#i totally feel that ... i hope you're all doing well | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

biribarabiribbaem · 2 days ago

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hey look ma, i made it!!! well, italian made it but it was me who helped!!! Glad I could be of help even if we lost possiamo farcela 😉, especially to get rid of Sara cause you girl, nah-ah you're not welcomed in this kitchen. Not now, not ever like... disappear.

awhhh, Chris I knew you were good and friendly and nice!!!! I just hope he realizes how much he fucked up by putting those two together but hey everybody makes mistakes!

This chapter was packed, full, overflowing with different feelings - like felt almost everything. I loved it so much and it's lovely to see some crackling in Minho's wall.

Now I must confess that Minho in the kitchen is my weakness, in all its sexual and intense positive meaning. I love his confidence, the way he moves around, those veiny hands doing wonders... yeah, okay.

The cooking scene at his apartment? Fire. Like she got roasted half of the time but it was good. Like, do you see how well you could work as a team? Plus this scene is where my knowledge of italian was used so maybe I'm being biased but who careeees!

I freaking love these two lives we're living with him being just Minho in one, full of passion, sex drive, all smiling and then there's Chef Lee that has to carry the weight of Farfalle on his shoulders, and now has to share the kitchen with the girl who cause him traumas. Poor him.

I am so excited for the next round, really!!! and if you need help Teacher Marti is here for you!!

ps: you should've seen how stupid I look everytime you wrote that posso farcela like smiling like a total idiot

pps: you making me hungry with all these dishes like craving spinach lasagna at 1 am should not be legal

ppps: i love you 🤍

TASTE.

CHAPTER 2: SWEETBITTER.

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. (17,1k words)

Author's note: I hope you're hungry because I'm about to serve, well, Minho is, not me. Hope you enjoy this one too. Don't be shy to let me know what you think of this chapter ♡

Sweetbitter. /swēt-ˈbi-tər/ (adj) 1. being at once sweet and bitter 2. pleasant but including or marked by elements of suffering or regret

The memory creeps up on you like the scent of freshly baked bread—warm, comforting, and vivid.

It was three years ago, during the height of dinner service at a restaurant in Milan. You were buried in orders, swiftly plating bowls of tagliatelle and arranging perfectly browned gnocchi when the head chef approached, wiping his hands on his apron.

“A customer wants to personally thank you for the spinach lasagna,” he said, his tone equal parts surprise and pride.

You blinked. Normally, compliments like that were directed at the head chef, but this customer had been insistent about meeting the specific cook behind the dish. The words felt like a crown resting on your shoulders—the highest compliment any chef could receive.

Fixing your coat and smoothing back stray strands of hair, you stepped out of the bustling kitchen. The dining room was a sea of candlelight and muted conversation, and at first, all you could see was the back of the man who had requested your presence. His broad shoulders and casual posture told you little about him.

It wasn’t until you reached his table that he turned to face you.

“Are you the one who made this?” he asked, studying you with an unreadable expression.

“That would be me,” you replied, a polite smile on your lips.

For a moment, he said nothing, his dark eyes scanning your face as though trying to commit it to memory. Then he broke into a genuine smile, one that softened the sharp angles of his face.

“The spinach lasagna,” he began, “was incredible. Dare I say, it was better than sex.”

You froze, startled by the bluntness of his praise. Then, to your own surprise, you laughed—a warm, light sound that seemed to catch him off guard.

“Well,” you said, recovering, “that’s not something I hear every day.”

He chuckled softly, the dimples in his cheeks becoming more pronounced. “I’m Chris.” Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a sleek business card and handed it to you.

You glanced down at it, reading the elegant font: Christopher Bang.

“I own an Italian restaurant,” he said, his voice calm but persuasive. “I’d love for you to come work with me.”

The offer was so unexpected that you could only gape at him. “Why me?” you finally asked, looking back at him. “There are plenty of... talented chefs in the kitchen tonight.”

Chris leaned back in his chair, clasping his hands together as a dimpled smile spread across his face. “I don’t want them. I want you.”

Something about his casual confidence disarmed you. Perhaps it was the warmth in his voice or the sincerity in his eyes, but in that moment, you felt the ground shift beneath your feet.

You didn’t realize it then, but that moment marked the beginning of a new chapter in your life. Within weeks, you were on a flight to a new country, leaving behind the familiar comfort of Milan to work at Farfalle.

And now, standing in this restaurant facing him three years later, that memory feels both distant and fresh, a reminder of the strange and unexpected paths life can take.

The dining hall falls silent as Chris steps in, his imposing presence freezing everyone in place. The sleek black suit, the pale complexion, and the calm authority in his gaze demand undivided attention. Whispers ripple through the room, curiosity and disbelief mingling in hushed tones.

“I'll make it short,” Chris begins, his tone steady and authoritative. “I'm closing down the restaurant.”

“What did you say?” Taesoo blurts out in sheer panic.

Chris puts on a small smile and calmly explains. “I will close it down for three days, tentatively. ”

The room erupts in shock. Souschef Hyunwoo steps forward, his voice raised in protest. “What? You can’t close the restaurant during the busiest season! Do you know how much we’ll lose in revenue?”

Chris doesn’t flinch, meeting Hyunwoo’s gaze with a faint, composed smile. “I understand your concern. But this is necessary for the future of Farfalle.”

Felix raises a tentative hand. “So... what are we supposed to do for three days?”

Chris’s smile widens, almost playful. “Rest. Relax. Have fun... and after three days, I want everyone to come back with a new menu idea—a dish that can revive Farfalle. Every single one of you will participate, without exception.”

The room falls silent as everyone processes his words.

Chris continues, his voice unwavering. “However, there’s one condition: the total cost of ingredients for your dish cannot exceed ten dollars. Be creative, be bold, and think about what will make Farfalle stand out. The future of this restaurant depends on those menus.”

He lets the weight of his words settle before finishing with an easy, almost disarming smile. “I’ll see you all in three days.”

Without another word, Chris steps back, leaving the room with the same enigmatic presence with which he entered.

The staff exchange uncertain glances, whispers rippling through the group. Minho crosses his arms, his expression unreadable. After a moment, he straightens. “You heard him,” he says firmly, his gaze sweeping over everyone. “Three days. I’ll see all of you then.”

The hallway outside the manager's office is eerily quiet, the distant sounds of bustling staff fading behind you. You pause in front of the polished wooden door, taking a moment to compose yourself before knocking.

“Come in,” Chris’s voice calls out, calm and collected.

Pushing the door open, you step inside. The office is surprisingly minimalistic, dominated by a large desk and a single window that lets in soft, natural light. Chris sits behind the desk, his tailored black suit as sharp as his presence. His dimples appear as he smiles, clearly having anticipated your visit.

“I figured you’d come,” he says, gesturing for you to sit.

You take a seat, wasting no time. “I’m just as surprised as everyone else to see you here. Shouldn’t you be busy running the rest of your family’s empire?”

Chris leans back in his chair, his smile never faltering. “I’ve been keeping an eye on Farfalle for a while now. The sales have been on a downward spiral, and I decided it was time to step in. Sometimes you have to get your hands dirty to fix things properly.”

You nod slowly, absorbing his explanation. “So, this is personal for you?”

“In a way,” he admits, his tone light but resolute. “I couldn’t just stand by and let it crumble. Now, tell me,” he leans forward, his gaze teasing, “are you happy to see me?”

You let out a soft laugh, meeting his eyes. “It’s... nice to have another man in the restaurant.”

Chris chuckles, his dimples deepening. “Flattery suits you.”

He pauses, the teasing air around him softening. “Before you go, why don’t you cook me some pasta?”

You raise a brow, crossing your arms. “Nope.”

“Why not?” he asks, feigning offense.

“Because I’m going to do exactly what you suggested,” you reply with a sly grin. “Rest, relax, and have fun.”

Chris leans back in his chair, giving you an amused look. “Fair enough.” He gestures toward the door, silently excusing you.

You rise from your seat, heading toward the exit. Just as your hand touches the doorknob, Chris’s voice calls out again.

“Don’t have too much fun though,” he says, the teasing lilt in his voice unmistakable.

You glance back, offering a playful smirk. “No promises.” With that, you step out, leaving the office and its enigmatic new occupant behind.

The salty tang of the fish market fills your senses as you weave through the bustling aisles, stalls overflowing with fresh catches of the day. The cacophony of haggling customers and shopkeepers blends into a background hum as you scrutinize each stall, searching for ingredients that won’t break Chris’s strict $10 budget.

Your frustration grows as every inquiry leads to disappointment. Everything you find is either overpriced or unsuitable for the idea forming in your mind. Just as you’re about to give up, something catches your eye.

Minho stands a few stalls ahead, his sharp profile unmistakable even in the chaos of the market. He’s deep in conversation with a shop owner, his posture relaxed but commanding.

Curiosity piqued, you linger just out of sight, trying to catch snippets of their conversation. But the noise of the market drowns out their words. You watch as the shopkeeper gestures toward a selection of fish, and Minho nods thoughtfully before moving on.

The moment he leaves, you step up to the stall. “Excuse me, what was he asking about?” you inquire, gesturing toward Minho’s retreating figure.

The shopkeeper smiles knowingly. “Filefish. He was asking if I had any larger ones for a better price. Told him he’d have better luck at the harbor.”

Filefish? You tuck the information away, thanking the shopkeeper before turning to leave.

But as you make your way toward the exit, you freeze mid-step. Minho is there, leaning casually against a pole, arms crossed as if he’s been waiting for you. His eyes meet yours, a flicker of amusement playing across his face.

"Following me now?" he asks, his tone teasing but edged with curiosity.

You bristle, quickly recovering from your surprise. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

Minho smirks, clearly unconvinced. “So, what exactly are you doing here, then?”

You hesitate, debating whether to play coy or confront him about the filefish. Instead, you sidestep his question. “I could ask you the same thing.”

He shrugs, pushing off the pole and walking past you, his voice drifting back. “Just making sure the competition doesn’t get too comfortable.”

Before you can respond, he takes you by the hand and drags you out of the crowd.

The ride back is unexpectedly tense. Minho insisted on giving you a ride home, claiming it would save time, but the silence in the car is thick with unspoken words. You glance at him from the passenger seat, his profile lit by the soft glow of the dashboard.

“So,” you start, breaking the silence, “what are you planning to make for the new menu, chef?”

Minho doesn’t even look at you. “Not telling.”

You scoff, leaning back in your seat. “Why not? Afraid I’ll steal your idea?”

“Exactly,” he replies flatly, his hands gripping the steering wheel.

You roll your eyes but decide to take another approach. “Fine. I’ll tell you mine first. I’m thinking of making fishball pasta. Simple, creative, and within budget.”

Minho glances at you briefly, his expression unreadable. “Good for you.”

Encouraged by the lack of sarcasm in his tone, you press further. “Now your turn, chef.”

“Nope,” he says, his lips twitching with the hint of a smirk. “This is a competition. Why would I share secrets with a competitor?”

The car slows as he pulls up in front of your apartment building. He gestures toward the door. “We’re here. Get out.”

But you stay put, crossing your arms defiantly. “Not until you tell me what you’re making.”

Minho lets out an exasperated sigh, leaning his head back against the headrest. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re stubborn,” you counter, flashing him a grin.

After a moment of tense silence, he relents, his tone reluctant. “Fine. I only need the filefish livers.”

Your eyes widen in surprise. “The livers? Why just the livers?”

“Because I’m making foie gras out of them,” he explains, his voice tinged with pride. “I want to show the true value of foie gras with it,”

Your gasp is audible, and Minho glances at you, his expression softening at the wonder in your eyes. “That’s… genius,” you breathe.

Minho almost smiles seeing your genuine awe in response to his answer but he hides his amusement, focusing instead on the road ahead. “Are you satisfied now? Get out.”

But instead of complying, you grab his arm, tugging at it lightly. “Wait. Hear me out.”

He raises an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. “What now?”

“You don’t need the meat, and I don’t need the livers. If we work together, we can split the cost and stay within budget.”

Minho clicks his tongue, mulling over your suggestion. “Why should I work with you?”

“Because it makes sense,” you argue, meeting his gaze. “You said it yourself—this is a competition. Working together gives us both an edge. Plus, I know where to get bigger and cheaper filefish.”

He narrows his eyes at you, clearly debating the idea. After a moment, he sighs, shaking his head. “If I agree to this, will you finally get out of my car?”

You nod eagerly, a triumphant smile spreading across your face.

Minho pushes the car door open for you, his expression still skeptical. “We’re leaving tonight,” you announce as you step out. “At midnight.”

Minho shakes his head, a small smirk tugging at his lips as he watches you disappear into the building.

The afternoon feels like it’s slipping away too quickly. You plan to catch some rest before heading to the harbor around midnight, but just as you’re about to settle down, the doorbell rings. Frowning, you glance at the guest cam and see your property agent standing there. A flicker of hope rises—maybe he’s bringing good news about the apartment.

You open the door, your polite smile faltering slightly when you notice he isn’t alone. Beside him stands Sara, her expression calm but assessing as she looks past you into the apartment.

“Good afternoon,” the agent says cheerfully. “I thought I’d stop by to introduce someone interested in sharing the apartment.” He gestures to Sara, who steps forward with an elegant nod.

You blink, caught off guard. “Oh, I see. Well, come in.”

The two of them enter, and you close the door behind them, trying to process the situation. Sara doesn’t waste any time, walking through the living room and kitchen, her sharp eyes taking in every detail. Meanwhile, the agent glances at you with a knowing smile.

“She’s very interested,” he says in a low voice, as if this were the best news you’d heard all week.

Sara returns, stopping a few feet away from you and the agent. “I’ll take it,” she declares confidently.

You nod slowly, her decisiveness catching you off guard again. “Alright, then.”

She crosses her arms and adds with a small smirk, “It’s more convenient sharing with someone I already know.”

You force a smile at that, hoping it doesn’t look as strained as it feels. “That makes sense.”

Sara tilts her head, her gaze steady on yours. “Would it be alright if I move in tomorrow?”

“Even better,” you reply with as much enthusiasm as you can muster.

As the agent beams at how smoothly this is going, you feel a sinking sensation settle in your stomach. Once Sara leaves, the reality of the situation becomes clear.

Sharing an apartment with Sara might be manageable on its own, but the thought of Minho finding out she’s now living on the same floor as him sends alarm bells ringing in your mind. You don’t even want to think about what could happen if they run into each other.

And worse, you’re now stuck in the middle of it all.

Minho taps his fingers against the steering wheel, the faint rhythm of his impatience echoing in the quiet of his car. It’s been over ten minutes since the agreed-upon midnight meeting, and there’s still no sign of you. With a frustrated sigh, he picks up his phone and dials your number.

The phone rings once, twice, then he sees you sprinting down the street toward his car. He immediately hangs up, watching as you approach, your hurried steps matching the apologetic look on your face.

You slide into the passenger seat, breathless. “I’m so sorry. I fell asleep and—”

Minho raises a hand, cutting you off. “Save it. Let’s just go.”

But as you buckle your seatbelt, Minho notices something off. Your expression isn’t just apologetic—it’s troubled, like you’re carrying the weight of something you don’t want to share. For a moment, he debates calling you out on it but decides against it.

“Where are we going?” he asks instead, breaking the silence.

Without a word, you pull up the address on your phone and input it into the GPS. Minho glances at the screen, then back at you, eyebrows raised. “Hey! Don’t fall asleep on me.”

“I won’t,” you promise, your voice firmer than he expects.

The car rolls to a stop at the harbor after two hours of drive, its headlights cutting through the misty pre-dawn darkness. Minho turns off the engine and glances over at you, only to find you fast asleep in the passenger seat. Your head leans slightly against the window, your lower lip jutting out in a slight pout, and your brows knit together as if something is bothering you even in your dreams.

Minho rolls his eyes but can’t help the faint smile tugging at his lips. “So much for not falling asleep,” he mutters under his breath.

He sighs, exasperated, but he doesn’t have it in him to wake you. Instead, he sits back, letting his gaze linger on your peaceful face. For someone who could be so frustrating, you looked oddly…endearing like this. A small, unbidden smile tugs at the corners of his lips, but it vanishes the moment your eyes flutter open.

Caught off guard, Minho immediately looks away, pretending he hadn’t just spent the past few moments watching you sleep.

“Are we here?” you ask, your voice thick with sleep.

Minho’s response is immediate, his tone sharp to mask his embarrassment. “What did I tell you about not falling asleep on me?”

You rub your eyes and stifle a yawn, offering him a sheepish smile. “Sorry. I’ll treat you to coffee, okay? My treat.”

He grumbles but doesn’t protest, and the two of you end up at a small open food stall by the harbor, huddling against the chilly sea breeze with steaming cups of coffee in your hands. The dawn light begins to creep over the horizon, painting the sky in soft shades of pink and orange.

Minho takes a sip of his coffee and grimaces. “Seriously? This is what you call a treat? It’s cheap, and it tastes like burnt beans.”

You laugh softly. “I’ll buy you a better one later, promise.”

Without thinking, you scoot closer to him, seeking warmth against the brisk air. Minho stiffens slightly and shrugs his shoulder, half-heartedly pushing you away.

“Why do you like me so much?” he asks, his tone laced with mock annoyance.

Instead of answering, you cling to his side, resting your head against his shoulder. “And why do you hate me so much, chef?” you counter, looking up at him with playful defiance.

Minho blinks, taken aback, before responding quickly. “When did I ever say I hated you?”

You grin and lean in close to pester him. “So that means... you like me?”

He scoffs, feigning nonchalance. “Just drink your coffee!”

Your grin widens, and you cling even tighter to his side, the warmth of your smile radiating in the chill air. Minho glances at you from the corner of his eye, watching the way your eyes shine and how content you look pressed against him. For a moment, he lets himself smile, but when he realizes it, he quickly hides it behind his coffee cup.

The two of you sit in comfortable silence, watching as the sun rises over the horizon, its golden light reflecting on the gentle waves. Despite himself, Minho feels a warmth spreading in his chest, one that has nothing to do with the coffee or your proximity. It’s a moment he doesn’t quite understand yet, but it’s one he knows he won’t forget.

The harbor comes alive as ships return from the sea, their decks brimming with the morning’s catch. You stand by, watching Minho as he inspects the filefish, his sharp eyes scanning each one carefully. He negotiates with the fisherman, his tone calm yet firm, discussing the price for a box of the freshest catch.

For the first time in a long while, you see him not as the stern head chef you work with, but as the Minho you knew back in school. There’s a quiet confidence about him, a passion that flickers beneath the surface as he handles the fish with precision and care.

Once the transaction is complete and the box of filefish is secured, you suggest grabbing breakfast before heading back. Minho agrees—but only if you treat him.

You groan, shaking your head and putting on a pitiful look at him. “I just spent most of my money on those fish.”

Minho stops in his tracks and turns to you, giving you that look—the one he wears right before he’s about to scold you. You brace yourself, ready for his biting words, but instead, he asks, “How much money do you have left?”

You blink, surprised by the question, and quickly count the small bills in your pocket. After telling him the amount, he nods decisively. “Go buy some rice and sesame oil with it.”

Without questioning him, you hurry off and return shortly after, only to find Minho by the fisherman’s boat, expertly filleting a fish. His knife glides effortlessly through the flesh, each movement fluid and precise. For a moment, you’re mesmerized by the display of skill, and you can’t help but tease him.

“There’s nothing sexier than a man who knows how to use a knife,” you say with a grin.

Minho scoffs, his lips twitching in what could almost be a smile, he's above to shove the first slice of fish into his mouth but noticing the pitiful look on your face, he refrains and feeds it into your mouth. The taste is incredible—fresh, light, and briny, the fish melts the moment it touches your tongue.

“This is amazing,” you gush, savoring the flavor. You pick up another slice and hold it out to him. “Here, try it.”

He eyes the piece in your hand and glares at you. “I have hands. I can feed myself.”

Unbothered, you shrug and pop it into your mouth instead, grinning at the flavorful taste of fresh fish in your mouth. Meanwhile, Minho mixes the fish slices with the rice, adding a dollop of red chili paste and a drizzle of sesame oil. He stirs it all together with practiced ease before handing you a portion.

“Here. Your breakfast,” he says, his tone casual but expectant.

You take a bite, and your eyes widen. The dish is unbelievably good—simple yet bursting with flavor. “This is… exceptional. How is something so basic this good?”

Minho smirks, clearly pleased with your reaction but says nothing, turning his attention back to the fish.

As you finish the rice, you’re about to toss the fish bones and scraps into the trash, but Minho stops you. “What are you doing? Those aren’t trash.”

He grills the remaining pieces over a small fire, the aroma wafting through the crisp morning air. Together, the two of you sit by the water, sharing the grilled fish while the warm sun rises over the horizon. The view of the sea, paired with the comforting meal, makes everything feel oddly perfect.

Minho leans back, crossing his arms with a smug expression. “There. I just served you a full-course meal.”

You chuckle, nudging his arm. “Thank you, Chef. That was honestly amazing.”

Minho doesn’t respond, but there’s a softness in his gaze that wasn’t there before. Deep down, as you sit together, you can’t help but feel a quiet contentment—like, for this moment, everything is exactly as it should be.

The car hums softly as Minho drives, the early morning sun casting a warm glow over the horizon. You lean back against the seat, feeling the calm after the morning at the harbor. Your phone suddenly buzzes, the screen lighting up with an unknown number. You hesitate but decide to answer it, just in case it’s important.

“Hello?” you say cautiously.

“Hey,” Chris’s familiar voice immediately puts you at ease. “Just checking in to see how things are going with the preparations for the new menu.”

You smirk, unable to resist teasing. “Oh, everything’s going great. I’m actually at the seaside, having fun.”

Chris laughs, though there’s a knowing edge to it. “You’re not fooling me. Let me guess—you’re out there to get fresh ingredients for the new menu?”

“You’re to blame for this. You’re the one who set the budget for the ingredients so low.” You admit with a chuckle.

Chris laughs again, the sound warm and light. “Fair enough. Did you go by yourself?”

You hesitate, your gaze shifting to Minho, who keeps his eyes on the road. After a brief pause, you answer, “No. Chef came with me.”

There’s a brief silence on the other end before Chris replies, his tone neutral but slightly amused. “Convenient. I was just about to call him to come to the restaurant anyway.”

“Oh,” you say, surprised. “Anything important?”

Chris brushes it off. “Nothing urgent. Just let him know. Drive safe, alright?”

“Will do,” you reply, and the line goes dead.

You lower your phone, glancing at Minho. “Chris wants to see you at the restaurant.”

Minho glances at you briefly before focusing back on the road. “Why?”

“No idea,” you admit, shrugging.

The car falls into a moment of silence before Minho breaks it. “You seem close with Chris.”

His tone is casual, but there’s an undercurrent of curiosity. You glance at him, surprised by the observation. “Well... We’ve known each other for a while.”

Minho’s expression doesn’t change, but his grip on the steering wheel tightens slightly. It’s clear he has more questions, but he doesn’t voice them.

When you arrive at your apartment building, Minho pulls up to the curb and puts the car in park. He turns to you, gesturing toward the box of fish in the backseat. “Take the fish with you. Don’t put it in the freezer. Keep it in the icebox.”

You nod, opening the door and reaching for the box. “Got it.”

Per Minho’s instruction, you carry the icebox into the building, your arms straining slightly under the weight. The elevator ride is uneventful, but your mind buzzes with thoughts of the morning at the harbor and Chris's phone call. When you step into your apartment, you’re startled to see boxes and bags scattered around the living room.

Sara looks up from where she’s unpacking a box by the couch, her expression turning sheepish. “Oh, you’re back! I’m so sorry about the mess. I know I said I’d move in tomorrow, but the movers came early, and I didn’t want to miss the chance…”

You wave her off, smiling. “It’s fine, really. Don’t worry about it.”

Sara visibly relaxes and glances at the icebox in your hands. “What’s that? Where have you been?”

“To the harbor,” you reply, setting the box down on the kitchen counter. “Had to get fresh ingredients for the new menu.”

Curiosity sparks in her eyes as she walks over. “Can I see?”

You flip open the lid of the icebox, revealing an array of freshly caught filefish. Sara gasps, leaning in to inspect the contents. “Wow, that’s a lot of fish! Are all of these yours?”

You chuckle, shaking your head. “Not just mine. Some of them are chef’s.”

At that, Sara’s gaze snaps to you, surprise flashing across her face. “You went to the harbor with Minho?”

“Yeah,” you say casually, closing the lid. “It was for the new menu, so we had to split the cost.”

Sara raises an eyebrow, a knowing smile tugging at her lips. “Interesting.”

You roll your eyes at her expression but decide to let it slide. Before you can say anything else, Sara places a hand on your shoulder. “You should get some rest. You must be exhausted after the trip.”

You sigh, realizing how heavy your limbs feel now that she’s mentioned it. “Yeah, I think I’ll do that.”

“Good,” Sara says with a smile. “I’ll finish unpacking quietly, don’t worry.”

You nod and head toward your room, leaving the icebox on the counter for later. As you close the door behind you, the events of the day replay in your mind, making it hard to decide what to focus on—Chris’s call, the morning at the harbor, or now that you've officially in between Sara and Minho, literally and figuratively.

Minho strides into the restaurant, his expression set in a familiar scowl. It’s quiet this early in the day, with no staff bustling like usual. He heads toward the coffee station and finds Chris already there, calmly preparing a cup of coffee.

“You’re here,” Chris greets, glancing at Minho as he places a cup under the espresso machine. “Sit down. I’ll make you a coffee, chef.”

Minho hesitates but eventually drops into the chair across from Chris, his arms crossed. He watches as Chris works efficiently, his movements smooth and unhurried. The quiet confidence in Chris’s demeanor rubs Minho the wrong way, frustrating him further.

Minho’s fingers tap against the table, breaking the silence. “I’ll be honest—I wouldn’t have taken this job if you were the one who offered it to me.”

Chris smirks faintly as he places a steaming cup of coffee in front of Minho. He them takes the opposite seat, his expression unchanging. “That’s funny because I wouldn’t have offered it to you.”

Minho blinks, slightly taken aback. “Huh?”

Chris leans back, resting his elbows on the chair's armrests. “You’re talented, no doubt. But I knew you’d be... difficult. Still, we’re here now, working together, so let’s just do our best.”

Chris offers his hand, a gesture of truce. Minho eyes it warily before finally grasping it for a firm shake. “Fine. But don’t think this means we’re friends.”

Chris chuckles lightly and pulls his hand back. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Chris shifts the conversation. “How was the harbor trip? Did you get the ingredients you needed?”

Minho nods, the memory of the fresh fish he brought back crossing his mind. “I did. The quality is excellent. I’m confident about the competition.”

Chris raises a brow, impressed. “Since you have good ingredients and confidence, you are exempt from the contest. Tomorrow, there's a charity dinner at W hotel. We've been invited to participate.”

Minho tilts his head and narrows his eyes at him. “Whether it is to compete or work or cook, you're telling that I have to follow your orders without complaints?”

Chris puts on a faint smile and takes a sip of his coffee before continuing. “I know it's a charity dinner but all the participating chefs are from 5-star hotels and the winner is decided by who sold the most plates. This is a competition on who has the most confidence that they made the best dish which also makes it a good opportunity to boost Farfalle’s reputation.”

Minho leans back, considering it. He knows the importance of publicity for the restaurant, but the idea of being pushed into the spotlight annoys him. Still, he nods. “For the sake of the restaurant, I’ll do it.”

Chris smiles approvingly. “Glad to hear it.”

Minho starts to rise, thinking the conversation is over, but Chris stops him. “One more thing.”

“What now?” Minho asks, irritation creeping into his voice.

“Chef Sara wants to compete with her version of the new menu,” Chris says casually, as though it’s no big deal.

Minho groans, leaning forward. “Why? The kitchen doesn’t need unnecessary competition.”

Chris shrugs. “You’re confident in your cooking, right? Then you shouldn’t be worried about it.”

Minho narrows his eyes. He finally sees Chris’s management style clearly—it’s about pushing boundaries, challenging people, and doing whatever he thinks will benefit the restaurant, no matter how it ruffles feathers.

“You’re something else,” Minho mutters as he stands. He gives him a long look before turning toward the door. “Do whatever you want. It’s your restaurant after all.”

Minho was having a great day until he met Chris but his day takes another downturn when he spots Sara walking towards her car. It takes a second for her to notice him back, her face lighting up with a smile that only irritates him further.

“Minho,” she greets cheerfully. “I’m looking forward to seeing your new dish tomorrow.”

Minho halts in his tracks, crossing his arms as he levels her with a sharp gaze. “Don’t get your hopes up. You’re no match for me.”

Sara’s smile doesn’t falter, her confidence unwavering. “We’ll see about that. I’ve been waiting a long time to cook with you again.”

He scoffs, narrowing his eyes at her. “You haven’t changed a bit. You still think cooking is all about competition.”

Sara tilts her head, an air of calm defiance surrounding her. “Maybe I have, maybe I haven’t. You’ll see soon enough.”

She turns to leave, but Minho isn’t finished. A realization strikes him, and he pivots on his heel, his voice cutting through the quiet. “It won’t be as easy as you think. You’ll have to beat her first.”

Sara stops, glancing over her shoulder with a raised brow. “Her? Who?”

“You know exactly who I mean,” Minho says, his voice laced with confidence. “If you think you can win against her, go ahead and try.”

Sara chuckles softly, shaking her head. “Are you saying that I'll be losing to a junior cook? Don’t make me laugh, Minho.”

Minho steps closer, a devilish smirk playing on his lips as he says, “Cooking is unpredictable. That’s what makes it fun, don't you think?”

Her expression stiffens for a moment, but she quickly regains her composure. “You’d better prepare for tomorrow. I won’t hold back.”

Minho’s smirk deepens as he leans in slightly. “I can’t wait to see your face when you lose to her.”

Without another word, he turns and strides toward the elevator, leaving Sara standing by her car, her calm exterior showing a faint crack.

As Minho steps into the elevator, a renewed determination fuels him. He’s not about to let Sara’s arrogance go unchallenged. If she underestimates you, she’ll regret it.

The elevator dings, signaling his arrival at his floor. He wastes no time heading straight to your apartment, his steps quick and purposeful. He presses the doorbell, and when you open the door, slightly confused by his sudden appearance, he doesn’t waste a second.

“Grab the ice box,” he orders firmly.

You blink at him, taken aback. “What? Why?”

“No time for questions,” he says, already turning on his heel. “Bring it and follow me.”

Reluctantly, you do as he says, hauling the ice box and trailing after him down the hallway. He leads you to his apartment, opening the door and gesturing for you to step inside.

“What’s going on?” you ask, still confused.

Minho’s eyes glint with determination as he shuts the door behind you. “We’re working on your recipe. You’re going to win tomorrow.”

Stepping into Minho’s apartment for the first time, you’re momentarily distracted by its minimalistic design and subtle charm. But before you can properly take it in, Minho pulls you toward the kitchen, his grip firm on your wrist.

“Put the ice box there,” he commands, gesturing toward the counter.

You do as he says, placing it down gently. Turning to face him, you wait for whatever instructions he’s about to give. Minho stands across from you, his expression unreadable as his sharp eyes study you in silence.

“What?” you ask nervously, breaking the stillness.

He finally speaks, his voice as cold as his gaze. “You need to have the determination to beat me.”

You blink, confused, and let out a nervous chuckle. “Beat you? That’s impossible.”

His face doesn’t change. The coldness remains, and your chuckle falters. “Wait... you’re serious?”

“Yes,” Minho replies flatly. “How can you even hope to compete if you don’t believe you can win?”

“But it’s you,” you mumble, still baffled. “How can I beat you?”

He interrupts, taking a step closer. The gap between you shrinks, and your breath catches as his piercing gaze locks onto yours. “How do you plan to be a chef without a competitive spirit?”

The intensity of his question and proximity make you look down, overwhelmed. Before you can respond, you feel his hands grip your shoulders, firm and commanding. His voice rises, filled with frustration and urgency.

“I can do it. Posso farcela!” he shouts, his eyes blazing with an almost contagious fire.

You blink at him, unsure of what he’s trying to do. “What does that even—”

“Say it,” Minho insists, shaking your shoulders slightly. “Everyone has their shining moment. Even you. But only if you believe it. Posso farcela!”

Without waiting for your consent, he leans in until his forehead presses firmly against yours. The sudden closeness sends a shiver through you, and your heart races. With Minho, you can’t really tell if you should be scared or excited by the proximity. His voice softens but remains commanding. “Say it.”

Hesitating, you whisper, “Posso farcela.”

“Louder!” he demands, his grip tightening.

“Posso farcela!” you shout at the top of your lungs.

Finally, Minho steps back, a small, satisfied smile tugging at the corner of his lips. He releases your shoulders and nods. You’re still catching your breath when he turns to the counter, pulling out ingredients and utensils. “You’re staying here tonight,” he announces matter-of-factly.

“Wait, what?”

“You heard me,” he says, his tone leaving no room for argument. “We’re practicing all night. Don’t even think about going home.”

A chill runs down your spine—not just from his words, but from the realization that you’ll be cooking with him all night. Somehow, this is far from how you ever imagined spending the night at his apartment.

The warm lights of Minho’s kitchen illuminate the room as the two of you work side by side. You’re focused on molding the fish mixture into small, round balls, while Minho is pan-searing fish liver with precision. The sizzle of the pan fills the silence between you, and the savory aroma teases your senses.

Every now and then, you find yourself glancing at Minho. There’s something hypnotic about the way he moves—the effortless way he tilts the pan without spilling, the fluidity of his knife work, the sharp focus in his gaze as he perfects every detail. Even in casual clothing, Minho radiates charisma. His dark sweater hugs his frame, accentuating his broad shoulders, while his rolled-up sleeves reveal veined forearms that flex with every movement.

Your admiration is cut short as Minho suddenly turns toward you, his sharp eyes locking onto your work. Without a word, he strides over and pokes one of your molded fishballs with his finger. It crumbles immediately.

His glare pierces you. “It’s too crumbly,” he states coldly. “Do it again.”

You nod meekly, murmuring, “Yes, Chef,” and begin adjusting the mixture.

Moments later, he scolds you again. “Why are these so small? They’ll fall apart when you fry them. Do it again.”

You gulp and obey, reforming the fishballs to a larger size.

It doesn’t take long before you’re on the receiving end of another critique. “You’re frying them wrong,” Minho snaps, stepping in to demonstrate. He moves with efficiency, ensuring the fishballs are evenly browned and perfectly cooked. Watching him, you can’t help but feel inadequate but also in awe of his skill.

Finally, the first batch is done, and you nervously wait as Minho takes a bite. Your stomach sinks as he spits it out into the sink almost immediately.

“This is terrible,” he says bluntly, glaring at you. “Too much egg and breadcrumbs. I can’t even tell if it’s made from fish or chicken.” His tone sharpens.

“What was the point of driving all the way to the seaside if this is what you’re going to make? Do it again.”

You nod quickly, muttering another shaky “Yes, Chef,” and get back to work.

After a couple more failed attempts, you finally feel a sliver of hope. You’ve followed every piece of advice Minho has given, and this batch feels like your best yet. But the hope is short-lived as Minho spits it out once more, his glare now blazing.

“Are you trying to kill me?” he barks, holding up a small piece of fishbone he found in his bite. “You left a bone in it!”

You freeze, guilt and embarrassment washing over you.

“What are you standing there for?” he snaps, crossing his arms. “Get back to the kitchen and do it again.”

Minho leaves the kitchen, your eyes following him taking his coat and puts it on. He turns to you as he informs,

“I’m going out, and when I get back, I expect you to have this perfected.”

With that, Minho storms out, leaving the apartment in silence. You let out a long, shaky breath the moment the door closes. Setting down your utensils, you wander into the living room and collapse onto the sofa, burying your face in your hands. Exhaustion weighs on you like a heavy blanket, and frustration simmers beneath the surface.

The silence in Minho’s apartment is deafening, broken only by the soft hum of the refrigerator. Exhausted and at your wit's end, you pull your phone from your pocket and stare at the screen, debating whether to make the call. It’s ridiculously early, but if there’s anyone who can help you, it’s your dad. After all, he’s been running his bakery for as long as you can remember, and you know he’s probably already in the kitchen preparing the first batch of bread.

You dial his number, pacing anxiously as the phone rings.

“Hello?” your father answers, his voice slightly groggy but steady.

“Dad,” you say in a rush, “I regret going to culinary school. This was the worst decision I ever made.”

There’s a pause before your father sighs heavily. “I told you this would happen. Cooking isn’t just some romantic idea—you need grit and perseverance, and clearly, you don’t have enough of either.”

His words sting, but you expected nothing less.

“Why are you calling me so early, huh? Shouldn’t you be sleeping off your regrets?”

You groan, leaning against the counter. “I need help. I’m working on this recipe, and I can’t get the chewy texture I need for fishballs. I’ve tried everything, but nothing works!”

Your father grumbles something under his breath before asking, “Alright, what are you putting in the mixture?”

You quickly list off the ingredients, your voice rapid and desperate.

“Are you using potato starch?” he interrupts.

“Yes,” you reply, blinking.

“Check it,” he orders. “Make sure it’s 100 percent potato starch.”

His words give you pause, and you dash to the kitchen, grabbing the package of potato starch from the counter. You scan the label, your stomach sinking as you read: 92 percent potato starch.

“Dad,” you say, your voice small, “it’s only 92 percent.”

“Unbelievable!” your father exclaims. “How do you expect to get the texture you want if it’s not 100 percent? You’re sabotaging yourself! Go and get proper potato starch!”

“But—”

“No buts! You’re wasting your time otherwise. Fix it.” His tone leaves no room for argument.

“Thanks, Dad,” you mutter before hanging up. You stare at the package in your hand, a newfound determination building in your chest. You don’t know when Minho will be back, but you’re certain of one thing: you’re going to perfect this recipe before he walks through that door.

You take a deep breath, head back to the kitchen, and prepare to start over—this time with the right approach.

The sun is beginning to rise, casting a soft glow over the city as you step out of Minho’s apartment. The cool morning air brushes against your skin, a stark contrast to the warmth of the kitchen where you’ve spent the entire night. You’ve left your dish on his dining table, hoping it meets his impossible standards, and now you’re longing for a moment of peace.

When you arrive at your own apartment, you’re met with the sight of chaos in the kitchen—ingredients scattered, utensils abandoned mid-use, and remnants of Sara’s late-night preparations everywhere.

Your eyes move to the couch, where Sara is curled up, her head resting on her arm. The sound of your footsteps stirs her awake, and she looks at you groggily.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you,” you say, feeling a bit guilty.

Sara stretches and shakes her head, offering a small smile. “It’s okay. I was about to get up anyway.”

Feeling a pang of sympathy, you ask, “Would you like some coffee? I could use a cup myself.”

Her smile widens, and she nods. “That would be nice.”

A few minutes later, the two of you sit together in the living room, cradling mugs of freshly brewed coffee. The morning is quiet, save for the faint hum of the city waking up outside.

You glance toward the kitchen, breaking the silence. “You must’ve been busy prepping for your TV program.”

Sara doesn’t respond immediately. Instead, she takes a sip of her coffee and then looks at you with a faintly amused expression. “Were you at Minho’s place all night?”

Her question catches you off guard, and you pause mid-sip. You're aware that Sara knows more than she lets on. You sigh, nodding in acknowledgment.

“Have you tried his new dish?”

You shake your head. “Hardly.”

“He's like that. He won't let anyone taste it until it's perfect.” Sara softly smiles as she says it as if she's reminiscing something.

“Must've been fun though,” she adds with genuine envy in her eyes.

You scoff at that and cradle your cup of coffee in both hands. “Fun? I got scolded all night.”

Sara chuckles softly, her gaze distant. “Still, cooking with someone else is always less tiring. And it's more fun.”

Her words hang in the air, and you can’t help but wonder if there’s more meaning behind them. Does she miss cooking with Minho? Since she won the contest, there are two possibilities: It's either she gives the recipe to the restaurant or she's taking the responsibility of this dish herself in the kitchen. Honestly, you can’t imagine the latter. Having two chefs in one kitchen is one thing but two chefs who shared a complicated past? That's a recipe for disaster.

You shake the thought away, deciding it’s not your place to dig deeper into their shared history. Draining the last of your coffee, you stand and offer her a small smile. “I should get some rest before the contest. Good luck with your cooking today.”

She looks up at you, her smile soft. “You too.”

The familiar sounds of clattering pans and bubbling pots fill the air as you step into the bustling kitchen. For the first time in a while, you feel an odd sense of comfort here—like you’ve missed this chaos, missed the kitchen itself. Looking around, it’s clear that everyone else feels the same. The team looks rejuvenated from their break, their energy palpable as they chatter excitedly about the upcoming contest.

Your thoughts are interrupted by Felix bounding into the room, his face glowing with excitement. His freckles seem brighter than usual, standing out against his sun-kissed skin.

“Someone’s been having fun,” you tease, smiling as he joins you at your station. “Where’d you go?”

Felix grins, his boyish charm making it impossible not to smile back. “Oh, just somewhere fun,” he replies cryptically, his eyes twinkling.

You roll your eyes but let it slide. “Are you ready for the contest?”

“Absolutely,” he says with a confident nod, and you hold out your fist. He meets it with a firm bump, a gesture of mutual encouragement.

The room falls quiet as Chris enters, his demeanor as calm and collected as ever, his enigmatic smile adding an edge to his presence. “Alright, everyone,” he announces, his voice cutting through the silence. “You may begin cooking your new menu items. Good luck.”

You glance around the kitchen as everyone springs into action, but one thing—or rather, one person—is missing. Minho.

“Where’s Minho?” you ask Felix, lowering your voice so as not to draw attention.

Felix shrugs, his expression unbothered. “Probably using the other kitchen. It’s pretty packed in here.”

His explanation makes sense, but a small pang of unease lingers. You shake it off and refocus on your task. You’ve come too far and worked too hard to let anything distract you now.

As you begin preparing your dish, the words Minho drilled into you all night echo in your mind: “Posso farcela!”

You whisper the phrase to yourself, almost as a mantra, channeling it into every movement. Confidence surges through you as you remind yourself why you’re here—to create something incredible and to prove, most of all to yourself, that you can do this.

The dining hall buzzes with energy as chefs carry their meticulously prepared dishes to the tables for judging. You’re no different, your dish carefully balanced in your hands, though a nagging thought occupies your mind: Where is Minho?

You’re not the only one wondering. Whispered speculations ripple through the room, the tension thick in the air. The door opens, and your heart leaps with hope, expecting Minho to stride in after Chris. Instead, your breath catches in your throat.

It’s not Minho. It’s Chef Sara.

Her poised figure glides into the room, her sharp gaze scanning the crowd before briefly landing on you. You offer her a hurried, polite smile, masking your shock and the storm of questions swirling in your mind. Why is she here?

She doesn’t need this contest. She’s already at the pinnacle of her career—a celebrated chef with a regular TV program, several bestselling cookbooks, and fame most chefs only dream of. So why?

The answer flickers at the edges of your mind, but you refuse to acknowledge it. Chris claps his hands, pulling everyone’s attention to the front. His calm, commanding presence stills the murmurs in the room.

“I have something to inform you before we begin,” he begins, his voice steady, “unfortunately, Chef Lee will not be joining us today due to special circumstances.”

You blink, the news hitting harder than you expect. Your stomach sinks as you try to imagine what could have kept Minho away.

“But,” Chris continues smoothly, “Chef Sara will be stepping in to compete instead.”

A ripple of surprise sweeps through the room. You’re no exception, your mind reeling as you watch Sara move to her station with a confidence that makes her presence feel larger than life.

Chris doesn’t leave room for more speculation. “Let me explain how the contest will proceed.”

He goes on to detail the rules. The first round involves the service staff tasting and voting for the three best dishes to move on. In the second round, fifty selected guests of Farfalle will taste the top three dishes and vote for the winner.

“The winning dish,” Chris says, his enigmatic smile returning, “will become the new main menu of Farfalle. The winning chef will not only oversee this dish in the kitchen but will also earn incentives from its sales.”

That last part immediately ignites a spark in the room. Chefs exchange glances, excitement crackling at the mention of money. You can’t help but smile, impressed by Chris’s ability to up the stakes and turn the contest into something electrifying.

Chris scans the room, his gaze settling briefly on you before moving on. “Good luck,” he says simply.

And with that, the contest begins.

The second round feels surreal. Though you expected to make it this far, the reality of going up against Chef Sara and Sous Chef Seojun feels daunting. You’re torn between pride and the sinking pressure of the competition.

From the second floor of the dining hall, you lean against the railing, watching as the selected guests taste the dishes below. Your nerves flutter, every movement of the tasters amplified in your mind.

Lost in thought, you barely notice Sara standing beside you until she speaks.

“You must’ve been surprised to see me here,” she says softly, her tone almost apologetic.

You glance at her, offering a polite smile. “Just a little.”

“I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable,” she explains, her gaze sincere.

You shake your head. “I’m not uncomfortable at all. Honestly… I’m no match for you anyway.”

Sara chuckles, but her expression turns serious. “You’d be surprised. I’m actually nervous because of you.”

Her words catch you off guard, and you laugh, assuming she’s trying to lift your spirits. “Sure, Chef. Nice try.”

“I’m serious,” she insists, her eyes unwavering.

Your smile falters slightly, a flicker of gratitude warming your chest. “I’m just glad I made it to the second round,” you admit, brushing off her words even as they linger in your mind.

Sara gives you an encouraging nod before stepping away. As you head back toward the kitchen, your phone buzzes. You fish it out of your pocket, your heart skipping a beat when you see Minho’s name.

“Posso farcela!”

A second message follows almost immediately.

“I’ll be there soon. Posso farcela!”

A smile tugs at your lips before you realize Chris is nearby, watching you with an amused expression. You quickly shove your phone back into your pocket, your cheeks warming under his gaze.

“What’s with that look?” Chris teases.

“Nothing!” you protest, flustered.

Chris smirks, his sharp pinstripe suit somehow making him look even more teasingly intimidating. The tailored fit accentuates his broad shoulders and lean frame, making it hard not to admire him. But nothing is as charming as his dimpled smile as he aims it towards you.

“Looking sharp,” you comment, trying to deflect.

He raises an eyebrow as he pulls a hand out of his slacks pocket. “Complimenting me won’t help you win.”

You chuckle and start walking toward the kitchen. “But it’s worth a shot.”

Chris steps closer, his tone light but curious. “Do you think you’ll win?”

“I have to be confident,” you reply with a shrug. “Besides, I’ve got nothing to lose.”

He nudges your shoulder playfully. “Well, if you do win, you owe me dinner.”

The warmth of his words makes your chest tighten in a good way. He actually has faith in you and he makes it sounds possible for you to win the contest.

“Deal,” you say, smiling.

He stops on his track and grabs your shoulder. Swiftly, he turns your body to the side, making you face him. He leans closer, his brown eyes softly gazing into your eyes. “Don't tell anyone but I'm rooting for you.” He whispers, not wanting everyone else to hear that he's biased.

You smile in genuine gratitude. “Thanks, Chris.”

As Chris walks away, you take a deep breath, feeling a renewed sense of determination. With encouragement from both Minho and Chris, you can’t afford to let your nerves get the better of you now.

Anticipation filled the dining hall as everyone gathers one last time for the night. The air is electric with nervous excitement, and you feel the weight of the moment settling in your chest. You tell yourself not to get your hopes up, but the thought of impressing Minho lingers, making your heart race.

Chris steps into the room, his confident stride and easy smile drawing everyone's attention. "Thank you all for your hard work on this new menu," he begins, his tone warm and genuine.

Without much preamble, he announces, "The two popular dishes from tonight are… the fishball pasta and Chef Sara’s triple-flavored pasta."

Your breath catches, a small spark of hope igniting within you. As expected, you made it this far. Maybe Minho’s mantra really did work wonders. You glance at Sous Chef Seojun, who wears a strained expression. Noticing his disappointment, you gently pat his shoulder and offer him an encouraging smile.

The room quiets as the door opens, and Minho strides in, his presence commanding instant attention. He surveys the room briefly before focusing on Chris, who grins and announces, "Chef Lee will be our tiebreaker tonight. I believe he’s the most unbiased person for the job."

Minho raises an eyebrow but nods, accepting the role without complaint. He takes his seat at the head of the table, signaling you and Chef Sara to bring your dishes forward.

You carefully place your plate in front of him, trying to keep your hands steady. Chef Sara does the same, her usual poise shining through. Stepping back, you wait as Minho begins tasting the dishes.

You can’t stop yourself from nervously playing with the edge of your apron as Minho takes a deliberate bite of your pasta. His expression is unreadable, his focus entirely on the food. He moves on to Chef Sara’s pasta, taking his time with each bite.

Finally, Minho sets his fork down and rises from his seat, commanding the room’s attention. He looks at you first, his gaze steady and thoughtful.

He calls your name first, his tone softer than usual. "You’ve done a good job."

A smile creeps onto your face, unbidden but genuine. Coming from Minho, that acknowledgment feels like a win in itself.

"You managed to maintain the sweetness and softness of the fish very well," he continues, his voice measured. "I noticed you used the least amount of eggs and breadcrumbs in your batter, which is commendable. It shows skill."

You bask in his words for a brief moment before he shifts his focus to Chef Sara.

"Chef Sara," Minho begins, his tone shifting to one of professional admiration. "Your dish is intriguing—a ravioli with a mysterious filling and a combination of two sauces that could have been disastrous. But you balanced it beautifully. I’m genuinely impressed."

Chef Sara beams at his praise, thanking him warmly.

Minho pauses, his gaze sweeping the room. "Cooking," he says, "is more than just technique. It’s dynamic. It should seduce whoever is holding the fork and knife."

He turns back to you, his expression gentle but firm. "Your dish is good, but it lacks that seduction. It doesn’t quite pull the diner in the way it should."

Your smile falters ever so slightly, the sting of his words hitting harder than you expected.

Chris breaks the momentary silence by asking, "So, does that mean Chef Sara wins?"

Minho nods, a small smile tugging at his lips. "Yes. The winner is Chef Sara."

The room erupts in applause as Chef Sara steps forward, her confidence radiating as she graciously accepts the title. You force a smile, clapping along with the others.

"Congratulations," you manage to say to her, your voice steady despite the pang of disappointment in your chest.

Sara thanks you with a warm smile, her sincerity softening the moment. As the night winds down, you remind yourself that second place is still an accomplishment. But deep down, you can’t shake the lingering ache of wanting more—not just for yourself, but to make Minho proud.

Minho sits in Chris’s office, his arms crossed as he waits with thinly veiled impatience. He checks the clock on the wall, nearly rolling his eyes as the door finally swings open. Chris enters first, his usual air of ease intact, followed closely by Chef Sara.

Sara takes the chair across from Minho without hesitation, her posture relaxed but alert. Chris leans casually against his desk, his eyes flicking between the two.

“Well,” Chris begins, clapping his hands together, “since Chef Lee chose the Triple-flavored Pasta, I thought it’d be a good idea for the two of you to discuss the details—preparation, launch timeline, all that fun stuff. Once you’ve reached a decision, let me know.”

Minho barely acknowledges Chris’s words, instead leveling him with a pointed look. “Can we have some privacy?”

Chris raises an eyebrow but doesn’t argue. “Sure,” he says simply, pushing off the desk and heading for the door. “Play nice.” He closes the door behind him, leaving the room weighted with tension.

Minho leans back slightly, his gaze cold and calculating as it settles on Sara. “Congratulations,” he says, the chill in his tone making it sound more like an obligation than genuine praise. “Now, let’s get straight to the point. I’ll need your recipe for the kitchen.”

Sara doesn’t flinch under his scrutiny. “No,” she says flatly.

Minho’s eyes narrow. “No?”

“That’s right,” she replies, her tone calm but firm. “I’m not giving my recipe to the kitchen.”

Minho leans forward slightly, the air around him growing sharper. “Are you suggesting you plan to come here and prepare the dish yourself?”

Sara meets his gaze without hesitation. “Why not?” she counters. “I can’t do that?”

A scoff escapes Minho’s lips, followed by a malicious smirk. “You’re delusional if you think I’ll let that happen.”

Sara crosses her arms, unfazed. “It’s my privilege as the contest winner. You knew that when you chose my dish—or did you misunderstand?”

The smirk on Minho’s face falters, replaced by a flicker of irritation. “You have other places you can go,” he says, his tone clipped. “Places you can pick and choose at your leisure. You don’t have to be here.”

Sara smiles, calm and deliberate. “But I like it here.”

Minho’s frustration bubbles over, his voice lowering dangerously. “Let me remind you of one thing: I didn’t choose your dish because you’re welcomed in my kitchen.”

Sara’s smile doesn’t waver. “And let me remind you,” she says, her voice steady and unwavering, “that if you want my recipe, you’ll have to accept me in your kitchen first.”

The room grows silent as their gazes lock, a battle of wills unfolding with neither showing any sign of backing down. The air between them is charged, the tension so thick it feels almost tangible.

It’s a stalemate, and for now, neither of them is willing to yield.

You move through the locker room like a machine, your mind distant as your hands go through the motions of changing. Shrugging into your jacket, you’re startled when Felix suddenly appears, leaning casually against the locker beside yours.

His eyes study you, his easygoing demeanor not quite masking his concern. He crosses his arms together then lets out a sigh. “How cheeky of Sara to just waltz in and steal first place like that.”

A small smile tugs at your lips of Felix’s effort to cheer you up, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. “I didn’t really stand a chance anyway.”

Felix smirks knowingly, leaning closer. “Don’t act like you like her. We both know we don’t like her, and neither does Minho.”

You snap your locker shut, slinging your bag over your shoulder. “If Minho hates her so much, why did he choose her as the winner?”

Felix falters, clearly caught off guard by the question. He opens his mouth as if to reply but stops, unable to come up with an answer.

You smile faintly, brushing past him. “Night, Felix.”

Leaving the locker room, you head toward the restaurant’s exit, your footsteps heavy with exhaustion. Just as you near the door, Chris’s familiar figure comes into view, his signature dimpled smile lighting up his face as he falls into step beside you.

“Where are you taking me for dinner?” he asks, his tone playful.

You blink at him, puzzled. “I didn’t win, remember?”

Chris’s grin widens as if he’s caught you in a trap. “Second place is still a win,” he counters smoothly. “And you promised me dinner, didn’t you?”

You let out a soft laugh, unable to argue against his infallible logic—or his charm. His gaze is warm, his smile unwavering as he looks at you, and for a moment, the disappointment from earlier feels like a distant memory.

“Fine,” you say, relenting with a smile of your own. “But I get to choose where we’re going.”

Chris nods eagerly, his dimples deepening. “Deal.”

Without warning, he gently takes your hand, leading you toward the parking area. His touch is light, but his presence is grounding, and you feel your mood lifting with every step.

Maybe a night out with Chris is exactly what you need to forget the tension of the contest—even if just for a little while.

It’s only been a minute but Chris is already struggling. His low groans and muttered complaints don’t go unnoticed as you glance over at him. His forehead glistens with a sheen of sweat, his ears glow red, and his flushed face and neck betray the battle he’s having with the bowl of spicy noodles—the same dish you’re enjoying without much trouble.

Putting down your chopsticks, you frown. “Chris, stop eating it. You’re suffering.”

Despite his clear discomfort, he shakes his head and stubbornly takes another bite. “It’s spicy, but it tastes good,” he says, though his voice is strained.

You sigh, getting up from your chair and heading to the fridge to grab a bottle of cold water. Returning to the table, you uncap it for him and pull the bowl away from his reach.

“Enough,” you insist, placing the water in front of him.

Finally conceding, Chris gulps down the water in relief, though it’s obvious it does little to soothe the fire in his mouth. Between sips, he glares at you. “Why on earth did you choose spicy noodles?”

You chuckle, finding his over-the-top reaction amusing. “You’ll live,” you tease, but his scolding continues.

“This isn’t funny!” he protests, still drinking water. “Do people eat this? Why would you eat this?”

Your laughter bubbles over, the tension of the day dissolving for the first time. Seeing your mirth, Chris glares again, but a small smile threatens to break through his stern expression.

As a way to make up for the "dinner disaster," you grab some milk and ice cream from a nearby store. The two of you sit on a bench outside, sharing the treats. Chris chugs from the carton of milk, sighing in relief as the burn finally starts to fade.

He side-eyes you, mock accusation clear in his tone. “Were you trying to kill me or something?”

Rolling your eyes, you open a pack of ice cream and offer it to him. “Stop being so dramatic.”

Chris takes it with a begrudging smile, the two of you settling into a companionable silence as you enjoy the sweet relief against the chilly late-winter air.

Your phone rings, breaking the moment. Glancing at the screen, you see Minho’s name flashing. Without a second thought, you hit “Reject” and shove the phone back into your pocket.

Chris raises a brow. “Not going to answer that?”

“Not now,” you reply, shrugging. “I’ll call back when I feel better.”

He sense that your mood hasn't changed much but he doesn’t push, instead offering a comforting smile. “You know, second place isn’t bad. You should be proud of yourself.”

It’s not about losing to Sara, though, but what her win represents. Still, you keep that to yourself, simply nodding. “You’re right. I feel good and happy about it.”

Chris grins, leaning in slightly. “You should. I saw everything tonight, and you were incredible. Even if you didn’t win, your cooking? Amazing. Remember what I said the first time I tasted your cooking?”

You laugh, recalling his words. “How could I forget? You said it was better than sex.”

Chris leans closer, his tone teasing. “Tasted it again today. Still better than sex.”

You burst out laughing. “Now I doubt that you ever had sex at all?”

He scoffs, feigning offense. “Excuse me? Not only am I rich, but I’m also attractive and popular.”

You roll your eyes and decide to tease him. “All that, and yet you can’t handle spicy food.”

Chris smirks, throwing an arm around your shoulder and roughly pulling you close. “You’re lucky I like you,” he says, squeezing you gently in mock revenge.

You giggle, squirming slightly in his hold, but his grip softens after a moment. His hand rubs soothingly up and down your arm, and the warmth of his touch is comforting. Leaning your head against his shoulder, you let out a content sigh as he pats your head softly, murmuring, “You did well. You really did.”

For a while, you sit like that, the peaceful night wrapping around the two of you. Then, out of the corner of your eye, you spot a stall selling fish-shaped breads down the street.

“Fish-shaped breads!” you exclaim, suddenly energized. Before Chris can respond, you’re already sprinting toward the stall, leaving him laughing in your wake.

The drive back is quiet, save for the soft hum of the radio and the occasional sound of Chris drumming his fingers against the steering wheel. You glance at him, noting the content smile on his face, and feel your own mood lift.

As the car comes to a stop in front of your place, you unbuckle your seatbelt and turn to him. “Thanks for tonight, Chris. I really needed this.”

Chris looks at you, his eyes soft under the dim glow of the streetlights. “Thank you for the most memorable dinner I’ve ever had.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “Most memorable, huh? You mean the spicy noodles almost killed you.”

He grins, leaning back in his seat. “Exactly. Unforgettable.”

Reaching for the bag of fish-shaped breads you’ve been holding the entire ride, you hand it to him. “Here, I kept these warm for you. My apology for the spicy noodles fiasco.”

Chris accepts the bag, his smile widening as he peeks inside. “I’ll forgive you—this time.”

The two of you share a quiet laugh before leaning in for a quick hug. His arm wraps securely around your shoulders for a brief moment, the gesture warm and comforting.

Pulling away, you open the door and step out. Before closing it, you lean down to look at him one last time. “Goodnight, Chris.”

His dimpled smile returns as he waves. “Goodnight. Get some rest.”

You shut the door and watch as he drives away, the bag of fish-shaped breads still in his hand. Smiling to yourself, you turn and head inside, the warmth of the night’s memories still lingering.

Until your phone rings and you see that it's Minho calling you again.

Minho stares at his phone, the screen mocking him with yet another voicemail. He clenches his jaw, his patience thinning with each unanswered call. Unbelievable, he mutters in his head, tucking the phone back into his pocket. You always pick up but not tonight. Not after everything that happened today.

His frustration only grows as the elevator ascends to your apartment floor. He doesn’t know what he’d say when he sees you—maybe he’d scold you for ignoring him or demand an explanation. Something. Anything to ease the irritation gnawing at him.

When he reaches your door, he rings the bell, shifting impatiently on his feet. It opens after a beat, but instead of you, it's Sara standing there, her expression annoyingly serene.

Minho stiffens. Of course, it has to be her. He knows she lives on the building but didn’t know that she's sharing the apartment with you.

“Is she home?” he asks brusquely, cutting straight to the point.

Sara tilts her head, a smirk playing on her lips. “Not yet,” she replies, as if his irritation amuses her.

Minho turns to leave but stopped midway. He can’t resist. Not with her standing there, acting like she belongs here. Facing her again, he let the words spill out, each one sharper than the last.

“I chose your dish because it’s just like you—greedy. Three sauces in one dish, just like how you want everything. Love. Skill. Fame. You don’t know how to let go of anything, do you?”

To his disbelief, Sara smiles, her eyes sparkling as though he’s just given her a bouquet of compliments. “Thank you,” she says sweetly, her voice saccharine.

His jaw clenched, a scoff escaping his lips as he turns on his heel and walks away.

“Goodnight, Minho,” Sara shouts toward him before getting back into the apartment.

“Ridiculous,” he mutters to himself in disbelief.

As he nears his apartment, something—or rather, someone—catches his eye. There you are, standing a few feet away, watching him. His chest tightens, though he masks it with irritation.

“Where have you been?” he snaps, his voice harsher than intended.

You cross your arms, meeting his glare head-on. “I was out with Chris.”

Chris. The name alone sends a sharp sting of annoyance through him. “What’s going on between you and him?” he demands, stepping closer.

Your brow arches, and instead of answering, you deflect. “What’s going on between you and Sara?”

Minho scoffs, shaking his head. “There’s nothing going on.”

“Really?” you challenge. “Because it looks like you two are still very close.”

The audacity. Minho closes the distance between you and him, forcing you back away until you hit the door of his apartment. His voice drops, low and deliberate. “I’m closer to you now than with her.”

He watches as a smile threatens to tug at your lips, though you fight to suppress it. “How much closer?” you tease, your voice light but your eyes searching his.

Minho is conflicted. A part of him wants to just go ahead, do whatever he wants to do but another part of him, the most stubborn part of him, reminds him to stay put, sticks to the rules. However for a moment, he falters. The walls he’s so carefully built around himself trembles under your gaze. The rules he’s sworn to uphold, the distance he’s vowed to maintain—they all seemed insignificant now.

But he can’t. He shouldn’t.

“Get out of my way,” he says instead, his tone clipped as he steps back.

You pout, moving aside as he unlocks his door. He pushes it open, stepping inside. This is the right choice, he tells himself. The smart choice.

But then he glances back.

The sight of you standing there, the faint disappointment flickering in your eyes—it's enough to unravel him completely. Before he can stop himself, he reaches out, grabbing your hand and pulling you inside.

The door clicks shut, and without hesitation, he presses his lips to yours. The kiss is desperate, unrelenting, all the tension and frustration he’s bottled up pouring out in waves. His hands found your waist, pulling you closer as every ounce of restraint dissolved.

Rules be damned. In this moment, you're all that mattered. Tonight, the stubborn part of him loses to his desire.

The moment Minho's lips find yours again, everything around you dissolves into nothingness. It's not just the way he kisses you—hungry, fervent, and impossibly deep—but the way his hands grip your waist with unrestrained need. Every movement, every touch, speaks volumes of just how much he’s been holding back.

When he finally pulls back, his chest heaving against yours, you barely have time to gasp for air before he sweeps you up effortlessly. Your arms wrap instinctively around his shoulders, your legs clinging to his hips as he carries you through the apartment. The kitchen counter greets your back, cold against the heat coursing through your body, as he sets you down and steps between your parted legs.

“This close,” He finally answers to your earlier question.

You hold his fiery gaze and breathlessly mutter, “Not close enough.”

The next kiss is even more desperate, more demanding. His hands work with an urgency that mirrors your own. You feel the tug of fabric as he pulls your jacket off and, with a sudden, heated impatience, rips open your shirt. The sound of buttons scattering echoes faintly in the room, but you can’t bring yourself to care.

Minho's lips leave yours, dragging hot, open-mouthed kisses down your neck, his teeth grazing just enough to send shivers through your entire body. He pauses at your collarbone, his fingers toying with the strap of your bra, his touch both teasing and commanding.

You take your chance, your hands tugging at the hem of his sweater. In one swift motion, you lift it over his head, and the sight of his bare skin—taut, toned, and so undeniably Minho—makes your breath hitch.

Your fingers trace down his chest, feeling every dip and ridge of his muscles as you pull him closer. This time, it’s your turn to explore. You press your lips to his throat, savoring the taste of his skin, warm and slightly salty, mixed with something so distinctly him that it makes your head spin.

His hands slide to your hips, gripping you firmly as his lips return to yours, his kiss relentless. When he pulls away this time, his eyes lock onto yours, dark and filled with something raw, something electric.

He takes hold of your hair, his fingers tangling at the side of your head, and tugs just hard enough to tilt your neck to the side. The sensation makes you gasp, but the sound quickly turns into a quiet moan as his lips find your neck again. He nips at the sensitive skin, his teeth grazing and his tongue soothing in turns.

“Tell me,” he whispers, his breath hot against your ear, sending a shiver down your spine. “How much closer do you want me to be?”

Your gaze locks onto his, unflinching despite the fire coursing through you. “A lot closer,” you say, your voice steady, daring.

The corner of his mouth quirks up into a smirk. Without another word, he hooks his arms under you, lifting you from the counter like you weigh nothing. Your legs tighten around him, your heart pounding as he carries you toward the bedroom.

Every step heightens your anticipation, your excitement surging as you wonder just how much closer the two of you can possibly get.

The room is dimly lit, the soft glow of the bedside lamp casting long shadows across the walls. The air feels charged, every sound amplified—the rustle of the sheets, the faint hitch in your breath, the steady rhythm of Minho’s own.

You lie beside him, your naked body sinking into the mattress as his gaze locks onto yours, dark and unwavering. There’s an intensity in his eyes that makes your heart race, your pulse pounding in your ears.

“Don’t look away,” he murmurs, his voice low and commanding. His hand trails up your arm, his touch featherlight, yet it leaves a trail of heat in its wake. “I want to see you.”

What he means by that is seeing every reaction you make as he explores your body. You swallow hard, nodding slightly, though the weight of his stare makes it hard to hold. His fingers trace the curve of your shoulder, sliding down to your collarbone and then lower, brushing against your skin with deliberate slowness.

“Keep your eyes on me,” he says again, his tone softer this time, almost coaxing. His hand moves to the small of your back, pulling you closer, his thumb pressing gently into your hip.

Your breathing quickens, your chest rising and falling as his hand continues its path, exploring with a mixture of reverence and possession. His touch is both soothing and electrifying, every movement sending shivers through you.

“That’s it. Stay with me,” he whispers, his lips curving into a small, satisfied smile.

His fingers brush against your jaw, tilting your face slightly, ensuring your eyes remain locked on his. The intimacy of it is almost overwhelming, the closeness between you leaving no room for anything else—no thoughts, no distractions, just him.

As his hand continues its slow, deliberate exploration, he leans in, his breath warm against your skin. “I want you to feel everything,” he murmurs, his voice a promise, a command.

And you do. Every touch, every whispered word, every look—it’s all-consuming, a connection that feels deeper than anything you’ve ever known.

Minho’s hand slides down the curve of your waist, his fingers pressing just enough to remind you of his presence, of his control. He leans closer, his lips brushing against your temple, lingering there for a moment before trailing down to your cheek. His kisses are unhurried, deliberate, as if savoring every second.

“Still with me?” he murmurs against your skin, his voice a velvet caress.

You nod, your gaze still locked with his, though your breathing comes in shallow, uneven waves.

“Good,” he says, the corner of his mouth twitching into a faint smile. His lips find the corner of yours, hovering there teasingly before capturing them in a kiss that starts gentle but deepens with each passing second.

His hand moves again, tracing the outline of your thigh, then sliding up to your heating core. He pauses there, his thumb making lazy circles on your bundle of nerves that send warmth coursing through you.

Breaking the kiss, he pulls back just enough to meet your gaze again. “Don’t close your eyes,” he says softly, his fingers brushing a stray strand of hair from your face. “I want to see you.”

You nod again, unable to find words, your heart pounding too loudly in your chest.

Minho dips his head, his lips finding the hollow of your throat. He presses a series of kisses there, each one slower and more purposeful than the last. His free hand moves upward, trailing across your ribcage, his touch igniting a fire beneath your skin.

When his lips return to yours, the kiss is hungrier, filled with a need that matches your own. His hand slides back to your lower back, pulling you closer until there’s no space left between you.

“Is this close enough?” he murmurs against your lips, his voice husky and sincere. His hand cups your face, his thumb brushing over your cheekbone as he leans in again, his kisses growing more fervent, more insistent.

You don't know if he's asking if you're close to your high or this is the closeness you demand from him. Your brain is struggling to function and time seems to blur, the world outside fading away until he takes you to your high and you soar onto cloud nine.

Minho’s lips hover near your ear, his breath warm against your skin. “Perfect,” he whispers, his voice low and intimate. His words are a soft admission, meant only for you, carrying a depth of emotion that makes your heart ache in the best way.

Minho grounds you to the bed, peppering your shoulder and neck with kisses to help you coming down from your high. After a while, he slowly turns you to lay on your side and you hear the ripping sound from behind you. You turn your head to see Minho tears open a condom with his teeth.

You hold the arm curving around you as he works on putting a layer of protection on before coming back to plant kisses on your flushed skin again.

He grabs your chin, turning your head toward him so he can capture your lips in a kiss. His other hand grabs your leg by the back of your thigh and slowly, he lifts it just enough to make space for him to enter you from behind.

A crease formed between his eyebrows as he begins pushing his length, his teeth faintly biting his lower lip and his hand keeping your knee up. His fingers start to dug into the flesh as he launches the rest of his length until it's fully sheathed inside you.

Your gasp spill into his mouth and Minho crashes his lips onto yours again. In the dimly lit room, he holds you close as he moves in steady, slow motions. You hear nothing but the rustle of the sheets beneath you and your shared breathing, endlessly echoing in the room.

“Is this close enough for you now?” he suddenly asks with his ear pressed to your ear.

You mewl in complaint and shake your head.

Minho smirks at that, a corner of his mouth raises higher than the other. It gives you the impression that he has anticipated that answer and more than capable to cater to that demand.

He grips you by the waist and pulls you even closer, he slings his arm around you, keeping your body still as he picks up the pace of his thrusts, fulfilling your wish. It's just the two of you, bodies tangled on the bed, hands intertwined on the sheets, and you want this night to last forever, you don't even care if you have to live in darkness as Minho knows how to brings out the stars.

The room is quiet now, the air filled with the soft rhythm of your breathing and Minho's. The sheets are tangled around your legs, the faint scent of him clinging to the fabric. Minho lies beside you, his chest rising and falling steadily as his arm drapes protectively over your waist.

You shift slightly, your cheek resting against his shoulder. His skin is warm against yours, grounding you in the stillness of the night. Minho stirs at the movement, his hand tightening briefly on your hip before relaxing again.

“You okay?” he murmurs sleepily, his voice rough around the edges but laced with concern.

“Okay,” you whisper back, smiling softly as you tilt your head to look at him.

His eyes flutter open, dark and drowsy but still full of that intensity he never seems to lose. He shifts closer, pressing a kiss to your forehead before settling back into the pillows. “Good,” he mutters, his hand lazily tracing patterns on your back.

For a while, neither of you speak, content to bask in the quiet intimacy of the moment. The weight of his arm, the warmth of his body, the steady beat of his heart—all of it lulls you into a state of peace you hadn’t realized you needed.

Minho’s fingers trail up to your hair, gently brushing it away from your face. “Don’t even try to leave,” he softly threatens, his voice barely more than a whisper.

“I wasn’t planning to,” you reply, your lips curving into a smile.

His lips find yours in a slow, lingering kiss, one that feels like a promise. When he pulls back, his gaze searches yours, as if memorizing every detail.

“Good,” he says again, his voice softer now, almost inaudible.

As the minutes stretch into hours, sleep finally begins to claim you. Minho pulls you closer, his arm wrapping securely around you. His breath is warm against your temple, his presence a protective cocoon that makes you feel utterly safe.

And with that, the world fades away, leaving only the quiet comfort of being beside him, the rhythm of his heartbeat a soothing lullaby as you drift off together.

The morning light streams through the tall windows of Farfalle as you walk down the hallway, the crisp click of your shoes echoing faintly. With a light knock on the door, you wait for Chris’s faint, “Come in,” before pushing it open slightly and poking your head in.

“Good morning!” you chirp, a bright smile on your face.

Chris glances up from his desk, clearly surprised by your sunny demeanor. His own lips curve into a smile as he leans back in his chair, arms crossing. “Well, someone’s in a good mood today.”

You shrug coyly, stepping into his office and making your way to his desk. “Maybe,” you say, your tone teasing. From your pocket, you pull out a small bottle and place it in front of him with a sly smile.

Chris’s brows furrow, and when he realizes it’s a digestive drink, he fixes you with a playful glare. “Really?” he says, exasperation coloring his tone.

“Just in case your stomach acts up today,” you quip, barely able to suppress your grin.

His tongue pokes the inside of his cheek and then shakes his head, but there’s amusement in his eyes. “You’re never going to let me live that down, are you?”

“Never,” you say with mock seriousness, before leaning forward slightly. “I also came to give you a warning.”

His brow arches, curiosity flickering across his face. “A warning?”

“Don’t act too friendly towards me,” you say, your tone playful but laced with faux seriousness. “And definitely don’t behave in a way that could be misunderstood by everyone—especially Chef Lee.”

Chris chuckles, shaking his head slightly. “And why’s that?”

“Because if you, even for a second, make me think I’m your favorite, I’ll start expecting special treatments,” you warn with a grin.

His smile widens, and he leans forward on his desk. “What if I told you that you already are my favorite? Tell me what kind of special treatments you want from me?”

You scoff, rolling your eyes. “At least try to pretend like I’m not your favorite.”

Chris chuckles again, the sound low and warm. “Fine,” he says, raising his hands in surrender. “I’ll try my best.”

With a triumphant grin, you reach into your pocket again and pull out a lollipop, placing it on his desk. “Since we've reached an agreement,” you say with a laugh.

Chris stares at the candy for a moment before sighing, his smile softening as he hurriedly puts the lollipop in a pocket of his navy suit. “This is exactly why you’re my favorite.”

You laugh as you turn to leave, waving over your shoulder. “Have a great day, Manager Bang!” You say in a veiled formality and a suppressed smile.

His quiet chuckle follows you out the door, leaving a small, satisfied warmth in your chest as you return to the bustling kitchen which immediately puts you on edge.

Your eyes widen as you see them hauling boxes of ingredients into the kitchen, the clattering of crates and the shuffle of hurried feet filling the air. A knot of dread forms in your stomach—you should have been helping with this.

You sprint to the back entrance, weaving through the bustling staff. Sure enough, Minho is there, standing at the edge of a delivery truck, clipboard in hand as he meticulously checks off the contents of each box. His voice cuts through the air, sharp and commanding, as he instructs everyone to carry the ingredients inside. He’s inspecting two styrofoam boxes when you cautiously approach.

“Why do we need fish roe?” he mutters, narrowing his eyes at the label.

“It’s for Chef Sara’s dish,” you answer quickly, hoping to be helpful.

Minho’s head snaps up, and his sharp eyes lock on yours. His gaze narrows further, the intensity of his stare making you freeze. “And where,” he starts, his tone low and dangerously calm, “have you been?”

You avoid the question entirely, choosing instead to give him your sweetest smile and hope that you can get away with it.

Minho’s lips curl into a sly, almost mocking smile, and he tilts his head slightly. “Come here,” he says, motioning with two fingers.

Warily, you step closer, and before you can react, his hand darts toward your forehead. You instinctively close your eyes, bracing yourself.

“Keep your eyes open,” he scolds, flicking your forehead hard enough to make you wince.

“Ouch! Chef!” you protest, rubbing the sore spot with a pout.

He merely smirks, unbothered. “If you have time to smile like an idiot, you have time to work.”

You grab a box of ingredients hurriedly, eager to escape his glare. “I’ll take this inside,” you mutter, hoisting it up.

“You should be,” he replies smoothly, not missing a beat. “You’re part of the kitchen staff, remember?”

“Yes, Chef,” you answer, louder this time. As you’re about to carry the box away, he stops you with a hand on the edge of it.

“Not that,” he says, taking the box from you with ease. “Take the sack of short-necked clams.” He nods toward the truck bed. “You’re in charge of vongole, aren’t you? These clams are your precious babies.”

You hesitate, staring at the heavy sack with dismay. Gathering your courage, you grab it and attempt to lift it. The weight nearly pulls you off balance, but you hold on, determined.

Minho watches your struggle, a small smirk playing at the corner of his lips. “What? Are you going to act like a girl now?”

You glare at him but straighten up, adjusting your grip on the sack. “No, Chef,” you snap, gritting your teeth as you finally manage to lift it.

“Then hurry up,” he barks, his voice loud enough to make you flinch.

“Yes, Chef!” you shout back, stumbling slightly as you head toward the kitchen with the sack.

You can feel his eyes on your back, no doubt ready to pounce if you falter. Despite everything, a strange thrill courses through you. Minho’s treatment of you in the kitchen is as cold and exacting as ever, but the contrast to how he was last night only makes it more intriguing. It’s a game of hot and cold, and you find yourself enjoying the uncertainty of what might come next.

Minho steps into the quiet kitchen, the clatter of utensils and murmurs of the staff enjoying their lunch fading into the background. It’s the only time during the day when the kitchen isn’t buzzing with chaos, and he plans to take full advantage of it. He heads straight for the workstation, intent on prepping the ingredients for his new dish.

He’s mentally cataloging everything he needs when his phone buzzes in his pocket. Without glancing at the screen, he answers, half expecting it to be some important work calls.

“Hello?” he says curtly.

“Minho,” comes a familiar, overly sweet voice that instantly grates on his nerves.

He stiffens. Sara.

She skips any pleasantries, her tone light but deliberate. “It’s been so long since we’ve worked in the same kitchen, hasn’t it?”

Minho’s jaw tightens as he grips the phone. “What do you want?” he asks coldly, already regretting picking up.

Sara doesn’t answer directly, instead continuing with an air of feigned nervousness. “I have to admit, it’s a bit... intimidating. Being in the same space as you again.”

He exhales sharply, more annoyed than surprised. “You’ve always wanted what I have,” he bites out, cutting through her coy act.

A low chuckle comes through the line, infuriatingly casual. “Oh, Minho,” she says smoothly, “I’m not here to take it from you. I want us to share it.”

Minho scoffs, the sound harsh and dismissive. “Share?” he repeats, the word tasting bitter in his mouth.

“With both of us there, we could make something extraordinary,” she says, her tone as slippery as ever.

He doesn’t bother responding, his silence heavy with disdain.

Sara lets the pause linger before finally breaking it. “Well,” she says lightly, “I’ll see you later, Minho.”

The line goes dead before he can hang up on her. Minho stares at the phone in his hand for a moment, his expression hard and unreadable. He slips it back into his pocket, his jaw tightening further. Share the kitchen? With her? The thought alone makes his stomach churn.

He shakes his head, refocusing on his ingredients. If Sara thinks she can rattle him, she’s wasting her time. The kitchen is his, and nothing—least of all her—will change that.

As he focuses on his dish, Minho hears the sound of footsteps echoes through the quiet kitchen. Without glancing up, Minho knows it’s you. He can sense your presence even before you step into his line of sight, though he doesn’t acknowledge you.

You don’t speak at first, clearly aware that when Minho is cooking, interruptions are unwelcome. The kitchen hums with the low sizzle of the foie gras in the pan, the aroma rich and intoxicating. He’s in his zone, focused on perfecting the delicate balance of flavors for his dish.

After a moment, though, your voice breaks the silence. “Can I have a taste of the foie gras, chef?”

Minho doesn’t even look up. “No.” His response is flat and immediate.

Undeterred, you take a step closer. “What if I help prepare the liver? I’m good with—”

“No,” he cuts you off again, his tone firm.

“Fine,” you say with a sigh, clearly thinking of another angle. “What if I assist with plating? I’ll make it look perfect—”

“No.”

This time, your voice takes on a pleading tone. “Can I at least taste the failed ones? You know, the ones you don’t use—”

Minho’s hand pauses briefly, his gaze flicking to you. “I’d hate that even more.”

You huff, realizing you’re getting nowhere. But rather than give up entirely, you try a different approach. Your eyes land on the remaining fish nearby, and you ask casually, “Can I at least have the rest of the fish, then?”

As your hand reaches out, Minho’s reaction is swift. He slaps your wrist lightly, his movements sharp and precise.

“That’s mine,” he warns, his voice low and serious. “Don’t touch it!”

You withdraw your hand quickly, your pout almost comical under the weight of his intense stare. For a brief second, Minho’s lips twitch, but he suppresses the urge to smirk.

Instead, he gestures toward the door. “If you have that much energy to bother me, go call everyone to get ready for dinner service.”

“Yes, chef,” you obey as you always do, but not without one last attempt at teasing him. As you turn to leave, your fingers hover playfully over the fish again, daring to provoke him.

Minho narrows his eyes and clicks his tongue, annoyed. “Don’t even think about it,” he growls.

With a mischievous grin, you laugh softly and disappear through the door. Minho shakes his head, a faint smirk finally breaking through. You’re infuriating, but somehow, it only fuels his focus.

The kitchen hums with a tension that feels almost electric as everyone stands at their stations, awaiting Minho's lead. He steps forward, his voice cutting through the quiet like a blade.

"Is everyone ready for dinner service?"

A unified reply echoes back, "Yes, Chef!"

Minho surveys the room, his gaze sharp and commanding. “There’s a lot to prepare for tomorrow’s reservation—100 guests. It’s going to be a long night.” He points toward Taesoo, Felix, and then you, his eyes briefly locking with yours. “You three stay after closing time. Understood?”

“Yes, Chef,” the three of you reply in unison and Felix sneakily offers his fist at you and you give it a gentle bump with your fist.

Just as the service staff enters, informing that dinner guests have arrived, Chris strides into the kitchen, his presence drawing everyone's attention. His casual demeanor is replaced by something heavier, his expression unreadable as he clears his throat to address the team.

“I hope you’re all prepared for tomorrow’s press conference,” Chris begins, glancing around. “We’ll be introducing the new additions to the menu—Chef Lee’s foie gras and Chef Sara’s triple-flavored pasta.”

Minho freezes mid-step, his jaw tightening as the words land. The room feels like it shifts; everyone is equally stunned, their collective silence palpable.

Chris doesn’t stop. He then turns toward Minho and says, “Sara says she’ll be making the pasta herself.”

The phone call suddenly clicks into place. Minho’s expression doesn’t change, but you can see the sharp edge in his gaze. You’re not the only one who notices—Felix is the first to speak.

“What?” Felix blurts, his voice tinged with disbelief. “Does that mean she’ll be cooking here, in this kitchen?”

Chris nods, calm yet firm. “Yes. As it'll be on the restaurant’s menu.”

Felix protests, his tone rising. “That’s nonsense! How can there be two chefs in one kitchen? You can’t. It's like having two conductors for the orchestra. Do you think that'd work? Do you even think about us?”

Seungwan chimes in, frowning. “They’d have completely different ways of making the same dish. What do we do then?”

Sous Chef Seojun, always composed, adds with a dry tone, “Even if she won first place for the new menu, she’s an outsider who participated without prior notice. I think the right thing for her to do would be to give us the recipe and we compensate her for it.”

Chris’s patience visibly thins. His jaw clenches, and for the first time, you see a flicker of true tension in his usually relaxed posture. The sight of him like this—stern, commanding, his gaze hard—shouldn’t distract you, but it does. He looks… devastatingly hot.

“Enough,” Chris says, his voice low but firm. “The restaurant was closed for three days for a reason. We agreed on changes in the restaurant,” he adds, looking directly at Minho, “And all you need to worry about is your foie gras, Chef.”

Minho exhales sharply, a sound that betrays his simmering anger. You can see the tension in his jaw, the way his hands clench at his sides. You know it's not the right time for it but Minho also looks... devastatingly hot.

He narrows his eyes at Chris, sensing there’s more to come. “Don’t tell me that she's already here,” Minho says, his voice tight.

Chris confirms with a nod. “She’s here.”

As if summoned by his words,, Sara steps into the kitchen, her heels clicking against the floor as she strides in with a confidence that feels almost rehearsed. Her sweet smile only adds fuel to the tension in the room.

“Nice to meet everyone,” Sara says, her tone light, playful. Her eyes flicker to Minho. “I hope no one plans to chase me out of the kitchen just because someone here has… issues tolerating women in the kitchen.”

The comment is a thinly veiled jab, and she glances pointedly at Felix, acknowledging him as Minho’s loyal protégé. Sara continues, turning to Minho with a feigned sweetness. “I’ll follow your instructions, Chef. Tell me where to stand and from which stove I should work.”

Minho’s knuckles whiten as he grips the edge of the table, his rage barely contained. He says nothing, his silence louder than words.

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

Her hands slide onto the chef’s table, a deliberate, territorial move. The implication is clear—she’s claiming his space.

It’s the last straw.

Minho spins on his heel, his movements sharp and deliberate. His eyes burn with fury as they lock onto hers, and for a moment, the air between them feels suffocating.

Sara doesn’t flinch, meeting his gaze with calm defiance.

Without a word, Minho storms past her, his shoulder brushing hers hard enough to make her stagger. The force of his exit is like a storm ripping through the room, leaving everyone in stunned silence.

Sara straightens herself, brushing off the impact with a smirk. But the damage is done—the kitchen is left in a tension so thick it feels impossible to breathe.

And just like that, Minho is gone.

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queenofbaws · 17 hours ago

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Love some Sam and Josh post game!!

"Don't say it."

Over her sandwich, her eyebrows went up. That was the sum total of her reaction, and yet - and yet! - somehow it felt like a slap to the face. Twenty slaps to twenty faces, all of them his. "I didn't say anything."

"You're thinking it."

A smirk, that time, again only visible for the briefest instant before she took a bite. "Prove it," she said, her eyes gleaming with mischief as she, in a most unladylike move, continued to taunt him with her mouth full. "Are you psychic now or something? Is that part of the deal?"

Josh glanced down at his plate, resolute. He wouldn't be shown up like this - he couldn't be shown up like this! Not after the years upon years of teasing he'd dished out, not when he'd made it a point, a solemn oath, a personality trait to poke fun at her whenever he could. Had it always been well-meaning? Sure. A little antagonism was good for the soul (or at least so he'd been taught). But this? This? This felt like his own body betraying him.

Across the table, Sam happily munched away. He couldn't see them, but he had the distinct sense she was kicking her short little legs as her feet dangled from the restaurant's stool. She had that kind of look about her. Honestly, he was shocked she wasn't shimmying her shoulders. Grooving side to side. Doing a full-blown touchdown dance.

He picked up a fry and ate it, continuing to push off the inevitable. "Psychic, no; psychologist, yes."

"You've been back in class for, like, two weeks," she pointed out before taking a sip of her lemonade. She kept her voice flat, unaffected, but goddamn her, he saw the glee in her expression - he saw it!!!

"What, and somehow that makes me less of a psychologist?"

"Pretty sure it just makes you a psych major."

"Same thing."

"Sounds like something a psych major would say."

He glanced down at his plate again, and made up his mind. He would do it. He could do it. He'd ordered the fucking thing, after all, why shouldn't he? Carefully, almost as if afraid it would bite him, Josh picked the burger up, lifted it to his mouth...

Aaaaaaand his body pushed it away again, making him set it right back down where it'd been. Something about the smell of it, he thought, the grease, immediately had him thinking about the dark, the metallic smell of the mine's stagnant water, the feeling of cold skin against his teeth as he -

Without a word, Sam held out the other half of her veggie sandwich, giving it a tiny, tantalizing shake until - begrudgingly - he reached out and took it. "Welcome to the club," she said, suddenly all singsongs and smiles. "This wasn't exactly how I hoped your journey into veganism would start, but...I mean...I'm not complaining."

"You're a doll, Giddings," he sighed, his ego bruised, just not nearly enough to keep him from chowing down. "The evil, haunted, possessed kind, but...I mean...a doll."

She stuck her tongue out at him before going back to her lemonade, and that was that.

The sandwich, he had to admit, had been pretty good. All considering.

#riverrunscold #six sentence weekend #until dawn #jossam #queenie writes supermassive #...to make up for last night's angsty jossam hehehehehhehe

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candykamishiro · 3 days ago

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HII:3!! I hope you're doing well! May i request a Gojo Satoru Tumblr layout n replycons?

(To be more specific i would like then in like this colors: #578eba n #1c4e78; it doesn't matter ir you make them a bit lighter or darker, just that they are like it that shade of blue (SORRY IF IT SOUNDS A BIT CONFUSING HAHA 😭)) /nf

Also ik that it's like a LOT to do so dont feel preassured to do it, take ur time n if u don't wanna do it it's totally fine. Sorry if it's like very demanding MSJDKS thank u in advance !!! /pos

Hello!! I'm sorry, I was at work!! I managed to do it all, so here! [UNDER THE CUT]

⟲ + ♡ if actively using

ICONS

BANNER

REPLYCONS (no text, so you can add whatever text you want. Ex: Talking, promo, important etc.)

#⌞ fufu... ⌝#AHH I LOST MY TAG #anyways #gojo satoru #jjk #jujustu kaisen #gojo #satoru gojo #satoru #tumblr layout #replycons #blue #gif #tumblr gif #answering asks #woohoo #finally off work

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mimikusu · 1 year ago

Text

Tw: mention of suicide, mental health,... under the cut.

Stay safe, especially right now and with christmas coming up. Don't hesitate to ask for help if you feel like you can't take it on your own. Christmas can be rough, especially for queer ppl and those who have to face neglect by the one's that should be close to them. You'll never be completely isolated. There are always ppl who care for you! Noone will think you a burden, if you ask them to help you out and take you in for the holidays, if you need them to safe you from yourself. Just because you struggle does not mean that you're unloveable. You matter. And although this is probably not the most helpfull offer: my dms and asks will be open. Don't bestitate to ask for any kind of support that I might be able to offer. I hope you'll make it through. 💕

Just had to get that out, as there is that one person in my vincinity who noone has heard of for a while and I really fear they might have decided to end things. It's a struggle every year for them as well as for us. I so wish I had a way of letting them know how much they're loved, how much I care... but knowing both ends of this, I see how they are unable to hear anyone over the raging storm inside their lonely soul... especially when there are trust issues involved... anyways... I know it's nothing much and mostly me trying to compensate, but if there's anything I could do for any of you or if this can reach some lonely soul, just know, I'm here. And you're not alone. Christmas is something a lot of us have to suffer through. It's okay to not be okay on christmas and it's okay to turn away from your family if they don't make you feel welcome and loved. Just stick to those who do and don't isolate yourself too much. I hope you can outlive this year's horrors the way you survived all those years before. I believe in you! ... in us! 🫂😌

#might delete later #it's not about me i'm safe i hope...#it's a friend of mine...#i just kind of wanted to say that to anyone if not to them...#sometimes it seems to be easier to take it from a stranger rather than from a friend #i totally feel that ... i hope you're all doing well #and i'm sorry for being depressing

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waynes-multiverse · 3 days ago

Text

Gladly 😂🫶

Loll I'm loving how you're writing his internal monologue -- matches his quirky personality well. 😂

One thing I missed when writing Beau (although he can be a lil goofball 💚). But Dean, Russell, and SB are just bound to have more hilarious inner monologues 🤣 (Russ did remind me a lot of PH Dean because of the blatant sneakiness. He's a little shit too lol)

Again, lmao great personality color, and so freakin' relatable!

His paranoia and suspicion was so fun to write throughout lol

LOLL. That's so very Colter. 😂

He was definitely not happy with Russell in this part 😅 LMAO. Classified, indeed. 😏 Can I hope for one of your legendary flashbacks in the future??

Welp, I might have caught the flashback bug. I went with a whole prequel this time 😂 (And of course, the kitchen island story comes back up in detail 😏) Most of the references to their past are actually stories in the prequel series. Was fun (and a bit insane) to wove 'em all in 🤪

Russ just HAD to bring up Reenie multiple times, didn't he? It's feeling very much The Misadventures of Russ and Colter, and I'm so here for it. 🤣

Bahaha totally! They're a bit of chaotic team 😂 I loved writing all the teasing about Reenie. Of course Russell wouldn't let that go (also a great deflection from his own problems lol)

(Also, not the "midlife crisis beard" 🤣)

lmao it comes back too 🤣🤣

But OMG they were married?!!! And why would she send the papers just to get his attention? Good Lord, so many questions…

Hahaha I loved dropping that casual reveal in there 😆 He was already so vague about how long they were actually together, this didn't feel like a big stretch lol

Ahh, makes sense. It tracks that Russ would be hard to pry open, even to someone he loves and has been in such close quarters with him for such a long time. (LOL Denver Airport. 👌🏽)

Yes, although reader knows pretty much everything about his backstory and his family. It was more that he was pretending it didn't bother or affect him, even though she could clearly see that it did until the dorment volcano became active again... 👀

It's so sweet to think Russ had a surrogate dad that actually treated him like a normal kid, teaching him how to throw a football, etc.

Yup, my heart couldn't take him being entirely alone for every holiday and birthday for over twenty years 😭 Totally makes sense too that he would "imprint" on reader's family and view them as his 🥹

Oh my GODD. They have a son together too?? What the hell happened between them? She left and took their son with her?

Well, we get into all of that in the next few parts... 😅

My heart is truly breaking for him, and now I need to know what the hell he did to make her actually leave him, even though they have two kids. 😭😭

Honestly, writing this scene wrecked me. He didn't even know if he had a daughter or second son like... 🤯😭 But I tried to show throughout that their life wasn't "normal." It was her way of trying to help him, so it was less about what he did than what he didn't do 😉

True to typical Wayne, this is an intricate cobweb of a story, Russell AND the reader are infinitely complex, and I'm very interested to see where you take this from here. 💜

Hahaha love that I'm getting that label now! Just wait till you read the Wayn'e Version meet-cute 😂😂🫶

Thank you so much, Alex! You always make me laugh so hard! I truly appreciate this (and you) 🤍🤍🤍

The Exit Strategy – Part 2

Summary: Russell is ready to hang it all up and retire, open up a brewery, and enjoy the rest of his civilian life. However, there’s one important thing missing before he can take the big plunge. Luckily, he knows just the right person to help him find it.

Pairing: Russell Shaw x Female!Reader

Warnings: +18, language, minor injuries, a bit of angst, hurt/comfort, fluff, a reunion, more secrets and revelations 😉

Word Count: 6.3k

A/N: Guess, the cat's outta the bag! Couldn't reveal too much about the reader beforehand without ruining the surprise now, could I? 🤓 Cozy up in your favorite chair with eggnog. Hope you have some lovely holidays, guys ❤️

Main Masterlist || Series Masterlist || Tag List

Part 2: This Is a Russell Mission

If Russell hated one thing in this world, it was playing The Waiting Game. The thought of being helplessly stuck inside a car with his hands metaphorically tied behind his back nearly wrecked his sanity. Well, whatever was left of it, anyways.

Colter had a point. Russell knew he could be a little paranoid sometimes, but considering everything he’d seen and done in his life, who could honestly blame him? It was only natural to feel a certain level of paranoia in his particular line of work. It kept him on his toes and, therefore, alive.

But maybe it had nothing to do with the job as he had always told himself. It might have been just a family trait he had inherited. And, well, he hated that fact even more than The Waiting Game.

As he impatiently watched a set of doors once more, he pondered if he was still seeing things clearly or if his kooky mind was playing tricks on him. Adjusting to civilian life wasn’t always easy.

What normal people would see as a perfectly nice, faithful woman picking up mail from the post office, Russell saw as a dead-drop pick-up.

There was a construction crew about three hundred yards to his right that seemed to be on constant break by their lack of work ethic. They also took turns to watch the supermarket closely. Ever wondered why there was so much street construction seemingly everywhere and yet America’s roads were still full of potholes? Russell didn’t.

And then, there was the cashier who handed you a flyer of some sort, which you accepted with a polite smile and stuffed in your purse. Live drop, Russell noted as he watched you walk out of the store hand in hand with your supposed husband.

It was all so abundantly clear to him, he almost couldn’t believe no one else could see it. It certainly worried him that Colter couldn’t.

What if…

What if he was in fact seeing things? Things that weren’t actually there. Ghosts of his past. No drops, live or dead. No secret surveillance in disguises. No fake husband – just a very real one.

Was that even legal? He figured it was under your new identity.

Russell shook the uncomfortable thought out of his mind and concentrated back on you. You stopped short by a row of shopping carts, exchanged a few words with your “husband”, and headed back inside. His little brother, of course, was hot on your tail, following you back in too.

That was when several alarm bells went off in Russell’s body. His head felt like the Liberty Bell on the Fourth of July. Experience told him: If it smelled like an ambush, it usually was.

Jumping into gear, Russell’s gaze snapped to your husband, who not only unloaded the groceries into the trunk of the car but also loaded a pistol and hid it underneath his sweater vest before heading toward the supermarket again.

Russell sprung into action rather quickly then, snatching his own semi-automatic from the glove compartment. Soon enough, he heard two familiar voices flowing out from a back alley behind the main building. There was no doubt in his mind that it was you and Colter.

As he rounded the corner, he had to stifle a laugh once he saw his little brother down on the ground, straddled by your legs. Russell had found himself in similar positions with you, but they had been mostly out of pleasure.

“If it helps, my name is Colter. Colter Sh–”

“Shaw.”

Russell watched as your hold on his brother swayed and shock claimed your expression.

“Hiya, sweetheart,” he greeted your eyes with a cheeky smile as warmth spread through his heart.

Fuck, he had missed you.

“Russell?!”

Your jaw had fully dislodged itself as you slowly got back onto your feet and let go of your prisoner. But the shock of seeing your ex here of all places didn’t last long till it made way for your anger.

“Are you fucking insane?” You stormed towards him, shoving his chest. Whoa, broad! Shit, what had he done? Spent more time at the gym? “No, wait, don’t say anything. I already know the answer to that one!”

“I’ll second that,” Colter chimed in with a groan and dusted off his jeans. He stretched his sore muscles briefly before glaring at his older brother, who only offered him an apologetic smile and a half-assed shrug of one shoulder.

“Did you tell him to follow me?” you asked and pointed an accusatory finger at his younger brother while still glaring daggers at Russell. The similarity between them suddenly struck you, and you cursed yourself for not putting the puzzle pieces together sooner. “What was the plan here, huh?”

“Oh, trust me, he had no plan,” Colter muttered sourly, still recovering from your attack.

Russell clicked his tongue and sighed, scratching the back of his neck. “Look, he’s right. There wasn’t a plan. I just-… I had to see you. But once I did, well… here we are.”

Full disclosure: There might have been a little bit of a plan. Just tiny, really. Not worth mentioning at all.

You scoffed and shook your head. “You, of all people, should know better. You could’ve blown our cover. Months of work down the drain…”

“I think your cover’s still good,” Russell assured you with that same old lazy grin of his that was scarily charming and glanced at your partner. “Might wanna call off the cavalry, though.”

You shared a look with Tom, your partner during this mission.

“I’ll signal them. Clean up here,” he said, unamused, and disappeared back to the parking lot.

“Road crew in front of the store?” was all Russell asked. You confirmed it with a simple nod. Internally, he celebrated his little win. His instincts were still intact.

You exhaled a deep breath and threw your hands up. You had been so incredibly relaxed before that menace of a man waltzed back into your life – with a goddamn wrecking ball, no less. Now, the tension was crawling back into your shoulders.

“Russ, what the hell?”

Your question wasn’t filled with anger, however. You were just exhausted by today’s surprising turn of events. The life of a spy…

And probably the life with Russell, too.

“I know. I know, okay?” Russell held up two placating hands. Large hands. Warm. “Can we just talk? Somewhere… I don’t know.”

With some reservations, you still nodded. “There’s a church picnic at First Presbyterian tomorrow. It starts at one. We can talk there.”

There had never been a day in your relationship where you had denied that man a thing – till that last day at least.

“Church picnic?” Russell cocked a brow but was only met with your glare.

“Don’t mock. Be there,” you told him firmly and walked back inside the building. You still had to buy that damn milk. Covers were complicated to maintain – much like relationships.

Once you were out of sight, Russell let out a long sigh of relief, followed by a laugh of happiness. Step One was done. Only when the high of his meeting with you subsided, did he notice his brother’s exasperation.

Colter threw his hands in the air and stared at his sibling with incredulous eyes. “What the hell, Russell? What was that, man?”

“Right, yeah.” Russell bobbed his head calmly, smacking his lips. He knew he owed Colter an explanation at this stage of the mission.

“So, I’m guessing she’s not an old Army buddy of yours,” the younger Shaw started.

“No, not quite. She’s in the CIA,” Russell explained at last. He couldn’t help the grin. He was sure Colter would laugh about it eventually, too. Well, here was to hoping he would. “We worked together when we were both stationed in Baghdad. You know how it goes. We met, and a couple of hours later, we were doing it on the kitchen island of some safe house.”

Well, alright, that was braggy. There was a lot more going on than that. Best night of his life, really. But Russell considered it classified.

“Romantic,” Colter scoffed with sarcasm lacing his voice. Honestly, a part of him was happy for Russell. Another part, though, was incredibly furious for obvious reasons. “But I’m sorry – you had me stalk a CIA operative? During, what I assume is, some elaborate undercover mission?”

“It’s actually not that elaborate,” Russell quipped with amusement. “You shoulda seen half the things I’ve seen her do, so…”

“Oh, hilarious!” Colter shook his head at his childish brother. “Are you nuts?!”

“I think we’ve already established that,” Russell chuckled.

“You know, if Reenie finds out about this, she’s gonna kill me,” Colter said, and Russell swore his brother seemed close to breaking into a sweat. “Oh, you think this is still funny, huh? Guess who she’s gonna kill right after? You.”

Russell rolled his eyes at the unnecessary theatrics. “She’s not gonna find out unless you tell her, brother.”

With pursed lips, Colter nodded in defeat. “Can’t say I like you a lot right now, Russell.”

His older brother only snorted a laugh in response. “Oh, c’mon!”

“You probably would find it less funny if you had been beaten up by a 5’4” woman,” Colter continued and pressed a hand to his ribcage, wincing. “Yeah, pretty sure she cracked a rib or two…”

“Don’t be a baby. Soldier up! You’re fine.” Russell patted his back roughly and inspected the swelling nose for good measure, causing Colter to groan in pain once more. “And by the way, pretty sure she’s only 5’3”.”

“What?! No! She’s at least… 5’4”, okay? Probably even 5’5”,” Colter argued, following Russell back to the truck.

Russell’s lips rose to a teasing smirk. “Yeah, you keep telling yourself whatever gets you to sleep at night, little brother.”

“I will, thank you,” Colter deadpanned and unlocked the car. “So, you’re gonna go to this church picnic thing tomorrow?”

“Oh, no, not just me. We are going to this church picnic thing tomorrow,” Russell said with a cheeky grin and slid into the passenger seat.

“Well, you know, technically, I’ve already… found her. This is usually where my job ends,” Colter said with a tight smile and popped the key into the ignition.

“Yeah, well, not this time,” Russell replied, chuckling. “This ain’t a Colter mission. This is a Russell mission.”

“Oh, I got that, yeah. Thank you,” Colter said with a laugh that made his bruised ribs ache. “You know, you could’ve at least told me she was in the CIA.”

“Yeah, probably. But this was more fun,” Russell grinned.

“Did you know this whole time this was a clandestine operation?”

Russell sheepishly twitched his shoulders. “Well, not when we first got to town, but once I saw her in that outfit, I had a pretty strong inkling. I’m tellin’ ya, even if she had changed her entire life and personality, there’s no way she would have accepted Jesus Christ as her Lord and savior. I mean, maybe if she suffered a traumatic brain injury…” Russell mused and then grinned. “Or if she got abducted by aliens!”

“Oh, not the UFOs again,” Colter sighed with a shake of his head.

“It’s UAP, man. U… A… P,” Russell corrected him once again and let the last letter pop from his lips for emphasis.

“Uh-huh… Did you even need me for this?” Colter leaned back against his seat and quirked an eyebrow.

“Hell yeah!” Russell assured eagerly before changing course. He dialed his enthusiasm back a little. “Well, honestly, I just needed your op analyst. I could’ve used one of my guys, but then that would’ve flagged it with someone upstairs, so… But c’mon! This was fun, right?”

“I don’t know, Russell. I usually prefer my fun to look a little different,” Colter deadpanned.

“With Reenie?” Russell wagged his eyebrows. The huge smirk on his face spoke volumes.

“Would you stop?!”

“‘Sides, this is nice, isn’t it? Us… hanging out?” Russell’s sly grin then morphed into a much softer and genuine smile.

“I guess, yeah,” Colter reluctantly agreed and shrugged his shoulders. But the tiny smile on his face wasn’t missed by Russell.

“Alright, let’s get some fuel,” Russell announced and playfully slapped his brother’s chest. “I’m starving. We also need to find a place where we can park that Airstream of yours. Maybe get a nice fire going, drink a few…”

“What is this? A sleepover? Did you just invite yourself?” Colter really wasn’t used to family members dropping in like this, but he couldn’t deny that it felt sort of nice, too.

“Yeah, I am. I mean, you didn’t offer. Would’ve been the polite thing, you know, considering I saved your ass last time,” Russell retorted puckishly.

Colter exhaled a humorous breath, shaking his head with a chuckle. “Alright, okay… Consider yourself invited.”

“See? Wasn’t so hard now, was it?”

Russell’s nerves leaped through the roof as he set foot onto the church grounds. A part of him expected his boot soles to leave burn marks in their wake on the perfectly green and trimmed lawn, considering his extensive list of sins.

Families, children, couples, and the elderly had all gathered in front of the church. There were picnic tables, blankets, even balloons and a banner. His green eyes, however, landed on the giant buffet, his mouth already beginning to water.

That’s also where he spotted you, handing out cupcakes and slices of pie with a pious smile on your face. Your hair was stuck behind your ears, a headband keeping it tightly in place. Your dress looked the same, only the flower pattern varied, with a tight cardigan around your shoulders that hid any naked skin.

Deceptively innocent, Russell thought, causing his mouth to water for a different reason.

“You okay? You nervous?” Colter checked with a curiously raised brow.

“Nervous? Me? No.” Russell gave a quick shake of his head, but his eyes were transfixed on you. “Gotta admit. That outfit’s doing something to me, though.”

Colter patted his shoulder blade. “Yeah, might wanna keep it in your pants, Russ. Pretty sure you get kicked out for impure thoughts.”

Russell snorted a laugh. “Yeah, probably.”

The Shaw brothers then made their way over to your stand. Russell’s heart thumped louder with every new step he took towards you. And once he was so close he could smell your irresistible perfume, his smile only widened.

You, on the other hand, played your role flawlessly and pretended you didn’t know either brother in front of you. Your brows knit in question, but your devout smile remained the same.

“Gentlemen, how can I help you? I don’t think I’ve seen you here before,” you said and subtly gestured your head to the pastor next to you.

Russell’s brow raised in understanding. He cleared his throat. “Oh, me and my brother just moved here. Looking for a new church. Heard this is the place,” he stated loud enough for the pastor to hear. “You know, we are very devout Christians. I mean, especially my brother here. If he doesn’t pray at least ten times a day, he gets real cranky.”

Colter threw him a look but decided to play along. “Oh, yeah, I just-… I hate that. Can’t pray enough, right?”

“Amen,” you said with all the sincerity you could muster. On the inside, however, you were bursting with laughter. Leave it to Russell to make you smile brighter than the sun.

“Well, you’ve certainly come to the right place,” the pastor chimed in with a cheerful smile that spelled kumbaya all the way through as he shook the brothers’ hands. “I’m Pastor Jeff. Welcome to our little congregation, folks.”

“God can never have enough sheep, am I right?” Russell quipped and wondered how long you’d already been undercover, playing your dutiful role as a Christian housewife. Five sentences in, and he already was at his limit.

“That’s right!” The pastor grinned broadly. “Please help yourselves to our delicious buffet.”

“Well, lookey, what do we have here.” Russell’s eyes zoned in on a plate of apple pie, rubbing his palms in delight.

“Oh, you have to try the pie,” the pastor eagerly suggested and put an arm around your shoulders. “Our Nora here is an excellent baker. Her desserts are a real trend in our community. It is downright sinful. But shhhh, don’t tell the big man upstairs.”

“Secret’s safe with me, pastor,” Russell grinned slyly before meeting your eyes for the briefest second. “Say, do you do marriage counseling too?”

The glare you shot him had enough power to kill him from afar. You might as well have ordered a missile strike on him.

“Oh, my, yes, of course!” the pastor eagerly replied, causing your frown to deepen. “Are you married? Having a little trouble with the missus?”

“You could say that,” Russell earnestly played along and propped up his hands on his hips. “Everything was going fine, you know? And then one morning, just whoosh, gone. No explanation, no letter, no anonymous call from a pay phone…”

“Wow…” The pastor was stunned and enthralled by Russell’s colorful storytelling at the same time. You weren’t, however.

“Well, I’m so sorry to hear that,” you feigned your sympathies with tight lips and a fierce glare at your former lover. “But you know what they say, the Lord giveth and he taketh away…”

“You know, Nora here is right. Our Lord does work in mysterious ways,” the pastor chimed in agreement.

“Amen, Pastor Jeff,” you said, smiling contentiously. “Do you have any idea why your wife left?”

“Oh, I’m afraid she’s as mysterious as the Lord,” Russell replied.

Crossing your arms over your chest, you forced a tight smile. “I don’t mean to overstep, but it sounds like someone was having a little trouble with commitment.”

“It does,” Pastor Jeff agreed. “Why do you think that is?”

Clearing his throat uncomfortably, Russell’s head bobbed, his tongue poking the insides of his cheeks. He was definitely feeling a spotlight on him. Even Colter seemed to curiously lean in. Then, the oldest Shaw clicked his tongue. “Rough childhood.”

Amused, Colter scoffed under his breath behind him. “You could say that.”

“Oh no.” The pastor sent the brothers a pitying look and turned his attention to the younger Shaw. “And what do you do?”

“Oh, uh… Well, before I moved in with my brother here, I lived in a trailer and traveled all over the country.”

“Sounds… lonely,” Pastor Jeff stated worriedly.

“Yeah, this one is a big lone wolf. He has commitment issues too,” Russell replied, earning him a scolding look from his brother.

“Uh, I don’t think we need to overshare, Russ.” Colter gave an awkward smile, turning to you and Pastor Jeff. “He’s kidding. I don’t have commitment issues.”

“It’s a sin to lie, Colter,” Russ noted. His tone was serious, but the twinkle in his green eyes was impish.

“What happened to your face there?” The pastor cocked his head and inspected the younger Shaw’s injuries.

Oof, he looked rough. The skin under his eyes and bridge of his nose were swollen and bruised, ranging in color from blue, purple to black. A thin burgundy line also graced his throat. You had done quite a number on him.

You should kick Russell’s ass for setting you both up like this. Who would do this to their little brother?

“Uh, you know, moving boxes…” Colter stammered with a shift of his weight from one foot to the other, pursing his lips.

Russell was a better liar than him, you noted.

“Yup, walked straight into one of those wood planks,” Russell added, oozing just the right amount of charm and humor to wrap the pastor around his finger. “Tiny thing, honestly, but still got him good.”

Oh, he was so proud of that too, you could tell. He smirked right at you. Well, they were both terrible liars.

“Not that tiny. Big, big plank,” Colter corrected. Apparently, you had bruised his ego, too. “Lucky to be alive, really.”

Yeah, he really was.

“Well, speaking of taking things away, I still have to get the eggs from the chickens,” you said, segueing the conversation to an exit strategy. “Excuse me.”

“Oh, you have chickens here?” Russell enthusiastically slapped Colter’s arm. “Did you hear that? They have chickens.”

“Yeah, uh, very exciting,” Colter said, subtly clearing his throat.

“We’ve always wanted chickens,” Russell clarified for the pastor, joining you by your side as you rounded the table. It wasn’t true, though. The brothers actually had a chicken coop at the cabin when they were kids and hated it. The hens were noisy, the rooster was the worst, and it was always a mess to clean up. “I love those clucking little buggers. And now that we have a big backyard… Mind if I come along and check out your setup?”

“Not at all,” you replied with a friendly smile.

“Great. Be right back,” Russell told his brother, hurrying after you before he eloquently made a U-turn back to the stand and grabbed a plate of pie.

“Take your time,” Colter said through a pressed smile, although he wondered how long he’d be stuck here for with the pastor and your fake husband.

“Clear,” you said and held the creaking wooden door of the coop open for Russell to follow inside. As soon as it fell shut behind you two, you crossed your arms. “Okay, talk.”

“What? Here? Now?” With squinted eyes and a cocked brow, Russell looked around the small and dark space full of farm fowl, hay, and feathers.

You threw your arms up in exasperation. “You said you wanted to talk, so talk. What’s wrong with this place?”

“Nothing,” Russell said timidly and swallowed. He scratched the back of his neck. “You know, I just imagined this conversation a thousand times in my head, and it never happened in a chicken coop on church grounds.”

“Adorable,” you commented unamused, your brow knitting even more.

“All I’m sayin’ is, this just takes some time gettin’ used to…”

“Get used to it faster.”

Russell sighed. Then you did.

You softened your stance, crossed arms falling freely to your sides. “I’ve missed you,” you said earnestly and gifted him a small smile, taking in his changed appearance for the first time in detail.

He was hairier than you remembered. That you knew for sure. If you went back even further, he was also a lot broader, too. When you’d met, he was just a kid – as were you. It was only in the last few years of your relationship that he started to gain some serious muscle and really began to fill out his uniform. And all of a sudden, the tall and broad-shouldered soldier became more threatening – and more protective.

Now, clean-shaven, young, somewhat naive, and rule-following was replaced by a rebellious, midlife-crisis beard and the matching hair.

Ah, the t-shirt… Mötley Crüe. He found that thing eleven years ago at a thrift store in Arizona. It had a (bullet) hole on the left side of his lower back that you had patched – thrice. Once even with teething floss in a tent.

“How have you been?”

Russell’s head bobbed. He shrugged. “So-so.” Then he smiled. Soft and warm. The first few rays of sunshine on frozen winter skin. “I’ve missed you, too.” Then, the smile disappeared from his lips, replaced by contempt. “Got your divorce papers. Not signing them, by the way.”

“Good.” You smiled weakly. “I didn’t want you to sign them. I just sent them to get your attention.”

The relief that surged through Russell’s body was ineffable. For months, he thought he’d lost you – that you’d finally given up on him for good.

“How’s the new job working out?”

Russell’s lips drew a smirk, flirtatious charm glimmering in his forest green eyes. “What, you keeping tabs on me, sweetheart?”

You matched his expression. “Who do you think recommended you, huh?”

Russell stumped for a beat. His lips pursed, eyebrows drawing into a wondering v. “Well, they said someone did. Just didn’t think it was you.”

All this time, he’d believed you had crossed him out of your mind with a red pen as soon as you’d walked out the door that very morning.

“I told you. I’ll always look out for you,” you replied simply, a caring smile dancing on your lips. “So? Did it help? Are you any closer?”

“Yeah, guess so…” He paused for a moment, his gaze focused on the tips of his boots as he thought. “Not sure it was worth it, though. Actually, I’m fucking sure it wasn’t.”

You exhaled a long breath. You knew this day would come eventually. You knew he’d come back for you. Granted, you had expected him on your goddamn doorstep years ago, but he never showed. Sending divorce papers was a last resort in hopes he’d wake up then. That had been nine months ago.

“Why are you here, Russ?”

“Things have changed.”

Ah. That made things perfectly clear.

Lifting a brow, you crossed your arms again. “Is that why you brought your little brother along? As a show of good faith?”

“Kinda.”

“Poor Colter… How’s his nose?”

Russell wiped your sincere concerns away with a shrug. “He’ll be fine. Don’t worry about it. Just a scratch.”

Just a scratch…

“It’s weird… seeing you two together,” you said. For more than fifteen years, you had wondered. A part of you thought this day would never come, so maybe Colter being here was indeed a show of good faith and Russell was finally, finally dealing with his shit.

That man could easily fill the Denver airport with his baggage.

“You look good,” you noted. You were trained to control your heartbeat, but he had always made your job harder. “Different.”

His fingers brushed his beard as if to emphasize the newness. “Yeah? You like it?”

“Well, uhm, I don’t hate it,” you said rather coyly. Did you want to give him a win? No. But if he stepped any closer, you would falter. Your cheeks blushed as the tip of your shoe drew circles in the sandy ground. Why did your ears suddenly feel so hot?

Russell smiled as heat crept to his cheeks as well. “Your new look is somethin’, too.”

“God, shut up.” You rolled your eyes at him but couldn’t help the smile that spread across your face.

“Oh, I don’t think you’re allowed to take the Lord’s name in vain here,” Russell teased. “Don’t let good Pastor Jeff hear ya.”

You laughed, scoffing. “I hate that man.”

“Pastor Jeff? I can tell,” Russell chuckled in amusement and finally stuffed his face with the first bite of pie, chewing a mouthful as he spoke. “But c’mon, he ain’t half bad.”

“Really? You don’t wanna shoot yourself after spending five minutes with him? ‘Cause I do. And it’s been months for me,” you said. “You don’t know what that man does in his office.”

“You bugged his office?”

“And the confession booth. Two words: game changer,” you said, wide-eyed. Russell whistled lowly. You narrowed your eyes at the half-eaten plate in his hands and the pie crumbs in his beard. You raised a scolding brow. “Did you really have to bring the pie?”

“Do you even know me at all? Of course I did.” Russell then shoved the last bite into his mouth to prove his petulant point. “Did you actually bake this?”

In expectant offense, you stepped back a little, crossing your arms again. “Why?”

“‘Cause it’s good.”

“Do you even know me at all? What d’you think?”

“Thought so.” Russell gave a shrug of his shoulders. “The first bite of this didn’t give me immediate food poisoning.”

“Fuck you. I’m a great cook,” you huffed but couldn’t help the grin on your face. You had missed this – the bickering, the bantering, the fun. And Russell, the sly asshole, knew that, judging by his own smirk.

“There’s a lot of reasons why I love you, but your cooking skills ain’t one of ‘em, sweetheart,” he quipped.

“I’ll use you as shooting practice, Shaw,” you threatened playfully. Russell laughed, but it sounded more secretive than a laugh about a joke. “What?”

Russell’s eyes found yours. “Nothing. This is nice, right? We slid right back into it. Like the last three years never happened.”

“Russ…” You sighed, your heart hurting. For you, they happened.

“Just saying it was easy. That’s all,” he said with placating hands. “How’s the family? How’s your dad?”

That caused you to suck in a breath. You had wondered when he would finally dare to ask. You knew this was the real reason why he was here. “Dave finally married Jill last spring. It was a nice wedding. Florence, Italy. Got to wear a sun hat.”

“That’s good.” Russell smiled softly, although it stung that he wasn’t invited. He had always imagined he would be, once your brother popped the question to his longtime girlfriend. After all, Russell was the one who introduced the couple in the first place.

“They wanted to do it sooner, but because of the pandemic…”

“They shoulda done it ten years ago. I kept telling him to lock it down,” Russell quipped, the irony not entirely lost on him. He knew even if something was locked down, didn’t necessarily mean it would stay forever.

“You did,” you remembered with a fond smile. “They wanted you there,” you added, noticing his saddened expression. “It’s just-…”

“No, I know. Don’t worry about it,” Russell brushed it off with all the coolness he could muster at that moment.

“Russ…”

“I said it’s fine,” he repeated and forced another smile. “So, how’s the old man?”

Silently, you bit your lip and sent him a look that spoke volumes.

“Uh-oh. That bad, huh?”

“It’s the reason why I moved back here. To be closer… As close as I can be with this job. Figured it was best for everyone,” you explained. “In the beginning, he had a lot of good days, you know? Now they just all seem… bad.”

“Yeah… I’m sorry,” Russell replied, dumping his empty plate by the chickens. He stepped closer.

Uh-oh. Now, you were in trouble.

“I’m sorry, too.”

Russell’s brow jumped up. “What are you sorry for? It’s your dad.”

“I know. But… he kinda was yours too, right?” Russell’s green eyes meeting yours confirmed your statement. “He still talks about you on his good days. God knows you couldn’t throw a football before you met him.”

“Hey, that’s not true. I could throw the old pigskin around perfectly fine,” Russell defended.

You snorted. “You could not,” you argued with a teasing smile. “You knew how to kill sweet little forest critters and turn your pee into drinking water. But you did not know how to throw a damn ball.”

“You’re never letting the pee thing go, are you?”

You shrugged. “It was a very memorable trip.”

Russell laughed at that. Then the melancholic sadness returned to his face. “How’s-, uhm, how’s Lewis?”

He’d made it through the list of your relatives, finishing with the most important one. And it stung so unbearably much it broke your heart for him. But in the end, you knew he’d done it to himself.

Fighting the tears in your eyes, you forced a smile to your lips. “He’s good. He’s a sweet boy. Keeps asking questions about his daddy that I don’t know how to answer…” you scoffed humorlessly but decided to forgo the pettiness. It would be so easy to be mad at him, but not even on your darkest days could you do it. “He’s starting school this fall.”

“School, huh?” Russell huffed a devastating chuckle, the tears brimming in his eyes as the lump in his throat only grew. “Shit…”

It was getting to him, you could see, and he hadn’t expected that it would. Knowing Russell, he probably figured he could push through the pain and be fine. But he had never really been fine since the day you met him – and he wasn’t this time either as he squeezed his eyes shut, trying to blink the tears away, and turned his back to you with a hand clasped over his mouth.

“Should I stop?”

It felt like you were torturing him with a cruel new method of some PsyOp. Even if you had cursed this man for the past three years, your heart refused to see him hurt.

But Russell shook his head, finding your eyes again. He offered you a weak smile. “No, uh, don’t. Just tell me something about him, okay? I’m fine. Please.”

Sighing, you nodded in acceptance. “When my dad was better, he and Dave would take him fishing a lot. He loved it. He’s in his ‘backyard adventures’ phase,” you said, giggling softly. “He’s catching frogs and releasing them in the house. Never imagined I’d wake up with an amphibian on my head. It’s been a delightful experience.”

Russell laughed, but it was feeble at best. “I can imagine…”

And I can’t imagine I missed it all, he thought self-punishingly. But the hard part still hadn’t come yet.

“And, uhm…” Russell wrung for words, taking a deep breath. “How’s the baby? Is it–”

“She,” you stated, watching him swallow upon your correction. “Her name’s Amelia. She turned two in April.”

“Huh, girl…” His heart beat faster, grew bigger, and painfully yearned. His feet trembled to get home, wherever that was, and see them, but he knew he couldn’t. It wasn’t so easy, after all. “Guess I was right…” he said with a sad smile.

You had been sure you’d have another boy. However, Russell had bet you ten meatball subs – your craving at the time – that it wasn’t.

“What happened to Ann? Thought that’s the name we picked,” Russell teased in hopes of lightening the mood.

“Yeah, well, if you wanted a say, maybe you should’ve been there…” you retorted.

Russell should’ve known winning you over wouldn’t be as simple as spelling the ABC.

“You’re the one who left,” Russell muttered finger-pointing-ly under his breath.

“Don’t pretend you don’t know why,” you bit glaringly.

Russell swallowed lightly, nodding. “You’re right. I do. I’m sorry.” Pausing, his eyes glanced around the coop before he gestured with a hand at your outfit, looking you up and down. “So, speaking of the kids, what’s going on here? Thought you were done with the deep-covers,” he changed the subject with a clear of his throat.

He knew if he continued talking about what he’d missed, he wouldn’t make it out of that chicken coop for the next several hours, sobbing uncontrollably in the hay with the hens.

“I was. Had a desk job. Kinda…” A desk job in the CIA still never really was a desk job. “I was station chief in Paris.”

“Paris, huh? Fancy,” Russell said, but the joke didn’t reach the crinkles around his eyes.

“It’s the job I took after I left. We only moved back to the States in the beginning of the year,” you explained. “The kids loved it there, though. Lewis still gets a craving for crêpes every once in a while.”

Russell chuckled, even though every story added another bruise to his heart.

“Anyways, I got a job at Langley. Desk. Bought a house not too far from here, actually. It’s nice. Got a big backyard. Even bigger oak tree,” you told him with a smile. “Lewis wants me to build him a treehouse, but I’m not sure I can swing it.”

“I could help,” Russell offered, trying to keep his eagerness at bay when truly all he wanted was to race there and build the damn thing now. “I mean, if I can come by sometime…”

Your heart sank. “You can always come home. You always could, Russ.”

Home.

That four-letter word filled him with so much warmth and longing it brought back the tears in his eyes.

“So, uhm, why are you here and not there then?” This time, he switched the topic because he would’ve kissed you if he hadn’t. “You running a sting on the pastor or…?”

“One of his sheep.”

“Ah.” Russell nodded. “Need any help?”

“From you and Colter?”

“Yeah.”

“No, thank you.”

“Oh, c’mon, just lemme help. The faster you get this done and over with, the sooner you can stop clutching your fake pearls and get home to the kids,” Russell reasoned.

You sighed, knowing he was partially right. You did hate your disguise as much as you hated the annoyingly nosy pastor. Moreover, you missed your children a fucking lot. It had already been three months. Fall was coming soon, and you had promised your son you’d be home by his first day of school.

“C’mon, how did they lure you back in, huh? Who’s the naughty little sheep you’re working?”

“Can’t talk about this here,” you told him, automatically lowering your voice. It was hard to remember who you were right now, when what you were used to be was standing right in front of you.

Russell quirked a brow. “Did you bug the coop, too?”

“No, the pastor’s scared of the chickens, which is why I didn’t bother. But you never know if someone else isn’t listening. We’ve already shared too much. We shouldn’t do this here,” you insisted, and Russell nodded in agreement. He knew the dangers as well as you did.

“Then where?”

You exhaled a deep breath and thought for a moment. You wanted to see him again. You knew he didn’t just come find you to catch up and then leave again.

“Come by the house tonight. Make it look natural. I’ll invite you guys to dinner as a sort of friendly welcome wagon to the neighborhood. The pastor is gonna buy it in a heartbeat. Just give me a good reason to invite you over.”

Russell nodded in understanding. “Alright.”

Part 3: This Is a Heart-To-Heart – SOON 💚

Welp, seems like Russell omitted having a wife and two kids... 🙈😂

I'll post the next part in the beginning of the new year or straight after Polaris has finished. We'll see ☺️

Enjoy the rest of your holidays, loves! Can't wait to read your comments on this one 😉🤍

TAGS:

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@deansbbyx @foxyjwls007 @ladysparkles78 @roseblue373 @zepskies

@agalliasi @yvonneeeee @hobby27 @iamsapphine @globetrotter28

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#comment reblog #lovely mutuals 🤍#the exit strategy #russell shaw #russell shaw x reader

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catgirledteach · 1 year ago

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tw suicide and spoilers for the finale

i'm really trying to see the positive in the finale but it just sits sour in my stomach. again i dont want to get bogged down completely by izzy's death as there was so much else in the finale that i genuinely loved, but this event really gets to me for a specific reason

as someone who has dealt with suicidal thoughts in the past i am genuinely upset if this is how izzy's story ends. and even more upset that it seems to be framed as 'meant to be' and 'simply unavoidable.' the first three episodes REALLY drove home izzy's belief that he had nothing to live for - he wanted to die and he very explicitly tried to kill himself. and i was glad they portrayed that at the time and even more encouraged when in episodes 4 through 7 it seemed like he was recovering mentally and emotionally. he was portrayed as having found purpose beyond serving someone who didn't love him back, accepting parts of himself he was previously ashamed of, getting support from people around him, etc. it truly was reading to me like an incredible portrayal of someone finally valuing their own life that they had been so ready to throw away before now

and then all of the sudden in the finale it feels like all of that is ripped away. he repeatedly says he doesn't care if he dies, that he's ready to go, and it all feels so upsetting considering where he started the season. and yes i can absolutely see the argument that now he was dying for the cause of protecting the legacy of piracy, but was he though? was that necessary for them to all escape? and more importantly does that change the fact that izzy was still completely ready to put his life in danger again for the sake of other people's safety? part of the comfort of found family is also learning to value your well-being and safety the same way those around you do, at least to me. and his lines about being surrounded by family ring incredibly hollow when the family surrounding him doesn't seem to be upset by his willingness to sacrifice himself for no particular reason.

as someone who is in a far better place than i was two or even one year ago, this hurt and it hurt deeply and a story that once felt like a safe space is one i no longer feel like i can trust. even if a third season comes out (and at this point i think i would still watch it if it came out) i can no longer relax when watching because i can no longer have faith that there will be a happy ending for characters i believe deserve one.

olu says the line about jim in episode three, 'we're best friends. family. someone i'd like to see grow old just like all my other friends.' to me this means i want to see my friends, my family, die in peace in their own time. the audience is watching a supposedly comforting romcom and one would assume they want to see the family that's been built onscreen have happy endings. i know it may sound extreme but it feels like a betrayal. personally it felt like the story was telling me, 'this is the only way it could have ended for izzy. he wanted to die because he was convinced he would never live happily and in the end he was right,' and luckily i'm at a point now where i refuse to believe that's true. that someone can go so far down their path of self hatred that the only way for their story to end is in their untimely death. and in a way i'm glad that i'm as upset as i am because it means i do not buy into that narrative for myself. i still value every other positive lessons and introspection this show has given me, but this is certainly a misstep that i don't know if i can ever truly forgive, and it has certainly tainted the story forever for me.

#if you're also upset i'm sorry #if you also interpret all of this differently that's totally cool and i recognize that my views are not universal #but if you are upset i encourage you to do whatever you need to do to process aside from taking out your negative emotions on others #log off if you need block any tags you need to block don't feel obligated to engage #i may or may not respond to any responses to this post and i hope anyone reading or responding understands that #be well friends and take care of yourselves #and whatever happens next with ofmd i am still so grateful for the friends ive made through this fandom and the happy moments had before no #and i plan to still hold on to those even if some of yall have to take a break for a while i get it and i'll be here #tw suicide #ofmd #ofmd spoilers #i might delete later

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strawberrymochin · 3 months ago

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𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐭 𝐦𝐲 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭 ☀︎

Rockstar!gojo x art student!femreader

synopsis- satoru gojo fell in love with you when he was 17. He tried everything to gain your attention—joining the student council, participating in every extracurriculars, performing well in academics yet nothing worked. That was until high school. In college, having been forced into a band, he needed to find a new artist for their posters which he requested shoko to take care of. What he didn't expect was shoko to bring you as a volunteer—

warnings- college!au, satoru being heads over heels for you, he’s so damn in LOVE save my boy, friends to lovers, misunderstanding, SEMI PUBLIC SMUT, fingering, oral fem receiving, PUSSY DRUNK GOJO, dirty talk, creampie, BALL OF FLUFF, ANGST, mentions of smoking and alcoholism, super cute ending

w.c- 8.2k (have faith)

a/n's note- i'd poured out my heart in this (especially the smut). i hope you all do like this. your comments and reblogs are highly appreciated as it helps motivating me for writing long ass fics. taglist is open you can ask me to join. love ya' all!!

When satoru met you for the first time, he was 11 years old.

You were the daughter of his mother’s friend whom he heard of so many times. Though the accidental reunion in the mall while grocery shopping was the first time satoru ever had the opportunity to meet you face to face.

It was a totally random encounter, coincidental even, you can say when your mother recognised satoru’s mom and both squealed like teenagers. They'd a lot to catch up with, thus having their kids entertain each other in the play section was convincing enough for them to chit chat in a cafe.

And this is how satoru ended up being stuffed, hand in hand with you, to go enjoy in the play section as his mother patted his back, asking him to be good to you.

“Don't leave her hand, okay toru?! Make sure you both stay together.” His mom said before scooting herself with your mom.

Satoru looked at you, his hand locked in yours as you made eye contact with him before shying away, looking in the other direction. He stood confused before pulling you to the gaming section, without any word.

He scanned amongst the box of video games, before pulling out one which caught his eyes with his unoccupied hand. He gave a side look to you, reluctantly asking “you want to play this?”

You gaze down at the video game he held in his hands, eyes sparkling a bit, if satoru wasn't seeing things, then raise your head to look at him again. “It has vibrant colours.”

Satoru nodded, feeling a little giddy that you liked his preference. “It's called mario kart.”

“Oh.” Your eyes widened as he revealed the name.

“Do you know how to play it?” You shake your head at his question. “Then I can teach you!”

“Really?”

“Yeah, let's go and install it on the playstation.”

By the time satoru’s mother returns with your mum, they find satoru giggling along with you, hands still locked with each other, as he points to various stacked video games.

That day slowly came to an end and satoru didn't get to see you for the next two years till your giggles became a distant echo and your face a blur.

By the time he was 14, he almost forgot you.

Until that one day when he noticed you, sitting alone with your lunch staring at the sky at the campus of his high school.

You were biting on your chopsticks with dreamy eyes as recognition drew in satoru's mind.

Y/n— he thought. His brows frowned, thoughts slowly going in a muddle. How are you here? eating lunch in his high school campus unless— you're a student over here too! Satoru felt foolish, his lips slowly curving in a smile lifting one hand, abandoning the basketball in the other to greet you.

However, before he can get his words voiced out to you, gaining your attention, a brown haired girl comes up to you dragging you along with her in a hurry.

Satoru's hand froze in mid air, awkwardly stretching it above his head before bringing it down and turning towards his friends. He sprinted back to his group resuming the game, yet his mind stayed with you and your dreamy eyes.

He wanted to say ‘hi’ and watch your eyes grow wide before nodding your head just like you did back then. He wanted to show you the basketball he was holding and maybe teach you how to play ball just like he did back then.

“Oi satoru! Why are you missing the catch?!” one of his friends shouted, breaking him free of his daze. “sorry…taking a break!” He said, excusing himself, before going and plopping himself down on a nearby bench.

He recognised the brown haired girl—Yura. She often came to him asking for little favours. Did she know you? A friend? You studied in the same school and yet he only saw you today. Where were you all this time? Satoru was the same age as you. So you were bound to be in the same class, maybe different sections but he knew students from the other sections too. How come he didn't notice you yet?

The recess was over soon and he ran back to his class. Before entering the class, he noticed you again, hurrying to the class next to him.

Class 1-2.

Satoru felt silly as he read the classroom name in his mind.

As the final semester rolled on and a new semester started, satoru found out class 1-2 changed to class 2-2 and this year he was in the same section as yours.

He was excited to finally be able to talk to you without any awkwardness. After all, you were in the same classroom now— which means you will know him when he introduces himself on the first day of class. You will see him, introducing himself aloud and clear and recognition will draw on your face as you remember him.

That's what he initially thought the night before the first class. Until satoru felt the urge to perfect his speech and kept on practicing it, holding the crumpled sheet in his clammy hands, past midnight.

As a result he woke up late and by the time he hurried himself to school, the self introduction was half-over. He mumbled his apologies to his homeroom teacher, before hastily introducing himself and going to his assigned seat.

With that his perfect speech plan of gaining your attention bombed miserably. He raised his head in the direction of your seat—first row second desk, way far than his— fourth row last desk.

That's when he decided with the determination inclining in his heart to get your attention and make you remember that it's him.

The plan was simple. He just have to wait till recess and watch his chances closely. Once you're free and alone he will go make a move saying ‘hello’! Maybe even ask for your number.

Recess hour came by and his plan chose to bite the dust with girls and boys swarming around him to get his number and be friends with him. The group kept him occupied for the entirety of the recess and by the time he was done you were no where to be found in class.

Similar things happened the next day and the next day and the next day, never ceasing to leave him alone.

Satoru eventually came up with another plan— excelling in academics. The more he's good in academics, the more are the chances for you to come up to him wanting his help to understand a problem. And the plan worked exceptionally well with girls frequenting him with a doubt in their lesson— except for you.

This time satoru came up with his active participation in extracurriculars and sports. The more he active he is the more is the chance of you joining the same activity or maybe seek his assistance for the upcoming sports day.

This plan too, was indeed prodigious and did attracted a lot of attention except yours.

His last option was of joining the student council. As the spirited member of the top student council, you might come up to him with a problem you're facing or anything you want to change.

So, without thinking much he did joined the student council, hoping to finally gain your attention. However the following week, concerns and requests for changes decreased promptly. The other council members sighed, few scrutinizing satoru. After all no one in the entire school would want their so very handsome, energetic and popular Satoru Gojo to have a heavy work load after school.

“Since we don't have any work to do now, thanks to gojo-kun, I'd gladly like you all to only maintain the regular class desk arrangement.” the student council president announced before leaving the council room.

Satoru sighed, this isn't what he thought. He just wanted your attention not the entire school’s. Everyone looked at him, when he walked, when he sat, when he ate, people always turned around to take a second look. Yet you never laid your eyes on him. Even being in the same class you never came up to him to chat.

Back slouched, with his tie undone, he slammed the door open of his classroom to pick up his bag.

You flinched.

Hand covering your mouth, a dust wiper on the other, you looked at him as he froze.

One entire year, was how satoru spent to gain your attention, to get you look at him, and when it finally happened the time seemed to halt. The sun rays pooled into the room with slow breezes messing up your bangs and satoru couldn't mutter a word but stare.

Conscious about him gaping, he tore his gaze away from you before shutting the door, this time gently.

The council president asked them to take care of class desk arrangements. However, the desks in his classroom have always been arranged, even before he joined the student council.

“you…um arrange the desks everyday?” He said fixing his tie, slowly walking up to his desk, wiped clean by you. “Yes.”

Satoru accompanies you cleaning and arranging for the rest of the time in complete silence. Soon you take your leave, and so does satoru but this was the time he was happy like really really happy.

He didn't exchange any words of recognition with you, from the day at the mall. He didn't talk. Yet he was beaming radiant, for just being with you, momentarily alone, in peace.

That day soon came to an end and another year passed by. Satoru did nothing but admire you from afar. This was the only way he felt the closest to you. He saw how you wiped and arranged the desks everyday; help people without even letting them notice; lend the only pencil you have without a word; and care for the garden whose garish flowers were disregarded by others.

The more he saw, the more he knew you. And the more he felt his heart slipping away.

You were kind, gentle and soft. You noticed people behind their masks. You regarded the smallest of the things with such care. And your delicate hands, often smeared with paint, held the responsibility of others without complaining.

He often saw yura asking favours from you, shoving her cleaning duties to you, sending you to get her lunch from the 7-eleven nearby and never once you said 'no'. You were so so precious.

He knew he’d to stop; the way you engrossed him, linger on his mind all day to the point that he was unable to think of anything but you was straight up creepy but his eyes never stopped searching for you.

Even in the midst of the crowds on a random road his eyes would unconsciously seek for you.

And by the time he was 17, satoru was hopelessly, absurdly and miserably in love with you.

Another year passed by and he could do nothing but stare. And the fact that you often looked at him too made things even worse.

He was so down bad for you that he couldn't keep on going like this anymore. He was so sure he'd confess to you on the day of graduating the high school, not caring about rejection.

Satoru stayed up an entire night, perfecting his confession. But by the time the graduation ceremony ended and he went to look out for you, you were nowhere to be found.

He asked yura about you, to which she replied that you went back home early and satoru had his heart broken at 18.

He couldn't move on easily but giving you up was the only option left. Unwillingly, satoru made his devastating decision of giving you up. He never thought he would see you again until a few years later in college, shoko brought you right in front of him.

“We need a new artist to cover up for this concert.” said geto suguru, stuffing his phone back in his pockets. “Why? What happened to ren?”

“Got himself into an accident and fractured his right arm.” Geto plops himself back down on the couch beside satoru, before pulling on the fretboard of his bass.

“Should visit him then.”

“Forget it.”

“Why?” frowned satoru, geto suguru—his best friend, the one he went to middle and high school with, was not the type to feign indifference. His behavior indeed had satoru confused.

“Nanami informed he got drunk at the last concert before getting himself into the accident. Drunk driving it is.”

“Did yaga find out about this?”

“Fortunately, he didn't. Nanami covered the case before him finding out,” geto brought his hand, swiping back his string of bangs, “if it reaches yaga, he will ban us from using the campus stadium.”

“lucky I'd say…so what now?” The next concert is in 3 days and the band poster is still incomplete.

Shortly after satoru joined his college, suguru started a band along with two other guys. The band was doing well but due to a disagreement they decided to split up. Suguru then suggested satoru join the band and the following year they gained another member named nanami kento.

They used to hold performances at random pubs but as its popularity increased, the college decided to give them the campus stadium to hold their concerts. Something they did extra was hiring an artist to do their band poster— hand-drawn. It'd become a little tradition— a lucky charm says suguru, and now that their artist had broken his hand right at the eleventh hour before the concert they will have to—

“Find a new one.”

“nana—” geto shuts him before he could finish his sentence. “Nanami is trying his best, so am I. So, you try finding one too.”

“How am I supposed to?”

“Well I'm sure if you go with a face like this to the art department, people would volunteer in a line.”

“Same goes with you, why don't you go and ask. I'm sure if you could wear your shirt a little loose you can surely get your clingy ex find a good one." Gojo says in a mocking tone, grabbing his guitar and looping it around his back before leaving the club.

He was sure annoyed, but he will have to find one, geto wasn't in a mood to joke earlier either. Rather than going by himself, he decided to ask shoko get it done for him; he was sure she'd agree for a few packs of cigarettes.

Walking on his way to the parking lot he texted shoko to meet at their regular cafe.

“Sup!”

Satoru smiled knowing shoko could never fail him, even if she didn't agree right away a little guilt trip will do.

“All good?”

“Yeah, what do you need?”

“Just a little favour.”

“And what that might be?”

“Get an appropriate artist from the art department. Ren broke his arm and suguru's so down about going himself, ya’ know about his ex,” shoko started grabbing her cup of iced coffee to retreat when gojo slammed two packets of cigarettes on the table. “I've two more packs to offer.”

Shoko returns to her seat, a big smile on her face. “Okay! Since I'm your empathetic, gracious and compassionate friend, I will try and see what I can get done.”

“Yes please…”

“I'm not doing it for cigarettes ya’ know.”

“Mhmmm” satoru nods his face dramatically.

“Get the other two packets out.”

“Sure.”

Satoru knew four packets would get the job done as he parted away from shoko, driving his way back home.

And the next day when shoko texted him that she got a volunteer and is bringing her to the club, he didn't expected it to be you.

Shoko looped a hand around your shoulders “so this is the club,” chewing a gum, “and this is satoru gojo.”

“Hi…” you said looking at him, before taking a look at those instruments laying behind.

It’s you. It's really you. He couldn't believe his eyes yet stood unblinking as if you were some mirage and will fade away once he closes his eyelids.

“Gojo?” Shoko waved a hand infront of his face and realizing he didn't respond to you, he bent his torso bowing to you.

“Woah,” shoko’s face scrunched up, cringing at his behavior, “when did you start being all formal?”

You giggled at her comment while satoru hushed her with a series of ‘shut ups’.

“I'm—”

“Y/n.” satoru whispered almost as if reminding himself the way your name sounded in his lips. “Y/n, i know.”

You chuckle at his words, tugging a strand of hair behind your ear.

“You know her?” shoko tilted her head at him, not expecting you to be acquainted with him.

“We went to the same high school.” You say when satoru does nothing but gape at you with dreamy eyes.

His heart did a whole somersault at your sentence. You remembered him; you remembered his name; you remembered he was in the same high school as you. The fact that you regarded him made him so giddy that he was practically ready to throw his hands up in the air or kiss the floor on which you walk.

“Kay’ I'll leave you guys to talk then.” She smirked before raising a cocky eyebrow at satoru, excusing herself from the club.

“So…you're the only one?”

“Huh?”

“In the band— i mean…”

“Oh no” he dragged, “there are two more members along with the back musicians…”

You humm, taking a proper look at the club.

“You like it?”

“It has vibrant colours.”

Your words echoed in his ears, the same which you said to him at the mall. Oh how bad had he wanted to hear those.

“The jazzies,” you read the name of their band aloud, “why jazzies? You only play jazz?”

“No…we play all sorts of music…it's just a name suguru chose for the band.”

“you do originals?”

“Both originals and covers. Anything suguru comes up with.”

Your mouth forms a little ‘o’ as satoru explains to you.

“geto seems to be doing all the stuff, what do you do?”

“You know him?” satoru’s brows furrowed. “Whom?” you ask.

“geto…geto suguru.”

“Ofc, he was in the same class as us.”

“Oh.”

Ofcourse. Both he and geto were in the same class as you. It was no big deal for you to remember both of them. However, accepting that he wasn't any special was bitter.

Satoru’s eyes followed your figure as you went out to reach for his guitar, mindlessly drawing your finger on its printed patterns.

“You didn't answer my question…”

“I guess I found you for our band.”

When none of you says anything, satoru breaks the ice, clearing his throat.

“You know how to play?”

“Err…no.”

“I can teach you.”

He slided his index among the few string instruments before pulling out an acoustic one, bringing it to you.

“Hold the fretboard with your left hand,” satoru pulled the strap over your shoulders, “and bring your right hand over the body, fingers near the sound hole— yep that's right,” he turned your back to him, gently holding the back of your palms.

“Now, pluck the chords for me,” his chest was against your back as he guided you through the strings.

“Like this?” you ask him.

“Yes, you're doing very well.”

The guitar in your hands, played smoothly as satoru guided you through it.

Just like when he taught you how to play mario kart.

Satoru looks down at you smiling in excitement. Oh how cute you looked like that. He could admire you twenty-four seven, never wanting to tear his gaze away, for you're that ineffably eesome in his eyes.

Time almost ceased when you looked up at him, eyes crinkling with a smile that soon died as red creeps up your cheeks.

Satoru’s face was mere inches away from you, his eyes wavering down to your lips.

“SATO—RU— oh,” geto bursted in along with nanami causing you both to flinch.

He quickly leaves your hand.

“Y/n??” Geto dragged out your name, looking at you with his eyebrows knitting and lips forming a silly smile.

“Hi,” you pull the strap over your shoulders abandoning the instrument on the nearby couch. “I'm here to volunteer.”

“You do?”

“Yeah…”

“That's great! I can't believe satoru even managed to talk—” satoru smacked him mid sentence.

Nanami, for some reason, found the ceilings very interesting today, totally ignoring his two seniors.

Geto explained to you about their little tradition of hand drawn posters and showed you the posters they used for the last concerts. You, then, asked them to send them a group picture of the three and their preferences for colours and themes.

“For that I might need your number—”

“I- i can send it to her…” Geto passed a suggestive smile at satoru, which he ignored and awkwardly forwarded his phone to you.

“Yeah that sounds fine. Here's my number, save it and text me later.”

“Kky!”

You pull the sling of your tote bag up to your arm, giving them a little nod, before turning your back to leave.

“Wait!—” satoru held your arms frantically pulling you back. He hurried to the back near the couch you plopped the guitar and shoved it to you. “T-take it.”

“Ah— no I can't do that.”

“Take it. You can learn how to play and I- I can teach you.” he tried not to stutter yet failed miserably.

“No i rea—”

“consider it as a gift— from me.”

You frowned a bit but agreed anyway.

“That's really sweet of you satoru! I will wait for your text! Bye!!”

He waved back to you.

“What was that?” Geto implies in the direction of the exit door through which you just left.

“nothing.”

Later, You sent the photo of the finished banner to satoru. It took you 42 hours to finish it.

Satoru on the other hand was practicing really hard, totally different from his half hearted performances from the previous ones which wasn't unnoticed by the other members.

He has to be the best. After all, this concert will be different from the previous ones. This time you will be there to see him, cheer for him, and notice him.

You soon bring the banner rolled up to the club. “Woah! You really did a great job.”

“This is much better than ren’s.” says nanami before going back to his drum set, giving you a thumbs up.

“Satoru?”

“Y-yes.”

“You liked it?”

“I loved it. It has vibrant colours.” You giggled at his answer, shifting your direction to his gaze. His fingers seemed to flake off any dust on the surface of your work, handling it so gently.

It wasn't his fault he felt so overwhelmed. All these years he'd yearned for one kind word from your lips yet he was left starving.

And now you'd drawn him with such precision, that it was as if you were accustomed to drawing him for the hundredth time.

His heart fluttered at the thought.

“I will be there at your concert,” you say, turning your back to him. “All the best!”

The campus stadium was full with a bunch of students and hippies, it was really hard for satoru to try locating you amongst the sea of crowds.

The music rang loud, brisking fiery cheers from the crowd, full of vim and vigor. The spotlight shone on the three— geto with his vocals and string of bass; satoru with his acoustic guitar; and nanami with his drum set.

The crowd roared in excitement as music coursed through their veins.

Will you be cheering too?

Satoru raised his head from the guitar, plucking chords effortlessly, to his audience.

And as if it was fate that drew both of you together, his eyes found yours. You were there in the vip section, along with shoko and another girl. You were moving with beats, swaying your arms in rhythm to their music.

His eyes locked in yours as you waved a hand at him. Oh how, how pretty you looked. Everything except you was a blur to him.

The crowd goes even more wild, seeing satoru blush, not sensing it was you who caused it.

The concert continued till past midnight as the vibrations thrumming around the air slowed and wrapped up with their ending song: “Where Our Blue Is.”

As the applause slowly start to dissipate, satoru pulled off his instrument, running to the edge of the stage, and hopped down the raised platform.

The college girls shrieked baffled, some even reached out, grabbing on his wrists and clothes. He politely got out of their grip making his way to the vip section, geto and nanami following him.

The still air felt electric as he approached you.

“you liked the show?”

“Ofc it was amazing!!” The girl beside you answers in your stead, whom he now recognised as yura.

“It was really good.” you say swallowing a laugh bubbling up your throat at his huffed out appearance.

“Thanks to your banner, it even attracted more audience.” geto remarked, placing his arm around satoru’s shoulders.

“Thank you.”

“You should thank me for bringing her in.” Shoko reclaims, looping her hand around your arm, “let's go steal some shots.”

“Oh no i can't— i don't drink. And I need to hurry back home it's late.”

“Kyaahh— you've let me down y/nniee. Only two packets of cigarettes can get my mood uplifte—”

“I will bring it tomorrow.” You say shutting up her whines.

“kk bye and text me when you get home the rest are joining me right ?”

“Count me out. I'll be driving her home tonight.” Satoru says sheepishly, ignoring the smirks and exchanged looks of his bandmates, a slight blush creeping up his cheeks.

“No but I was about to go home with her —” yura interrupts.

“Satoru’s fine. You're coming with us.” Shoko dragged her along with geto and nanami, which satoru was glad of.

Finally he'd be alone with you.

He guided you to the parking lot from the back of the stage, before getting his car keys out.

It's metallic jingle echoing softly as he presses the button on his key fob. The car responds with a soft beep unlocking as satoru opens the passenger door, holding it open for you.

“Here,” he gestures with his other hand, “get in.”

“Sure.” You say gulping thickly.

The thick smell of your cologne mingling with the leather scent of the car.

He closes the door before sprinting to the other side, getting himself in. “Don't— ” he stops you when you reach out for your seat belt. “Allow me the honor” his finger brushes against your skin as he reaches out for the seat belt.

Your heart practically jolts at his action.

The click of the seat belt buckle echoes softly in the quiet car, as he straightens back to his former position.

“Where do you live?” He clears his throat, starting the car engine and flicking on the headlights before pulling out the car into the driveway.

“In the downtown.”

“That's quite far from the campus, how bout I drive you everyday back home?” His eyes suggestive, making you chuckle.

“I can't let you do that.”

“Why?”

“Since it's far from the campus and you won't be visiting often.”

“Who knows, I might be visiting your place often.”

You turn your face from the window to look at him.

“What?”

“I will have to— to teach you guitar.”

You crack up at his silliness, finding yourself melting again.

“Okay fine. But that still doesn't counts.”

“Why not!”

Since that day, satoru did visited you often, sometimes barging in with shoko and sometimes alone teaching you how to play guitar, plucking on chords and notes.

And you attended all of his concerts. Their previous artist has recovered now and has resumed his work, so you no longer work with them. However they insist you tag along each time and it's not like you complain.

You liked satoru’s company. He was handsome, charismatic and popular. You'd watched him your entire high school. He was the one of most popular students, good in a millions of things, starting from academics to being athletic. He'd win every sports competition and even participate in all the extracurriculars. You'd admired him for he could do the things which you didn't had the courage for.

You liked how he didn't judge people, helped them in their need, and even took care of those garish flowers nobody seemed to double take.

You'd previously met him before high school, though he never brought that up. You wondered if he even remembers the day at the mall. You wanted to ask him so bad, however—

Your world was only limited to papers and paints.

So you painted.

You painted him so many times that you'd have more than five sketchbooks with paintings full of him.

You wanted to be friends, maybe even more than friends.

But that didn't matter now. He was near you and you would do anything to keep your thumping heart in control and not have satoru cut you out of his life.

But how can you?

How can you control it when satoru so gently, so lovingly, takes your hand in his. When he smiles so sweetly at you. When he teaches you how to pull chords and other instruments. When he drops you home from college almost everyday. When he hugs you and tells you to take care.

How are you supposed to be just friends when he's so overly affectionate to you?

Or maybe it's just your overthinking.

Satoru was always polite and sweet, he'd always been sweet to others and you were no special.

“What are you thinking baby?”

You come out of your daze, rolling your eyes at the nickname.

“How many times do I have to tell you not to call me that…”

“Not my fault you aren't paying attention to me…” he pulls you closer to him, resting his face on your shoulder.

“Have you always been this hungry for attention?” you ask, getting yourself comfortable abandoning the guitar beside you on the couch— of the club.

“I've been starving.”

You cringe at his words. Satoru has another concert today and they just finished practicing an hour ago and now they are taking a break.

Geto and nanami and other back artists wanted to get some fresh air so they left you and satoru alone to entertain each other.

“Are you really skipping on me?” He looked at you with puppy eyes.

“I've a gallery exhibition tomorrow.” You need to scoot back home to get ready for it. It's a big event for you to showcase your arts.

Satoru hummed, nuzzling his face on the crook of your neck, “I'll be there. You're going to do great.”

An uncertain lump forms in your throat, hard to swallow, you say nothing. Your heart was in a conflict again, no matter what you can absolutely not—

“I will be going then. All the best for your concert.”

You push satoru away, reaching for your tote bag from the side of a random arm chair. “Wait I will drop—”

“Who's leaving?” shoko barges in with yura and others.

Satoru points at you.

“I just got here. You can't leave already.”

“Yup! Yup! Please stay a little longer, baby. I'll drop you back home, no worries.”

Shoko exchanges suggestive glances with geto and they somehow persuade you to stay a little longer.

They start practicing for another round when shoko pulls your head closer, “what do you think about gojo?”

“Huh?!” You shout over the music, unable to hear her.

She grabbed your hand and pulled you outside, with Yura following closely behind you both.

“What— “

“What do you think of gojo?”

A burning sensation hits you slowly as shoko’s question registers in your mind.

You ears turn red.

“Eh…um h-he’s a nice guy. A nice musician…and—”

“And?” Shoko wiggled her brows at you, a sly smile on her face.

“A-a nice friend.”

“Just a friend?” You nod at her, seemingly more embarrassed at her implications.

Shoko's face literally radiated disappointment. It was as if someone told her that cigarettes are now banned in the country. “I think he's interested in you,” you choked on air at her remark. “No?”

Yura shrugged.

The music slowed down and then paused, bringing your conversation to a momentary halt.

Satoru rushed outside, complaining about why you left in the middle of his practice.

“Bruh, chill, I'm not trying to steal her away from you. We're just talking!” Shoko jokes as you laugh all flustered.

Just when you were about to leave one of his fangirls suddenly appeared from nowhere and threw herself into his arms, wrapping hers tightly around his neck. He stumbled back a step, surprised, before regaining his balance but he didn't put her down rather he spinned her around before setting her back down, with a polite smile on his face.

The other members just saw the scene unfold with amusement. Nanami was surprised at the fan’s boldness and geto simply observed the scene as shoko rolled her eyes, finding it hysterical.

“What do you think of shoko’s remark?” said yura, looping her hand around your arm.

“What?” You say suppressing the slow tinge of jealousy.

“About gojo being interested in you…”

“I-i don't think so.”

You try to laugh it off.

“Yeah, he's just polite. To pretty much everyone.”

Her words felt like a splinter to your heart. You shouldn't feel like this. It'd happened before— not now again.

Yura’s right, satoru is just polite and will do the same for everyone what he does for you— because he's kind. And you're no special.

The entire ride was silent. Satoru kept asking you if anything was wrong but you just guised a smile at him, insisting it was nothing.

The next day at the gallery event, you behaved oddly. You smiled at him but didn't reach your eyes, your answers to his question were of one word, even avoiding his touch.

“Did I do something wrong?” he asked warily.

“No.”

Days passed by and you distanced yourself more from him.

Satoru, on the other hand, was almost losing his mind. His world turned upside down. You stopped coming to his concerts, ignored his texts and even refused to let him drop you back home.

It was yesterday you’d allowed him to teach you the guitar yet today you behaved as if you'd long forgotten him. You were cold and distant, leaving him puzzled by his own thoughts upon your sudden change in demeanor.

He couldn't help but wonder whether he'd done something that made you this upset?

You'd said it was nothing.

Then why?

What the fuck did he messed up?

Satoru missed you terribly and violently.

He eyed you from the inside of his car parked a bit far from your department. Today was another day you refused his offer to drive you to class. ‘I'm kinda sick so I won't be going.’ This was what you'd texted him the morning and yet there you were getting off your uber.

You lied to him.

“Come with me to their concert today.” Shoko urged you, her lips pursed in a thin line.

“I'm sorry—”

“No you're not so sorry. Tomorrow’s Saturday, come with me, gojo’s getting mad without you.”

You suck in a breath at the mention of his name.

“What's wrong?” shoko says sipping the last of her drink before plopping it on your tea table.

“Nothing.”

“Then come.”

You agreed eventually. Attending the concert won't be a big deal.

And it wasn't, except for satoru’s piercing gaze burning holes in your back. You accompanied Shoko backstage and casually greeted everyone— including him.

“God, haven't seen you in so long.” geto side hugged you as nanami gave you a nod of acknowledgement before running off to the stage for some last minute preparations. “Satoru missed you like crazy.”

You attempt a weak smile in satoru's direction, darting a hesitant glance his way. His gaze was fixed on you, but his expression was unreadable, almost giving shivers down your spine.

One of the other members suddenly hurried over to Geto, urgently speaking about some issue, he politely excused himself and exited the room, closely followed by Shoko. Now, you were left alone with Satoru, the only two remaining in the room.

“I should go and check what's the proble—” you try sprinting your way out the door, “wait—” when satoru stops you.

His hand on your arm, preventing you to go any further and when you struggle to get out of his grip, he tightens his grip even more slamming you to the wall, pinning you caging your body.

“What's wrong with you?”

“Gojo you're hurting m—”

“Gojo?” His voice cracked, grip losing before letting your arms go, “why? Why must you do this to me?”

“Do what?” You drift your gaze away unable to look at satoru, who's this close tearing up.

“This— why must you do this? Why must you ignore me? Why must you be distant from me? Why must you lie to me so that I won't bother picking you up or dropping you home? Why must you reject my affection?” He sucks in a breath “You know I can't live like that—”

“why?”

“Don't pretend like you don't know…”

“no no don't say it,” you throw your hands up in the air frantically, “don't— I can’t fall again…no— I know you're just being polite and you will do this for anyone, but I can’t help it if I don't—”

“I love you—” he whispers, bringing your hand up, placing the palm flat to his chest.

“No you don't.”

“Yes I do— what do you mean you can't fall again,” he suppresses your struggles of wrenching free your hand from his grip. “You have no idea how crazy I'm for you. I love you and I've loved you since I was 17. I was about to confess to you on our graduation day but you just disappeared leaving me alone. And now that I have you I'm not letting you go— make no mistake baby, if there's anyone I’d ever kneel for— it'd be you.”

Thick silence covered the entire room, except your heavy exhales. Satoru gojo was inches close to you, your hand still laid flat against his heaving chest.

“B-but I wrote you a note confes—”

“What note? I never….” confusion twisted on his face bitterly.

“You threw it in the dustbin— the one I wrote to you the day before graduation.”

His face told the truth, as he shook his head denying it. He never received any note from you— nevertheless having the audacity to throw it in the trash when he'd been hopelessly in love with you all these years.

“Yura told me—” you shut your mouth as the realization hits you. The person whom you considered as a friend backstabbed you long ago.

She lied about him discarding it while it was actually her who had stolen it off his desk before satoru even noticed.

Your head raised in embarrassment, ready to apologize for the misunderstanding when suddenly, Satoru's lips met yours in a tender kiss. The kiss was filled with such affection and tenderness that you felt as if you might melt in his embrace. His arms held you close, firmly yet gently, as he deepened the kiss. Your heart pounded in your chest as you responded to his kiss. All thoughts of the misunderstanding were forgotten in that moment of pure intimacy before satoru pulled away with frowned brows and a dazed smile.

“Tell me, would I kiss anyone the same way I kiss you?” he pulled you again, smacking his lips on yours as he snaked a hand around your waist, the other, still firm, holding your palm.

You could feel his heartbeat going rapid the more he deepens the kiss, sucking on your upper lip.

He pulls away again.

“Tell me, would my heart beat the same way as it beats around yours?” He smacks his lips again, this time pinching your waist making you gasp as he slips his tongue in.

His hand fumbles with the hem of your dress, pulling away again, a string of drool connecting both of your lips. “Would I be breathless the same way as I'm now?”

His hand travels up your inner thigh, till it reaches the wet blotch of drenched silk. You grasp his shoulders, when he starts drawing circles over the fabric, smirking before nuzzling his face on the crook of your neck.

“Satoru, what if someone walks in—” your body jolts, nails digging into his back as he pulls the fabric to the side, plunging a digit in without any warning. “Let them…” he goes back to sucking your skin while rubbing his thumb over your swollen clit.

Your teeth sank on your bottom lips, his finger slowly plunging in and out of you. “Nngh ‘toru, you’re—” small trembles quivered through your body as he plunged with a faster rhythm.

“Shh baby! Let me take you” he inserts another digit as your teeth dug even deeper into your lip, stretching you and filling you so well.

He was stroking you, curling his fingers inside until hitting your most sensitive spot. Sweat beaded your forehead as your trembles gave way to full body shudders, shutting your mouth with your hand not wanting to be loud.

Satoru drew himself back from your neck, satisfied marking and suckling, withdrawing his digits, slick from you as you wince at the loss of his fullness.

He brings them up and sucks your essence off his fingers with a pop. “I want to eat you out.”

Before even you can make out his words he kneels down bunching up the fabric to your hips pulling your panty down properly and latching onto your swollen clit.

“Fuck ‘toru.” he lapped his tongue on your clit, drawing circles, tasting your sweet before drawing himself back, “I am fucking you baby.” He says, licking a fat stripe on your vulva, his rigid tongue swiping back and forth over your clit sending sensations that make your body jolt. “Here and raw” he hummed against your pussy, his breath warm and hot sending vibrations to your core, before vacuuming on your clit.

Your hand grasping his hair, as he worked on your orgasm.

He plunged his digits again, rhythmatic with the little pants escaping your mouth, along with the slick sounds of your hips buckling down his fingers.

He smirked internally at your enthusiasm.

“So fucking nasty for me huh?” He said against your pussy, licking and sucking till you were nothing but withering in mindless pleasure. You were taking it well, suppressing your moans into breathless pants until he sucked, fingers pressing the most sensitive spot inside you.

A shriek fell past your lips, knees buckling, followed by a string of moans and whimpers. “Oh— fuck..” you try closing your thighs which he prevents with his iron grip of one hand, forcing it open till he has better access. “Don't even dare closing on me…”

The wet sounds of his fingers, plunging in and out of your gummy walls, echoed throughout the empty room.

Something coiled hot and fuzzy in the lower pit of your stomach. You clenched hard around his finger, when the bass-heavy beats of the band's concert began, causing you to involuntarily shove satoru’s face deeper into your cunt as you heard voices from the stage outside.

Geto's unmistakable voice rang out, accompanied by the heavy drumming of nanami. They had started performing without satoru.

“Nn’toru they start—” your voice died down into a breathless gasp as you felt your pelvic muscles clench, tension looping around your entire body as fiery sensations erupted. You arch your back against the wall, unable to stop your toes curling at the intensity of his tongue lapping, finger fuckin' you, as your vision gets blurry.

“Yeah…cum for me baby” his velvety murmurs were all it took for you to turn into a mess of sensations, your body erupting as your high came down bursting, dripping and spilling down your thighs, his chin and his neck.

Satoru lapped up the drops carelessly strewn about your skin, his tongue tracing a path along the droplets splattered on your inner thighs as he savored everything with anticipation.

“Tell me, would I kneel infront of anyone and let them cum this hard on my fingers?” He straightened himself up, “and then drink it up like a pussy drunk male whore?” his gaze never left yours, wiping the leftover slick from his chin with the back of his hand before licking it clean.

The music from outside has now gained its intensity, thrumming even louder.

No— you mouthed.

Satoru’s gaze was still fixed at you, when he unzipped his pants, his aching cock sprang out red, already leaking precum.

You gape at his girth.

It was big.

And fucking thick.

Leaning in, Satoru brings his lips close to your ear, his voice clear over the blaring music from outside, “Like what you see—”

You didn't get to answer him before he slammed right in.

A cry of pleasure tore from your throat, as you loop your hands around his neck, nails digging on his back.

He hissed out a breath, restraining himself from moving till you adjusted to his size.

Only then did he slowly pull it out leaving only the tip inside. You grimace at the loss of fullness until he slams back in causing you to clench around him.

He let out a low guttural moan which was almost inaudible to you over the roar of music if you weren't so close to each other, feeling the raw desire of his voice vibrating on your skin.

“Tell me— hahh- would I let anyone clench this hard on me if this weren't you?”

You were at a loss for words.

The kind, polite, sweet satoru you knew was gone. In his place was someone who fucked hard.

When you don't answer he pulls out and slams right back in harsh, eyes gleaming with wicked intent.

Satisfied, satoru guides his one hand to tapping on your thigh suggesting you wrap your legs up around him.

He repositions his dick on your entrance, before supporting your weight with one hand, pinning your body completely to the wall, while the other hand grabs your neck, choking you before giving you a sloppy breathless kiss.

“You like it don't ya’ hmm fuck— so tight—”

Your cries came out choked as he pounded into you, in an insane manner, desperate and primal.

“Tell me—”

Thrust

“do you—”

Thrust

“still think I'm just being polite?”

Thrust.

The roar of geto's voice singing out aloud different notes masked out the filth of your moans.

The sensation was in again, hot and uproar, coiling beneath the core of your consciousness. Satoru sensed you being close to your climax, continued to plow into your pussy, now supporting your weight with both hands against the wall.

Your toes curled again, nails digging down his back almost scratching the fabric, “yes that's it love,” your eyes rolled back as you arch your neck unable to handle the pleasure, “cum for me…”

Your mouth forming a little ‘o’, mind blank as your eyes saw stars. The only consciousness left in your body directed you to the burning of your heat, till it came crashing down.

You came hard letting your head fall on his shoulders too spent for anything.

Satoru too chased his high, thrusting into your swollen pussy, his cock twitching inside you, till you felt him getting sloppy and tense before cumming into you.

The music was still very loud, beats thrumming your flushed veins.

None of you said anything, remaining in the same position. Satoru pulled himself out, his cum dripping out your vagina, before walking over and placing you on a nearby chair.

He cleaned you up gently tugging your clothes back and fixes himself before cleaning the mess near the wall.

“They— they started performing without you…” you huff out, drained still in the very euphoria of your pleasure satoru showed you.

“I told them to do so…” he shouted over the noise.

You remain stunned for a while, letting out a breath. “I'm sorry…I avoided you.”

“Here I thought you were giving me a thousand kisses as an apology.”

You chuckle at him, back to his normal self— your sweet, kind and maybe not so polite satoru…

He came over to you, lifting you effortlessly before plopping himself down on the chair with you on his lap.

“I missed you.”

“I missed you too.”

“No but I missed you like crazy…” he pouted. “y/n be my girlfriend…please.”

Tears start forming in your eyes, overwhelmed, you never thought the satoru gojo you met at the mall, the satoru gojo you loved your entire high school would someday ask you to be his girlfriend.

To paint his heart with your love.

“I will.”

“no wait— marry me instead!”

You dug your face deeper into his chest, laughing at his playfulness. And satoru just smiled.

Finally he would be yours.

you and Satoru started dating since then and things couldn't have been any better for him. He practically announced to the world that you were his girlfriend, always picking you up and dropping you off from campus, and claiming a kiss as his reward. You’d also cut Yura off, not wanting any more negativity in your life. Satoru was yours, and you were his. And He couldn't be any happier.

Tags: @cccandynecklaces @secretfankoala

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jeonginsleftcheek · 2 months ago

Text

Dolly II

~ part 2 of the Dolly series

pairing: seungmin x afab!reader

genre: smut, college au

synopsis: your friends found it funny to buy you a sex doll and pose it in your bed to prank you.

wc: 7.7k

warnings: alcohol, thigh riding, handjob, cum tasting, unprotected sex, hand kink, nipple play, creampie, mentions of crying, choking, edging, spanking, hair pulling, pussy slap, oral(m), fingering

a/n: thank you @jehhskz for helping with the premise of this one🥹💕

~ maybe you'd like: Hyunjin dolly

~ divider by @bunnysrph

Another sleepless night.

Staring at your laptop screen, the letters start blurring and bleeding into one another, making the headache behind your eyes throb even more.

Exam after exam, you're becoming more jaded, feeling like you're high out of your mind when it's just lack of sleep.

As you scroll through a page you're researching for your paper, an advert pops out.

"Sex dolls?" you chuckle and click on it, even if it looks a bit shady.

You're taken to a stylish site, black background with big neon green letters asking you "What's your vibe for today?", and you scoff.

"Try dead inside." you say out loud and the letters flicker before disappearing, new text appearing on the screen, making you gasp.

"Feeling sarcastic, are we?" - it says and you shriek, quickly exiting the site and deleting the history.

How the fuck did it hear you?

Did they hack your laptop?

You hoped not, because being a broke student means you have no resources to buy a new one.

With a groan, you continue doing your assignments well into the late hours, forgetting completely about the sex dolls and the freaky website.

You fall asleep, excited about the party you were invited to this weekend, to finally have some way to blow off steam and relax.

The room is totally spinning.

You are totally spinning.

You can hear your friends laugh on your left but your tiredness coupled with the alcohol you had in your system made you feel drowsy.

You're not sure but it seems that your friends are pointing at you and whispering, giggles leaving their lips and you frown.

They're known for pulling pranks on you, and you'd hoped they would at least leave you be when you're intoxicated and vunerable.

"What?" you almost bark at them.

"Nothing." one of them says with a snicker.

"Ugh. I'm leaving." you stand up quickly, which was a mistake as all the blood rushes through your system and the room starts spinning faster.

Your friend and roommate Edie, is quick to grab you before you face plant into the coffee table.

"I'm coming with ya. Don't want you to break your bones somewhere on the way home." she shakes her head and you nod, bidding goodbye to your other friends and letting her lead you out.

The walk to your shared apartment is short, the house of the guy who hosted the party wasn't too far away from your building or the campus.

The chilly evening air helps you refresh your mind and sober up a little.

"Are you gonna eat dinner?" Edie asks when you step into the apartment.

"No, I think I'm just gonna go shower and sleep." you say and she nods.

Before you left the kitchen, you swore you could see her smirk a little.

Shrugging, you make your way to your room.

Edie stops what she was doing, setting the plate down as she listens.

One, two, three...

And you scream, followed by a few thuds and curses.

"What the fuck?!" you grab the nearest book but the man on your bed doesn't even move or blink.

Edie giggles behind you, before it bubbles up and becomes full on laughter.

"What is this?" you demand, already annoyed at her.

"That is Seungmin, your sex doll."

"My what?" you almost choke on your spit.

"We were gonna scare you and prank you with him but we thought he would also be a good early birthday present. Since you know, you only ever study and stay at the apartment. This way, you can have him as a companion." she explains, and you lower the book you were gonna hit her with.

"Please, don't be mad at us." she grimaces.

"Why does he look alive?" you look back at the doll, gulping as shivers run up your spine.

"I don't know, it's some new technology, I guess. Isn't it so cool though? There was a letter in the box he came in with. I put it there on the nightstand, together with the manual." Edie informs you.

"Y'all are crazy and he's creepy. But, thank you? It must've been expensive." you shake your head.

"Well, the six of us got some money together."

"Still, crazy." you chuckle and she laughs.

"I'll leave you to it." she wiggles her eyebrows, closing the door of your room as she makes her way back to the kitchen.

You bite on your lip, observing the doll as it stares off into space.

"You're too creepy and you're not watching me change." you mumble and grab your blanket, throwing it over the dolls head.

"There." you say and strip, loving the perk of this apartment as both you and Edie had your own bathroom attached to your room.

You go about your night routine, now almost completely sober as you make your way back to your room.

You almost forgot about the doll, your heart dropping in your stomach for a moment.

"Fuck." you chuckle at yourself, your hand on your chest.

Cautiously, you sit next to the doll and remove the blanket.

He looks the same as he did before, as your friends presumably set him up, propping him up on your pillows, his legs straight and his hands in his lap.

He was dressed kind of sporty but chic, with a plain white shirt, a blue jersey jacket and ripped jeans, a dainty silver necklace adorning his neck.

Simple, yet effective, the doll looked more handsome the more you looked at it.

His hair looked fluffy, his eyes seemed warm, his lips soft.

You especially liked his hands, delicate and tender.

He looked sweet, if he was a real human being you're 100% sure everyone would swoon for him on the campus and he'd probably be the it boy.

You wondered how he looked so real, it almost seemed as if he was going to wake up any second and start talking to you.

You sigh and grab the letter, opening it up.

Hello,

my name is Seungmin and I am your mischiveous doll.

I love making you laugh and teasing you, because nothing makes me as happy as seeing your smile or your cute face when you're annoyed.

Please, play with me a lot as I tend to get bored, and no matter what you do with me, always end it with a kiss on my forehead.

Hope you come to love me as much as I already love you.

"Oh, you're a little prankster doll, aren't you? How funny of my friends." you sigh with a smirk playing on your face.

"I swear if you fucking move, you're flying out the window." you threaten, convinced you could see a faint smirk on the doll's face.

A paper sticking out of his jersey pocket grabs your attention and you take it out.

My cutie!

I got dressed for our first date!

Hopefully you like the outfit I chose, and enjoy playing with me tonight.

"First date? Who the heck made this?" you're perplexed, when suddenly you remember the ad from the other day.

"Oh my god." you jump up quickly, running to your laptop and searching.

You don't have to search too long as the site pops up immediately and you click on it.

"Wow!" you gasp as you look at the selection of the dolls.

You had no idea each one was a unique model, and that only one of them was made for some kind of experiment with new technology.

You turn to look back at Seungmin and chuckle.

"Okay, I gotta give it to my friends. They did give me a unique gift." you sigh.

Reading back over the site, there isn't much information and as you research a little bit, you can't find out much about the company that made the dolls.

It was as if it appeared out of thin air with technology so advanced that it had you confused, who could've made this and how?

Maybe even more important, why?

After turning up with nothing, you decide to check out the manual.

WARNING!

If there are any malfunctions with any part of the doll, please contact our services.

The doll can bathe in water except the charger opening.

Please do not disfigure or mutilate the doll.

Do not throw the doll into the trash.

Do not break, cut or bruise the doll.

If you're not satisfied, you can always return it to us and get your money back.

If you've purchased our Seungmin doll, do not forget to play with him as he can get lonely and sad.

Hope you enjoy the playful soul you chose!

"Lonely and sad, huh?" you stare at the doll with pursed lips.

Turning a few pages, the doll's 'abilites' come into view and you feel your ears burning in embarassment before you close the book quickly, tossing it aside.

"My friends are a bunch of perverts." you chuckle, laying down next to the doll.

"You better keep your hands to yourself, doll." you slide under your blanket, all the tiredness from tonight finally catching up with you.

Seungmin sits quietly as you turn off the light.

Waking up the next morning with a yawn, you stretch and your hand smacks into something solid.

Gasping, you lift up and see the doll sitting quietly just like he did last night.

"I forgot about you." you exhale before plopping back down in your pillows.

Curiously, your eyes travel over the doll's frame.

It's dead quiet in the apartment, meaning that Edie probably already left for her classes and you sit up, turning your attention to Seungmin.

Tentatively, you reach out your hand and poke the doll's cheek.

"Oh, wow!" you exclaim, poking him again. "You feel real."

Slowly, your fingertips caress his cheek, before you start carding them through his hair.

"Honestly though, my friends do know my type. If you were a real guy, I would stare at you from the distance and wait for you to ask me out." you chuckle a little before shaking your head as you retract your hand.

"I'm talking to myself." you get up and decide to get ready for your classes, leaving the doll be.

You feel like you're being watched the whole time as you rush through your room to gather your things, and an uncomfortable shiver runs up your spine, making the hairs on the back of your neck stand.

"Alright. You're creeping me out again." you throw the blanket over the doll like you did yesterday, and then you get ready.

"Behave. I think." you tilt your head and then exhale with a chuckle as you leave your bedroom, leaving Seungmin alone under the blanket.

It's past 5pm when you finally step foot back into your apartment.

You call out to Edie but it seems she wasn't home.

Shrugging, you enter your bedroom to find Seungmin still covered up with the blanket.

"Damn. Okay, you didn't come to life." you toss your bag down and make your way to the doll.

"I left you alone for a long time, didn't I?" you say as you remove the blanket and lean in closer to take a look at Seungmin's face.

For some reason, you think he might be frowning.

"Hey, I have real life things to do. Don't frown at me like that."

The doll is quiet.

"You want me to play with you? What does that even entail? Are we playing or are we playing? Because I'm not doing any of that weird shit." you wave your finger at the unmoving doll, realizing you're probably crazy for even talking to it.

"I'll think of something after dinner." you mutter to yourself.

After a much needed shower, you make your way to the kitchen to eat some dinner.

As you're eating, you suddenly hear what sounds like a giggle.

It feels like your heart stops beating for a moment as you sit up straight and listen.

It's quiet, except the music playing from your phone.

Maybe it was just in your mind.

Yeah, probably.

Edie arrives home shortly after, giving you a shit eating grin.

"So, did you try out the doll?" she wiggles her eyebrows at you.

"No. I don't know, it feels weird... and wrong." you grimace and your friend laughs.

"If you don't want him, let me give it a go." she winks and you laugh.

"Seungmin is my gift, okay? Don't touch him." you wave your finger and she snickers.

"Feeling territorial, are we?"

"N-no!" you blush instantly.

"Don't worry, y/n. I won't touch your little boyfriend."

"He's not my boyfriend! He's not even alive!" you yell after her as she giggles all the way to her room.

You sigh and make your way to your room too.

"Alright. I don't know what you mean by playing but I'm too tired to do anything. Maybe a movie?" you talk to the doll.

As you get no answer, you decide to just get ready for bed and grab your laptop.

You make yourself comfy under the blanket, your eyes turning to look at Seungmin.

"Ah. I'm probably crazy but I do need a few cuddles." you shrug as you sit up, your laptop on the side.

Pursing your lips, you slowly take off his jacket and put it aside.

"Oh wow." you gasp as you notice the little hairs on his arms, moles here and there, as if it's real skin.

You touch his arm, it's smooth and soft... comforting, even.

Your hand runs down to his and you grab it, your fingers entwined with his.

For some reason, you crave touch even more now so you adjust him to lay down and make him comfy on the pillows before you grab your laptop and put it on his stomach.

You lean your head on his chest, putting his arm around you as you search for a movie.

"If anyone sees me like this, I would die of embarassment." you sigh as you press play on a random movie.

Even though Seungmin's skin feels real, and he feels somewhat warm, it's quiet when your ear presses against his chest, there is no heartbeat to lull you to sleep.

It weirds you out but at the same time it's comforting to have someone next to you.

Oh no.

Your favorite shirt is gone.

You rummage through your whole wardrobe, knowing it's surely where you left it last time.

Edie probably took it, you think and stomp your way to her room after you close the wardrobe with a thud.

You miss the little smirk on Seungmin's face and the way his eyes followed you to the door before stilling again.

"Edie! Where is my favorite shirt? The red one with the yellow sun? I told you to ask if you wanna borrow stuff!"

"What? I never took that shirt. It's ugly anyways."

"Girl, don't call my favorite shirt ugly." you whine while she giggles.

"Sorry, I don't wanna hurt the shirt's feelings." she puts her arms up in fake surrender and you roll your eyes at her.

Coming back to your room, you're stopped in your tracks as you notice the shirt thrown over Seungmin's thighs.

You stand and stare at him quietly, your mind trying to process this because you know for a fact that it wasn't there before.

Slowly making your way to him, you narrow your eyes as you snatch your shirt away from him.

"Is this how you wanna play? Seungmin, the mischievous doll?" you raise your eyebrow.

He seems to be smiling slightly at your sarcastic tone.

"We'll talk about this later." you threaten and run to your bathroom to get ready for classes.

It was only the beginning.

A few weeks have passed since your friends got you Seungmin, and by now you kind of got used to him.

You couldn't really fall asleep unless you were hugging him and every morning when you opened your eyes you would give him a soft kiss to his forehead, just what the letter asked.

You were convinced that there was more to Seungmin though, as your things would disappear or be moved around, only to reappear later, making you frustrated at his playful antics.

Edie was bugging you constantly about using the doll for its actual purposes and one stressful weekend of studying before exam season was all you needed to snap and find a way to let out your frustrations.

Exhaling loudly, you turned to look at Seungmin, your fingers tangled in your hair and pulling in frustration.

It must be 3am by now, you think and decide to get up and take a hot shower.

Luckily, Edie was away, visiting her boyfriend so you had the apartment all to yourself and could make as much noise as you wanted to.

In your tired daze, coupled with the hot water on your skin, you felt a familiar throb in your core.

Your fingers danced on your skin, going lower until you stopped and gasped.

Seungmin.

Maybe it was time to try the doll's abilities.

After you finish rinsing off, you wrapped a towel around yourself and made your way to your room.

Seungmin is propped on your bed in his shirt and boxers, you stripped him a few days before, wanting to be more comfortable when you hold him, the stiff jeans fabric annoying you while you sleep.

"Well. It's just us, I guess." you say as you stand in front of him.

"Fuck it." you let the towel slide down to the floor, your eyes following it and not noticing the spark lighting up in Seungmin's gaze.

"Well, it's not fair that you're dressed." you pout and make your way to your doll, stripping his shirt first and biting your lip as your eyes roam all over his chest and stomach.

You slide his boxers off next, his semi-hard cock popping out and you gasp, did he get hard just from you being naked? If so, how?

Completely flabbergasted, you stared at him.

He never looked more real than in this moment and you felt your arousal gather on your pussy and coat your inner thighs.

"I must be ovulating." you chuckle at yourself and straddle the doll's thigh.

His muscles were firm under your wet pussy and you whined, slowly fucking yourself against Seungmin's thigh.

His cock seemed to react strongly to this, growing, the tip becoming red and angry and your eyes flutter as you practically drool at the sight of his length.

You wrap your hand around him and whimper when you feel his heaviness in your hand, and the warmth radiating off of him, how he twitches against you, beads of pre-cum appearing at his tip.

You don't even want to analyze and think how they made him this real, in this moment all you want is to play with him and find some relief for yourself.

You squeeze his cock a little before giving him a few languid strokes.

"Ah, fuck!" you moan, riding his thigh, your wet pussy leaving trails of arousal on his skin.

You lean in closer and press your lips to his neck, kissing his skin and inhaling his scent that mixed with yours from so many days of just cuddling him.

Seungmin's fingers twitch next to him but you don't notice as your lips dance on his skin, kissing him, your tongue darting out to taste him, your teeth grazing against his nipples.

This seems to make his cock even harder and you smirk, your hand playing with his nipple as you jerk him off faster, still riding his thigh and bringing yourself closer to your release.

You read the manual before, and you know his nipples are sensitive, the more you play with them, the closer he gets to cumming.

You decide to be evil and bring the doll to the edge, before retracting your hands and giggling as you grind on his thigh faster.

"Ah, Seungmin!" you moan out as you bounce on him, and his eyes fall down to your tits bouncing in his face, but again you don't notice since your head is thrown back in full ecstasy as you cum all over his thigh.

"Mm. So good." you whine, needing more, so you throw your leg over him, grabbing his cock and sliding down on his length in one go.

"Ah, you're so big baby." you coo at Seungmin and start bouncing on him, his cock filling you up deliciously and hitting every spot inside you perfectly.

"You like my tits, hm?" you notice that they're right in front of him so you grab his head and smush his face into your chest as you continue fucking on him.

You lean back to look at his face and you swear there's something in his eyes as you hold his cheeks in your palms and slow your hips.

"You're enjoying, aren't you?" you whisper and lean in to kiss the doll, his lips moving with yours as if he's kissing you back and you almost get lost in him.

Gently taking his hands in yours, you kiss his fingers, licking and sucking on them as you gyrate your hips against him.

"I love your hands." you mumble against him, taking two of his fingers in your mouth and sucking on them, staring intently at the doll's face.

You can feel his cock twitch inside you as you clench around him, working his fingers deep in your hot mouth, holding his other hand on your breast.

There's definitely something in his eyes, you note as you bring yourself closer to your high.

You squeeze your eyes shut, wishing with your whole being he would wake up and touch you everywhere, his hands burning imprints on you, wrapping around your neck, pulling on your hair, spanking you, marking you as his.

With that, you moan loudly, your pussy gripping his cock before you spill your juices all over his length, riding out your high, your fingers on his nipples, pinching and pulling.

"You wanna cum, Seungminnie?" you coo at him. "You pleased me well, you can cum." you add with a particularly strong pinch and it's like he heard you, his cock twitching inside you before he exploded, spurts of hot cum filling you up deeply.

"Ah!" you moan at the feeling, your eyes rolling back as you wrap your arms around him.

After taking some time to calm down, you grab Seungmin's face and press a sweet kiss to his forehead.

"I'm glad you're here, dolly." you whisper.

Exam season was riding you hard, coupled with essays and projects you had due, you felt extremely stressed.

You were barely eating and sleeping, the only light in your life was your dolly, Seungmin.

All of your friends were in the same predicament as you, so none of them had the time or the will to hang out.

It was like a struggle happening between you and all your obligations, and you were losing the battle.

Just one more paragraph, you thought as your tired fingers ran across the keyboard, your eyes bloodshot and hair a mess, your entire body stiff with stress.

You felt worn out but every now and then you would glance back at the bed and a small smile would spread on your face upon seeing Seungmin waiting for you there.

A few days ago, you had come home to find little hearts drawn in your notebook, knowing it had to be Seungmin since Edie wasn't home then and couldn't possibly be pranking you.

Maybe you wouldn't admit it to your friends but you loved Seungmin, even if he was just a doll.

For the few months you had him, you had grown attached to him; you talked to him about your innermost thoughts and feelings instead of writing them down in your diary.

You always watched movies with him, and after the movie ended you would play with him, exploring his body and wishing he could do the same to you.

You know it's probably crazy, but to you Seungmin is alive, and seeing those heart doodles only confirmed that there was more to him than you initially thought.

And you were right.

Breaking down into tears of frustration that night, you crawled into bed a sobbing mess, your arms wrapping around Seungmin instictively, holding him tightly as you cried into his neck.

You fell into a deep slumber while Seungmin listened to you cry yourself to sleep, your tears soaking up his shirt.

He couldn't stand it, his heart began to beat erratically as he started taking in shallow breaths, his hand gripping at the sheet below him as he tried to gasp for breath.

He shivered against you, his eyes were wide and trained on the ceiling above him as he slowly got his heartbeat and breathing steady.

Miraculously, you didn't feel a thing and kept sleeping as he slowly came to his senses.

The first thing Seungmin felt inside his body was thirst and hunger, his stomach growling, making him feel dizzy as he clutched onto you.

I need to get up!, he thought to himself before slowly rolling out of your hold and falling down on the floor with a thud.

"Ow." he muttered and his head popped up to check on you but you were still fast asleep.

A sad smile spread on his face, you were so exhausted and it hurt him.

Seungmin gathered all his strength as he staggered to the kitchen, drinking a few glasses of water, only feeling a bit more normal after that.

He rummaged through the cabinets, having watched you cook multiple times, he knew where everything was.

Deciding it was fastest to make some instant ramen, he did just that, almost burning himself in the process.

He was so hungry he couldn't think straight, he had no idea what was happening, who exactly he was even though little snippets of memories were running through his mind, he couldn't remember anything clearly except the memories he shared with you.

Seungmin didn't have answers to any of his questions, but there was only one thing he was sure about.

He loves you.

So, after he finished eating, Seungmin sat down in your room, opened up your laptop and worked all night tirelessly to finish up your essay and project.

He was going to make sure you get your much needed rest while he helps you pass your exams.

Slowly waking up in the morning, your hands instantly reached out for Seungmin.

With your eyes closed, you started moving your hand around your mattress only to realize that it's empty.

You freeze, dread washing over you before you open your eyes, blinking and looking around the room.

"Oh my god!" you all but scream when you see Seungmin, your Seungmin, the doll, sitting at your table, his upper body leaned on it as he sleeps.

You can hear and see that he's breathing and you don't know how to react, frozen in complete shock.

Quietly, you get up, tippy-toeing your way to him, you lean down to look at his face.

He looks adorable, his face smushed against your papers, his hand on the keyboard of your laptop and the other in his lap.

His eyes move under his eyelids, pretty lashes caressing his skin, his body rising with the breaths he's taking in.

"S-Seungmin?" you place your hand on his upper back, your fingers twitching a little.

"Hm." he hums a little and you chuckle.

You're supposed to feel scared, mortified even; but you feel giddy to finally see him look at you, talk to you, touch you.

"Minnie?" you try again, fingers playing with the hair on the nape of his neck.

His eyes flutter open, and he's confused for a second before his eyes widen at the sight of you.

"Y/n!" he exclaims, sitting up suddenly.

"You're alive. How?" you ask as you observe him.

"I- I woke up last night. I saw how you were struggling, how exhausted you were and I couldn't take it anymore."

"You saw... everything?" your heart beats faster.

"Y-yes." Seungmin nods, the tips of his ears becoming red. "It was as if I was in a state of sleep paralysis, and kept fighting to wake up."

"So you heard everything I said, felt everything I did?" you ask, for some reason the knowledge that Seungmin was actually present during every time you played with him, made you squeeze your thighs together and he noticed, the redness from his ears spreading to his neck.

"Yes." he says and you laugh in disbelief.

"This is insane! Wait, what are you doing at my table?" you remember suddenly and he chuckles awkwardly, playing with the end of his shirt.

"I- uhm... I finished your essay and project. Don't worry, I didn't fuck anything up! I worked on it as if it was you." he says and suddenly your eyes water.

"Minnie. You're so sweet. I'm so happy you came to life." you throw your arms around him and he gasps, his heart jumping in his chest.

He can't believe you didn't freak out and turn away.

Not only that you didn't turn away, you sat in his lap as he tentatively put his arms around you.

You held him tighter, making him melt into you.

Leaning back, you grabbed his face and started kissing him.

"Y/n, wait- you're not freaking out?" he stops you suddenly, an insecure look in his eyes as he observes your face.

"No, I knew you were alive. You hid my stuff and played pranks on me the whole time." you narrow your eyes at him and Seungmin chuckles awkwardly.

"Oops?" he grimaces and you laugh.

"Make it up to me, please." you whisper against his lips and Seungmin can't deny you.

He presses his lips on yours, his hands on your lower back, bringing you closer to him and making you grind against his lap.

Your nails dig into his shoulders when you feel him grow under you, and you can't help it as you start grinding against him.

All the times you played with him, you wished he'd wake up and just take you, and here he was now.

"Please, Minnie. I need you so bad." you moan and Seungmin smirks against your lips, his hands sliding down to grip your ass as he pushes his tongue inside your mouth at the same time.

He swallows all the sounds you make, his tongue exploring every inch of you as he lifts his hand and smacks your ass.

You jolt a little, pressing against him harder, feeling his cock twitching against your wet core.

Seungmin gets impatient, his hands grip the back of your thighs and he lifts you up, carrying you to your bed as you clutch onto him.

"I fantasized about this so much." you gasp breathlessly as he kneels between your legs, grabbing your ankles and pushing your knees to your chest.

"About what exactly? Tell me what you need, y/n." Seungmin's eyes are dark and filled with lust.

You shiver, biting on your lip as you feel more arousal soak your panties.

"I want you to be rough with me, please. Just do whatever you want." you whimper making him smirk.

"Anything you need, darling." Seungmin leans down closer to you, pressing his lips on yours hard and forcing his tongue in as his hand comes up to grip your throat.

The sound that comes out of you and travels into him, makes him grow impossibly hard in his boxers.

He squeezes your throat a little as he kisses you hard, taking your breath away and you dig your nails in his arm, your middle lifting up towards his and brushing against his hard member.

Seungmin presses down on you, slowly grinding against your wet panties as he leans back and grips your throat harder.

Your eyes flutter as you completely give into him, his gaze is fixed on you and how you're so willingly letting him hold your life in his hand.

When he releases you, you gasp for breath and grab at him.

"Fuck me, please Seungmin!" you groan and he slides your panties down as you rip your shirt off fast.

He chuckles at your eagerness, getting rid of his clothes too.

He presses his lips on your neck, his pretty hands exploring your body just how you wanted him to, fingers playing with your nipples, running over the dips and valleys of you.

Your whole body is on fire, your core is throbbing to be touched and it's like he senses it, his hand sliding between your legs to cup your pussy.

"S-Seungmin!" you whimper as he starts sliding his fingers on your wet folds, brining them up to your clit and pressing into it.

"Is this all mine?" he smirks darkly at you, torturing your sensitive clit, his other hand worshipping your breasts.

"Yes, all yours!" you moan as he slaps your pussy, a wave of arousal rushing through you.

"Please!" you beg, your hands gripping at the sheets beneath you.

"I love when you beg like that." Seungmin says, pushing his fingers inside you and you whimper as your pussy sucks them in eagerly.

"You always did what you wanted with me. Not that I mind that, but it's my turn now." he smirks, finding that gummy spot inside you and fucking slowly into it.

"Mm..." you moan as he pinches your nipples, teasing you with slow moves.

He speeds up, only to slow down again, driving you insane as your body yearns for release.

"P-please, let me cum." you whimper and Seungmin chuckles, withdrawing his fingers from you.

All those times you edged him were coming back to bite you in the ass as he decided to take his sweet time with you before giving you what you want.

You whine but before you can protest more, you feel the tip of his cock pressing against you, running over your folds and teasing your clit.

You're a moaning mess as he slowly pushes in, only the tip breaching your hot cunt.

You wait for more but realize with despair that he is going to tease you until the very end as he starts fucking you only with the tip of his pretty cock.

"Oh my god! Please!" you whine.

"Be quiet and take it." he says, his hand wrapping around your throat once more, squeezing as his tip goes in and out of you, then runs over your folds, smearing your arousal everywhere, playing with your tortured clit.

You give in, spreading your legs more as you hold them open for him while he tortures you.

"That's it. My good girl." Seungmin praises you and you whimper as he lets go of your neck.

You're about to beg for more but Seungmin leans back before grabbing you and turning you around on all fours.

"Oh!" you exclaim as he spreads your legs with his.

"I know what you want, darling." he chuckles lowly behind you before pushing into you harshly, making you take his entire length in one thrust.

"Ah!" you whimper as your pussy clenches around him immediately, not wanting to let him go.

Seungmin grunts, spanking you fast and hard a few times before he grabs your hips and starts fucking into you with an unforgiving pace.

You gasp for air as your grab the headboard, making the bed shake with the movement of your bodies.

His hand tangles in your hair and he pulls as you cry out, not being able to hold it in anymore, you cream around his cock and his eyes roll back, his hips stuttering as he releases inside you, filling you up with his hot load.

"Oh my god." you whimper, collapsing down as both of you breathe hard and he wraps his arms around you.

"That's what you fantasized about, hm?" he whispers, lips brushing against your ear.

"Y-yes." you say, breathless.

Both of you are quiet for some time before you face each other, breaking into shy smiles.

"I love you, Seungmin." your hand is on his cheek, and then in his soft hair as you caress him.

"I love you so much, y/n. What I feel for you woke me up, because I couldn't stand just watching you go through all the stress alone." he says as you hold each other.

"I wasn't alone, you were always there." you retort with a smile.

Something more gentle settles between you, and the two of you cuddle quietly, enjoying in each other's presence.

You stay like that for some time before you decide to clean up and eat breakfast.

Walking into the kitchen, you don't even notice Edie who turns around and upon seeing you walking in with Seungmin, she shrieks, taking a step back as her face morphs into a look of shock.

"What the fuck?!"

"Calm down, Edie." you chuckle.

"Calm down?! He's - he's alive! How?!" she keeps freaking out.

"I woke up-"

"He talks!" Edie interrupts him and you start laughing.

"Oh my god, Edie. No, we don't know how he woke up either and how he's alive." you say with a chuckle.

"Do you remember anything, Minnie?" you turn to Seungmin and he seems to blush at the nickname, fiddling with his fingers as if he didn't just rail you in the bedroom thirty minutes ago.

"Snippets. I remember this cold place, some kind of droning sound. Water too, maybe? And there were others. But I can't remember their faces at all. I just know they were there."

"Others?" Edie purses her lips and then grabs her laptop hurriedly.

"Them?" she types quickly before turning the laptop towards the two of you, the familiar site presenting the sex dolls on her screen.

Seungmin gasps, his lips trembling.

"T-that... that's them! They were there with me. In the cold room." Seungmin suddenly hugs himself and you can see he's becoming distressed.

Quickly, you reach towards the laptop, closing it and putting your arms around him.

"It's okay, take a deep breath." you say softly as you caress him.

"How about we finish our exams this week and then all of us try to find out what actually happened to you, Seungmin?" Edie offers and he nods.

"I'd like that." he says. "Just... I never want to go back there. I don't know why but it feels horrifying."

"Don't worry, I won't let anyone take you away from me." you smile at him, kissing his cheek gently.

Your exam and presentation week pass by smoothly, with the constant help and support of Seungmin, everything was easier.

He insisted on sharing your burdens, always reminding you to take care of yourself, preparing you warm meals while you studied and listening to you yap about what you learned for practice.

Your friend group all came to see Seungmin and they adored his personality instantly since he was a little shy with them but clearly adored you, they congratulated themselves for finding the perfect guy for you.

As the week came to an end, after a good night's sleep and a warm breakfast, Seungmin, Edie and you sat on your living room floor with your laptops, the manual and Seungmin's letter.

All three of you went through the letter and manual multiple times, like some new information would appear and help you understand where Seungmin came from, how did he suddenly come to life, why did the usb opening disappear when he woke up, why can't he remember anything.

The site wasn't much help either, it only had pictures of the dolls, info about them written in a similar fashion as Seungmin's manual was.

Nothing about the company except that they had advanced technology they were proud of testing.

After hours of research, you came up with a big fat nothing.

"I can't believe there's nothing on the net about this company!" Edie threw her hands up in frustration.

"There's something fishy about all of this." you let out a sigh as Seungmin looks at you.

"I'm really trying hard to remember more." he says.

"I know you are." you smile at him, caressing his face. "How about we take a break?"

"Sounds good to me. I'm meeting my lover for lunch anyways." Edie smiles.

"Hey, thank you so much for helping, Edie." you smile at her and she chuckles.

"Of course! What are friends for!" she exclaims with a giggle.

"I want to thank you for everything you've done for me." you whisper while you and Seungmin cuddle.

He smiles as you lift up before burying your face in his neck and kissing his soft skin.

"It was my pleasure." Seungmin takes in a shaky breath as your tongue darts out to lick at his sensitive spot before you sink your teeth into it.

"Y/n." he whimpers, grabbing at you.

"And it will be my pleasure to show you how grateful I am." you smirk at him, his eyes hooded as he observes you.

You lift his shirt up, taking it off and tossing it aside, your lips attaching to his skin instantly.

You leave kisses on his collarbone and chest, your tongue playing with his nipples, teeth grazing the sensitive buds.

Seungmin relaxes, letting you kiss his stomach, all the way down to the bulge in his boxers, where you press a kiss to his head.

"Ah, y/n." he whines, lifting up into you.

You only smirk, hooking your fingers in his underwear and pulling it down, watching his cock spring free, pre cum beading at the tip.

You need to taste him, tongue on him immediately before you wrap your lips around the head, sucking on it gently.

"Shit!" Seungmin moans, his hand tangling in your hair and holding you down.

It's clear to you that he's slowly taking control as he lifts his hips up, pushing your head down at the same time and making you take more of his length.

Your eyes flutter, enjoying the way he uses you, fucking up slowly into your mouth and you hold onto his thighs as he grips your hair and pushes in further.

You gag a little when you feel the tip of his cock bullying its way to the back of your throat and your pussy clenches.

You squeeze your thighs, looking for some friction as Seungmin keeps fucking up into you harder and faster.

"Fuck, you're doing so good, baby." he moans, his body trembling for a moment.

You choke on his length but he doesn't let up.

"Just a little more, and then I'll give you my cum." he smirks and you whimper around him, your cunt throbbing.

Your hand sneaks on his inner thigh only to grab his balls, squeezing them and massaging them and Seungmin snaps, his hips jolting as he releases hot spurts of cum inside you.

Your eyes close in pleasure as you swallow, your pussy dripping arousal on your panties.

"Please, Minnie. Please, touch me." you're desperate as you pop off of him and he shushes you, lifting up and laying you down.

He strips you quickly, his lips on your skin, finger on your wet cunt.

"So eager for me, aren't you?" he smirks, dipping just the tips of his fingers inside you.

"Y-yes, ah!" you whimper when he flicks your sensitive clit.

"Such a good girl." Seungmin coos at you, plunging two of his fingers inside you, his other hand stimulating your clit as he massages it and pinches occasionally.

Being the little tease that he is, he pulls his fingers out any time you're close to cumming, just to watch you writhe in frustration, your little pussy clenching around nothing.

He doesn't let you cum until he's reduced you to a crying, shaking mess and by that time you are so fucked out that you can't even speak.

You clench around his fingers before exploding all over his hand, squirting as his dark eyes observe you.

When he retracts his fingers, you grip his wrist, bringing his hand to your mouth as you swirl your tongue around them, cleaning them up and sucking on the digits.

"F-fuck." Seungmin whines.

Before he can lean down to kiss you, your phone starts ringing.

"Let it." he begs.

"It's Edie." you say quickly, ignoring the throbbing in your core. "Hey." you pick up as Seungmin catches his breath.

"What?! Okay, thanks for the heads up!"

"What's going on?" Seungmin looks at you worriedly and you quickly shake your head, grabbing a few tissues from the nightstand to clean yourself up.

"Edie and her boyfriend were in a diner and saw the news on tv, you were on it, and the other dolls. The company said that all the dolls have some kind of malfunction and that they're taking them back-"

"They wanna take me away from you?" Seungmin's lower lip trembles.

"You know I won't let that happen." you say as you open your laptop, typing in the site.

"It's gone!" you exclaim, the only thing that's popping up when you type the url in, is an error message.

"Shit, they're gonna come for me! I can't be here. I- I need to leave." Seungmin starts panicking suddenly.

"Seungmin, please, it's gonna be okay. I will-"

"No, y/n. It's too dangerous. It's best if they don't find me here. I don't wanna get you mixed up into anything."

"Minnie, I'm already mixed up into it. Because I love you and I won't let them hurt you." you grab his shaky hands.

"But-"

"No, we will do this together. I'll fight them, I swear. Just promise me you won't leave." you beg, squeezing his hands.

"Fine. I promise. I love you so much, y/n." Seungmin kisses you, the kiss feels like a goodbye to you but you don't want to dwell on it, the hope in your heart is not dying yet.

But, that night when you fall asleep in Seungmin's arms, he breaks his promise.

Having an inkling that whoever created him in the company has a tendency of being cruel, he didn't want you anywhere near that.

With a heavy heart, he looked at your sleeping face, caressing you and pressing his lips to your forehead and then your lips, he whispered his confession of love and disappeared into the night.

As he wondered next to the road, a car rolled closer and Seungmin lifted his thumb.

The car slowed down and when he looked into the passenger's seat window, a reflection of a familiar face stared at him in shock...

~taglist: @moonchild9350 @janepg @velvetmoonlght @hwanghyunjinismybae @jehhskz @porangporangmeong @laylasbunbunny @laughatdanger @jeonginslefthand @sapphirewaves @simpforleeknaur @s3ungm1nxxl0ve @painterhyunjin @starlost-mochi-x @saintcosette @ooshyana @juskz @quokkacidal @chuuyaobsessed @whatdoyouwanttocallmefor @lixies-favorite-cookie @thelostprincessofasgard @linocvp1d @stayjinnie @portgasdbru @lilgothhishhh @selinia86 @felixsbabe @staytinyluva @sadroses98 @katexstay @gnabnahcsworld @hazelbazil @iwannahugchangbin @imperfectlyperfectprincess1 @skzfelixlove @skzjen @syedazarintasnim @geektacularmommom-blog @cookiesnmilfx @kayleefriedchicken @stxt-bby @strykdsstanot8 @hyunjinhwang2018 @binniesbabygirl @hyunjiniretti @linavc @julciaqwerty @salemluvsmusic @diipsy @gwinamsgirlfriend @sofix-hc7 @poptrim @queerpumpkinnn @redlikemysoul @hyunjinslefteyebrow @frehyun @minluvly @highkeyinlovewithhanjisung @sushiinmidnight @rei-reia @thequibbie @sblack91511915 @channiesfavitem @edevotion @leeknowinggg @charlieg1rl @spookwyrdie @estella-novella @alaskaortiga @hyunjinsruinedpainting @lucywindigo @miniverse-zen @sky00ung @rosekpopfanfic @maysoka @pixiiebutt @beaquokka @bookswillfindyouaway @cosmicrecs @seungiee-3 @blrzzz @minniesverse @o-0i @lee-knows-cats @ms-flowergirl @hyunjinhoexxx @lattyjiji @onlyleeknowsss @courtnort455 @qwonyoung23 @oreoqueen @nightmarenyxx @hongtyong @lashaemorow @1810cl

2K notes · View notes

zepskies · 2 days ago

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Awww that makes me so happy, friend! 🥰 There's definitely MORE coming soon. 💜💜💜

i’m usually a bit squeamish when it comes to anything that involves hunting, but the opening scene was written so nicely, it was the perfect amount of descriptive without being like, graphic? if that makes sense :) and although I feel sad for the lion (major cat person, lol) i’m glad dean was able to prove himself, even without the child’s bow :p💘

Ooh I totally get that, but thank you so much for that compliment. 😊 I tried not to make it too graphic (I love cats too! 😭). Dean will have the chance to master the bow soon enough though! 🏹

i’m also glad mila’s words got through to šóta and he showed dean some grace and kindness 😭🤍 it’s what my boy deserves <33

He needed that proverbial kick in the pants, didn't he?! And Dean finally gets someone on his side besides Mila, poor guy lol.

meanwhile otaktay youuu trifling miserable conniving bitter bitchhhh :| pardon my language lol i’m so glad he got the whoopin he deserved! the absolute audacity of that dude. 🤦🏽‍♀️ — got ahead of myself cause I like to review in order of events lol but he really grinded my gearss [insert arthur fist meme]

Oh Otaktay IS a trifling ass bitch. 😤 Even his own people are looking at him sideways for what he's done (or what he tried to do). Lolll totally understandable. Otaktay grinded my gears just writing him. 🤣

i loved all the little insights into how dean is with mila :’)🩵 they are so sweet to each other 😭 love them <3 it’s also nice that various people (minus one ofc) were seeing how well he treats his wife and how respectful he is 🙂‍↕️

Aww honestly I loved trying to figure out their dynamic as a married couple. I also feel like this was a time where a man like Dean would've been raised to respect the women in his life, especially his wife. 💜💜

checking in with her beforeeee getting down to business 🫠 [he’s a good man savannah 😔💖]

Damn right. 😏 Dean is gonna handle his business, but first, needs to check in with his girl.

aaand this is when I knew otaktay was in dangerrr lol

oh 100%. Guy's marked now. 😅

ohhhhhhh 😭😂 when I read this i thought to myself, dang maybe the fight wasn’t so bad in comparison to what’s coming to him 🤣 mama is nottttt gonna be happy

lmaooooo you know what, you're probably right! A little reveal there that Eyota is Otaktay's mother--and he's about to get another whoopin'. 😂

I adoreee this ♥️ and he’s worthyyyy🥺🤍 I loved the respect everyone finally showed him <3 the circumstances were not the greatest of course, but he has more than earned that respect by now :’) also when he was called honorable I thought of THC which i’m not sure if it was intentional or not, but either way, so cute!🧡

Aw thank you, my lovely. 🥹 Dean IS worthy, and finally getting the respect he deserves from everyone involved. 💗

Omg I hoped readers would notice that connection to THC! It was very intentional. 😘

i’m also glad they had that talk! it was so important, i’m glad it was reassuring for them🫶🏽

Oh yeah, Otaktay didn't put the thoughts in Mila's head about her and Dean's long-term struggles, and their future kids, but it sure did fan the flames. It was an important convo for her and Dean to have and get through together. 🫶🏽

meltinggg this was the sweetest thing🥺💗 home is where the heart is indeed<3 overall another amazing chapter lovely!💞

Aww thank you, my lovely. 🥹 That was probably my favorite line for this mini series, let alone this chapter. I'm so glad you enjoyed that part, and this chapter overall!! 💕

p.s. not entirely sure who’s in the teaser buuut i’m holding out hope for a certain someonee🤠 the anticipation buildss

Ooh you know what, I'm sure you've already figured it out. 😏 But until then...

Outlander - Part 2

Pairing: Dean Winchester x OFC

Summary: Dean Winchester has been stripped of his military rank, but he’s living happier with his new wife, trying to adjust to a new life in her tribe. What will it take for her people to accept him, especially when the battle for her heart might not be completely won?

AN: Here we go! Diving deeper into Dean's (mis)adventures, plus a big Protective Dean moment...

Disclaimer: I first got inspired to write The Honorable Choice for @jacklesversebingo after a recent rewatch of Spirit: The Stallion of the Cimarron (with a tinge of Yellowstone in the mix). I’ve done a fair bit of research for this now ongoing series, both on the Native American Lakota tribe, and on American history during this time in the late 1800s; AKA: the Old West, during the American Indian Wars.

Jacklesverse Bingo24 Prompt: Western AU

Song Inspo: The Spirit Soundtrack

Word Count: 6.4K

Tags/Warnings: 18+ only. Mentions of attempted sexual assault (not graphic). Protective Dean, survival situations, derogatory name-calling, hunting (in the traditional sense), angst, blood and violence, hurt/comfort, and romantic fluff and spice.

🐎 Series Masterlist || Bingo Masterlist

Part 2: What is Home

No matter how Dean tries, somehow he never makes his mark with the arrow. His boot even slips on the tree branch he was perched on, and he falls straight into the mud from this morning’s rain shower.

The other six men wait for him on the ground, and they laugh at him.

Otaktay is the ringleader today, as he is whenever Šóta isn’t here.

“Get up, wašíču. Watch close,” Otaktay says, in his limited English. He and Takoda smoke their long pipes leisurely and blow smoke rings up in the air.

Wašíču.

Fat taker. Greedy White. By now, Dean knows what that means, and it’s worse than Outlander. It makes his jaw clench and his temper spike.

Otaktay gives Takoda his pipe to hold, then reaches behind his back for his bow and an arrow from his quiver. Dean has noticed that the other men’s bows look a bit bigger than his, but Otaktay called it a “training bow.”

He notches his arrow, pulls it back and lets it fly. It hits up into the tree and spears an apple, pinning it to the trunk.

It’s an impressive move, but Dean just picks himself up and cleans most of the mud from his hands. He knows Mila will have something to say about making a mess of the clothes she made for him.

“All right, fine. I am what I am,” Dean says. He meets Otaktay’s gaze head-on. “But I’ve still been hunting all my life.”

Dean used to keep his knife on his belt, but now he wears the pants and tunics the other men wear, and they either strap their weapons in a leather holster around their thigh or to their ankles. Dean unsheathes the knife he keeps strapped to his thigh.

And he throws it hard. It cuts straight through a branch and brings an entire bunch of apples to the ground by Takoda’s feet; he even has to jump to avoid them landing on his head. The others murmur to each other, begrudgingly impressed.

Except for Otaktay. His face remains stoic.

A whistle breaks the tension in the forest clearing. It’s Šóta, who joins them, coming through on his horse.

“How is the hunt going?” he asks in English, raising a brow over at the wild boar that lies in the grass. Otaktay and the others killed it this morning, so he’s the one who speaks first.

“The Outsider will bring a whole bunch of apples to feed his wife. How satisfying,” Otaktay says, with a dry edge of mocking. Dean’s jaw clenches, but he tries not to rise to the bait.

“Maybe he satisfies her in other ways, brother,” Šóta says. “Maybe that’s why he has a wife, and you don’t.”

His tone is teasing, but is there a reproaching edge there too? Dean’s lips tug upwards, slightly; he sees that Otaktay simmers at the dig, but he doesn’t dare say anything against Šóta.

“Hey!” Takoda calls out. He points at the boar they mean to take back to the village. A mountain lion slips closer down from a tree. He sinks his teeth into the boar’s thigh and begins to drag it away, farther into the forest.

The sight of the wild cat spooks the men’s horses grazing nearby. Even Baby scatters along with them, braying in distress. But the men hustle into action. Even with mud still clinging to his clothes and his skin, Dean grabs up his bow and arrow and runs to grab his fallen knife. He whistles to Baby and calms her down enough to climb up onto her back.

The others have already done the same with their horses and are chasing the mountain lion into the woods. It zips up a tree, and Šóta, Otaktay, and the others aim their arrows high. They wait and listen.

Otaktay releases his arrow first. The cat’s angry shriek fills the clearing from above.

“You got him,” Šóta says.

“Winged him. He’s not dead,” Otaktay says. His brows furrow as he listens closer.

The cat jumps from the tree and takes Dean to the ground. Baby brays and stamps around, and Dean has to both avoid her hooves and try to keep the mountain lion from sinking his claws or his teeth into his neck.

Šóta’s eyes widen, but he springs into action by whistling to the men and raising his bow. Before he can shoot, he has to stop short at what he sees.

A moment later, Dean rolls over and heaves the lion’s dead body off of him. His knife comes out of the animal’s chest, slick and crimson with blood. It runs down his muddy shirt as he pants and heaves for breath.

Šóta gets down from his horse, running his disbelieving eyes over the scene.

Dean looks up and finds a hand offered to him. His gaze travels up further and meets Šóta’s. His eyes are an even darker brown than Mila’s. Dean takes his hand and accepts the help to his feet.

The other men hesitate, stunned into silence, but they get down from their horses and help Dean and Šóta heft the dead animal onto the latter’s horse. They will take it, along with the boar they retrieve from up in the tree, back to camp.

Mila returns to camp not long before the men. She meant to start prepping for supper, but she becomes sidetracked while playing Chase with the children. As one of the few young women still without children of her own, she tries her best to give the mothers a break in the afternoon, so they can finish washing, mending, cooking, or even just having a rest for themselves.

Watching their joy, and even helping them up when they fall and cry, makes her wonder when she will finally be blessed with a child. She hopes they will have Dean’s eyes, so pretty and green.

When the men return, she raises her head breathlessly and smiles. It soon dims, however, as she catches sight of Dean. She gets to her feet and ushers the children back to their mothers before she goes to meet him.

He gives her a sheepish look when he gets off his horse. Her mouth drops open at seeing him covered in mud and sweat and blood.

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” he says, trying to placate her with raised hands. She ignores that and touches his chest, her palms splaying down his stomach as she tries to find a wound. She finds more tears and scratches through his soiled clothes, but no real wounds. Still, she’s not satisfied yet.

“What happened?” she asks.

“Just a little trial by fire, sweetheart,” Dean says. He grasps her arms to placate her. “Everything’s okay.”

Otaktay pointedly looks away from the scene and moves on along with the other men. Šóta notices, but he goes to his cousin.

“We encountered a thief,” he says, gesturing to the body of the mountain lion they brought back for tonight’s meal. “Dean Winchester not only caught the thief, but made an example of him.”

Mila raises her brows and looks to Dean, as if to say, Is this true? He offers a smile and a shrug. She smiles back.

Šóta rides on, but he glances back and sees how Mila dotes on her husband, touching a gentle hand to his cheek.

In return, Dean holds her by the waist and talks to her with a warmth in his eyes that he only has for her. Or at least, that’s what Šóta finally sees.

Mila and Dean head back to their tipi, where she grabs a fresh change of clothing for him.

“I could’ve gotten it,” he says.

“You’ll track mud inside,” she points out wryly. She holds the bundle of clothes for him on their way to the river. “All you do is give me mending to do. You can’t keep clean, can’t keep from hurting yourself, can you?”

Dean knows her well enough now to realize her griping isn’t all that serious. She was just worried.

“I guess not,” he says, trying to hide his amusement.

She gives him a stern look, but with that cheeky look of his, she can’t stay upset for long. Her face softens into an exasperated smile, and she gestures towards the river. “Go. Wash yourself up. I will have supper ready soon.”

Dean grabs her hand and makes her drop the change of clothes in the grass.

“Only if you come with me,” he says. He grabs her and aims to toss her over his shoulder, but she squeals in protest.

“Dean Winchester! I’ll have nothing to wear if you drop me in the water!”

Dean pauses, his lips tugging at a smirk. “You make a decent point, but I’m just wondering, do I really care if you’ve gotta walk back naked?”

“Dean!” she giggles, hitting his shoulder.

He chuckles and sets her down, but he still doesn’t let her leave. By now, she doesn’t want to. He starts helping her undress, followed by him peeling off his disgusting clothes. He hooks an arm around her waist and hauls her with him into the water. She laughs and tries to escape him by splashing water in his face, but he just spits it out. He chuckles and wipes the excess droplets.

He slips his arms around her waist, holds her tight and floats with her for a bit. He takes in a deep breath and finds peace here with her here in the sun-warmed water. She’s become his peace.

Mila takes his face in her hands and kisses him slowly. When she pulls away and their eyes meet again, she smiles.

“I am proud of you,” she says. “Not just for today, but for every day that you stand strong.”

Dean’s lips quirk with a reluctant smile. He doesn’t take praise very well, but her words make the weight on his shoulders feel a little bit lighter. Holding her flush against his chest, every soft, familiar curve is pressed against him. He leans in and captures her lips again.

That evening, the tribe gathers for a feast prepared by the Chief’s wives, Mila, and her mother Weaya to celebrate the warriors’ highly successful hunt.

Šóta watches his cousin with her Outlander husband. Dean follows her lead in divvying out portions of the meal, but still at times with a supportive hand on the small of her back. He even takes the large, hot bowl out of her hand to help serve her and her family—including Chatan, who accepts the offered bowl without a word.

Dean Winchester doesn’t sit until Mila does. They talk together with her mother and the others, though Dean mostly keeps to himself while the women chat. He occasionally responds to a direct question or comment, but overall, he seems content to listen. He’s starting to follow more bits of conversation in their language.

At the end of the meal, he stands with Mila and helps her collect bowls that will be washed. The man is confident, but not prideful. He’s hardworking, self-reliant, and has the makings of a warrior.

However, Šóta is not the only one who watches his cousin and the Outlander.

Šóta pulls Dean aside after breakfast the next morning. He takes Dean back to the forest, beyond where the horses are kept in their pen, and puts his own hunting bow in Dean’s hands.

“Feel the weight of it,” Šóta says. “Does it seem like yours?”

Dean considers it, testing out the strength of the bowstring. “No. It feels heavier.”

“Because it is. We gave you a training bow for children,” Šóta says. He takes the bow from Dean and brings him the one he had tied to a satchel on his horse. “I will give you this one. It belonged to my half-brother, Takoda, before he made his own. I made it for him, and now I give it to you.”

Dean takes the bow. Šóta’s right, it’s taller and heavier than the first one they gave him. Of course they tried to trick him by giving him a kid’s bow. He tries not to be too annoyed about it, because it looks like Šóta’s warming up to him, at least enough to actually train him.

“Thanks,” Dean nods. He runs a hand over the bow and admires the craftsmanship of the wood, smooth and chestnut colored. He already has a quiver full of arrows he’s made himself, but first, Šóta corrects his stance and his posture.

“Your body knows the movements of hold, aim, and shoot, but you think too much,” he says. “How you shoot an arrow is not so different from a gun.”

Dean raises a brow. He begs to fucking differ.

Reading the skeptical look on his face, Šóta smiles.

“My father once told me, ‘A weapon is a weapon is a weapon,’” Šóta continues. “The way you use it might be different, but your mind is the same. Think like the river. Calm and free, yes?”

He throws Dean a thumbs up—something Dean taught him a week ago. Šóta just hasn’t gotten it quite right yet.

“A river ain’t always calm,” Dean points out. He should know. He almost died on the river in his journey here.

Šóta thinks for a second, tilting his head. “That is fair. Here, let me think of something better—”

“It’s okay, I think I get it. I just gotta relax a bit, is that it?”

“Yes, but stay focused.”

“I can focus. I just need you to back up a little.”

Šóta raises his hands in surrender. He takes a couple of steps back and gestures at a tree to use for target practice. Dean centers himself.

“Remember to breathe,” Šóta says.

Dean shoots him a glance. Again, Šóta holds up his hands, then crosses his arms, pressing his lips together. Dean shifts his gaze back to the target, and he lets out a deep breath. Then he lets the arrow fly.

It hits just shy of the tree’s center.

Šóta smiles, giving him another “thumbs up.”

“Good. Now, again,” he says.

The morning slowly dips behind the clouds into a golden afternoon. Šóta helps Dean catch and roast a couple of fish by the river, which cuts through the forest. Its waters are choppy and shimmering with the light.

This forest used to run almost all the way to the Black Hills, before the U.S. government began its work on the railroad. The tribe has had to move their village more than once out of self-preservation, like they did when Dean came to them.

He felt bad for it at the time, but he’s also grateful they made that precaution. The last thing he needs is to run into his old unit, let alone for the army to find out he’s still alive. And the last thing he wants is to endanger these people, especially his wife and her family.

He finishes off his second fish and glances over at Šóta.

“Look, I appreciate your help, but…I’ve gotta wonder why,” Dean says. “You don’t like that I’m here either.”

Šóta pauses in his chewing. He swallows before he answers, looking over at Dean in the eyes.

“It doesn’t matter if I like you,” he says. “You are the man who brought Kimmímila home alive. So, I help you.”

Dean nods. He can respect that. He looks down at the half-eaten meal, then at his hands, calloused and worn. They hold the weight of his past, his choices, and also the man he’s trying to be.

“I won’t hurt her,” he says.

The simple truth is that he’d give his life for hers. No hesitation.

“I know that, Dean Winchester. That is the other reason you are still alive,” Šóta says, with a slight smile. “You are brave. I will give you that.”

Dean smiles. “I guess there’s no winning over the others, is there?”

At that, Šóta pauses. “You are doing better than you think. The others see you aren’t afraid. They see you work hard, and you try to respect our ways. You just don’t know them. They don’t know you.”

“I get it,” Dean says, nodding. “Like, uh, Otaktay. Right?”

“Ah,” Šóta rubs his clean-shaven chin. “You will have a harder time with him.”

Dean quirks a rueful smile. “What’s his deal?”

“His deal?” Šóta questions.

“His problem,” Dean elaborates, “with me.”

Šóta sighs sharply. “Our men are warriors bred. Otaktay. His name means, ‘kills many.’”

Dean raises his brows. He slowly inclines his head.

“Riiiight. Of course.”

“Names have power, Dean Winchester. Otaktay takes his name like a challenge he will win, but he does it to protect our tribe above all else,” Šóta says.

If that weren’t enough, the man levels Dean with a more serious look.

“But there is something else you should know.”

Dean doesn’t think he’s going to like whatever’s coming next. He nods, wordlessly urging Šóta to continue.

“Otaktay has always watched my cousin, admired her spirit and her beauty,” he says. “Mila has known this, and maybe she would have accepted him, had she known…but he planned to ask Chatan, my uncle, for Mila’s hand.”

Dean’s chest tightens, as does his frown. “What happened?”

“She disappeared,” Šóta replies. “When Mato was taken, she couldn’t accept it. She left the village to find him against my uncle’s command. Then she found you.”

Dean isn’t exactly surprised by that. His wife is many things, defiant chief among them. Also, it makes a lot of things make even more sense. It explains her father’s tough outer shell, and clearly, it means he’ll have to keep a sharper eye on Otaktay.

She had been successfully avoiding him, until now.

Mila had just left the horses after helping Takoda feed and brush them, and she was planning to wash up before helping her mother and some of the other women cook for the entire tribe again this evening. Today is the last moon of the summer months, and so they’ve been preparing the wild game that the men had hunted for the past two days. Tonight, they will have an even greater feast.

She feels a shadow at her feet as she ventures through the village. They’re getting bigger as a tribe, harder to move when they need to, and it’s more mouths to feed, but it’s also a good thing. Despite all the challenges the past few decades have brought, their people are enduring.

However, Mila pushes these thoughts to the back of her mind when she feels a prickling down the back of her neck. It’s followed shortly by the strong hand that closes on her wrist, and the man that calls her name.

She gasps and whips around. He’s there, gently shushing her. She glares at him and tries to pull her hand out of his grip.

“Ota,” she snaps. “What are you doing?”

“I just want to talk to you,” Otaktay says. His brown eyes are earnest, but he doesn’t let go of her hand. “You have been avoiding me.”

“I can’t be any more honest than I have been,” Mila says, and finally she manages to free herself from his grasp with a sharper tug. “Enough of this.”

She begins to walk away from him. The distance between the horses’ corral and the village is short, just over the gentle slope of a grassy hill and down below…but her cousin isn’t here. Her husband isn’t here. Otaktay believes this is his only chance—his chance to make her see reason. He stops her again, this time with his words.

“Do you think it will be that easy?” he says. “The Outlander will bring death upon us all.”

Mila stops short. She turns on her heel to meet him with a glare.

“His people think he’s dead,” she says.

Otaktay approaches her with slow, measured steps. “And what if they find him here? Every day their iron caravans invade our lands. Every day their patrols come to take from us, to destroy us. How many of his own do you think he will kill for you?”

He raises a pointed finger. “And your children. Your children with that man will be cursed. Forever in the shadow of two worlds, forced into one, and hated by the other.”

His words pin Mila to the ground by her toes. Her body stills, because she’s shaken deep within. She doesn’t want to believe him, but she also won’t admit that these are the thoughts she’s tried to push from her mind. What she wants most of all is a family of her own. She wants it with her husband.

But is it fair?

To them.

To him.

To her people.

She doesn’t know, and for that, her lips tremble. Her eyes burn with tears and she raises a trembling hand to her mouth.

Otaktay draws closer and attempts to hold her hands, but her brows crunch in anger. You!

She pushes him in the dead center of his chest, so hard that it unbalances him. He’s surprised by her ire, and that satisfies her. She shoves him again, more forcefully this time, but he manages to hold his ground.

“Kimmímila—”

She doesn’t give him the chance to try and placate her. With a cry of effort and frustration, she slaps at his face with all of her strength. It whips the man’s face to the side and even makes him stumble. He raises a hand to his cheek in disbelief. Already his tan skin is reddening, both from the mark of her anger, and from his own.

When she goes to shove him again, he grabs her by the arms to try and subdue her. Her tears are beginning to blind her, but she doesn’t care. The way he holds her tightly makes a flash of dread coil in her stomach.

In her distant mind, she knows Otaktay wouldn’t willingly hurt her. But his grip reminds her of Roman, the officer at Fort Laramie, who took advantage of the way she was tied to a post in their camp. She remembers his rough hands, the wood pressing into her spine. She remembers his hot breath and his chapped lips trying to claim her, his knee pressing between her legs.

Her own breaths come out in shallow gasps as that well of dread grows in her chest, rising into her throat to choke her. Mila punches wildly at Otaktay’s chest and rakes him with her nails. He finally grits his teeth and grabs her tightly by the hair.

“Enough!” he shouts in her face.

She matches him, her voice echoing in the clearing. “Let me go!”

“Not until you calm down!”

He takes her face in his hands. Looking down into her tear-filled eyes, wild and devastated, he begins to feel remorse; but there too is desire and jealousy, deep and twisted together in the oily dark of his soul. Otaktay believes he’s only been selfish once in his life. Kimmímila is that one.

“Let go!” she shakily demands. She struggles against his hold and tries to run away from him, even though she used to run with him, ride with him through the forest on horseback and across the grassy plains instead of doing their chores. He tries to remind her of it now when he bows his head to kiss her.

He finds himself ripped away—shoved hard enough to land stumbling into the sun-hot grass.

“Dean!” Mila gasps. She reaches for her husband, even though the clenched set of his jaw and the tightness in his broad shoulders make her wary. She’s not afraid of him though. She just has a terrible feeling that she knows what’s coming next.

Dean turns his attention to her first, a firm, but gentle grasp of her shoulder.

“You okay?” he asks gruffly.

She nods, brushing away tears from her cheek. She holds onto his hand. “Yes.”

“Okay, stay back,” he says, releasing her.

She tries to stop him from advancing on Otaktay, but Šóta holds her shoulders with a grim look on his face. He guides her back and at his side. He and Dean have come on horseback. They jumped down to help her. She doesn’t know that they heard her and Otaktay shouting from several yards away, their voices carried on the wind.

Dean hadn’t been able to understand the words, but Šóta’s sense of urgency and the shrill, angry panic in Mila’s voice spurred him on, urging Baby to a full gallop down the hill. Seeing her tears was one thing, but while he saw Otaktay, in his mind, Dean also saw the night that Roman tried to force himself on her.

The rage that compels Dean now is different from the anger he had then. Back at the camp, he was just doing what he felt was right. Today, this is a protective call for blood.

Otaktay had barely gotten back to his feet, but the upward swing of Dean’s fist cracks across his chin and sends him back down to the ground. He seethes, with blood in his teeth, but he angrily swipes Dean’s legs from underneath him. It becomes a grapple for leverage as the men tussle in the grass, trading swift punches. Otaktay kicks Dean hard in the stomach to gain some distance, rocking back onto his feet. Dean stumbles slightly, but he does the same.

“Stop!” Mila shouts in protest. Šóta holds her back. Despite her wildness before, she doesn’t want either of them dead. She fears more for her husband, but not because she doesn’t believe in him. She’s afraid of what will happen if Otaktay is killed.

He plays dirty, spitting in Dean’s face. Dean matches by throwing an elbow into the other man’s throat, grabs his arm, then pivots and heaves him over his shoulder onto the ground. For a moment, Otaktay lies there winded on his back. Dean pins him there with his heavier weight bearing down on him.

Otaktay sneaks a hand from the sheath strapped to his thigh and twists a knife into his hand. Šóta and Mila both see it, him with a tight frown and her with widening eyes.

She calls out in alarm, but Dean reacts fast. He strikes at Otaktay’s wrist and grabs his arm. A swift elbow and Otaktay’s knee in Dean’s gut forces him to the side, heaving a grunt. Otaktay gains the better position as he presses a knee right over Dean’s chest. He grunts at the impact; it threatens to break a rib. The knife becomes poised over Dean’s face in the struggle, nearing his neck.

“Otaktay!” Mila calls out sharply, a warning and a plea all at once.

He hears her. For just a second, he allows himself to glance up at her and see what lies in her eyes. He knows her fear is not for him.

Still, anger overcomes his heart. He calls out a battle cry and puts his entire strength into bringing the knife down. Dean allows it with gritted teeth, but he positions his hands in just the right way to guide the man’s arm just to the right of his neck, slicing shallowly into his skin. The knife sinks into the earth.

Dean throws a punch that lands across the Lakota’s cheek, then another, and it allows him to kick the man in his ribs, sending him backwards with a heavy grunt. Dean grabs the knife out of the ground, and when he rolls onto his feet, he slashes at the other man’s chest. It isn’t deep enough to be fatal, but it’s enough to make him bleed red rivulets.

Otaktay works harder than ever, trading blows and kicks that Dean can’t always dodge. But eventually, Dean hooks a boot behind the other man’s ankle and unbalances him enough to drive him to the ground. He shifts the position of the knife and brings it flush to Otaktay’s throat.

His eyes widen; he never expected to be bested by the Outlander. The sharp edge of the blade bites into his skin, cutting a thin line of blood dripping down to his collarbone.

They’re both heaving for breath, sweaty, bloody, and bruised. It’s then that Dean realizes that they’ve attracted a small crowd. At the center of it is Chief Tahatan. He’s watching closely, his face unreadable, along with one of his wives. A few men stand beside him, namely Mila’s father, Chatan, Takoda, and some of the women too. Šóta whispers to them, explaining why the men are fighting.

Even Dean knows that by the customs of their tribe, he’s well within his rights to end this the way his hand in itching to—by sinking the blade into Otaktay’s jugular. Maybe it will finally earn him respect. Maybe it won’t.

He glances up and finds Mila’s eyes. She stands frozen with her heart in her throat. All she sees is him. And she’s the only one Dean means to answer to.

He raises the knife—and he brings it down into the earth beside Otaktay’s head.

The warrior inhales sharply, his brows furrowing in shock and confusion. He stares up at Dean, who looks down at him with the remnants of jaw-clenching anger. In that moment, they come to an understanding.

Dean pulls back and straightens up, with just a small shake in his bowed legs. His gait steadies as he makes his way back to his wife.

Šóta lets go of Mila so she can go to meet Dean. She runs her hands over his chest and arms, trying to find injuries she may not have seen before. Her fingers trace around places that are already becoming bruises, but Dean just holds her, taking pains to soften himself. His arms around her are secure, but not too strong. She’s just grateful that he isn’t hurt too badly.

“You okay?” he makes sure.

Mila nods, despite the tears shining in her eyes. “Yes.”

Her parents watch them closely, even though the couple doesn’t realize it.

Behind them, Takoda shakes his head at his friend, but he dutifully helps Otaktay to his feet. Šóta crosses his arms and levels him with a cold look.

“Take him to Eyota,” he says.

“Yes,” Tahatan agrees, his voice deep and grave. “Tell her what her son has done here.”

The rest of Otaktay’s anger drains when he looks up at his chief. He says nothing, and can’t hold the older man’s gaze for long. He reluctantly leans on his friend to help him up and over the grassy hill, down to the village. The others gathered there wait to see what Tahatan will do next. He approaches Mila and Dean.

“A good man protects his family above his own life. A warrior protects his tribe, even at the cost of blood,” Tahatan says. He looks directly at Dean. “But an honorable man knows when to show mercy.”

Dean’s heart begins to beat fast again. He hadn’t known that his choice was the right one, until now. He’s able to keep his head high without being arrogant. He just isn’t sure what he’s supposed to say.

“Dean Winchester, you will be called Ikíphi,” Tahatan declares.

Dean blinks in surprise, and also confusion when he notices the way Mila begins to weep silent tears. He tightens his arm around her waist in a wordless question, but she just smiles at him.

“Uh, what does that mean?” he whispers the question to her.

She opens her mouth to respond, but her father is the one who answers. Chatan rests a hand on his daughter’s shoulder.

“Worthy,” he says.

He meets Dean’s gaze and holds it, giving him a nod of acknowledgement. Dean gives the gesture back to him in kind, and to Tahatan as well. Then Chatan takes his leave, walking back to camp with Weaya, Šóta, and the Chief. The others whisper Ikíphi, offering their nods of respect to Dean before they follow suit, until it’s only Mila and Dean left in the clearing.

She pulls out of his hold just to take his hand. She looks ahead rather than at him.

“Come,” she says.

Something’s wrong. Dean knows it in his gut.

He and Mila bathe together in the river again, but even though she helps him by washing his back, she’s quiet and distracted. He asks her if she was hurt. She tells him she wasn’t. That’s the only time she looks him in the eyes.

Later, they return home thoroughly exhausted. Dean starts up a small fire for the coals to help dry them off the rest of the way.

“There is a feast tonight,” Mila reminds him while she sits on the bedding, brushing through her long, damp hair. Dean sits near the fireplace and uses his knife to shave. He glances her way and lets out a deep breath.

“I don’t know if I’m up for a party,” he admits.

She surprises him by agreeing. “I’m tired too. I think Tahatan will understand if we stay in.”

Dean quirks a brow. She loves it when the tribe comes together for mealtimes. For days, she’s been telling him about moon feasts—the music, the games, the antics her cousins get up to, performing stories for the children and whoever else indulges them.

So Dean gets up and goes over to her. He swipes her hair aside and lays a kiss on her shoulder. She keeps brushing her hair, so he keeps up his path of kisses along her neck, nibbling her ear. She laughs a little and flinches at the ticklish feeling, making him smile. He wraps his arms around her from behind, and she sighs, succumbing to the feeling of him warm at her back. She settles against his chest.

“You sure you’re okay?” he asks.

Her smile fades, though he can’t see it. “I should ask you that.”

“I’m fine, baby,” he says, shaking his head.

“Well, maybe you should not be fine,” she says in a smaller voice.

Dean pauses, his brows furrowing. “What do you mean by that?”

Mila gently pushes his arms away from her. She stands up and creates distance between them. She crosses her arms to hold herself, not even daring to look back at him.

“I mean that…maybe you should go home, back to your people,” she says. She manages to keep her voice steady, even though she’s breaking her own heart.

Dean gets up to his feet, alarm and unease coiling in his stomach. He grasps her elbow and comes around to see her face, and when he does, he sees the truth. Tears shine in her eyes, slipping down with every blink. His furrowed brows ease somewhat, but he still needs answers. He holds her by her arms and stares into her soulful brown eyes.

“Mila, what’s going on? Your family, the Chief, even your dad—they’re all starting to accept me now. Isn’t that what you wanted?” he asks. “What happened today, it’s a one-off, okay? For damn sure, Otaktay’s not touching you again—”

“It’s not that,” Mila says with a sniffle. She holds herself tighter, trying not to let Dean’s concern, his touch, or the intensity of his green eyes affect her so much.

“Today we have peace, but how long will that last?” she says. “And…and our children. Will they be accepted too? Or will they never find their place, caught between two worlds, but never belonging to either one.”

Mila succumbs to quiet, shuddering sobs. Her trembling hands try to cover her face from him.

Dean’s face gentles. He feels like he’s been kicked in the chest (again). He gathers her to his chest and holds her closely. In the entire month he’s been living here, he hasn’t thought too much about kids. Not in any real way…

Well, okay. Maybe he has, whenever he sees Mila caring for the children of the village for their mothers. Or when they run past him, laughing, playing imaginary games. He would smile, remembering how he and Sam used to drive their mom crazy tearing around the farm when they were little.

In fact, the thought warms him now. Dean cradles the back of Mila’s head and runs his fingers through her hair. He imagines her holding a little boy who has her dark hair and eyes, and maybe Dean’s chin. He thinks she’d be a good mom.

I wish Mom could meet her, he thinks.

“Sweetheart, look at me,” he says. He pulls away so he can see Mila’s eyes again, honey-brown and shiny with tears. “I can’t go home. I’m already here.”

Mila can’t help but soften, her lower lip trembling. He caresses her cheek; a gentle thumb brushes away stray tears.

“So it might get harder,” he says. “Maybe we are doomed to fail. Or just maybe, our kids are the ones who are gonna make the peace stick.”

Mila’s fingers curl into his shirt. She holds onto him, and he can see that her reservations are finally breaking down. He squeezes her waist and earns her gaze on him.

“All I know is, you’re my wife ‘til the day I die,” he says, more firmly. “I’m not going anywhere without you. You understand me?”

Another watery path finds its way down Mila’s cheek, but she wipes it away. Her sweeter smile peaks through, along with the amused gleam in her eyes.

“I understand,” she replies. Her voice is mostly steady; the small quake is no longer uncertainty, just heartfelt emotion. “You take your vows seriously.”

“That’s right,” Dean nods, his lips hinting at a smile. “And you promised me something too last night, remember?”

Her brows furrow as she considers the question. But then, it dawns on her.

You will never be alone.

Her small smile returns, and she nods.

“Yes. I’m sorry…I should not let fear blind me to the truth.” She takes his hand from where it lies on her waist, and she guides it to rest over her heart. “You live here now, in my spirit.”

Dean has never heard the words I love you said quite like that before. It warms places inside him that he didn’t know were all that cold and dark. For her, he could try to put into words what that means to him, but words aren’t his strong suit. He’s never been that good at letter writing or giving speeches. That, he always left to Sam, or Benny.

Above all, Dean is a man of action.

He takes her face gently in his calloused hands, and he kisses her. He gives her everything in that all-consuming kiss, and he hopes she understands what he’s trying to say.

I’m home.

AN: This might feel like the end, but we have two more parts left! As you can see, Dean's doing his best lol. Do you think he made the right choice with Otaktay? There might be more drama ahead, plus, a special guest finally joins the cast...

Next Time:

Her smile drops with a sharp inhale of breath.

She hears hoof falls on the earth. A horse treads nearby.

Slowly, she lowers the wet clothing back into the basin. She sees two reflections growing on the water: a horse and a man. The man gets down from his horse first.

“Hey there, miss—”

Mila swiftly turns and unsheathes the knife she keeps strapped to her ankle.

Pronunciation Guide:

Wašíču ("wash-ee-jew") Šóta ("sho-tah") Chatan ("chat-tan") Tahatan ("ta-hat-tann") Otaktay ("ogh-tac-tay") Weaya ("we-ayy-ya") Takoda ("ta-koda") Mato ("matt-toe") Misae ("mee-sah-eh")

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