I come over?”

No matter where you went. The route to your Uncle Aaron’s house was always in the back of your head. He was your true home. The only man who understood you — who made the effort to understand you.

You spot him on his couch, looking as cool and swag as ever with his legs spread a little bit apart. He laughed as you smooshed your face to his window before opening it and letting you tumble into his abode.

You lazily dropped the bag you brought filled with spray paint.

He patted your head and massaged your scalp, the stress you felt already noticed and acknowledged. “Sup little dude. You lookin’ down. Is this about . . .”

“What? No. I’ve already moved on—“You shook your head. In all honesty, the only good part about Gotham Visions was that it kept you distracted from grief. But before you could continue you spot a familiar image settled in a frame. Emotions started crashing down upon you like a tidal wave. “You . . . kept the picture.”

Aaron rubbed his thumb across your cheek as your eyes began watering, “You know I can bring you over to visit him. It’s pretty close by y’know.”

“I- I think I’m good. I came here to just chill out, y’know?”

“Let’s go, I know a spot we can let some of that pent up art juice out.”

A smile. A real one. Not one you forced on yourself whenever you met with your classmates, Gwen or your parents started to make a reprise on your face. You almost don’t remember the last time you did it because of your emotions and not due of the façade of being okay.

“See ya.”

You take one last look at the photo before rushing out with your uncle.

“Mig.”

PLEASE MAKE SURE THAT YOU CAN BE TAGGED BEFORE REQUESTING TO BE ADDED.

taglist: @yell0wdreams @humanoid606 @holybatflapexpert @girlcrafter408 @imbiafandbored @pinkandpurplejellyfish @miwsolovely @manduse @gamersansblog @kiyomisan @vanessa-boo @w31rdg1rl @hakudaru @sleepy-maenad @violet2507 @whoseaweeb @crystalsbirds @rosa11215 @literalawkwardsimp @guy-who-loves-writing-shit @ghestie93 @bussinbussiz @animelover745-blog @phoenixgurl030 @speckle-meow-meow @mysteriouslyfantasticthief @beta-is-sleeping @steadyengineergiver @day-dreams-posts @carollise @mothintheskies @paranoiac-666 @sanisba42 @ghestie93 @meilinswishingwell @7074lly @wtvbabes @wild-mushroom-soup @yourcutelittlegayfriend @demonofchaos27 @altusha @proffesorbunny @paimon105 @mymoonmeow @kidarachnid982 @mitskistannn @manwagirl @snowwy-night @androgynouscollectortimetraveler @moonchild-cupcake @duskismoo @lanecass @villainfan @the1an0n1y @bitchotine @fuck-the-reaper @siphite @mel-star636 @sleeplessapples @trickysnack19 @thatone-gayweeb @deliriousposts @serenitysmind @swagbucksjester @starwritesyanderes @gyaruismind @gaozorous-rex-blog

[mydearestbeloved]

Chapter 23 [Draft]

Sung Jinwoo/Trial Player!Reader

CW:

Inspired by @circeyoru ‘s “Future Power Couple”

[Masterlist🦋✨️]

“What’s with this traffic jam? It’s really backed up.” Jinwoo asked, his voice breaking the lull as he drummed his fingers lightly on the steering wheel. As the car inched forward at an agonizingly slow pace, he muttered something about taking the subway, eyes scanning the congested road ahead, a faint crease of irritation forming on his brow.

You glanced up from your musings, your elbow propped on the car door, chin resting in your palm. Your eyes were fixed on the distance, far past the endless rows of brake lights ahead—almost indifferent, as if the raving engines and honking vehicles just outside were nothing more than background noise.

“Maybe a gate popped up in the middle of the road?”

Jinwoo turned his head to you, giving you an incredulous look. His sharp stare lingered until you caught it out of the corner of your eye, remaining unfazed. “What?”

Before Jinwoo could respond, his phone buzzed to life, the name on the screen flashed: Chairman Go Gun-hee.. He answered, listened intently to the voice on the other end, and replied as necessary. The situation was, in fact, just as you had guessed—a gate had indeed materialized, right in the middle of the highway too, hence the massive traffic disruption.

After the call ended, Jinwoo turned back to you with a similar expression as before. The hint of amused resignation was new though.

“What?” you repeated, your voice carrying that deliberately lackluster touch of feigning innocence.

This time, instead of being interrupted in a timely-good manner, his silence was broken by a soft chuckle as he leaned back in his seat, his posture relaxed, as did the uptilt of his lips, despite the urgency of the situation.

After a beat, that easy smile was directed towards you. “You gonna come with?”

You tilted your head slightly, mimicking his casual demeanor but with an air of mockery that was all your own. “Depends. Let’s see what the system has to say.”

“So, not a no?” Jinwoo’s tone took a turn as he leaned closer, leaving no other way for you but to meet his eyes, his grin just as daring.

Perhaps reflex played a role when you raised your hand and planted it against his face before he could get too close, gently pushing him back with just enough pressure to send a clear message: Don’t push your luck. Jinwoo showed little resistance, the twinkle of mirth in the backdrop of grey peeking between your fingers unmistakable.

You dismissed how you could distinctly feel his mouth move as he played along with your antics. How the soft brushes of lips felt on the border of your palm and wrist, teetering so close to where one could feel vital signs through the skin.

“Shut up,” you grinned back, and the following vibrations on your hand, mimicking the act of chuckling, told you more than enough.

It was good to know that he was now comfortable enough around you to be like this.

“I’ll do a quick detour for our emergency preparation,” you added, finally pulling your hand back and breaking eye contact. Your gaze shifted out the window as if searching for something unseen. “I have a feeling it’s going to rain.”

Jinwoo raised a brow, stealing a glance at the sky through the windshield. The sun shone unobstructed, the horizon was clear, with no sign of rain clouds in sight. Still, he’d learned by now that your ‘feelings’ were rarely wrong.

Cryptic words and double meanings, he just had to figure them out—figure you out.

The game both of you had been playing since the very start.

How thrilling.

Jinwoo hummed, opting for another question, though it was one he already had a pretty good guess on the answer. His smile never left. “How many backups have you planned, really?”

“A lot.” —a simplistic answer that was just so you, flashing him a sweet smile of your own.

With that, your form began to shimmer, your edges dissolving into myriads of lights, the chimes of your butterflies filling the air.

Through the mirror of his iris, the beautiful fragments swirled. Jinwoo closed his eyes briefly as the luminous insects flitted past his face, bringing forth passing warmth against the skin.

“You go on ahead,”

When he opened them again, only a single butterfly remained where you once sat, its iridescent wings fluttering softly. It went to perch on his instinctively half-outstretched hand, and Jinwoo brought it closer, feeling the faint, ticklish brush of its wings on his lips.

I’ll find my way to you.

The butterfly dissolved into nothingness, yet he knew it was keeping him company, always, despite its lack of visibility.

He was not alone, not anymore.

Jinwoo leaned back in his seat, raking a hand through his hair as the corner of his mouth curved into a grin, lingering all the way as he made his way to the gate’s location.

If he had truly looked at himself in the rearview mirror at this moment, would the faint color of his cheeks and the creeping warmth had only been the effect of the rosy-hued sky and the golden glow of the setting sun?

Jinwoo muttered under his breath, though there was no mistaking the fondness in his every little action then.

“What a difficult woman.”

---

Jinwoo stood amidst the wild greens of the foliage; the air as ominous as ever if not more. The oppressive heat and humidity were immediately followed by the torrential downpour. The thick jungle surrounding him, water cascading down the leaves and pooling into muddy streams, and the dense magical energy crackling in the air all pointed to one thing.

“You know…” Jinwoo said to no one, his tone as flat as it was dry, despite him literally soaked from head to toe. “However I see it, this feels like a red gate.”

“I told you so,” your voice rang out light, and Jinwoo looked up to see you hovering in the air, donning your usual raid ensemble, your form bathed in faint iridescent white glow. The rain parted around you and the butterflies flitted, refracting light in a way that made Jinwoo feel like he was witnessing a scene from one of those vibrant stained-glass windows.

Divine—that word again.

Soft chimes mixing harmoniously with the rhythm of harsh pitter-patter. Despite his enhanced physique, the falling rain still dug uncomfortably into his skin, under the layer of wet fabric. But even so, he couldn’t look away.

As for you, for a moment, you entertained the idea of looking after a wet cat.

With a subtle motion of your hand, Jinwoo suddenly found himself enveloped in the same translucent glow and phantom warmth. The raindrops now bounced and slid off him harmlessly, though the protective barrier couldn’t undo the soaked clothes below.

“You’re a little late, don’t you think?” Jinwoo quipped, though there was no bite to his words.

Yeah—a sopping wet, fussy black cat.

“You seem fine enough,” you quipped back, starting to make your descent. “I’ll help you dry off once we’re out—shit!”

The next second, the world seemed to blur as the storm surged louder in your eardrums—a brief flicker caught Jinwoo’s attention before his instincts kicked in.

Time seemed to slow after—closer than either of you expected, stealing the air from your lungs, senses overwhelmed by proximity’s warmth. Dimly, you felt familiar, sturdy arms supporting you, and the scent of damp earth mixed with something distinctly him.

Déjà vu—and the disconcert of living through a cliché.

Chaotic fluttering, the butterflies’ notes twisted into a cacophony of delight, increasing in volume alongside heavy rain and thunder. Yet, all seem to blend into the background of mingling breaths, inches apart.

None spoke, eyes locked with another in a moment that felt stretched too long and too short all at once. Light danced in between, shadows fleeting across each other’s features.

Somewhere, amidst the cold shower and warm softness in his hold, Jinwoo felt a strange awareness settle within each heartbeat.

And then, the moment broke. The chimes quieted, and everything faded into the storm’s veil once more.

---

[A hunter is born to hunt.]

“So,” Jinwoo started, attention flicking between you and the battle up ahead. “you can teleport from outside now?” Intrigue flashed in his eyes, though his tone retained its usual calmness.

“…”

“(Name)?”

“…Yeah,” you finally replied. Distracted was an understatement of the nearly two decades you’d been thrown into this world. “The recent ascension automatically leveled up some skills. My teleportation works the same as before, but now it’s more… precise.”

“Precise?” Jinwoo’s brow arched in question.

“Mm-hmm. Visualizing the destination is no longer enough; I need to know the place like the back of my hand.” Your eyes followed a purple butterfly fluttering past his shoulders. “Being manually taxing is a recurring drawback to my powers, so I’m not too surprised. The good thing that came out of this is that there are less restrictions. Dungeons are basically another world altogether, but now I can go in and out even after the gates closed, granted I still have memory of the place and that nothing unusual happened. Still researching on that.”

“Bless my children, since I still need an ‘anchor’ for the first travel.” The butterfly joined the fray. “Under normal circumstances, they can travel on their own. But for traversing between realms? In case they’re not strong enough to withstand the force, they need to attach to someone who can cross to the other side. Once inside, that child can send me the specific ‘data’ via telepathy—the area’s distinct wavelength, for example.”

You made a light sweeping motion with your hand. “And voilà.”

A hunter’s foe isn’t limited to monsters.

Jinwoo hummed thoughtfully, his gaze sweeping across the battlefield. He watched his soldiers press forward; their footwork precise even on the rain-slick, muddy ground. The flitting butterflies wove among them as usual, shimmering beacons boosting any soldier in close range and playing with their food the enemies. What was unusual was the flashes of forms far too humanlike to be his shadows.

Jinwoo narrowed his eyes, studying the contrasting figures. Their movements were seamless, as if rehearsed, covering each other’s blind spots. As chaotic as these fights could get, there was an unmistakable rhythm to them. A Danse Macabre brought to life.

“They can fight too?” Jinwoo asked, his voice tinged with slight awe.

Following his line of sight, you smiled faintly. “Yes. At first, it was the adults’ initiative. I’m fine with them as they are, but my darlings wanted to make the most of it now that they can maintain corporeal forms without the hassle of constantly using hallucinations.” You nodded toward the entities in question. “Their skills heavily depend on what I’m capable of myself, since they weren’t initially designed for direct combat, but…” You tilted your head toward the nearest skirmish. “What can I say? Adaptation is one of our mottos.”

[A hunter must take care not to become the hunted.]

Jinwoo followed your gesture and saw Igris, his long sword cleaving through enemies with practiced ease. Covering his back stood a familiar elegant figure, crimson strands in a braid and wielding dual rapiers. She was as pristinely suited as the first time she introduced herself. The tailcoat, patterned like her wings, followed her movements fluidly, making her seem like she was dancing.

Hup!

Light on her feet, she launched herself in the air and struck. The thrust precise and deep despite how delicately thin the blade looked, evident by the fountains of blood erupting from her staggering victims before Igris followed up with swift decapitations. With how calm she looked at times, her eyes were another level of intense, like an undying flame.

She landed with a bow and—did the raining blood just turn into showering petals?!

“You’ve already met Red,” you said casually, though Jinwoo detected a hint of pride. “My right hand.”

Gaze lingering on the pair, Jinwoo was unsure what was more baffling: the eerie theatrics or how seamlessly Red fought alongside Igris without a single word exchanged.

His attention shifted to another figure, starkly different in demeanor and a paler complexion.

On top of her head were triangular-shaped ears blending into straight snowy-white locks. The color contrasted sharply against the battlefield’s murky tones, as did her pale blue eyes. Seemingly a staple to your children who gained a more tangible form, the black and white attire she wore was adorned with fluffs from neck to boots.

The situation can always reverse,

“That’s Blanche.” You chuckled softly seeing the girl reflexively nuzzle into her thick scarf, only for droopy eyes to narrow, clearly displeased with the wetness clinging to her usual comfort. Even her long fluffy tail wasn’t spared, slumping dejectedly in response.

Peeking out from the tufts of her of sleeves were clawed hands of clear ice, at least twice a normal sized hand. That same hand tore straight through an adversary’s chest. As the beast dangled from her grip, she flicked them off with ease to swipe at another incoming attackers.

What was interesting to Jinwoo was how the minion sent flying looked stiff. Only when Tank caught them with his mouth did Jinwoo have his answer. The chilling crunch when the shadow munched on them, how pieces of the body cracked like glass and fell off with no sign of the usual dripping warm liquid, suggested that they were frozen solid. It was a frigid carnage.

“She’s dozing off.” Jinwoo noted dryly as Blanche retracted her claws and leaned onto the massive ice bear, sinking into his wispy black fur.

“Leave my baby alone. It’s nearing her hibernation hour anyway.” You cooed in the pair’s direction, seeing that Tank decided to not disturb Blanche’s nap and just sat there, munching away at the frozen enemies she left behind.

“And when exactly is that?”

“Almost all the time.”

Jinwoo didn’t know if he wanted to laugh or sigh at you.

“You’re spoiling her.”

“Blanche always got her job done before going to sleep, so I see no problem.” You trailed off.

[And it’s the mark of the first-rate hunter to avoid becoming complacent.]

Jinwoo chose not to comment further. He followed your wandering eyes toward a blonde figure next. Hair tied in ponytail, she wielded a massive shield with an ease that belied its size, using it to batter enemies in a manner that seemed more recreational than necessary.

“There are two of them now.” Jinwoo deadpanned.

True to his words, it was quite a sight.

Iron was, unsurprisingly, doing what Iron did best: slamming down the blunt end of his battle axe on what appeared to be an enemy, a pretty much dead one. The blonde woman, with eyes resembling the sun, mimicked his actions with her shield and an almost childlike glee. The two were taking turns in smashing the unfortunate foe until it was simply unrecognizable.

“That’s Sol,” you said, sweatdropping. “She’s, well, energetic.”

Jinwoo sighed, and honestly, you couldn’t blame him.

“I can see that.”

“…Sol’s a good child.” You continued with a wry smile. “Just a curious spirit most of the time.”

“Right. And she follows Iron around because…?”

“She finds him amusing.”

“That sounds even worse somehow.”

You could only offer a helpless shrug.

The next child Jinwoo noticed was perched comfortably on Tusk’s shoulder, nonchalantly swinging her legs and humming a tune. Turquoise eyes glowed against dark bronze canvas, various runes of the same bluish-green circling her, and a tome floated by her side. Her hair was a striking red, blue, and the occasional hints of white and purple, shifting hues with every movement like a living aurora. Her ears were long and the tips pointed, Jinwoo noted.

Whether you hunt tens, or even hundreds, of monsters,

“That’s Neonie.” you introduced. “Abilitiy-wise, think of her as a living magical artifact.”

Each motion of the her fingers brought forth circles of magic, materializing across the battlefield. Glittering mist flowed out, a blanket of cloud around the High Orc Shaman and magic unit below, amplifying spells’ firepower, restoring mana, and decreasing casting cooldowns in a near constant cycle. Some smaller magic circles stationed strategically around the fog-affected areas automatically shot projectiles to melee foes closing in on the mages.

Jinwoo was squinting at this point. Mist aside, the output of spells back-to-back were blinding enough.

“Can we adjust the brightness?”

“Sure! When you managed to control your first instinct to not glare at my sorceress every time you see her, we’ll talk.”

“Huh?”

“Oh please, I saw how your face scrunched up seconds ago. I already made Baruka’s remains a stat boost for your dagger, give the guy a break.”

You rolled your eyes, though the twitch on your lips betrayed you when he made a face again.

A strong gust of wind swept past, ruffling your hairs and prompting you and Jinwoo to glance upward. Kaisel soared overhead, his massive wings stretching over the rain-drenched jungle below, cutting through the winds. Trailing close behind was what seemed like a flurry of butterflies in a weird formation, a blur of royal blue.

You whistled and the cluster halted in its flight, only then did Jinwoo could get a proper look at the silhouette. The most attention-grabbing feature was the pair of wings, flapping in brief intermissions to keep the bearer afloat. They weren’t the delicate blue and black structures patterned on her uniform; instead, there were layers of translucent feathers, matching the end of her trench coat. She had rich blue eyes; dark brown strands framed her face in a bun.

[You must hunt ceaselessly.]

“Jinwoo, meet Gale.” The aforementioned bowed to Jinwoo. “The best flyer of my butterflies.”

“And also,” Jinwoo barely had time to process this before his sharp ears caught a distinct metallic clack from above. His gaze snapped back to Gale—was that a minigun?!

“Our aerial support—”

“Everyone duck!”

The assault began, the shots ripped through the ranks of enemies below. Jinwoo’s caught another detail then: like the briefest projection, the feathers spread wide dispersed light in a way that momentarily resembled the intricate patterns of a butterfly. They flared, and from the 'eyes', beams of light shot downward, incinerating adversaries that got caught in its line, leaving charred remnants in her wake.

As the dust began to settle, Jinwoo quickly noted that his soldiers and your children remained unharmed, courtesy of Tusk’s and Neonie’s protective barrier that had shielded the allied forces nearest to the blasts. Iron and Sol too, raised their shield to protect the others nearest to them.

“…and sniper—”

BOOM!

Yeah, no.

The resulting shockwave left Jinwoo’s hair slightly disheveled, and he noted with some amusement that yours wasn’t spared either.

That was a fucking missile.

Again, none of his shadows nor your butterflies had been harmed. Gale’s actions might seem reckless, but, as far-fetched as it sounded, the attacks were isolated in a way, suggesting some level of careful handling and not just reckless abandon.

“I…” You looked dumbfounded if anything, mouth parting a little bit, and Jinwoo found it cute. At least that reaction was enough of a confirmation for him: you didn’t, in fact, planned that, not to this degree at the very least. Jinwoo reckoned Gale took some liberties, and it was just good bad timing on your part. “…I’ll speak to Gale on toning it down.”

“Good call.” Jinwoo chuckled.

You cleared your throat, a strange look of avoidance passed through your expression. “Well, that’s all of them that are present anyway”.

Even when you said that, Jinwoo’s gaze drifted past you, landing on the peculiar silver-haired figure standing still under the rain. She seemed wholly engrossed in her own world, her face tilted upward to let the water trail over her features. Her expression painstakingly crafted to exude pensiveness, it was as if she were playing out a dramatic scene in some high-budget movie—you know, where a character’s thoughts were spoken aloud by outside voice? Minus the pile of corpses beneath her heels of course.

“What is she doing?” Jinwoo finally asked, his tone edged with skepticism, finding it very hard not to be openly judgmental this time. Your lips twitched, unsure whether to laugh away the embarrassment like a maniac or dig yourself a hole and simply die with it.

[As that unknown presence does too.]

The King has no plan to stop his hunt—"Ouch!”

The woman in question abruptly yelped in pain and doubled over. Her hands flying to the top of her head where an angry red bump had formed. Her face scrunched up into a teary expression as yellowish-orange orbs turned to the crimson-haired figure now looming over her.

“What in Mother’s name was that for, Sist-AH! Ow…” Trick’s indignant protest was cut short as another sharp smack landed squarely on her head, resulting comically in a bump on the previous bump. Red stared down at her younger sibling, arms crossed, twin rapiers momentarily sheathed by her hips.

“Stop monologuing.” Despite how flatly the delivery was, each word was emphasized with a progressively terrifying glare that could have frozen a lesser soul.

Poor Trick got the heebie-jeebies. The adult silver butterfly pouted and whined, still clutching her head as she pointed to the air where intricate golden-white screen glitched to life. “They started it!”

[ :D ]

The red butterfly could care less.

“Get. To. Work,” With one last warning look, Red turned her back without waiting for a response. She strode back toward Igris, who had paused mid-swing to glance in her direction. The shadow knight tilted his head slightly, a silent inquiry.

Red’s expression softened in an instant, throwing her rapier to stab the battered magical beast, formerly twitching hand about to grab the shadow knight’s leg while he was distracted, now laid as limp as it was dead. “I’m alright, Sir Igris. Thank you. Let’s continue,” Her tone gentle and respectful. Igris gave a small, almost imperceptible nod before they resumed their rhythm.

Meanwhile, you pressed your fingers to your temple, trying to stave off the impending migraine while watching Trick sulking nearby at the slightest possible prospect of the older butterfly ignoring her. She shot a glare toward the hovering interface.

“(ಥ﹏ಥ) …Traitor.”

[ ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ ]

“Just ignore her.” You sighed, already too tired to deal with this today.

As if to prove your point, Beru chose that exact moment to land near with a thud that sent a wave of muddy water splashing in all directions, including Trick’s, who let out a hiss like a bristling feline. The former ant king let out some clicking noises.

“What are you doing?”

“Nun-ya.”

“What?”

“Nun-ya business.”

“Yeah,” Jinwoo followed your lead and turned away at the sparks practically flying between the two summons. “Let’s. Ignore them.”

Unfortunately for the several totem-masked monsters who thought they could take advantage of the apparent distraction, lunging toward the insect pair, they unknowingly only hastened their doom. With a snap of Trick’s fingers, the attackers froze mid-charge, consumed by sheer terror as they clutched at invisible wounds. It was borderline terrifying how convinced they were that they had already been slashed to pieces, only for Beru to tear through them for real a fraction of a second later.

“Kekeke. First to 30 wins?” Beru’s multifaceted eyes had a competitive glint in them aside from the bloodlust.

Trick shot back with an eerily wide grin, showcasing inhumanely sharp canines hidden below her usual mischievous smile.

“Now we’re talking!”

Gunshot pierced through a few masked foes in groups. The twin guns disappeared from slender hands just as fast as they appeared at the start of a different moveset from the humming butterfly.

An up wave of her hands was followed by several foes cut vertically from the bottom—

“One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four.”

Up, down, cross, side, up…!

—and the rest was as follows.

Only after the motions slowed down did the rain and blood shine light to the glinting threads wrapped around Trick’s fingers into various directions, including the beasts that got shot at the start, limp bodies serving as effective anchors.

Trick turned around, hands now on her hips and sticking out her tongue, only to yelp when she saw a body thrown in her direction. Reflexively cutting it in half with her threads revealed the sight of Beru’s smug look not far off, already done with his fair share of enemies.

“Watch it, you—”

 “kEKEKEKEKE!”

“That girl sure knows how to hold a grudge.”

“The pot calling the kettle black. Beru also indulged her too much.”

You and Jinwoo locked eyes in a silent battle of wills for a few seconds before bursting into laughter.

As the laughter died down and the two forces tore into the enemy ranks, that strange feeling from the very first start of this battle settled in you again—the sense of being out of place. Should you feel weirded out that you could only bring yourself to comment on it now?

“Jinwoo.”

“Hmm?”

“Put me down,” you said bluntly, your tone carefully devoid of emotion as you tried to school your expression despite the steady warmth creeping up your neck. And your back. And the back of your thighs—whatever parts of your body that were touching Jinwoo’s right now!

“…”

“…Please?”

“No.”

This man! He purposely waited for you to do that only to reject you, didn’t he?

Jinwoo looked at you with a maddeningly fake smile of innocence, his tone leaving no room for debate. His arms around you didn’t loosen; if anything, they tightened when you started wriggling around, successfully securing you in place.

Sure, it was not the first time he had done this. At the end of your second trip to the demon castle, Jinwoo only let your feet touch the ground after the two of you arrived at the hospital, where you could just sit and rest safely as he tended to his mother. You admit that you were exhausted, very well out of your mind, and thus you were thankful to him—back then.

This is different!

“I can walk on my own—”

“Nope.”

…What a mean man.

From the moment your children had somehow hijacked your landing to now, Jinwoo had been carrying you in classic bridal style, as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

Oh, you could feel his muscles—and you almost leaned closer in an attempt to hide your growing fluster.

You don’t even know where to put your hands. Sure, you wrapped your arms around him, once, to steady yourself right after you fell into his arms—God, that sounds so cheesy. Right now, though, you were awkwardly fiddling with your fingers on your lap. This dilemma came to a much quicker end than the ongoing mental gymnastics in your mind when Jinwoo started walking, where you instinctively held onto his shoulder, simultaneously giving up on the matter of being carried like some damsel in distress until who knew when.

Even as the path ahead cleared—his shadow soldiers bowing deeply on either side and your butterflies fluttering like honor guards—Jinwoo showed no intention of putting you down. And you have to admit, there was undeniable comfort in the way he held you, grounding and unwavering just like his presence.

You almost forgot that you were inside a dungeon.

When did you start being this comfortable around Jinwoo?

Was it before meeting Norma Selner, the very first-time trust between you felt balanced in scale? Was it while on your first trip to the demon castle, when you brought yourself to hold his hand to calm him in what otherwise would be a precarious situation? Or was it further back?

How romantic!

Isn’t this basically ‘walking down the aisle’?

Mother—

You winced as the telepathic chatter from your children filled your mind, their voices buzzing with excitement and a variety of commentaries.

Love?

To a man who deserved everything and more? When you couldn’t even be sure of your place in this world, how could you do that to him? To the man who [̴]̷[̵]̶[̵]̶[̴]̴[̷]̵ you?

…?

Jinwoo [̸̦̄́̈́]̶̲̭͐̂̕[̸̭̄͘]̴̼͖̌͒̽[̵̲̝͂]̷̘͂͊͒[̵̙̦̬̒̈́̽]̸̥̈́͆[̶̙͊]̸̨͎͎̏ you.

???

[̴̨͚̥̤͖̣͍̱̥̥̃̽̂͂́̕]̷̞͋̀̍̆[̸̥̀̊̀]̴͍̑̇[̸̺̬̲͉̯̱̭̥̖͔͊̉̓]̸̧̡̛̳̰̬͉̰̗̮͙̄[̴̺̳̮͇͕̩̌̅͜]̴̢̥̭̮̩͉̜̼̽́͠[̶͚̓͂̃̿̇̃̀͝͝]̶̡̨̰̙͔͚̀͜ͅ—!

W-What is…my memories—

“-me)…(Name)!”

You jolted. For a few moments, the only thing you could see was grey.

“I knew it, you’re—”

“I’m fine, Jinwoo. And stop making that face.”

“What—”

“It doesn’t suit you.”

“Oi—”

Before he could let out another syllable, you circled your arms around him and buried your face on his shoulder. You were well-aware of how his muscles tensed then, how his breath hitched when yours warmed his neck, and how he shivered when you played with his hair at the base with your fingers. It was a sly move on your part, to distract him like this.

How far can I go? What a dangerous thought.

It was impossible not to notice the signs, how confusing they all were.

It might have been a stretch to assume, might even be delusional, but unless it was normal behavior of this time and age to kiss the back of another’s hand—other than family’s—you doubted you read the situation too far in that case. The gesture might be normal occurrences for affectionate people, and you wouldn’t claim to know how Jinwoo would be if he had someone who truly accompanied him on his journey, step by step. What you did know was that Jinwoo showed that he cared, less with words, more through actions.

So, what did his actions so far told you?

For a lone wolf such as he, Jinwoo had been quite... tactile. You doubted he would be to just anyone.

Comfort, maybe?

Which led to the next question: you no longer fit in the category of ‘just anyone’ to him, weren’t you? After all, it was one of the many possibilities you had entertained, especially when he didn’t leave you much of a choice but to stay close.

Trust?

“…” You pursed your lips.

Or something else?

Y̸̦̖͓͛o̵͕̦͎͆̃ụ̶͎̗̒̈́ ̴̻̩̳̏ d̶̩̉i̸͓̭͒̕d̴͙͑̍ň̶̝͍͠'̶̧̙̍t̴̹̓ ̸͓͍̎̎ŕ̴̲̩͕̅͋e̴͔̾m̷̦̞͗e̴̢̥̗͑̔m̵͖̳̄b̴͈͎͋̌e̵̡͔̜̍̅̈́r̶̨̳̜̂̉͑ ̶̘̒͘i̶̡̖͘̚f̴̺̳̎̀ ̶͍͍͔̐̏́ý̵͍̳͐͝ò̸̦͇͑̀u̷̧͌ e̶̜͓͗̕v̵̬͈̱̀̃̌ḛ̸̛͋͘r̴̺̀̋ ̷̛͙͕̻̑͆h̶͇̻͛̕å̸͙͖̭͒d̵͕̮̃ ̴̰̒̍a̷̻̘͌̂ ̸̹̔͑͜ͅl̴͙̈́ô̶̹̣̼v̴̘̪̄̂e̵̡̓͘͝ṟ̴̽́̏ ̴̺̌̑̐b̵̫͕̦̄̇e̴͔̅̀͐f̶̰̍o̷̩̐͝r̷̘̥̒̔e̶͚̦͒.̸̪̝̉͊͝

You were a fan of Jinwoo, yes, just one of the many, and a hopeless romantic to boot, considering the amount of romance genres you consumed in your free time up till now. It was a good thing if he actually found some comfort in you, God knew this man deserved more, so you didn’t really mind the hand-holding, hugging, and overall proximity. If you were being honest, every time he sought you out, it never failed to make you feel giddy—too giddy.

It was hard to turn a blind eye to the changes.

How could you describe this? Feverish, fuzzy, and your stomach did the thing? It felt too textbook copy-paste—everything was—which was fitting, considering your situation. But, simply ‘feeling’ it was not enough. What an excuse that was, when there was not yet definitive evidence to support your claims. Would you stoop that low?

In any case, you were threading onto treacherous grounds.

But—

You tightened your hold on Jinwoo, hiding yourself from the world.

System, can I afford to indulge myself?

[ … ]

“Enjoying yourself?” Jinwoo asked, and while you couldn’t see it, you just knew that he had to be smirking.

Look who’s talking. That question could apply to him too.

You mumbled something incoherent into his shoulder, and Jinwoo tilted his head, his smile widening. “What was that?”

You didn’t feel like gracing him with the answer he wanted this time. Instead, you nuzzled further into him, your head bumping against his chin from below, and your lips inches away from his Adam’s apple.

Just as you predicted again, Jinwoo shut his mouth pretty quick.

Revenge sure tasted sweet, but you decided that you would spare him some mercy. After all, you were still thankful for the distraction he provided, knowingly or not.

A small smile bloomed against his shoulder.

For all your children’s teasing, a small part of you couldn’t help but agree: this moment, despite every absurdity that surrounded it, was undeniably romantic.

Just this once.

Behind the curtain of the rainy dungeon, you just hoped this wouldn’t become a habit.

End Note:

Unfinished Draft of [30/11/2024] -

Dear [Trial Player]'s Readers,

Happy New Year! 🎉

First, I’d like to apologize for not posting this chapter on New Year's Eve as planned. Time was tighter than I expected, and honestly, this chapter could have been better. My apologies for that. If you have any questions, feedbacks, & comments, feel free to send them here or send in an ask—I may be slow, but I’ll do my best to respond as soon as I can! ❤️

With this chapter, we’ve officially reached the end of Season 1 of the Manhwa. Huzzah! 🎊

This chapter is a whirlwind, I admit. There’s a lot happening, such as: new revelations, developments, and information; foreshadowing and scattered implications; and official introductions to several new characters—the mysterious [???], also known as the [Children of 'Trial Player']! I have used these twenty-ish chapters so far to 'set up the stage', all will be revealed in the events of Season 2 of the Manhwa, so stay tuned! 🦋✨️

I’ll be returning to college for exams starting on January 6th, which will keep me busy for about three weeks. As such, there won’t be any major updates to this story until late January or early February. In the meantime, I’ll try to answer the asks you all have already sent to my inbox. Thank you so much for your patience and for showing interest in this work—I truly appreciate it. I apologize for the late responds in advance. 🙏

Thank you for all your support so far, everyone! 💖

[achilles-rage]

Good Luck Charm: Chapter 1

college football player!buck x plus size!eader

summary: you're having a bad day and you run into an attractive guy in the hallway on your way to class. your frustration gets the better of you and you snap at him, but he’s intrigued by your attitude, and goes out of his way to keep talking to you.

word count: 2.6k

series masterlist

A/N: i'm so excited to release the first chapter of my new multi part fic! i definitely started in the middle of this fic and then worked my way back, so this isn't my fav chapter, but if you wanna see them freak nasty in future chapters keep reading!1! i also tried to make the reader race inclusive, but please let me know if there's anything i did wrong so i can correct it!

warnings: both characters are a little mean to each other (oops), slight enemies to lovers??, a touch of slowburn??, no use of y/n, fem!reader, race inclusive!reader

You huff as you walk into the arts building on campus, tripping as your foot hits the doorframe. It’s not enough for you to fall, but it’s enough to piss you off ever more than you already are.

You’re running late, and it seems like everything is going wrong today. First, your alarm hadn’t gone off, meaning you basically had to run to campus for your 9am lecture. You walked in late, which wasn’t really a big deal, the professor paid you no mind as you walked in. It did matter, however, that you had to trip over bags and feet to the middle of an aisle, squeezing yourself into the last seat available in the lecture hall. Then, when you went to get yourself a little treat between classes at the Starbucks on campus, some guy bumped into you and made you spill half your drink on your shirt, meaning you had to race home to shower and change before going back to campus for your later class, which is where you’re heading now.

It’s your last year of college, so while you know your way around campus, it’s the first day of classes, and you’ve never had a class in the lecture hall your next class is in.

Your head is down as you look at your phone, pace slowing slightly as you triple check what room number you’re looking for when you feel a large body hit your shoulder.

“Watch it.” you hear a deep voice say as you look up from your phone, blinking slowly for a moment before something in you snaps.

You whirl around, jaw clenched as you make eye contact with perhaps the most attractive guy you’ve ever seen, not that you notice that through your rage. On any other day, you would’ve apologized and been on your way, but today, you have had enough, your patience gone.

“You ran into me.” you bark back, barely having time to think about what you’re saying. You feel a little bad as you see his eyes widen, but your thoughts are so clouded by frustration at how the day was playing out that you didn’t care. Deep down, you know he’s probably right, you weren’t watching where you were going. But he didn’t have to be a dick about it, right?

“I’m sorry, excuse me, princess.” he says sarcastically after a moment, as his surprised expression is replaced with a smirk. He hadn’t expected you to respond the way that you had, and this intrigues him. He crosses his arms over his chest, his eyes trailing down your figure, taking you in.

“Thank you! Was that so hard?” you reply in the same tone, matching his stance and crossing your arms over your chest, not even noticing the way “princess” rolled off his tongue so smoothly. You also don’t notice the way his eyes roam over your body, taking in your soft curves, the way your chest moves to keep up with the quick beating in your chest.

“Someone’s feisty, huh?” you roll your eyes at this, wanting nothing more than to be done with the incredibly handsome man and go to class. You’re already late enough, you really don’t need this.

“Only when someone deserves it.” you reply sharply, jutting your hip out as you tilt your head to the side, glaring at him.

You’re met with a scoff, and he fights back a laugh at the way you’re looking at him. You’ve got an attitude, but he’s got to admit, you’re gorgeous. The way you’re glaring at him kind of makes him want to push you against the wall and kiss your attitude away, but he also kind of likes the way you’re not backing down. He wants to keep you here. Willing to do anything to keep you standing here, he steps closer to you, licking his lips as he looks down at you, that smirk still on his face.

“You should lose the attitude, princess.” he teases, a playful glint in his eye as he sees the way you react when his words hit you. His words have the desired effect. You aren’t going anywhere. 

“Or what?” you hiss, your jaw clenching at his words. You’re really not in the mood to be told off by a man who thought the world revolved around him. On any other day, you’d already be on your way, but now, you just want to slap the stupid smirk right off his stupid attractive face. And what the hell was up with the nickname?

“Or I’ll make you.” he challenges, gauging your reaction, hoping he hadn’t crossed a line. With the way you hadn’t walked away yet, he has a feeling that you weren’t going to tell him to go to hell.

You pause for a moment, suddenly taking in the look in his eyes. He was arguing with you, sure, but you had only just realized how he was looking down at you, almost flirting with you. For a moment, you’re overcome with nerves, realizing that your temper has gotten you into a situation you never thought you’d be in.

“I’d rather die.” you get out. You bite the inside of your cheek as you hold eye contact, trying to keep up with the attitude that had been blinding you earlier.

You watch as his tongue slowly traces the inside of his cheek, his lips parting as he chuckles softly. He notices the way your breath stills for a moment and you blink slowly, how his words had momentarily snapped you out of your angry haze. 

He’s so close to you that you can almost feel the heat radiating off of him, but you refuse to back down, already this far into the argument.

“You might say that now, princess, but you haven’t seen me when I’m nice. I’m sure you’d like me if you dropped the attitude.” he states, eyes trailing down your figure again, taking in your cleavage peeking out from your shirt slightly, the way your clothes fall on your soft belly and thick thighs.

“That’s never gonna happen.” you say, letting out a shaky breath as you try not to look away. The class you’re currently missing comes to mind as your glare falters for a moment, and you’re suddenly very aware of how close you’re standing to a stranger in the middle of the hallway.

“Don’t be so sure, princess.” he teases, licking his lips again as his eyes study your face. 

What the hell are you doing? You shouldn’t be talking to this man. You have class, and you took your frustration out on him when he mostly didn’t deserve it. You swallow, biting the inside of your cheek as your face grows hot. You have to get out of here before this goes any worse than it already has. If you don’t walk away now, you’d realize how cute he is.

“I have to go to class.” you tell him softly, a hint of coldness still in your voice as you turn on your heel, walking down the hallway and out of sight.

He watches as you walk away, his eyes shamelessly trailing down to your ass as you go. He chuckles at your hasty departure as he bites a lip. If he met you at a party, he’s sure he would’ve already made you a flustered mess for him, but you didn’t seem like the type of girl who’d be at one of his team’s parties. The way you rushed off to class like that? While part of your exit was to end the conversation, there was a hint of nervousness in your eyes that tells him you truly were late to class, and not very happy about it. He wants to see you again, wants to try to get you to lower your guard so he can get to know you at a time where your temper isn’t getting the better of you.

You let out a long sigh as soon as you get far enough away from him, and you can feel that your hands are shaking ever so slightly. Why did you do that? You should’ve just apologized and kept walking because now you were really late for class, and you had basically yelled at a guy when you were pretty sure you had run into him. He was attractive, and built. You think he’s on the football team. Your roommate has a type, and you think you remember seeing his face when she showed you the entire team roster while she forced you to play drunken smash or pass during the summer.

Now that you think of it, what the fuck? Why did he immediately tell you to watch it? And then, why did he just come onto you like that? Did he just immediately assume that you would fold and apologize if he laid on the charm? You shake your head at the thought, scoffing as you pull out your phone again, realizing you had gone the complete wrong way as you stormed away from him. You turn again, hoping he was gone when you walk back to where you ran into each other, and to your delight, he was. 

You finally find your lecture hall and quickly slip in, silently celebrating when you realize that the doors were at the back of the room rather than the front, meaning you wouldn’t disturb the class. You scan the lecture hall, seeing an empty seat on an aisle a few rows from the back, and you silently make your way over. You sit down and pull your laptop out of your bag, quickly opening the class homepage to follow along as the professor goes over the syllabus.

You’re so focused on not drawing attention to yourself that you don’t notice him in the back row, eyes immediately on you as you sneak past him.

He smirks to himself, noticing the difference in your demeanor as you walk past him, head ducked, as if not to disturb anyone further by your lateness. With the way you snapped at him before, he half expects you to walk in with your head up, daring anyone to act annoyed with you as you make your way to your seat.

He keeps finding his eyes darting to the back of your head as class goes on, trying to think of a way to talk to you again, hoping you wouldn’t roll your eyes and keep walking if he tried.

You try to catch up on what the professor is saying about the syllabus, trying to add assignment and test dates to your calendar as she speaks. As the professor wraps up the class, you continue working away, trying to finish adding the dates, knowing you would forget to do it once you got home.

He stays in his seat when class ends, eyes glued to you as you keep typing on your laptop for a minute or two while the people around you start filing out. He puts his laptop away haphazardly, his eyes still trained on you as you do the same. He stands up at the same time you do and walks over to the door, standing in front of it.

You see him as he reaches the door, rolling your eyes as he blocks the way. All you want is to get home and crawl into bed, you really don’t want to deal with him right now.

“Where are you going, princess?” he teases, that stupid smirk returning to his face as he hears your sigh. He keeps far enough in front of the door that you could slip out if you really wanted to. He doesn’t want to scare you, he just wants more time with you.

“Home.” you reply shortly, crossing your arms over your chest. The way he looks down at you has you on edge again. He’s too smug for your liking, and now that your brain had time to process, you couldn’t not notice his blue eyes, his large arms. Your action doesn’t go unnoticed by him, as his eyes are immediately drawn to the way your arms push your chest up slightly.

“No more classes to run off to? No more rushing around and running into strangers?” he teases, giving you a once over.

“I didn’t run into you.” you tell him matter of factly, but your voice is not as loud as it once was. You know he’s right, but it’s far too late to change your mind. Why wouldn’t he let this go? You’re already embarrassed about the way you acted, you really don’t need him to keep reminding you.

“Ah, but you did. You were looking at your phone, trying to find your class, probably. You stormed off in the wrong direction and had to double back, didn’t you?” he says in an amused tone, chuckling softly as you raise your brows. You’re slightly surprised he’s smart enough to put two and two together.

“I might’ve apologized if you weren’t being a dick. Do you think the world revolves around you?” you fight back, waves of embarrassment hitting you as you realize that he had noticed you went the wrong way.

He doesn’t answer as his lips part slightly, running his tongue along the inside of his cheek. He takes a step ever so slightly closer to you, looking down at you with a glint in his eyes.

“You got a boyfriend?” he asks after a moment. He’s both amused and confused at your reaction to this. It’s as if you’re unsure if you should continue arguing with him, or give in and walk away, but that’s what has him so intrigued. He wants to know what you would be like behind closed doors, how you would react to his touch as his hands make their way down your body.

You scoff, shaking your head as you maneuver around him and out the door. The nerve of this guy. Why did he have to be so infuriating? And hot?

He raises his hands in mock surrender as you step around him, his gaze following you as you walk down the hall. 

As you make your way out of the building, you feel yourself let out a shaky breath, biting your lip as your brain is overcome with thoughts of him. You try to get your mind off of him, taking your phone out of your pocket to text your roommate and ask her if she wants to do a movie night tonight. She immediately responds with a yes, asking what movie you had in mind, but your brain feels so foggy that you can’t even think of the endless list of movies you’ve been wanting to watch.

Instead, you think of the way he looked down at you, how his eyes trailed down your body, drinking you in. You think about the way you could see his biceps flexing under his shirt as he crossed his arms. You think about what he called you. Princess. It was weird at first, but as you keep thinking about it, you can’t help the way it makes your stomach flip. Why did he ask you if you had a boyfriend? He couldn’t have been interested in anything more than pissing you off. You shake your head to yourself as you try to clear your head, finally making it back to your apartment complex.

And him? He walks the whole way home thinking about you as well. He can’t wait to see you next week in class, hoping that you’ll have more classes together. He’s hooked, and he’s desperate to break down your walls and learn more about you.

next chapter

notes: likes/comments/reblogs would be much appreciated if you liked this<33

click here for my masterlist!

click here to be added to my taglist!

click here to read my request rules!

taglist: @sherlocksbaby2323 @essienoe @p14th0mps0n @celestixldarling @minsugafour @brooke0297 @zelfanswhenshecan

[thehistoriangirl]

If You Hadn't Left (Me) [Chapter 2]

I live!!!

Viktor x Fem! Reader-----2.1K----SFW

// M A S T E R L I S T

<- Previous Next ->

Synopsis:Viktor was never supposed to see you again, just like you had promised that evening when you both ended up heartbroken and bitter toward destiny and all its twisted ways. So twisted as to put you back into his life not only as a temporal working partner to cover Jayce’s absences, but also as the maid of honor in the wedding where he’ll be the best man. Hypothetically, it doesn’t have to be that difficult to find a way around the river of memories flowing between you both. Though, of course, hypotheses are flawed. Just like that part of him that still craves another ending to this story. 

Chapter Summary: People say things look better under a new light. But once you step inside Viktor's lab, Viktor discovers that the view isn't just striking, but also very troublesome.

Tags: Second Chance | Angst | Exes to Lovers | Denial of Feelings | Viktor's pinning | Reader is pissed | | Eventual Smut | Eventual Happy Ending |

Taglist: @ihopeinevergetsoberr @syren201 @slycazzz @jourlinemaktan @seraceres @m1dnight-artisan

Viktor was no stranger to sleepless nights.

Most of them could be excused by incessant workload lined up on his desk in the form of blueprints and pages filled with scribbles of ink where equations hadn’t resolved in a positive way.

It wasn’t about rushing thoughts of the future looming over his shoulder either; the time when his conscience whispered that he couldn’t be good enough. That he’d never be, as progress is a fleeting, moody thing.

What an unbreakable riddle were you. Your words haunted him; your kiss… soared his heart. Guiltily so; flown at the past he promised couldn’t revisit. And not only because digging out the tender flesh already buried would mean expose the wound again, risking of bleeding out.

I want to be the Interior Design’ Teacher at the Architecture Faculty.

He laid in his bed, covers barely thrown open, his mind filled with the million possibilities about the future, once hopeful and bright with all the new inventions he could create with Hextech, to the one where he had to walk carefully across campus to not take a glimpse of you passing by.

Get over it, get over it.

He wished it’d be so easy. Guilt gnawed at him, now already broken free from the depths of the drawer where he kept your photo. The ring he never gave you, that he’d been fool enough not to return. A treacherous mind he had, repeating old routines as his personal condemn.

Sighing, he incorporated at the edge of the bed. Pitch darkness looked back from every corner of the quiet room. His fingers grabbed the handle of his crutch, the familiar leather creaked under his unrelenting grasp once he hauled himself up.

He should have left right away, as he did when the strain in his muscles didn’t allow him any rest. But something stopped him.

His reflection in the mirror showed what he most tried to hide. Deep eyebags, messy hair, wrinkly clothes.

Viktor didn’t wish to give you reasons as to think he was so unkept because of you. Because he wasn’t—it was only a bad night sleep. Not the first and either the last.

Groaning, he took the dubious decision to bathe in the middle of the night. Seeking the refuge of the cold water to calm the cascade of thoughts sieging him. It was like any other day back at the Academy, when he was Heimerdinger’s assistant. Time had gone backwards.

Replaced rolled up dress-shirt’s sleeves with proper cufflinks. His creamy vest now gray with ash and oil stains replaced by a clean one, just as his pants. Untamed hair controlled with luck.

The way back to the lab was calmer at night, with only the cold hitting his face during his journey up the hill. Empty boulevards whose metallic details shone silver against a crescent moon in a clear, starry sky.

He wondered, for a moment where his mind forgot to close the floodgate, if the sky looked the same in the place you had being for the last decade. That—if the tawdriness of those novelists wasn’t tricking him—the moon had watched you built who you were now.

He couldn’t stop the stab of jealousy that coursed through his bones.

The walk cut short after that, dipping his face to the ground until the had to look up toward the guards appointed at the entrance of the research building. A simple nod. At least he didn’t have to break in again, though he thanked those days where lies had flown out his tongue so easily.

Viktor presaged he would need the practice.

*~*~*~*~*~*

At first, he heard the echo of your heels against the desolate hallway.

The familiar whirring mechanism of the door that both Jayce and him had forgotten to oil up.

Then, he must fill the uncomfortable feeling that the lab was shrunk up.

“You’re late.” As an answer, you put a cup of steaming coffee at his left, right where there weren’t any papers that could be stained. “…thank you.”

Finally, he saw you.

A loose, airy blouse and a fancy skirt that hugged your legs up your knees. Perfect for a space this enclosed where the heat of the machine motors warmed it up by noon.

“You can’t wear that,” he stated, meeting your frown with his own. “Where’s your safety equipment?”

“Where’s yours?” you said back, crossing your arms in signal of victory when Viktor got out of excuses.

“I have deep understanding of safety measures in a space such as this, whereas you do not.”

“What? Do you think I’m going to lay on the desk while you tinker with a machine?” You huffed. “Have more faith in me, Viktor.”

You shouldn’t say his name so nonchalantly, especially when Viktor could never mask his reactions to your keen eyes.

“I’m going to attempt to fix this faulty prototype, so you’ll have to wear at least a lab coat if you want to enter the lab.”

“Really now?”

Grunting, Viktor stood up toward the closet at the far left of the room, grabbing two of his coats—because you wouldn’t let him alone if he didn’t abide by his own rules. “Take this one,” he said, throwing you one with his free hand, plopping in the stool back again.

“Don’t you have a smaller one?” He saw you, with the grey clothes almost serving as a robe. One of the sleeves was burned, with a hole the size of the Hexclaw’s laser.

“It’s the only one we have here,” Viktor lied. Well, only a half-truth. Jayce’s clothes wouldn’t fit you, and Sky kept them locked inside her workstation in the annex room.

“Something more I need to wear? Or can you signal me Jayce’s drawing table?” You said instead, leaving your bag at one corner of the hexagonal forge in the middle of the room. Right next to Viktor’s bag where he had shoved the jacket he wore to come here at the dead of night.

“It’s the only one next to the chalkboard.” They shared worktable for all the times Jayce was pondering about designs while Viktor looked at the sketches to make modifications. He had all night to clean it, stacking the papers in Jayce’s desk that wouldn’t be used in a while so you didn’t have another reason to criticize him. “You can use the chalkboard if you want.”

“It’s alright. I’m only drafting planes with the sizes they provided.” You voice sounded absent, muffled once you crouched to lift your map case, getting out your usual tools of mediation, escalimeter, and set squares. The gigantic T ruler, slid smoothly over the worn-out wood. Every movement seemed so easy to emulate, the way your fingers flew across the surface to set the plan in front of you, getting out all kind of pencils that for Viktor looked all the same.

“Do you need something?” Your voice tore him away whatever place his mind was wandering.

“What?”

“You’re staring.”

He blinked, using his left leg to turn the stool around. “Of course I wasn’t,” he snapped, followed by the sound of your unamused hum.

After all, you promised to maintain peace, and so you did during the excruciatingly long morning.

Viktor had his back sore from being hunched down toward a pile of scribbles that made no sense; unconclusive theories and half-done equations. Yet he didn’t dare to look away the paper in front of him, no matter how much his eyes blurred and his muscles ached. He could hear the friction of the pencil against paper, the eraser’s circular motions and the soft blow coming from your lips.

Years ago, all you had was the familiar table at the third story of the library. Next a window so you both tracked the time by the change of light. He still remembered the hues over your hair, like a kaleidoscope. By the time darkness had arrived, he was tugging at your hand over the table to wake you up.

Since when reminiscences sieged him? It was so usual for Piltover to always look toward the future that attempt to look back would endanger one into tripping and being left behind. This felt wrong, stuck in a past that no longer mattered.

You were only classmates, after all.

“This is the design.” Over his numb hands, the paper of your plan was sturdy and rough to stop the abrasion of the eraser from making a hole in it. He was thankful for the hiding spot once he felt his right hand twitch by instinct, just awoken by the familiar, now fancier, milk and lavender scent of your hair.

His eyes swept over the drawing; thin, delicate lines showed a slick tower mirroring that of the Hexgates, curved and unbalanced in an amorph geometrical pattern. Behind it was the complement, so at the distance it would look like one.

He observed you. Dangerously close. You had changed, blooming even prettier with age. Contemplative eyes used to take every detail in, new marks of wrinkles of your smiles and beams. Yet the same lips and cheeks he loved to caress.

You arched your eyebrows. “So?”

You’re precious. “I don’t favor any of these design in particular.” He shrugged, trying to get off the weight of your attention. “They’re not my taste.”

“Then you have terrible taste.”

Oh, truly? You wanted to pick a fight? He had some time to spare, then.

“Alright. Do you want an honest opinion?” Viktor sighed, as if he were exhausted by this conversation and not having his heart working overtime. “They’re ugly.”

You smiled at him; an ironic grin but a smile after all. “Thank you. I won first place in the contest with this one.”

Viktor extended a hand toward you, fingers pointing in an accusing manner. “Now you see? You can’t handle constructive criticism—”

“What constructive criticism?“  you hissed, but he ignored it. Taking a deep breath, you plastered a kind smile on your face that almost made him chuckle. “Why are they ugly?”

Viktor hummed. “Severe. Pretentious.”

“You don’t really recognize who the clients are, do you?”

“I know who are the clients, which is why I’m saying it.” He reclined in his seat. “This aren’t how your designs usually are.” It wasn’t a question, as shameful as it may feel, with his cheeks burning and eyes averting, he remembered the vision you once shared.

You retreated one step, a futile attempt at building a fort.

“You don’t know my designs,” you said, your tone cutting like a knife’s. “Not anymore.” You were already walking toward your bag, and Viktor cursed in a hushed breath. This wasn’t what peace supposed to be.

You loved curves and simpler facades, towers with gigantic windows so the residents inside could feel they touched the sky, small houses to hide a precious treasure in the form of a cozy living room to cuddle in a cold winter.

“Wait—” he called your name, and it sounded so wrong. Tasted bitterly when once had been the sweetest.

“What?!” you snapped. “Just give it to Jayce so he can show it to the Council. Roll it if you don’t want to see it.”

Viktor stood up. “You’re trying to pick a fight.” And he understood. You left without the chance to free all that built up inside of you the moment you got apart, and time had only harvested that sadness into pure wraith.

You huffed. “I don’t even know why I bother to ask your opinion.” You signaled the whole lab. “Do you want to know why you never won any Inventor’s Contest in your time as student? Because your designs were ugly.”

Viktor frowned. “Now who’s bringing the past? My prototypes worked perfectly—more of what I can say to the many winners whose inventions never saw the light of day outside the award.”

“Functionality and aesthetics must be interwoven, Viktor.” You felt as if teaching a stubborn child. “This is what I’m referring to when I say you have bad taste.”

“I would love to differ,” he said, his mind clouded by irritation, nervousness, and the ever-present reminders of another life. “How would you accuse me of having horrid taste when I dated you once?”

The silence hung heavy and charged between the two. You looked as if he had hit you with his cane, and he didn’t feel any better.

What have you just done?

“You’re impossible,” you just said with a tired sigh. Turning your back toward him and almost running out the door.

[leewonkyeom]

 light a flame | jeon wonwoo | masterlist

☆ synopsis

when your roommate quits his job at the coffee shop you frequent you never imagined the new guy would be hot or even your type. to make matters worse you both study law at the same university.

your friends to try to convince you to get together with him. you try to convince them you just find him really nice... but are you able to convince yourself?

☆ pairing: jeon wonwoo x fem!reader

☆ genre:  smau, university au, coffee shop au

☆ warnings: swearing, drinking, implied 18+ content

☆ status: ongoing, updates every thursday and sunday

☆ started: 07.09.23

☆ ended: 21.03.24

main masterlist

☆ fill out this form to be added to the taglist

profiles: 1 | 2

chapters:

001: stop thirsting on main

002: i’m not a fucking rat

003: please yn it was for the vine

004: not asking for a friend, i’m asking for me

005: you’re forced to come even if minghao drops of the face of the earth

006: HE’S TALL AND HE GOT A NICE ANGLE SHUT UP

007: you can’t recognize drip even if it’s staring right in your face

008: are you trying to limit my artistic expression?

009: step aside! if anyone’s playing wingman it’s me

010: like slaying monsters?

011: “me as a baby”

012: you obviously know the worth of cancelling

013: is that seungcheol photoshopped as aang from avatar?

014: playing league of legends does not qualify as “having a life”

015: he made me stand outside the coffee shop with a “free hugs” sign

016: good luck, daredevil

017: well, i honestly think you’re both in the wrong

018: then i say spider-man is within the realms of possibility

019: i just wanted the public opinion

020: digital footprint

021: i have faith in the tiger

022: last selfie before we die and i didn’t even look good

023: vernon’s sock drawer isn’t a good hiding place

024: i’m thinking of hanging it in our shared bathroom so seungkwan can be reminded of his good deed

025: oh don’t bring judy into this!

026: staging a storm just so someone can experience the forced proximity trope

027: entering private property in 3... 2... 1

028: i’m not helping a traitor

029: all of my midnight entertainment... gone in seconds

030: yes i will be sharing... / the juices?!

031: uh oh / the ominous period

032: i will go just to prove i’m right

033: oh my god... that woman

034: it means you’re annoying /next

035: i know i’m giving zero context here, but bear with me

036: that guy only has feelings for his right arm

037: how can i dump someone i never even dated?

038: joshua says you can come if you take 10 penalty shots and do a strip tease

039: i can never look any of them in the eyes again... well, except johnny

040: ohh so he’s your super smart study buddy?

041: i didn’t know we had chan’s biggest fan right here

042:i didn’t know you were sending all that, chan. sorry.

043: just a peck

044: as real as spider-man

045: so arguably, it wasn’t even my fault

046: shut up and make out with wonwoo instead

047: special deal only for my boyfriend

048: i’m literally throwing rocks at your window as we speak

049: i’m just training you to be wonwoo’s little pet

050: i’m not having a dog ruin the ambiance

051: epilogue

bonus chapter