#i tried and tried and just could not fucking manage that

[hotwife-larissa-returns]

That was so fucking naughty… hubby and I were in the States for vacation and we ran into an old friend of mine. As I hugged him, he whispered some compliments in my ear… hubby didn’t hear it and I tried to hide my smile.

Nevertheless, we were in a hurry, so I just got his phone number and I called him to arrange to meet and have dinner the next day. But I couldn’t get him out of my head, I remembered how he made love to me. I got wet… and horny… for him.

So I stealed away from my hubby, telling him I forgot to get something, that I needed right now. You know, honest conversations are important in our relationship and I wasn’t lying. Of course, I left out some details, but that didn’t matter right now. I had a burning desire, I called my friend and drove to his hotel.

As I knocked on his door, he opened it, he was wearing a towel… he knew, why I was here and had just showered to be fresh and ready for me. I stripped out of my clothes in no time and the towel dropped on the floor, giving me a close view of why I had missed him so badly. He‘s really hung, easy twice the size of my hubbies dick and he also knows how to use this thing.

He didn’t need to seduce me, we skipped foreplay and started to fuck like wild animals… for two hours. We‘d completely lost track of time and we had that reservation at the restaurant in half an hour. We’re already late… so I called hubby that we‘ll meet there, telling him I got stuck in traffic.

There wasn’t any time left to shower or freshen myself up. We just dressed up and hurried to my car. Hubby already waited for us as we arrived, hand in hand… and that glow in my face together with my messy hair already told him the story. I hugged and kissed my cuckold, whispering to him, how much I love him.

He knew exactly, what I had done. And it got him excited. Still hugging him, I told him, hat he could taste him, if he‘ll let his finger run up my inner thighs. He did as unsuspicious as possible and pick up some drops, licking them up. „Tell him he‘s delicious.“ Gosh, my hubby is so great, he really did tell my old friend, how good his cum tasted.

We went inside and enjoyed dinner. I sat next to my friend, while hubby sat across the table. He clearly could noticed, that my friends hand were doing something under the table… he fingered me gently, while I had slipped out of one of my shoes and rubbed my hubbies bulge through his pants.

We told our story of how I had met my friend, that we had an affair years ago and that he��s always a great companion in bed… adding an „even today“ to add a little spice for my hubby. My friend smirked at my hubby, I had already told him about our lifestyle and he couldn’t have been happier with that. Turns out, that he got divorced a while ago and haven’t found a new woman yet.

We had finished the main course and I said to hubby, „We weren’t finished before we got here and I think we‘ll take dessert somewhere else.“ We let hubby pay the bill and I took my car to give my friend a lift. Hubby couldn’t follow us fast enough and he called me. As I were in my friends hotel room again, I just texted my cuckold „have a good night, sweetie, I‘m safe and sound in his room taking care of my friend, see you tomorrow.“

He fucked me all night long till dawn… giving me multiple shaking orgasms that night, fucking my brains out and screwing me like he hadn’t had a woman in months… I could barely move the next day and just managed to drive home to my hubby, who eagerly waited for my return and couldn’t stop himself from caring for my manhandled and sore pussy.

👩🏻🤗😘💋🥰🔥💍😈💕💦🍆🤷🏻‍♀️

[twinkletfout]

𝐊𝐢𝐬𝐬 𝐦𝐞 ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

Yall ever thought about how shy Nanami gets after the 'accidental' kiss you both share? AHHHHHH

He was inching seriously close to your face, you knew it was already getting too late, it was only the two of you to leave the office now. You knew letting him help you on your paper work when he should've just left early was a wrong move. But you couldn't help yourself when he was just standing there offering to help as the last person left the office. But now it's already too late, right?

The newly printed papers slipped from your hands, all of the papers flying across because of the air conditioner, and you could only remember yourself inching forward to grasp it. Only to bump yourself on to him, causing him to quickly turn around "watch ou-!" You said in a hurry, but damn Nanami was already startled because of the closeness of your face to his, in an urgency to catch you before you fell, he didn't know where to touch you, 'can he grab your waist, is that okay?' but before he can make a decision, you have already fallen on him. To you, it looks like, he willingly accepted for you to fall over him.

Your eyes were squeezed shut, ready to take the impact to your head or whatever. But you felt a big hand, holding you firmly on the side of your shoulders, a gentle warmth spreading upon your lips.. your eyes shot open, trying to understand what was going on, and that's exactly how you got into this situation..

Your knees nudging against his groin, your fingers splayed across his chest, your hair falling over the sides of his face as he kissed..you?

You eased into that kiss, letting the few seconds of tremor wash away, you grew bolder, letting your hand move across the sides of his neck to deepen the kiss. The eyes of his that was closed shut, blinked open to look over at you, as he brought his face closer to yours. Slowly, pulling you up as he kissed you with his hands around your waist, and tilting your head to kiss you like he wanted. The air between getting hotter and thicker. you were on your knees now, you could feel yourself growing wet as he continued to kiss you down your nec— Fuck.

Both of you quickly pulled away, startled, because of the sudden ringing of his phone. You both quickly got up, you stood upright and tried to pick up the scattered papers as he went through his pocket in a frenzy to pick up the call. After a minute, he came back as he saw you still picking up the papers as he joined you.

"That was.." he began, his voice failing, not even trying to mask that unbelievable shade of red spreading on his ears. "Let's just not pretend it ever happened" you said out of breath. "Why?" he said, Still in that same trembling voice, "I— I liked it" he said, catching you off guard. "Did you, um uh" it was like a lump formed on his throat when he saw you looking at him over your shoulders. "Did you, not.. like it?" He said, rubbing his neck, as he fiddled with his tie. Cute.

"i apologize if i was over stepping-" you interrupted him before he could finish, "i did" you simply said, causing his eyes to widen, "you did?" He said in disbelief, only for him to stiffen up at your words, standing there like a statue. He opened his mouth a few times but nothing came out like he didnt know what to say. "I—" he tried, "you?" You asked, stepping closer to him, as you stood before him. His cheeks are reddish pink, as he adjusted his specs, "I liked it too.." he managed.

"yeah, you already told me that." You said, the corner of your lips curving into a smirk at his shy demure. "I did, yes. I did, um yeah" he, looked away not able to look in your eye anymore. "So.. want to try that again?" You whispered leaning towards him causing him to look back at you with his head still tilted to the side but his eyes on you, "Yeah."

[cherriegyuu]

whispers of desire | c.sc | part one

pairing: incubus seungcheol x f!reader  genre: smut, angst, fluff - minors do not interact word count: 7.3k summary: when you cut a deal with the demon king, the man who shows up to help is nothing like you imagined warnings: mentions of god, demons and religion, infertility, infidelity, knives, breeding kink, masturbation, creampie, dirty talking ish, begging, multiple orgarms, unprotected sex, piv, forced orgasm. jeonghan (idk, he deserves a warning too)

a/n: and finally after i don't even know how many months, i finished part one. i really want to thank @ssinboo who not only helped me brainstorm this, but who motivated me into picking it up again. @joonsytip and @nothoughtsjustfic who read it over and promised me that it was good. thank you so much to all three of you, this one would have never left my wips if not for you. i truly hope you enjoy this and if you do please leave comment, i would love to know you thoughts about it! it's 17 minutes past midnight, but i'm going to count this as a valentine's day special

You looked once again at the waiting room—the light gray walls, the black furniture, the small splashes of color here and there. It was mostly modern and imponent but dark. You felt out of place in your bright yellow sweater and almost white pants. You looked like an egg, but when you realized what you had done, it was too late. You were already in the Uber, getting the most incredulous look from the driver. 

The watch on your wrist seemed to mock you. You arrived too early for your appointment, too nervous to stay any longer in your apartment, too queasy to go to the nearby cafe and waste some time. 

You had been sitting on that extremely comfortable couch for 10 minutes, the pretty receptionist giving you suspicious looks followed by insincere smiles. You were so close to just getting up and walking out the door.

It had been a stupid idea. A desperate attempt at one last resort to reaching your dream. The one thing you wanted in life since you were sixteen. But it was, indeed, stupid. How was it possible that a man without a last name, who obviously wasn’t a doctor, could help you get pregnant? Even if he happened to have a magic dick, which you doubted, there was still no chance of you getting pregnant. The problem wasn’t on the sperm donor, it was in you. 

For years, you tried getting pregnant. During the first year you and your husband, now ex-husband, tried in the most natural way: fucked every chance you got, at the most random places, tracking your cycles every month. You knew that for some people getting pregnant took a little more time, so at first, you didn’t think much of it. You managed to convince yourself that the reason why you weren’t getting pregnant was because you had just gotten off birth control and sometimes — most times — the hormones messed up a little too much with the body.

After a year, something felt strange, and little red signs started to go off in your head. It wasn’t natural to take that long, at least according to everyone you knew, so you set a meeting with the doctor and did all the tests in the book. When the results came back and showed that you were infertile it was like the world came crashing down.

In life, many of your plans failed and many of your dreams were taken from you, however being a mother was one that you always carried with you. It was a dream that was yours, truly yours and you didn’t need anyone to make it happen for you. Of course, you couldn’t make a baby on your own, but in the end, it was always your choice. If you didn’t have a husband, you could go to a sperm bank and just choose someone.

Along with your dream, your marriage was also one that didn’t last long. After the initial shock of not being able to have a baby slowly started to pass and the fog that clouded your mind started to lift, you started to think of other ways you could become a mother.  Adoption seemed like a natural path. Your husband, however, didn’t agree with the idea, which led to many fights and eventually a divorce.

The idea of adoption didn't leave you, so you sought out ways to adopt on your own. While the adoption process in itself was excruciatingly difficult as a married person, by yourself was nearly impossible. You went to many people and asked for advice on how to proceed, how to present yourself, what to say and do in front of the social workers. All of them said the same thing “the chances of you getting approved for adoption are very low”.

Every day that went by, with each breath you took, you felt as if the dream of being a mother escaped you, like sand slipping through your fingers.

One day, like many others, you were searching for ways to adopt as a single parent when you came across a forum post talking about an unnamed man who could get anyone to do anything, even things that seemed impossible. You had snorted at the post and almost closed the tap when the word pregnancy seemed to flash in front of your eyes, like a moth drawn to a flame. After you saw it, there was no way you could have closed the tab and moved on to something different. 

You read post after post, comment, after comment, about all of these women who had gotten pregnant after losing all hope. All of them mentioned the same name, Jeonghan. There was no last name. On the very last post was a phone number.

There wasn't enough time to question yourself or your actions, the next thing you knew you had the phone pressed to your ear, setting up a meeting for later that day.

The fact that you were able to set an appointment on such short notice should have made alarms ring in your head. But the alarms only went off while you sat in the waiting room. 

You suddenly stood up and walked to the pretty secretary who was hiding behind the computer.

“Sorry, hi” you waited until she looked at you, and the same polite smile greeted you “Something came up, I need to leave… I'm really sorry”

As the words left your lips the door on the other side of the waiting room opened. A man with a kind smile and hair long enough to cover his forehead greeted you. Despite his smile being inviting, his eyes told an entirely different story. 

“Please, come in”

The little alarms inside your mind suddenly turned silent and the need to flee turned into the desire to follow him inside that office. 

You turned to look at the receptionist, who in return offered you an encouraging nod and smile.

“Sorry to keep you waiting, I had some files that needed attention”

The man, who you could assume was Jeonghan, pulled a chair for you to sit on. He only let go of the chair once you were seated.

“It's okay”

His office was very similar in style to the waiting room, except for the leather chair and the industrial-looking desk. There was no computer, no bookshelf, no degree attached to the wall, just some creepy paintings that looked maybe a little too dark and tenebrous to an office. His desk was also empty of any files, phones, and pens. It was hard to believe that he was going over some files when there was nothing to look at.

“How can I help you today?”

For a second his eyes turned dark, entirely black, before going back to the dark brown color. Eyes of a snake, the words flashed in front of you. Your hold on the straps of your purse tightened until your knuckles turned to white.

It was a mistake going there.

It took an enormous amount of strength to push your body into a standing position.

“I'm sorry, I can't stay” you managed to force the words out, doing your best to smile and sound apologetic “Something came up”

Jeonghan leaned forward, his chin resting on his hand.

“Now, we know that's a lie” there was humor in his voice “You came here for a baby, so do us both a favor and sit down”

It was like your will to leave the room was suppressed by a hand pushing you down back on the chair. That same hand seemed to be holding you in place.

“See? That wasn't so hard”

The back of your neck started to grow cold, your hands sweaty. Your heartbeat with the force of a horse. His eyes turned into snake eyes once again. You felt your entire body grow cold. This time he flashed his eyes for a little more than a second.

“If you promise to be good, I'll stop holding you down” he raised his eyebrows at you, his tone almost bored now “Okay?”

It was a strange sight, a man who was around your age — or at least you thought so –, with soft features to have such eyes. Strange didn't even start to describe it, terrifying was a more precise word, and yet, you weren't scared. 

Perhaps you were at first, after all your initial reaction had been to escape, but while sitting there looking at him you were just curious.

“If you can stop with the eyes,” you used your index and middle finger to point at your own eyes “sure, we'll talk”

Jeonghan pouted but complied. In a millisecond the snake eyes were gone at the same time the pressure on your shoulders subsided. 

“You don't know how to have fun, do you?”

You didn’t bother to answer, you knew that no matter what you said those words wouldn’t make any difference to him and you were sure that your definition of fun was entirely different from his.

“So, a child. That's what you want, your deepest desire?” Jeonghan raised a hand to stop you from talking as if he changed his mind “Of course it is, you don’t have to say it”

It was the way he said it that made a shiver run through your spine. You shouldn’t have gone there. You should have asked someone else to go with you, though who could have been that person was unknown to you.

“Did you bait me into coming here?”

“Well, yeah” he laughed “I'm sure you saved that forum but if you go back there won't be much to see. Let's be realistic here and say that what you want, can be done”

You rolled your eyes and sighed. It wasn't a reaction to what he had said, it was to what you had believed. 

“You were so pathetically desperate that it was so easy getting to you” Jeonghan taunted you “Just one word, one post on a random website was enough to get you here and so fast too! Was it a couple of hours ago?”

Biting your bottom lip was the only possible way to keep your mouth shut, to keep the very much not polite fuck you in the silence of your mind. You tried to get up again, not really willing to sit there and be mocked, but as soon as you made the slightest movement you felt that hand again on your shoulder holding you down, this time much more forceful than the previous one.

“You said that we were going to talk, so, let’s talk”

“I want to go,” you said between your teeth “now”

Jeonghan tilted his head to the side, his snake eyes making an appearance again.

“Silly girl, you should have listed to your grandma when she warned you about what your wishes could bring” a sickening smile made its way to his face, paired with his eyes made your stomach drop all the way down to your toes “Now you can only leave when I saw so”

A sudden memory crossed your mind, one from your childhood. Of you sitting in your grandma’s lap when you couldn’t be older than seven. She said don’t wish for impossible things, you never know who or what could be listening. Your grandma was catholic, always with her rosary in her hand, or wrapper around her wrist or on her neck.

It became painfully obvious who Jeonghan was. From the snake eyes, the smile, how graceful he looked.

“Shit” the curse was almost silent.

He smiled once again, his eyes back to normal. It was all the confirmation you needed from him.

Nights had become a lonely part of the day, not that they were eventful before the divorce but at least you weren't always by yourself. 

Somehow you had allowed yourself to become one of those people who are only friends with their husband's friends so when the divorce happened it was obvious that most Of them — in this case, all of them — stayed with your ex-husband. You also hadn't really helped the situation when you closed yourself off. It had become too much, finding out that you were infertile, a possible affair from your husband, and the inevitable divorce. It was only natural for you to isolate yourself.

It seemed though that not many people seemed to understand it. Your so-called friends, who you cried with when the results came back, seemed to think that crying over was ridiculous, that one week was more than enough to move on from the entire thing, it's not like you don't have a life outside of this dream. 

And while all of that was true, it was much easier saying it than doing it. You felt as if you were spiraling down with nothing to hold onto, without anyone by your side. 

So, nights by yourself, with a bottle of wine and some takeout had become your new normal.

You were in the kitchen when you heard a faint knock on the door. Since visitors were few and you weren't expecting anyone, you assumed that it was on your neighbor. Someone probably knocking with a little more strength than necessary. It wasn't unusual. Your neighbor had loud and often drunk friends you had gotten used to their shenanigans during the three years you lived there.

All you did was keep doing the dishes, swaying your body from side to side with the music you had been playing in the background as you tried your best to forget that entire week and how you had willingly walked into a pile of shit but had no idea of how to get out of it.

The sound of the door opening made you close the faucet. A look at the clock above the door told you that there was no way for your neighbors to be back yet, not when you had heard them leave less than an hour before. You didn’t know why you thought that it could have been them. There was no doubt that the opened door was in your apartment.

You took a knife from the holder, wrapping your hand tightly around the handle. Your hand was still wet from doing the dishes so you held onto the knife as strongly as you could, until your knuckles turned white.

The one good thing about old apartments is that there were certain places that cracked and you knew exactly where those were, so you also knew how to avoid them. Whoever was in your apartment didn’t.

A small part of your brain hoped that it was your ex-husband. If it was, the worst thing that would happen was for you to look like an idiot in front of him, for the millionth time since you met him. Looking stupid was much much better than having to deal with an intruder or a murderer.

You took one last breath before pushing your bedroom door fully open.

“Don’t you dare throw that knife at me”

A man in a purple suit stood in the center of your room. His hair was bright red, pushed back. He looked like he had come out of one of those comic books your brother read as a child. He had your wedding album in his hand. He went through the pages, a pout in his lips and he scanned all the pictures, assessing what he was seeing.

“It’s not polite to hold a knife at your guest,” he said matter of factly.

“Who the fuck are you?” your grip on the handle tightened as if such a thing was even possible to begin with.

He turned the photo album to you, showing you a picture of yourself alone, smiling after throwing the bouquet at your wedding. It was a spontaneous picture, a true smile. That woman in the picture was an entirely different person. Looking at her it was hard to believe that you had been her at some point in time.

“You looked happier here” he pointed out, turning the album back to himself, still pouting “I don’t think she’d hold a knife at a guest”

“Who are you?” you demanded again, your voice louder, desperate.

The man rolled his eyes at you, finally closing the book and throwing it on your bed.

“Think about it, we both know you’re smart” he lightly raised his eyebrows at you “A little over a week ago you had a weird… dream? That’s what you made yourself think, wasn’t it?”

For a moment it was hard to pull air inside your lungs.

You thought that you had gone crazy. You clearly remembered getting out of the apartment, of going downtown in an Uber, of the waiting room, of talking to Jeonghan. But you didn’t remember walking out of the building or how you got home. You just… somehow found yourself back in your bed, in your pajamas in the middle of the night. The clock marked 3:33 AM.

“That was Jeonghan’s fault so I won’t hold it over your head too much. He likes to play tricks like that”

He sat on your bed, arms stretched back, thighs parted. A cocky smile on his lips and you could swear that your legs melted a little when you noticed that he had nothing under the suit jacket.

“Who are you?” you asked again, this time your voice wasn’t as loud or as demanding.

The man raised his eyebrows again and you could swear that it did something to you, tickling a place you didn’t know it needed to be tickled. He moved his chin lightly as if pointing to the knife. You sighed and put the knife down, holding it closer to your body. But that wasn't enough for the man, he pointed at the dresser. You rolled your eyes but did as asked. You didn't dare to get closer to him though. You simply crossed your arms over your chest and leaned against it. 

"I'm Seungcheol," the man said, only when he was sure that there was no chance of you stabbing him "Choi Seungcheol"

"I didn't know demons had last names"

His pout was still in place, as he seemed to be thinking of what to say next.

"We're civil enough, though me coming in without your permission might not be the best proof of character" he was quick to add when you opened your mouth to object. 

It didn't matter how much you tried, nothing came to mind when you thought about your conversation with Jeonghan. All of it was a big blank. You remembered getting there, him scaring you, the realization of who he was but nothing after that.

“The word you’re looking for is demon king,” he said. 

His eyes seemed to assess you, each and every movement you made. Seungcheol’s eyes never left you, not even for a second. When you moved to the chair on the opposite side of the room he followed you, adjusting his own body he would be seated directly in front of you. 

If your memory served you right, which at that point you had no idea, Jeonghan seemed to know what you were thinking. You were inclined to think that he couldn’t actually read your thoughts because according to Seungcheol, again if you could take his words for anything, demons too were civil and would just be way too invasive, but he was awfully good at knowing exactly what you were thinking. But then again, Jeonghan seemed to know way too much in the first meeting. Were the files he was looking at something like your life’s history? Where you were born, about your parents, your first boyfriend, your college crush, your husband, and everything that happened after?

You did your best not to focus too much on the demon king thing. If you did, your mind would take you somewhere else entirely and you weren’t sure if you could go there at that moment. Actually, you were sure you shouldn’t, especially because if you did the man in front of you, or a demon, would probably laugh. And being laughed at wasn’t something you were ready for at the moment.

“Okay,” you said slowly, exhaling all the air in your lungs all at once “Jeonghan is the demon king”

Seungcheol nodded, a small smile on his lips as he was proud of a child who had just given a correct answer. 

“That makes you…?”

“An incubus”

You closed your eyes for a second, folding your legs in front of you. Incubus… the demon who would sleep with women in their sleep and get them pregnant, and these women birthed demon-like children. 

Fantastic.

“So, magic dick,” you said, half not believing what you were saying, on how easily it seemed for you to understand it all “Great” 

That seemed to pull out an honest laugh out of Seungcheol, to the point a dimple made its way into his cheek. You couldn't help but smile along with him. 

“Something along those lines, yes”

He stood up, his eyes no longer filled with laughter and amusement. They had turned darker, hungry even. At that very second you felt like a prey under his eyes. You bit your bottom lip and he got closer to you, his eyes focused on your lips as he moved deliberately slowly to get to you. It seemed that your room was much, much, bigger than it actually was, almost like there was an entire runaway between him and you. 

You stood up as well, though that was probably a bad idea, considering how wobbly your legs felt. 

Seungcheol smiled, not in the cute and almost condescending way of before, but in a way that was much darker and held so many promises at the same time. He took your hand, pulled you towards the center of the room, walking backward.

“So, this is it? No flirting, no nice words, no dinner. Just straight-up sex” 

You hoped that your tone was light, teasing. Though there was nothing light about the way you were feeling. The few inches of your skin that were under his touch felt like were on fire. 

It had been a long time since you were with anyone, your husband was the last one a year and a half before. That wasn't to say that you hadn't found any sort of pleasure, but it had always been by yourself.

You couldn't help but wonder if part of the heat on your skin came from the lack of contact or if it was because of him. Something told you that it was a mix of both. 

“Well, you had dinner before I even got here and I thought you holding a knife was flirting”

Seungcheol circled you. The hand that held Yours suddenly pressed on your stomach, holding you against his firm chest. He pressed his nose to the crook of your neck. Giving him more access to your skin felt almost natural.

You felt his lips on the back of your neck. It started as a chaste kiss, followed by the burn of his teeth sinking into your skin and then soothed by his tongue flat over the space he had just bitten. 

“Are you a vampire?” you hoped your voice sounded steady but even to your ears it was breathy, close to a moan. The thing… the man… had barely touched you and you were ready to just melt under him. 

Seungcheol’s chest vibrated against your back and he leaned into your neck once again, now biting the other side. 

“Never met one of those, but if you want, I can become one for the night”

It suddenly crossed your mind “would he do anything I ask?” but you didn’t have it in you to ask. More than that, you didn’t know what to ask. You wanted too much but at the same time, you weren't sure where to begin. 

Slowly, Seungcheol ran his hand down your body. You felt your core tighten at the proximity, wetness slowly damping your panties. You were in a haze, one you didn’t want to come out of. 

“Tell me what you want. Whatever you want, however, you want it. It’s all yours”

It was like he had somehow heard your thoughts. Was that also part of his abilities? Magic dick and mind reading? Seemed like good powers to have. 

He nuzzled your neck again, this time placing kisses all over your skin as he slid down the strap of your shirt and continued his discovery of your skin. But your shoulder was not the place you wanted to feel him the most, it was not the spot that was craving for attention. 

Seungcheol ran his nose over your shoulder, the curve of your neck, up to your ear. 

“Ah, not so sweet and innocent after all” the hot breath over your skin made your entire body flame up. 

Finally, he lowered his hand, going under the elastic band of your shorts. He roughly rubbed his palm over your covered clit as his other hand went up to your breast, tugging at the hard nipple.

“You’re this wet and we barely even started?” he nibbled on your ear “You were all brave with that knife but all you can think about now is my magic dick filling you over and over and over again. Right, sweetheart?”

He pushed your panties to the side, his finger finally rubbing over your sensitive clit. A whimper left your lips as he was exactly where you needed, but it was far from enough. 

“Oh, I’m going to have so much fun with you”

He circulated your slit with two fingers. Once, twice, three times. 

“Please” you whispered. 

You felt his smile at the same time he pushed his fingers into you, your arousal more than enough to suck him in. You sucked in a moan as he picked up speed with his fingers, then another when his palm pressed over your clit adding another layer of pleasure. 

“Make that pretty noise for me again, sweetheart,” he asked, his voice low, though commanding “Let me hear you”

You tried your best to stay quiet, to not make any sound, and let the only sound in the room be the almost obnoxious noise of his fingers slipping in and out of you. But when Seungcheol found that one spot, that tiny piece of skin that made your mind almost go blank it was impossible to be silent. 

The sound coming out of you was pathetic, each new moan getting louder as you felt your abdomen cramp. The louder you got, the faster he moved his fingers. He didn’t stop pumping his fingers, didn’t stop pressing his palm on your clit, until the tide finally broke loose. 

You tried to shut your legs, suddenly the stimulation was too much at once, but Seungcheol was willing to let that happen. He kicked your feet apart, using his own knees to keep yours proudly open. 

Your orgasm hit you harder than ever before, your body convulsing in his grip, shaking as each new wave of pleasure hit you, somehow stronger than before. Seungcheol held you together until your body calmed down. A moan that could have been easily mistaken for a sob, came out of your lips, a light tremor in your legs, though you were certain that it was no longer visible. 

Seungcheol slowly guided your body towards the bed, both of his hands on your hips, steadying you. He sat you down on the bed and took a couple of steps back. He didn’t say anything as he opened the button on his suit and pulled it off his shoulder, tossing it aside on the chair to his left. 

He was teasing you, that much was obvious. Under normal circumstances you’d have looked away but as he unbuttoned his pants you couldn’t force yourself to look away. Your mind was in a trance by him, he had your undivided attention and he loved it. 

His movements were deliberately slow, a cocky grin making its way to his face as he noticed your eyes following the movements of his hands. 

The only piece of clothing covering Seungcheol was his underwear, though it did very little to disguise his erection. Your mouth watered at the sight, a nagging feeling on the back of your mind telling you to get down on your knees in front of him and take all of him into your mouth - or at least as much as it could fit anyway. 

Seungcheol laughed as he finally pushed the last piece of cotton off. You bit your lip to stop yourself from moaning at the sight of him on full display. Every inch of his devilish body, in full glory, was mesmerizing. You felt you pussy clench around nothing as Seungcheol started to pump his dick. 

“We’ll have enough time to play later tonight,” he moved closer to you, standing in between your legs, his cock was close to you face that you simply inch forward and have him like you wanted, he had different ideas though “but right now I want to know what it feels like to be buried deep inside that sweet, sweet, pussy”

You reached down to the hem of your shirt, pulling it over your head. It was only when you reached for the elastic band of your shorts that you felt the embarrassment creeping up every inch of your body. 

“Come on, sweetheart, don’t hide yourself from me”

He lightly pushed you onto the bed, his knee pressing against your center and he scooped you up on the bed. He grabbed you by the hips and flipped you so that your face was pressed into the mattress. 

He pushed your shorts down, though not boring to take them off all the way down. Seungcheol straddled your legs and he teased your pussy with the tip of his cock. Running it over the slick entrance but never fully pushing it inside. 

You tried to change the position in a way to force him to just sink in but he was having none of that. He gripped your head by your hair, pulling it back until your ass up in the air, your back arched in a way that should be painful but somehow all it did was heighten your pleasure. 

“Beg” he whispered against your ear, his voice deliciously low.

“What?” you breathed out as he continued to tease you, your body moving along with his, a new whimper escaping every time he almost pushed inside. 

“I’m not going to make it that easy for you” he laughed “You wanna be fucked? I’ll fuck in ways you can’t even imagine. But you’re going to have to beg”

In any other situation, in any other moment of your life, you’d have felt embarrassed by his demand, to some extent would even have felt angry towards it. But right in that second, with the promise of what was to come, saying a few words sounded like a fair price to pray. 

“Please, please, Seungcheol” you begged, voice dripping with need and honey as you moved your hips wanting nothing more than to just be filled “just fuck me, fill me up. All of me is yours…” for the night.

He didn’t let you finish, pushing his cock into your throbbing pussy. There was no time to adjust. Seungcheol drove his dick into you again and again, each thrust harder than the previous one. He pulled your arms back, holding them against his chest with his own. 

Each sound that left your mouth was increasingly louder but you didn’t care in the slightest. Seungcheol’s grunts behind you, the slapping of his skin against yours every time he drove into you was intoxicating.

“Oh my god” you chanted over and over again

“No, no, not god” he laughed, biting the soft skin of your shoulder “He can't help you now”

He snaked a hand around your waist directly to your clit, massaging it in slow circles, in high contrast to his dick. The pressure was just perfect, his pace never faulting. 

An orgasm hit you yet again, without notice, this time not as hard as the first one, but still enough to have you shaking to the core. Seungcheol held you even tighter, his pace relentless as he searched for his own high. 

You felt his warm cum splurged into you, too much of it. 

Your body felt limp on the bed, all energy drained out of you, not a single drop left. You turned, looking at the ceiling, trying to steady your breathing, waiting for the tremors to pass when you felt Seungcheol his hand over your thigh. 

He pushed your shorts and panties all the way down, tossing them on the floor with a mute sound. He spread your legs and smiled proudly, seemingly happy with his work. It only lasted a second though, as a frown took over his features. 

“You’re wasting it, sweetheart” he tsked “We can’t have that, now can we?”

You felt his hand on your sensitive cunt and tried to flinch away but he didn't bulge. His finger grazed over your clit before he pushed them into you. You held his wrist, trying to push his hand away. 

“No, it’s too much” you shook your head, pleading “Please, I can’t, please”

He laughed at your words, pinning the hand that held his wrist over your head. Seungcheol kissed your breast, taking the nipple into his mouth, sucking hard, and blowing on it a second later, all while he pumped his fingers in your pussy, pushing back inside all the cum that had dripped out. 

“You can” you bit your lower lip and tugged at it “and, most importantly, we both know you want it”

You could only shake your head as the pleasure became too much, almost unbearable. Almost. You felt yet another orgasm build up again, like your entire body was throbbing, closing itself tightly before it finally broke free.

Seungcheol swallowed your scream, kissing your lips, neck, and shoulders as your body spasmed. Your quiet whimpers were the only sound in the room. He only pulled his fingers out of you when you calmed down completely.

“That’s it” he kissed your cheek, letting go of your hands and using them to hold his head so he could look down at you “See, I told you you could it”

Out of the possible outcomes of the previous night waking up to a mop of red hair on the other side of the bed wasn’t one of them. You were certain that when you woke up you’d realize that the night had been a dream — the most real one you had ever had in your life but that was beside the point. 

Just for good measure, you pressed your index finger to the shoulder of the man. Warm and soft skin was under your finger.

Okay, not a dream then.

You turned on your back, facing the ceiling of your bedroom. The night played vividly in your mind. The way Seungcheol pressed the first kiss to the back of your neck and how that alone was enough to make you go crazy under his touch. Not only that, how you were so willing to completely let yourself go to him, how every time he whispered in your ear, chills ran down your entire body and you could feel him everywhere.

You couldn’t help but wonder if all of your emotions had been heightened because he was…. him. A demon. Or if you were just so touch-starved that the smallest caress was enough to drive you over the edge.

Most of all, you couldn’t look past all how you had been so incredibly reckless. A random man who looked like he had gotten out of some comic book suddenly showed up in your room — mind you without using the door — and you somehow, for whatever reason, thought that it was a good idea to have sex with him. And then, as if all of that wasn’t enough, you still fell asleep by his side like it was the most normal thing in the world like he was someone you could trust entirely.

You covered your eyes with your arm, a groan leaving your lips.

There was still the whole “deal with the demon king” part that you were yet to think about.

It seemed unfair that you couldn’t remember what you agreed on. You should have the chance to prepare for whatever was to come, didn’t you? The demon king, or Jeonghan, you weren’t sure how you should address him, was well… unfair.

“Are you usually this loud so early in the morning?”

Your entire body jumped on the bed and a scream died in your throat. For a couple of minutes, you had been so lost in your mind that you forgot that Seungcheol was by your side at all.

His voice in the early morning, just after waking up, was almost made out of honey, velvety, tingling in your ears. By your side, Seungcheol had turned to you, his eyes barely open, his full lips pulled almost in a pout, a few strands of hair covering his face. You had to grip the sheets closer to your body just so you could suppress the desire to move them aside.

Your eyes moved slightly down, to his half-exposed chest. Another flash of the night before crossed your mind, of him over you, the way the chain around his neck hung just over your nose, how you used it to pull him to you again.

“You look cute when you blush,” he said with a lazy smile on his lips. You felt your cheeks warm but didn’t think it was enough to cause any visible change. 

Seungcheol folded his arm, holding his head up. The sleepy smile he gave you was the most delicious thing you had ever seen, it was enough to take your breath away all over again. You were happy that you were still in bed, otherwise there was a chance that your legs might have given in under you.

“I didn’t think you’d stay” was all you said as you swung your feet out of the bed, looking for the pajamas that were lost somewhere on the floor.

It was on the other side of the room, how it had ended up there was beyond you. You gripped the sheet closer around your body but you were only able to move one step away from the bed before you felt it being pulled back.

“You know, I already saw everything there’s under those sheets” you didn’t turn to him but you could hear the smile in his voice “In fact, I did a lot more than just look at it”

You took a deep breath and closed your eyes. You were certain that if you forced the sheets out of his grip, Seungcheol would have let go of it but if he did such a thing then he would be the one exposed, and while you were sure that he had no problem with the idea, everything you screamed that if you saw him naked again there was no way that you would just have a redo of the night before.

Letting go of the sheets, you walked to the other side of the room, opening the dresser drawer and pulling out a clean pair of panties and bra.

“I’m going to shower and by the time I finish it I want you gone”

Seungcheol’s laughter still echoed through the apartment when you closed the bathroom door.

You had managed to keep yourself busy enough during the weekend that you had almost forgotten about Friday night. The keyword being almost. Usually, you would have come up with an excuse to not help your sister during the weekend. She was a wedding planner, a very good one at that — she had been the one to plan your wedding — and highly sought out so it was easier to find her working than being at home.

The reason why you always declined was that weddings, while they could be wildly different from one another, there were things that were the same, didn’t who was at the isle. Two people were promising each other eternal love.

When you saw those people, standing in front of each other, eyes filled with love and hope, you couldn’t help but think about Joshua. How you had once been in that exact spot, saying similar words, how you had been happy with him for so many years until all of it came crashing down on you. The only thing that love left behind were scars that were still all too fresh but hidden enough that no one would ever see them.

Still, working during the weekend with your sister was better than staying at home and thinking about all the stupid decisions you made and how much you’d love to make at least one of them once again. She was also kind enough to let you work on the setup and then later back in the kitchen. Maybe she had some sort of sixth sense that said that you need to get out of your mind. Her call was at the right moment.

Even so, there were moments when you were on your own, in the darkness of your bedroom, when Seungcheol’s perfume somehow still lingered in the air. There was no escape then. It was like a replay of that night played in your head again and again, and everytime it it did there was a new detail that you had somehow forgotten.

It was both a blessing and a curse.

You ran your hand over your face and hair, urging your mind to just stop and let yourself fall asleep. You had a meeting early in the morning and you needed your sleep, just so you could function like a semi-normal human being.

You were in the kitchen when you heard a sound in your bedroom. Your heart skipped a beat, hoping that maybe… just maybe… You shook your head in an attempt to come back to reality. The chance of seeing Seungcheol once again was below zero. You heard the sound again and this time your heart wasn’t the only thing doing a weird flip inside your chest, you also felt chills run down your skin.

The third time the sound came you felt as if you were under a cold shower when it was followed by the sound of laughter in the hallway that belonged to your neighbor. 

It was hard swallowing the expectation that had somehow found its way into you. You weren’t even sure why you were expecting something in the first place. After that night it was clear that there wasn’t going to be a second one. Not that there was any conversation on the matter, it just seemed like the most natural option. 

If things had gone according to plan, and if your mind was worthy of any trust, apparently it did, there was no real reason why you should ever see Seungcheol again. And yet, there you were wishing that he’d just show up again, and for what? 

You set the glass of water down, wishing you could have something strong – God knew that if you wanted to sleep you’d need some help – but not wanting to risk anything. Shutting down the lights in the kitchen and living room.

Before you even opened the door to your room you felt this shift in the air. You pushed it open, hard enough that it smashed against the wall. 

“You must really love your kitchen, the second time I show up here and the second time you're in the kitchen”

You closed your eyes for a second, basking in the sound of his voice, how it made chills erupt in your skin. 

“Second time you don’t use the door”

“I’ll be sure to remember that”

Seungcheol smiled, hands in his pocket. 

“You better”

Before you gave yourself a chance to think about it, you crossed the room in two strides and pulled him to you. Seungcheol smiled against your lips before he finally kissed you. 

if you enjoyed reading, please reblog and leave a comment, it really does mean the world to me and i would love to know your thoughts. thank you! 💕

you can read my other fics here ➝ masterlist

[thyme-in-a-bubble]

i’ve never made a request before so sorry if this is bad but if you could write something about matt murdock with a fake dating trope like that would be so cute, especially if there’s feelings realized during/after it :)

a/n: i swear, i tried to just keep this short and sweet like how i usually keep requests, but then the fantasy i came up with was just too fun and too much like a fucking romcom not to just let myself go ham and turn it into a full-on long fic

word count: 3778

∼ gentle reminder that feedback, but especially reblogs are the way you support writers on here ∽

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Leaning your weight against the bar, you waited for Josie to return with another round of beers for you and your friends, who still remained exactly where you’d left them, all clustered around the pool table further into the space. 

Absentmindedly, you fiddled with the ring so often glued to your fingers, passing the heirloom from each digit and sliding it onto the next. It had been your grandmother’s, and ever since her passing, the simple golden circle with a little jade embedded at the cusp of it, rarely stayed in your jewellery box as the act of simply glancing down at it on your finger somehow offered you a drop of comfort in moments of mundane gloom. 

As the heirloom arrived at your left ring finger and slid down over the knuckle, a familiar voice suddenly emanated like an echo after the bar’s front door had swung open. 

“Y/n?” your whole body froze up at the unexpected timbre. 

Slowly, you twisted around to discover none other than your ex, wide eyes trained on you as he clutched the hand of a leggy blonde. 

“Henry!” you gasped, hoping they mistook the horrified look on your face for innocent shock, “oh my god…” 

Without any warning, the next thing you knew, he’d yanked your stunned form into a hug, “how the hell are you?” he clapped your shoulder as if you were old school chums, “it’s been so long.”

“I’m–, uhm, fine,” you managed to reply. 

“Yeah?” he smiled, the insincerity in your tone completely flying over his head, “that’s great.” 

Simply to be polite, you awkwardly asked, “…how are you?” even though you truly didn’t wish to know the answer.  

“I’m good, yeah, life’s been kinda crazy lately because–, oh,” he suddenly paused to glance back at the girl by his side, “Y/n, you remember Rebecca, right?”

“Mhm,” you hummed and offered her a glance, fearing steam might billow out of your ears at any moment, “hi.”

“Hey,” she smiled brightly as she tossed her luscious locks over her shoulder, “and please don’t mind him,” she clapped a palm over Henry’s chest, “he’s just freaking out, you know, usual guy stuff before finally getting tied down.”

“I’m sorry,” you blinked, nearly pinching yourself to test if this was a nightmare or not, “before what?”

Rebecca then held up her left hand to flash you the massive rock nestled on her fourth finger. 

“I finally popped the question!” Henry grinned and draped an arm around his fiancé.

“Wow, oh wow, that’s–…” you sputtered as the blonde promptly shoved her hand in your face for you to get a better look, “that’s a really big rock, right there, on your finger…” your touch floated up and tilted her palm slightly, the light from the neon sign close by glinting in the diamond, “congratulations…”

“Thanks!” she smiled down at the ring herself before her fingers suddenly captured your own and twisted your hand around, “oh wait, congrats to you too!” 

“What?” you still simply tried to keep breathing through this agonising gut-punch of an encounter. 

“I know they say that size doesn’t matter,” Rebecca eyed the tiny green stone that adorned your grandmother’s ring, “and it doesn’t! I mean, that’s so pretty,” she uttered in a sugary sweet and insincere tone that made you feel as if you were back in high school again, “understated, simple.” 

“Ah, no way,” Henry peeked down at your hand, “you’re engaged too?”

“Uh…” you let out a shaky breath, “yep,” the lie then suddenly flew out past your lips before you had a chance to stop it, “that’s me! I’m getting married.” 

“That’s amazing,” your ex let out an airy chuckle, “who’s the lucky guy?”

But before your lips could part and let out another lie, Josie returned, “here you go, hon,” and slid four beer bottles across the bar to you before adding, “and would you tell Foggy to stop sitting on the edge of the pool table? It’s old and I can’t be responsible if it breaks on him.”

“Sure thing,” you promised and snatched up the drinks. 

“Is that your man?” Henry cast a glance to the lawyer Josie had gestured to, “Foggy, was it?”

“Foggy?” a soft giggle couldn’t help but bubble out of your lungs, “no! Don’t get me wrong, he’s great, but no, sadly, he’s already taken.” 

“Then who is it?” 

“Is it the other guy over there?” Rebecca chimed in as they both sent their glances towards your friends, “the one in the light blue shirt and tinted glasses?”

“Uh, yeah…” you squeaked as you slowly turned to look at Matt as well, “that’s–, uh, that’s him,” you watched as he readjusted his grip on the cue stick in his hand, “that’s my future husband…”

“Hm,” a sliver of judgment slipped out of Henry, “wouldn’t have pegged him to be your type.”

“Well, maybe my type has changed,” you stated, letting your lingering resentment show before you noticed how harsh it had come out and your stomach immediately began to twist and knot in regret, “I–…” you swiftly winched, “sorry,” and averted your gaze, “have a nice evening, uh–, I’m gonna go back to my friends,” you stumbled as you tried to escape. 

Though as you turned to walk away, Henry’s voice found your ears one last time, “bye!” before you heard his fiancé turn to him. 

“Pookie? Would you order me a cosmo?” her voice began to fade into the background, “I’ll go find us a table…” 

You simultaneously felt as if a truck had just run you over as your feet carried you back towards your friends, yet also completely numb, as if you’d been turned into a floating ghost of the person you used to be. 

“Who the hell was that and why do you look like you’re about to throw up?” Foggy asked cautiously as he grabbed two of the bottles in your grasp and handed one off to Matt. 

Passing one of the remaining drinks off to Karen, you then lifted your own up to your lips before tipping it back and downing around half of its contents. Once you tilted the dark green bottle back down, you were out of breath as you began to explain, “that,” you wiped your bottom lip with one of your knuckles, “was my ex,” you used that same finger to hazily point back over your shoulder, “and his fiancé,” your eyes stayed fuzzy as you added, “who happen to be the girl that he cheated on me with for a year before I one day finally caught them together.”

“Oh my god…” Karen breathed, her bottle frozen halfway on its journey up towards her lips. 

“It was on easter,” you shared, “he thought I had gone back home to see my family, but I’d actually decided to secretly do this whole big surprise, like I thought I was in fucking rom-com or something,” you sighed at your past self, “but then when he got home from work, and I was all decked out, waiting on the bed, in bunny ears and everything,” you heatedly gestured to the top of your own head, “he wasn’t alone.”

“Wow…” Foggy stared. 

“Yep…” you exhaled heavily, taking another swig before you made the mistake of glancing back over your shoulder just as Rebecca shrugged off her coat and slinked onto a stool at one of the small tables, “fuck!” you exclaimed as if you’d just stubbed your toe, “she’s even hotter than I remembered. How is that possible?” 

“Oh, she’s not that pretty,” Karen tried, but you swiftly cut her off. 

“You shut your face, she’s basically a human-sized Barbie,” your glare roamed one last time from the top of her platinum locks to the bottoms of her high stilettos, “god…” you sighed as you finally averted your gaze and lifted your bottle to drown your sorrows, “I was such an idiot back there. It was like my brain just stopped working and–, oh my god!” your palm shot up to cover your mouth as you then suddenly recalled the lie that had slipped out. Slowly, your wide eyes drifted to Matt, who still remained silent, “oh no…” 

“What is it?” Foggy chimed in. 

“Matt…” you uttered tensely, knowing your friend well enough to be aware of just how much of the interaction with your ex he had overheard, “I am so sorry…”

“What?” Karen’s glance darted between you both, “what’s going on?”

Paralysing embarrassment churned your stomach and choked out any attempt you made to share the truth. But luckily, as your erratic heartbeat thumped and found Matt’s sharp ears, he eventually filled in instead, “…they thought that she was engaged as well and then assumed that I was the guy.” 

“I am so, so sorry,” you gasped, “I don’t know why I didn’t correct them.”

But to your amazement, Matthew simply shrugged and offered you a reassuring smile, “it’s okay, don’t worry about it.”

“I was just fiddling with my ring and then they just–…” you then snuffed out your frantic explanation and instead repeated once again, “I’m sorry…”

Saddling up beside you, Karen planted a palm on your shoulder, “hey, if that was my ex, then I’d wanna give him some of his own medicine as well,” she stated, “if not just straight up cut off his balls, which is what he really deserves.” 

A faint smile then began to soften your expression as you glanced around at your supportive friends, Foggy briefly reaching out to pat your other shoulder. 

But as you averted your eyes to the nearly empty bottle in your grasp, a thought suddenly struck you like a bolt of lightning, “wait, I have an idea…” your gaze slowly lifted to lock on Matt, “I mean, you don’t have to do it if you don’t want to, I totally get it, but would you mind, just while they are here, to–, uhm…”

Cocking his eyebrow, he finished your sentence, “…to pretend to be your fiancé?” 

“I know, it’s stupid, and I should probably just go home right now instead of playing some weird and immature game of revenge or whatever,” you uttered as you made the decision to lie in the grave you’d dug for yourself, “but I would forever be in your debt, I'm serious.” 

Sucking in a breath, he barely had to think about it before he murmured, “sure.”

“Really?” you gasped, your brows shooting up, “you’ll do it?” 

“Yeah, why not?” Matt shrugged, “it’s the very least he deserves for treating you like that.”

“Oh,” you crossed the short distance between you two and threw your arms around him. It took a second before you felt him hug you back, but when the alcohol got to your head and made you mutter, “I love you,” into his shoulder, a low chuckle rumbled in the lawyer's chest before you parted ways. 

“So,” Karen then began to fish out the colourful spheres and roll them back into the green felt, “do we still wanna play another game?”

“Hell yeah,” Foggy picked a cue stick back up before adding a playful threat, “you’re not beating me again this time, Page.”

Once the table was set up for another round of pool and you were a few turns in, your gaze couldn’t help but wander back towards the other end of the bar too often to keep track of. Though, soon on one of the fleeting looks, your eyes grew wide as you discovered you weren’t the only one sneaking glances.

Discreetly, you shifted closer to Matthew and leaned in to whisper, “he’s looking over,” however, when he then draped an arm around your frame, you couldn’t help but stiffen up, as you hadn’t thought that far in the plan yet, “what are you–”

“Shh,” Matt hushed your squeak, “just lean into me,” he shifted to stand tall behind you, arms enveloped around your form as he slowly drew you back against his chest, “smile,” his low voice tickled the shell of your ear and caused goosebumps to erupt across your skin, “and don’t look at him.” 

Redirecting your vision back towards the game before you, you narrowly managed to catch sight of the silent slut-shaming the other lawyer flashed his friend with but a glance, before he went back to the mischievous mission he was on. 

“Foggy, would you quit it?” Karen grumbled at the man beside her as he wildly waved both of his hands in her periphery, successfully knocking off her concentration as she tried to line up her shot. 

“No way,” he kept up his flapping, even causing Karen’s golden locks to get picked up by the breeze he produced. 

“You’re cheating.”

“Nope, I am not touching you nor the table,” he stated as if he was in court, “distracting you doesn’t break any rules.”

And as she finally made her attempt, the ball didn’t go in, causing her to explode in a roar, “damn it, Fog!”

“Ha, ha, yes!” he jumped as she straightened back up, “you know, I taste something right now, what could that be? Oh yeah, victory. And it tastes sweet as candy store.” 

“Urgh,” Karen rolled her eyes at him before her glare landed upon the both of you, “Matt, your turn. Would you please set him in his place?”

“Gladly,” Matt chuckled, and as he shifted closer to the pool table, he nudged your side and asked, “hey, would you give me a hand?”

Swallowing a chuckle as you already knew he very much didn’t need it, you cocked an eyebrow, “you want my help?”  

“Yeah,” he uttered clearly and let his real message seep through his tone, guiding your gaze to flicker back toward Henry, who’s stare was still locked upon you both, “so come help me.” 

“Oh!” it finally clicked in your brain, “right,” and you swiftly slid in beside him. 

With bated breath, you grabbed Matt’s hand that wasn’t clutching the pole, and guided it over the ivory ball that rested close to one of the corners. As you began to map out and tell him where each of the other spheres were, your eyes flicked over to notice just how close you now stood, as your nose nearly grazed against his stubbly cheek as you murmured guidingly. When you retracted your touch, you barely noticed how a few of Matt’s fingers reacted, faintly following your fading palm for but a second before it floated back down to the white orb below it. 

Once he’d made his shot, you lingered in the proximity and whispered, “do you think they’re buying it?” 

“Hm?” 

“This,” your eyes momentarily flickered back towards your ex across the bar, “us.”

Matthew’s brows then floated up as you reeled him back in to the matter at hand, “oh, I–, probably.” 

“Or should we do something else?” your mind kept on spinning, “I don’t know, I feel like I’ve completely forgotten how all of that works,” you shared, “kinda just numbed and cut off that part of myself after he broke my heart, it was just how I had to get through it, shut down a little bit because suddenly romance was terrifying…”

“...can I ask you something?” he asked quietly after a breath, and when you offered him a hum in confirmation, he uttered, “are you still in love with him?” 

Time stretched out before you finally replied, “I was, for a very long time…” your voice stayed small, “…but no, not anymore… I kind of thought I was, but then seeing him again cleared it all up. All I feel when I look at him now is rage,” you exhaled, “and pity, just because I know him too well, know everything that’s messed up about him…” silence encumbered you both for a moment before you then opened your mouth once more and said, “so, should we hold hands or something?” you asked plainly, though when a genuine laugh then began to billow out of Matthew, your eyes blinked up at him as your brows swiftly knit together, “what?”

“You know,” he tried to snuff out his chuckle, “if I was actually your fiancé, I wouldn’t just stand around and hold your hand all night,” he then leaned in the short distance till his lips nearly tickled the shell of your ear, “I would have dragged you into the bathroom by now and forced the whole bar to hear us fuck.” 

“I–, u-uhm,” you flusteredly stammered as your face began to heat up, “y-yeah, yeah, that’s good too,” you barely registered your own words as they slipped out past your lips, “if that’s what you wanna do–, I mean! Shut up!” you squeezed your eyes shut as soon as you regained your own senses, “just hold my hand, you dick,” you cursed over his laughter as he swiftly slipped his palm into your own.

“Cut it out, Karen,” Foggy’s voice cut through your haze and caught your attention. 

Glancing over, you spotted as Karen was giving him some of his own medicine, pettily leaning into his eye line, “what? You were the one saying that distractions weren’t against the rules,” she continued to glare in hopes of throwing him off his game, “why? Is this not working? Do you need me to scream directly in your ear instead?”

“Oh, would you?” he sarcastically looked to her, his pitch climbing up high at his words, “going deaf in one ear is exactly what I need to beat you.”

As your wandering gaze then flickered back towards the opposite end of the bar, your eyes grew wide as you spotted only Rebecca still seated at the small table, pink cocktail in her grasp. 

“Shit,” you spotted Henry as he crossed the room, confidently walking precisely in your direction, “he’s coming over,” you hissed, and in your muppet-like panic, your hands clasped each side of Matt’s face and yanked him in for a kiss. 

At first, he froze up as you continued to freak out, but then, as his broad palms slowly slid over your waist, all of your alarm began to melt away. It felt as if you were drifting off to sleep as you relaxed into the kiss. Never in your wildest dreams had you imagined that kissing Matt would feel like this, not that such a fantasy was something you pondered often or even at all, but as you felt his tongue flicker out to dance softly against your own, your knees beneath you wobbled as you lost yourself completely. How long the peck drew out remained a mystery, as when you eventually parted, the reasoning behind it wouldn’t emerge in your memory no matter how hard you tried. 

Though as you stood there, blinking back at Matt, still utterly spellbound by the unexpected feelings currently bubbling and bursting inside of you, the man now standing off to the side cleared his throat and brought you back down to earth. 

“Bunny–, I mean, Y/n,” you whipped your head around to catch sight of your ex, “just thought it would have been awkward if I didn’t come over here to introduce myself before me and Becca took off,” he muttered before his gaze fell to Matt, his arms slowly fading from your form, “I'm Henry, nice to meet you,” your ex then offered his hand, though the lawyer by your side didn’t grasp it, even if his heightened senses had lent him to pick up on the gesture. 

“Matt Murdock,” he uttered on a cold exhale. 

Stuffing his rejected palm into his pocket, Henry then asked, “what do you do?” 

“Matthew’s a lawyer,” you took over, slotting yourself into Matt’s side before you dramatically clasped a hand over his chest, “saves people for a living. That’s actually why we’re out celebrating tonight, he just won yet another case.” 

“Oh, well congratulations then,” Henry offered in well-forged petty politeness. 

“Yeah, I was there, watching him do his thing,” you uttered as some bitter goblin of resentment then took over your soul and caused you to say, “and oh boy, I tell you, if only it would have been socially acceptable for me to interrupt the trial just to rip his clothes off, because wow.”

A scoff then rippled in Henry’s chest, “okay, sure,” his stare upon you narrowed as he then grumbled, “we both know you’re not exactly the groupie type of girlfriend.” 

“Well, maybe your sorry ass was never worth her supporting you in that way,” Matt suddenly cut in, “maybe because you never bothered treated her that way in return,” his guess hit the bullseye, “and maybe that has a little something to do with why I was the one to put a ring on her finger and not you,” your heart thumped in your chest as Matt’s touch returned to the small of your back, protectively sliding over your waist as he continued to speak in a low and chillingly stern tone, “that or you really are as terrible of a lay as she told me you were, during those very first nights when she finally learned what it was like to be with someone who wasn’t a complete fucking idiot.” 

Utterly stunned, you watched Henry’s expression as he scrambled his brain for a way to crawl back from that, but eventually, when no suitable words came to his pea-sized brain, his feet slowly began to shuffle back till his hand had snatched up his fiancé’s and he’d yanked her with him out of the bar. 

As the door swung closed behind the pair, a celebratory squeal burst from your lungs, “oh my god! Matt, that was incredible!” you jumped in place before throwing your arms around him, “I don’t know how to thank you.” 

Tangling his own arms around you, he uttered, “I’m sure we’ll come up with some way you can make it up to me.” 

And as you withdrew, just enough to smile back at him, your gaze began to drift back down towards his lip just before Foggy’s voice cut through the palpable tension.

“Do I need to remind you guys that you’re not actually engaged?” 

“No,” Matt then murmured as the two of you parted ways, quietly enough for his words to be completely inaudible, “but we could be...” 

“What?” you glanced over at him. 

“What?” he echoed in return, though a bit too quickly. 

“Did you say something?”

“Me? No,” he tried to conceal his lie with a cough, “I-I, uh, think it’s your turn,” he then changed the subject, gesturing to the pool table behind you. 

  © 2025 thyme-in-a-bubble 

[tojisteddy]

Always, forever.

or: the one where you and Toji make your way home after getting stuck in the snow on Valentines Day.

cw: 1.5k words, pure fluff, curse words.

most recent toji core masterlist

“Good God, it’s cold as SHIIIIIT!”

“How many times are you gonna say that?”

“Until you get it into your thick ass skull.”

Valentine’s Day.

A time for romance. For love. Cute dates, chocolate, sweet kisses, proposals, and red hearts. For warmth with a loved one.

Well that didn’t happen this year, there was a blizzard.

The only people who were out and about were the people who had to work through the snow unfortunately and even then, businesses were closing early. With canceled Valentine’s Day plans and little to no food in the house, you and Toji made the treacherous journey through the falling snow to the grocery store. It was supposed to be a thirty minute trip, max.

But one thing about Murphy's law— it will always get worse.

You two had finished grocery shopping and headed to the car. Well what’s wrong with the car? The ten minutes you were in there, the car got stuck in the parking lot. So you and Toji were forced to walk in the snow. Streets we’re empty as ever, it’s fairly dark out, and you were cold as fuck.

“I told you wear a your scarf, but you don’t fuckin listen!” Toji griped, you two finally got to the main road that would lead you to the house. It looked miles away through the 7 inches of snow.

“I did listen! ‘it’ll be quick,’ you said. ‘yer over thinkin,’ you said! You know who didn’t listen? You! I told you we should just walk but you said the car would be able to make it, now look!” You raised your hands, gesturing to the current situation.

You looked over at Toji who was ignoring you. Sticking out his tongue to catch the snowflakes that fell from the sky.

“If my hands didn’t feel like they were gonna fall off, I’d sock you. I’m soooo serious.” You tried suppressing your chuckles but some still managed to get out. He looked so cute when he did childlike stuff like that. You could never stay fake mad for long.

The only sound being the crunch of snow from both of your feet. You were a shivering mess. You stopped in your tracks for a second, stuffing your hands in your turquoise coat pocket and shuffling them around to heat up.

“Why’re you stoppin?” Toji just six feet ahead of you. Tall ass.

“I’m inch resting to gettin hypothermia or somethin! My hands are freezing!”

“You don’t have gloves on ma?”

“What gloves?!” You exclaimed, stomping your foot over the packed snow.

Toji finally turned to look at you down to your hands. But he felt movement in his back pocket.

Oh, right!

The taller man marched his way over to you, taking his large hands in your and brought them to his mouth to breath on them.

“Better?”

“A little.”

He rubbed them a bit for more heat to circulate around them, then pulled out the black mittens that he accidentally put in his back pocket before you two went to the supermarket. Slipping them each on your hands.

“I- why do you have my mittens on?!” You frowned, glancing down to see your hands and there this big man was. With your like green flowered mittens on that you’d bought for yourself, being stretched out to greater capacity by Toji fucking Fushiguro.

“They’re warmer.” He shrugged nonchalantly.

“You run warm Toji!” You whined, and Toji playfully whacked your forehead with the back of his hand.

“So? This is reimbursement for all my lost hoodies.”

“Oh, fuck you!”

A devilish grin formed on his face, pecking your lips and turning to keep walking. “I will, when we get home baby.”

You groaned in annoyance, a silly smile on your face.

You two walked for another ten minutes, snow finally ceasing for the time being but still hard to get though. Somehow you’d managed to get farther away from Toji who was making his large strides like it was nothing. This couldn’t have been his first time tracking through the snow like this.

It wasn’t, but that’s another story for a different day.

You stopped again.

“Mama—“

“—I don’t think-“ you clasped your heart in fake agony, “-I don’t think I’m gonna make it!” You yelled out, setting the over filled grocery bag in the snow. You crouched down. You were sick of walking through the thick snow, even though you were warmer, the bag was heavy, your body was heavy. This was all exercise you didn’t sign up for.

“If you don’t make it, we’ll just die out here then. together.”

Your brown eyes whipped up at him, who was completely resolute with the statement. Your eyebrows furrowing, mouth slightly agape from shock.

“Happy Valentine’s Day.” A cheeky grin on his face.

…

Oh this guy, seriously this guy was something else. Your lips formed into a pout, bringing your knees closer to your chest. Toji clicked his tongue, huffing and puffing as he marched to you again. Standing you up on your feet by your armpits like a child.

“Seriously though, we really gotta get home mama. Dogs ‘re waitin for us.”

“But ‘m tiiiired!” You whined out, “can’t we just take a break?” You looked up at the man. Big brown eyes, snowflakes danced on your lashes and a cute pout in the perfect combination. You looked too damn cute for your own good.

Toji flicked your head again, “this is your break Doll.”

Before you could object, the man had your grocery bag in your left hand and took your right hand in the other. Gently tugging you forward so he could grab his two grocery bags he’d sat on the snow.

“You just need a little motivation. You like music right? Sing something.”

“Anything?”

“Anything baby.” He gave your hand a reassuring squeeze. Leading you two through the snow, making sure the very few cars that passed didn’t come near you. You quickly thought of whatever subject that came to mind. Snow.

“Oh, the weather outside is frightful—”

“—Too close to our current situation.” The older man sighed, “Something else.”

“You said I could sing anything!”

“Anything but that!”

You squeezed his hand tighter, showing him how irky he was being but he didn’t react. You went through your mental catalog again, going through genre to genre like changing the radio station. And then you hit something good.

“I been on my worst behavior~ but, baby, I don’t need no savior—”

“—Love Ariana, but I don’t wanna hear that.”

You gasped, “How do you know that? You’re an Ari stan?”

Emerald green eyes rolled, “you’ve been playin it like your life depends on it all fuckin week!”

“And another thing, because Positions Deluxe is her best work to date—“

“—god damn, Doll. Just shut up and sing something.”

You grumbled, something about Toji being an ass. But complied none the less. Your eyes went down to your held hands, to the sky, the houses with chimneys puffing out smoking. You started humming an intro, a little joy entering you with each heavy foot step.

“There must’ve been an angel by my siiide~”

“Something heavenly lead me to yooouuu!”

“Look at the sky!” You made your way ahead of Toji, still hand in hand. Some kind of adrenaline hitting you.

“What color is it baby?” Toji hummed.

“It’s the color of loooove~” you belted out.

You weren’t a phenomenal singer, neither was Toji once he joined in. But the man loved seeing that giddy smile on your face, your skin heating up from how much you were smiling you were doing in the moment, breath forming in the harsh winter air, lyrics wrapped in giggles.

He swore he fell in love with you all over again at that moment.

Your voice filling the small Japan streets, as you lead the two of you home.

“Shit, we made it!” You yelped out. Jumping for joy as you two finally made it to the top of the hill where Toji’s fairly traditional home sat.

“Baby come on! it’s freezin!” Toji called out to you as you fooled around outside the gate of the home. You finished your mini rushed project, dusting your hands of snow and snagging the grocery bag to join your spouse and dogs in the awaiting home.

The night was cozy.

You two put a beef stew on before heading to the shower and bath (of course). Eating a much needed, soothing, and itis inducing dinner with a wine for you and a beer for Toji. Sitting comfortably in the large, stolen sweatshirt that once belonged to the older man. The dogs were right at the feet of your bed when the two of you called it a night.

Sade’s ‘Kiss of Life’ filling the both of your ears again, vanilla essential oil diffuser filling the air of your bedroom, putting you two in a much needed, deep slumber.

Snow gently trickled down on your quiet home.

Two small makeshift snowmen sitting comfortably inside of a heart under the stone nameplate of the house that read ‘Fushiguro.’

a/n: my v day post being pure fluff is crazy lol. But happy Valentine’s Day, much love to everyone. Genuinely think Toji isn’t one to do much for Valentine’s Day but he’d always set aside time for you.

[kxtsukixoxo]

happy valentine’s day kri 🩷 pls take a rest from the angst tdy !! id like to request “quiet, they’ll hear us..” with my one and only hanta sero, thank u in advance 🙏

authors note - happy late valentine’s day bloom!! <3 we’re taking a long deserved break from the angst!! i’m sorry this took so long, i hope you enjoy it :3

here’s the valentine’s day event, there’s still prompts available!! ⊹. warnings - nsfw content

sero hanta, the guy who sat next to you in your business class. 

that’s all you knew about him, but he knew everything about you. infact, he was obsessed with you. he knew all your classes, he knew your route to your dorm, he knew what drink you’d order at the café down the road whenever you hung out with izuku, and that ticked him off. you had no classes with izuku, and sero knew nothing about izuku, so why were you hanging out with him? 

sero was the biggest perv when it came to you, just you. nobody else had this affect on him, and it drove him crazy. his need to feel you grew stronger everyday, and especially on the days you’d come to class wearing outfits that revealed a little more skin than you’d usually show.

it drove him crazy that you were right next to him and he couldn’t do anything about it. you’d give him the gummiest smile, as he felt his blood flow abandon every single part of his body and shoot down to his cock, he’d manage to give you a small wave, as he tried to pay attention to whatever your lecturer was saying, but all he could think about was his hands snuck down your skirt, your spit pooling out of your mouth as you mewled on his shirt, while he finger-fucked you. 

right after your lecture ended, sero grabbed your hand pulling you towards the janitors closet, no reason given. sure he wouldn’t do anything right, he looked like a respectful young guy, always waving at you, smiling at you in the hallways, offering to carry your grocery bags into your dorm.

somehow. 

always. 

everywhere you were. 

so when you finally reached the janitors closet, and sero placed his lips against yours, why didn’t you push him away? why did you enjoy it? 

you barely knew him, he barely knew you, atleast you thought so. 

“i can’t do this anymore, i need to feel you-“ he panted heavily, his chest heaving as he let out shaky breaths. “sero-what-“

“call me hanta please.” he started “tell me you want this, please tell me you do, if you don’t, it’s fine, we can just pretend this never happened, i’ll change my seat and we can carry-“ you cut him off as you sloppily captured his lips into a kiss, your legs wrapped around his waist as his hand gripped onto your ass while the other pulled his pants down.  

sero finally pulled away, with a pop. he unbuttoned your jeans, letting them drop to your ankles, as he pulled your shirt up just enough to reveal your perked up tits, the ones he dreamed about almost every night since you sat next to him.

thank god for baby tees, he was not about to let a bra get in his way. sero pulled his boxers down, his cock bounced up touching his belly button, you watched pre-cum leak out of the slit, “all yours baby” he murmured as he slid a hand through his messy mullet, you were hungry for it. 

“give me the go-head and i’ll stuff you so good hm?” he caressed your cheek as he lined his cock with your entrance “just be quiet for me baby, can’t let anybody hear those pretty noises you make, they’re just for me” he muttered as he placed a soft kiss to your lips. 

“fuck me hanta-please-“ 

that was all he needed. sero slammed into you, pressing you up against the wall, as your head fell back, your mouth fell open, as he slid in and out of you, pounding you against the wall, right next to your business class. if anybody were close enough you were sure they could hear your muffled moans as sero stuffed himself inside you “been dreaming about this day since you sat next to me in that pretty pink skirt” you brokenly gasped as your eyes rolled back. sero grunted as he grabbed your hand, placing it ontop of your stomach, feeling the bump. “see that? feel how deep i’m in you baby” he let out a groan, as he watched you whimper, “m’ gonna cum!” 

“shhh baby, you don’t wanna let everybody know i’m fucking you that good do you?” 

“hanta!-“

“i got you baby,” your legs tightened around his waist as he held you close, his breath fanning against your neck “cum for me”

and you did, collapsing towards him, as both of you came down from the lasting high. 

he scribbled his number onto your arm after wiping you down and getting you into your clothes, tapping your cheek with two fingers, 

“let me fuck you properly later hm?” 

[bloodstainedsapphic]

this is so silly for valentine’s day, i'm sorry from this prompt list

"who the hell told you that you could come in here?" your loving girlfriend ellie asked while standing rigidly just inside the doorway to her room, her tone accusatory but not exactly pissed.

"you did, dummy," you corrected her, a tight, all-too-pleased smirk adorning your lips.

but ellie wasn't staring at you—her fern-colored eyes were squinted, stuck on the massive stuffed bear now occupying her full-sized bed. you had managed to sneak it in right under her nose—with some help from jesse and the like, not that she needed to know.

the impossibly fluffy behemoth of plush was twice ellie's size, chestnut-colored with a cartoonishly welcoming smile. the bear felt extremely out of place in her rugged, homey, nerdy space, like it had crash-landed onto her faded blue bedsheets.

ellie was planted still as a stock character—eyeing the stuffie with a wide spectrum of emotions, from surprise to suspicion, to flickers of amusement she wasn't ready to let on yet.

"this—this is fucking ridiculous," ellie muttered, finally marching over to her bed, which was about 80% stuffed bear. she grabbed one of its oversized, floppy brown arms and tugged on it loosely, like she still wasn't convinced it was real.

"where the hell do i put this? who even made this? why is it so big?" ellie rapidly fired questions you couldn't answer while trying not to bellow with laughter because this was exactly how you had hoped she'd react.

"could you have found a bigger teddy bear?!" ellie demanded, finally turning her full astonishment on you.

"i just saw it— and— and i had to get it for you—" you tried to explain while stifled by giggles, backing away once ellie started closing the space between you, a playful kind of predatory.

eventually, she had you backed against the old couch, crawling over you, caging you in with her hands on either side of you, pressing soft, relentlessly teasing pecks all over your face.

"well, since my bed is completely taken up now by your 'little gift'..." she murmured lowly, lips ghosting your cheek, "... i guess i'll have to thank you here." pic creds @/danics1ki on pinterest

[ladykailitha]

Heartbreak in Overdrive Part 1

Yeah, I know this is supposed to be Spellbound, but like this has five chapters in backlog, and it really needs to be let out before it breaks containment.

The title comes I'll Wait by Van Halen, as I wanted something to do with fashion and @bookworm0690 really came in clutch with these lyrics.

Summary: Eddie is a top model know for his temper tantrums. Steve is war photographer coming out of a traumatic experience by doing fashion photography. When hotheaded Eddie runs up against Steve's cool under pressure attitude, sparks fly.

Also I tend to make up fictional brands so I don't have to keep running for google every time I need a brand name for something.

~

Eddie Munson fought hard to be where he was. He had climbed up from the literal fucking gutter to being a top model. Fuck that bitch for ruining that title in the minds of the masses, making it meaningless, but he earned it.

He had full creative control over every little aspect of his shoots and everyone knew it. They knew what they were getting when they hired him. Every part of him was what they fucking paid for. His whole glam metal look was a package deal. His long hair, his tattoos, his style. That’s what they got when they hired him.

His current gig was St. John Whiskey, they were trying to appeal to the younger party crowd with their new canned cocktails. Eddie had tried them and they weren’t half bad. If someone served them at rave he went to, he would happy down several of the damn things. But he wouldn’t ask for them. Like ever.

Eddie briefly wondered who was going to shoot the ad, because they hadn’t told him before he signed on the dotted line. Not that it mattered, whoever they got would try to fob it off to someone else. That little detail made the little demon in Eddie curl up and purr. That companies would trip over themselves to get Eddie to model for them, while the actual photographers were fighting over who had to photograph him.

He arrived on set which was made up to look like a club, there were about a dozen extras all tarted up in club gear. To the right was his hair and makeup artist, Vickie Cameron, to his left was his manager next to a row of clothes that Eddie would choose from for the shoot.

Tucked behind a little partition were three photographers; Jonathan Byers, Argyle Ramirez, and Tommy Hagan. They were all playing roshambo. They were playing several games before Tommy groaned.

“Fuck!” he cursed and then walked over to get his kit. His assistant Carol immediately started setting up the lights and shit from his stuff while Argyle and Jonathan celebrated their win.

“Hello, boys,” Eddie said sweetly, causing everyone nearby to jump in the air.

Jonathan had the decency to look embarrassed, Argyle just grinned at him. Tommy on the other hand, his expression soured.

“Munson,” he said tersely. “Keep the tantrums to a minimum and maybe both of us will fucking survive this day.”

Eddie’s face transformed into a feral grin. “Do you job properly and there won’t be a tantrum to be had. Be the hack you usually are and I make no promises.”

Tommy surged forward, likely to start swinging, but Jonathan held him back. Eddie batted his eyelashes at him innocently, then he turned on his heel and made straight to Chrissy and wardrobe. Hopefully they had something good in there he could wear.

Eddie walked over to Chrissy as she was separating some shirts for him.

“They want a dance club vibe,” she said as she handed him four shirts, two jackets, and three pairs of pants. “Everything here has your style but with that club flare they’re looking for.”

He smirked. “Someone, somewhere is learning.”

She swatted at his ass. “Go get dressed, dick. Then hurry back so we can get your accessories picked out so we can get Vickie started on your hair and makeup.”

Eddie nodded and took his prizes to the dressing room. The first jacket was a blueish-black racer jacket and the other was a suit jacket with black sequins embroidered in a brocade pattern. The shirts were all button ups. Of the two black options, one was a soft cotton and the other was satin. The white shirt was of the same material of the first black shirt and the remaining shirt was a silky grey. The pants ranged from tight leather to ripped denim with a tuxedo pant thrown in for funsies.

He tried on several combinations before he settled on the leather jacket, the silver shirt, and tight leather pants. He padded back out to Chrissy who had an array of watches, necklaces, bracelets, chains, and shoes.

He immediately pulled out the shiny combat boots and started layering the jewelry just the way he liked it. Once he was satisfied, he sat down at Vickie’s chair and flipped his hair. “Miss DeMille, I’m ready for my close up!”

Vickie laughed. “Let’s get this pretty face even prettier for the camera.” She got to work on his hair first, washing and conditioning it to take the hair products it would take to tame Eddie’s famous curls.

By the time he was finally ready, so was Tommy and Carol.

She eyed him and then nodded approvingly. He matched the vibe they were going for, but stood out in a fashionable way.

“Ready when you are, princess,” Tommy sneered, pulling out a camera from one of his bags.

Eddie grinned at him and then got into position. Tommy called out poses and shots while Carol managed the lenses, cameras and filters. Things were going well until they weren’t.

“Can someone please tell me why this asshole extra keeps standing in my fucking light?!” he growled.

Tommy stood up from where he had been crouched on the floor. “There is no one in your light, I’m literally taking the pictures and there is not single shade over you.”

“Not that light, dumbass,” Eddie snarled, “the light from the disco ball. It’s supposed to be glittering on my face to bring in the club vibe but some asshole is literal blocking it.”

Tommy went through the memory card and went back as far twenty frames. “Shit, he’s right.”

Eddie rolled his eyes. “Of course I’m right, so are you going to get this asshole to stop mugging the shots or am I going to have to lock myself in my dressing room until you do?”

“I don’t even know who it is,” Tommy snapped back. “How am I supposed to find a needle in a fucking haystack?”

Eddie threw his arms in the air. “The disco ball is there!” He pointed behind where he was sitting at a table and to the left. “So it’s obviously NOT the people to my right or in the foreground! Use your fucking head!”

He stood up and stalked toward dressing room, leaving a path of destruction in his wake of knocked over chairs and people glaring at him as he pushed by them.

It took Tommy and Carol about an hour to find out who had been blocking the disco ball’s light and coach Eddie out his dressing room.

All the news articles blew up that Eddie Munson threw a fit on the set of his most recent photo shoot again. Talking about what a diva he was and how unhinged he was.

Chrissy sat him down to talk about the articles. “You probably shouldn’t have thrown the chairs, let’s be fair. But all the pictures that were taken after you came back were the best shots Tommy took.”

Eddie sneered. “They were in the way and I didn’t throw them, I tried pushing them out the way and they got tangled up and they fell. I just needed to be somewhere else in that moment or more than just chairs would have been flying.”

Chrissy sighed. She knew. She knew better than anyone how much space Eddie needed when he got into his head.

“Well,” she said, “we’ll ride it out like we always do. If Tom Cruise can come out of coach jumping with a career intact, you will come of this one just fine, too.”

Eddie threw his head head back and buried his hands into his hair. He counted backward from twenty until he got his thoughts under control.

“I wish Carol was the photographer,” he said mournfully. “She actually seems to understand the artistry behind taking the perfect shot.”

“And we both know she’s never going to a chance,” Chrissy said ruefully, rolling her eyes. “Because she’s a woman. But it wasn’t her who found the extra who was getting in the way of the shots.”

That made Eddie sit up. “Yeah, then who did?”

Chrissy shrugged. “Some friend of Tommy’s who was visiting. He’s some hot shot war photographer that Tommy met in art school and was in town for a couple of days for some award show.”

“Maybe hire him next time,” Eddie said with a snort.

~

When Eddie heard that it was going to be Argyle Ramirez doing the shoot for the Eva Laurent cologne that he was mildly annoyed. He wasn’t the incompetent asshole that Tommy was, but he was far too laid back for his tastes.

Eddie got to the set which was in Argyle’s studio. Everything was white and would be lighted to the appropriate colors. In the middle was a single black leather chair; one of those overstuffed kind.

There were about a half dozen people milling around and that brought him up short.

“Um...” he said glancing over at Chrissy briefly. “I thought it was going to be a closed set?”

Argyle looked up at him with that hazy, dopey smile of his. “The man of the hour has arrived. Awesome!” He looked around at the other people in the room. “Don’t worry my man, once you’re ready to drop robe, most of these people will have cleared out.”

“Most?” Eddie asked, trying not squirm.

“Sure,” Argyle said, blinking at him in confusion. “I’ve got to have my assistants to move things around and shit. But everyone else will have cleared out.”

Eddie bit on his lip. He couldn’t argue with that. Though he had tried. Several times before. Whenever he pushed back on being naked in front of strangers he was told that he was baring his ass to the world, what was a few extra people on the day of the shoot.

He went to go get his hair and makeup done, with Vickie trying to ease her nerves but talking about her long distance girlfriend who also did hair, but always needed help with her smokey eye makeup.

Eddie let her chatter wash over him and he relaxed, getting out of his head and into his body. His body was his job, his sanctuary, and his weapon all rolled into one. He cracked his neck and rolled his shoulders, releasing the last bit of tension in his shoulders.

When he came out of hair and makeup he was pleased to find there were only two other people there besides Argyle. One knelt by a bag, while the other stood by the lights.

That was more than he would have liked, but he had to let it slide. He knew that there were some photographers who had full on teams and all they did was take the pictures. But Eddie had it in his rider that if they wanted him to model for them they couldn’t use those photographers.

He was about down to his underwear when Argyle came bursting into the room. He shrieked and pulled his pants over his crotch.

“Don’t you knock?!” Eddie roared in outrage, clutching his pants close to his body as a shield.

Argyle held his hands up and backed out. “Sorry, dude, I thought hadn’t gotten undressed yet.” He closed the door.

Eddie could tell the man was waiting awkwardly outside so he hurried to get undressed and throw on the black satin robe he was given. He tied the sash tightly around his waist and slid the slippers on his feet. He slowly opened the door and peeked out to make sure it was just Argyle waiting for him.

He stepped out into the hallway and Argyle looked up from his phone.

“You ready now?” he asked.

Eddie rolled his eyes. “Yeah, but if you had been like a minute later or two minutes sooner, I wouldn’t have been in the middle of getting undressed.”

“I’m going to be seeing you naked in five minutes anyway,” Argyle groused. “I really don’t see what the problem is.”

Eddie bit his tongue. He wanted to say the difference was consent, but it seemed like nothing would penetrate the thick fog of weed smoke around the photographer’s head. He just strolled past, his head held high.

Once he had warmed up enough he dropped the robe and the assistant in charge of the lenses rushed forward to grab it.

He sprawled on the leather chair, the material sticking to his ass.

After a few minutes of struggling to get comfortable he finally snapped.

“Is there anyway we can put something down on the chair so my skin isn’t being peeled off with every move I make?”

One of the assistants, Eddie couldn’t be assed to care which one, rushed forward with a long golden drape and laid it over the leather chair. Then when Eddie sat back on it she draped it over his body artistically, making the shot more provocative and less in your face nudity.

“Good thinking, Karla,” Argyle huffed as he knelt to take the next shot. “Pull his hair out a little bit so that it lays flat over the drape.”

Karla hurried to do as she was told. The shoot went more smoothly after that, but he could tell Argyle was annoyed for not having thought of the drape first.

Eddie didn’t spend the whole shoot covered by the drape, but it added something special to the ad that the Eva Laurent people loved.

But Argyle told everyone that Eddie had been reluctant to disrobe in front of people and that’s why the drape was added.

It pissed Eddie off, but with people wanting to believe the worst of him, trying to refute it was like pissing in the wind.

But he made sure to tell the Eva Laurent people that it was Karla’s idea for the drape on his way out, just to fuck with him back.

~

Tag List: NINE SLOTS REMAINING

1- @itsall-taken @estrellami-1 @zerokrox-blog @sadisticaltarts @dolphincliffs

2- @gregre369 ​@a-little-unsteddie @irregular-child @cryptid-system @kultiras

3- @maya-custodios-dionach @goodolefashionedloverboi @val-from-lawrence @carlyv @wonderland-girl143-blog

4- @bookbinderbitch @bookworm0690 @forgottenkanji @dreamercec @blondie1006

5- @yikes-a-bee @awkwardgravity1 @genderless-spoon @fearieshadow @thesecondfate

6- @dragonmama76 @ellietheasexylibrarian @thedragonsaunt @useless-nb-bisexual @disrespectedgoatman

7- @counting-dollars-counting-stars @tinyplanet95 @ravenfrog @swimmingbirdrunningrock @lingeringmirth

8- @gutterflower77 @a-lovely-craziness @just-a-tiny-void @w1ll0wtr33 @beelze-the-bubkiss

9- @chaotic-waffle

[heliosunny]

I absolutely LOVED your Himeko one, thank you so much for writing it! Now hear me out Herta x Ruan Mei x deadpan assistant reader (reader doesn’t give to fucks about anything lol, they just stay for the research lol)

You guys never cease to fail me with your hear me out

Yan!The Herta x Assistant!Reader x Yan!Ruan Mei

The whirring of machinery filled the laboratory. You barely blinked as you recorded the latest test results, your attention solely on the data in front of you.

"You're staying up late again." Herta’s voice rang out, her tone edged with a knowing confidence. "Humans are so inefficient. Unlike me, of course. I can do everything effortlessly. You should rest."

You didn’t look up. "Noted."

Herta sighed, stepping closer, her movements precise and deliberate. "If you collapse, your research will suffer. I could arrange for you to be taken care of. Permanently. It’s only logical."

You finished typing and clicked save. "I’ll manage."

Herta smirked. Anyone else would be intimidated, but you simply… weren't. She knew she was brilliant—capable of anything. Yet, you remained infuriatingly indifferent, treating her presence as nothing more than white noise.

From across the lab, another presence approached. "Still working?"

"I need to finish sequencing this data before tomorrow’s experiment."

Ruan Mei leaned in slightly, "Fewer distractions would make things easier. I could ensure no one interferes with your work."

You finally turned your head, but only to adjust the microscope. "No need."

Herta raised an eyebrow, amusement flickering in her eyes. Ruan Mei’s expression remained steady, though the knowing glint in her gaze deepened. They had tried everything—manipulating your schedule, controlling who you interacted with, ensuring they were your only company. And yet, your reaction remained the same: absolute, unwavering indifference. The data was what mattered.

A test tube clinked against the counter as you picked it up. "Pass me the notes on the last trial."

For a moment, neither spoke.

Then Ruan Mei let out a quiet chuckle. "Of course."

Herta tilted her head, smiling smugly. "You really don’t care, do you?"

"Not particularly."

Herta’s smirk widened. Ruan Mei’s gaze sharpened slightly. If fear wouldn’t make you acknowledge them, if obsession wasn’t enough…Then they’d just have to find another way.

---

An accident. The lab was a mess—shattered glass, overturned equipment, and the unmistakable scent of burnt circuits. You lay slumped against the console, blood seeping from a deep gash along your arm. Yet, your face remained as calm as ever.

Herta and Ruan Mei arrived together, their sharp eyes scanning the scene before their gazes landed on you. Herta clicked her tongue. "This isn’t just an accident."

Ruan Mei knelt beside you, pressing a cloth against your wound. "Someone was here" she murmured, her voice calm but firm. "This wasn’t self-inflicted, nor a malfunction."

Herta’s eyes swept across the wreckage. "Debris patterns suggest a struggle. Equipment was deliberately smashed—except for the high-priority research terminal. That means they weren’t just here to destroy. They were looking for something."

Ruan Mei nodded. "And they didn't expect resistance. You fought back."

You exhaled. "They were sloppy."

Herta smirked, "Sloppy, yes. But bold. To attack you directly? They were confident in their ability to subdue you. That alone tells us something."

Ruan Mei’s fingers hovered near a jagged fragment on the ground. "Here. This break is too clean—whoever was here knew exactly what they were doing."

Herta turned her gaze back to you. "Whoever it was, they underestimated you. But you’re injured. That irritates me."

Ruan Mei’s voice was softer, but no less firm. "We’ll find them and make sure they don’t get a second chance."

You merely closed your eyes for a moment. "That’s your business. Mine is still the research."

Herta huffed a laugh. "Of course it is. But don’t mistake our patience for leniency. Whoever did this… won’t be walking away from it unscathed."

Instead of calling for medical aid, Ruan Mei simply rolled up her sleeves. "Hold still."

You barely flinched as she used a syringe with a strange-looking liquid inside on you. The pain was sharp, then numbing, then sharp again. Flesh knitted together, the sensation alien but effective.

Despite everything, you spoke. "You shouldn't waste it on me."

Ruan Mei’s movements didn’t falter, though you caught the faintest flicker of relief in her steady gaze. "You’re talking. That’s good."

"You’d be unbearable if I died."

Herta huffed a laugh. "True."

Once the procedure was finished, exhaustion finally crept in. Your vision blurred slightly as you leaned back, head resting against the cool metal. Ruan Mei’s gaze lingered, but she said nothing further.

"Rest" she murmured, voice softer than usual.

As your consciousness slipped, you caught Herta’s voice, sharp and determined. "We’re finding the culprit. And when we do… well, let’s just say they won’t get the same kindness you did."

Ruan Mei simply nodded.

Ruan Mei and Herta stood amidst the wreckage, their keen eyes scanning every fragment, every overturned instrument, every small disturbance in the environment.

Herta broke the silence first. "Look at the footprints. The spacing is inconsistent—whoever was here moved quickly, but not efficiently."

Ruan Mei kneeled, running her fingers lightly over the ground. "And they stepped here. This area was clear before. Notice the scuff marks? They hesitated. Perhaps they realized they took the wrong direction."

Herta smirked. "A mistake. Good. That means they're not as competent as they thought."

Moving further into the lab, Ruan Mei's eyes landed on a fractured beaker. "The break pattern—this wasn't just knocked over. It was deliberately shattered, possibly to cover up another sound."

Herta tapped her temple. "A distraction, then? That tells us the culprit had prior knowledge of how the lab operates. They knew breaking glass would delay us, force us to investigate multiple possibilities."

Ruan Mei picked up a small metallic fragment, holding it to the light. "This material… it's not from any equipment we use. And the shape—it's a piece of a glove. Not standard lab wear."

Herta’s expression sharpened. "Custom gloves. Specialized equipment. That narrows our list of suspects considerably."

Ruan Mei's gaze moved to the security console, where a faint smudge lingered near the access panel. "They tried to bypass the system manually. The interface was touched by someone not wearing proper lab attire—there's residual oil."

"Sloppy work. A professional would’ve worn gloves throughout."

Ruan Mei exhaled softly. "Now we just need to run a material analysis on this fragment and cross-check it against the logs of personnel who entered the lab today. The answer is already in front of us."

"And once we find them… well, let's just say they'll regret thinking they could outsmart us."

Later that night, the lab remained dark, silent. Until a faint rustling near the storage cabinet broke the stillness. The intruder had returned.

As they reached for something inside, the overhead lights flickered on, bathing the lab in a harsh glow.

Herta’s voice rang out. "Took you long enough."

Ruan Mei stood beside her, arms crossed, her gaze steady. "You knew we’d figure it out, didn’t you? You left too many signs behind."

The culprit froze, their eyes darting between them two. Their hesitation only confirmed everything.

Herta sighed, shaking her head. "The footprints, the shattered beaker, the security panel..."

Ruan Mei took a step forward. "You needed to retrieve something. And now you’re here, caught in the act."

The culprit tried to bolt, but Herta was faster. With a flick of her wrist, an unseen force locked them in place. "Not so fast."

Ruan Mei approached, her voice calm but firm. "You should have left when you had the chance."

With precision and efficiency, they secured the intruder. The mystery was solved, and now it was time for answers.

---

The first thing you noticed when you woke up was the unsettling presence in the middle of the lab.

A 'new specimen.'

It loomed in the dim lighting, its form distorted, a mix of organic and synthetic in ways that defied conventional understanding. Even with your detached nature, something about it sent a prickling sensation down your spine. But instead of panicking, you simply sighed, rubbing the sleep out of your eyes before standing up and heading straight to your workstation.

Herta had been there earlier, observing the entity with a critical eye, arms crossed as she muttered calculations under her breath. When she noticed you moving, she smirked. "Finally awake? I half-expected you to sleep through the discovery of a potential anomaly."

You sat down and powered up the console. "Unlikely. My schedule is precise."

She chuckled, amused. "Of course. Though, I have to say, you're remarkably calm for someone who just woke up to this... thing."

You glanced at it again. "If it's dangerous, it should be contained. If it's harmless, it should be studied."

Herta tapped her chin, watching you with a knowing gaze. "You're so predictable. Always straight to work, never questioning the bigger picture."

"I leave that to you and Ruan Mei" you replied, adjusting the settings on your interface. "Speaking of which, where is she?"

"Busy. Something about an ongoing experiment needing adjustments. Which means..." Herta leaned in slightly, a smug grin forming. "You're stuck with me today."

"That was already obvious."

Herta laughed outright at that. "See? This is why you're interesting. No panic, no hesitation. Just an endless march forward, like a machine."

"You're flattering yourself if you think you're much different."

Her eyes gleamed with amusement. "Oh, but I am. I acknowledge my own brilliance and enjoy it. You, on the other hand, don’t even bother to look in the mirror."

You exhaled, turning your attention back to your work. "Self-awareness is unnecessary for efficiency."

Herta tilted her head, watching you in silence for a moment before speaking again. "You know, I could analyze you like an anomaly if I wanted."

"You already do."

She grinned. "True. But I think I’d rather keep talking to you instead."

----

Ruan Mei may have been busy, but for now, this was enough. The next day, Herta was preoccupied with another project, leaving you to assist Ruan Mei.

Ruan Mei was busy fine-tuning an experiment, her fingers deftly adjusting various instruments. Without needing to be asked, you moved beside her, scanning the logs and adjusting parameters as needed.

She glanced at you, her voice as soft and composed as ever. "You should still be resting."

"Efficiency takes priority" you responded, eyes focused on the data.

She exhaled lightly, a faint hint of amusement in her tone. "You're remarkably stubborn."

"I simply follow the logical course of action. The work needs to be done."

Ruan Mei hummed, seemingly satisfied with your answer. "At least drink something while you do. I don’t want to explain why you collapsed from neglecting basic needs."

Without argument, you reached for the cup of tea she had set beside your console earlier, taking a sip before resuming work. "Happy?"

She smiled slightly. "Content. For now."

As the two of you worked in sync, she occasionally made small remarks about adjustments to the experiment, and you countered with brief, calculated suggestions. It was a rhythm the two of you had perfected over time, one of mutual understanding and unspoken trust.

At one point, she paused, observing you. "You always do this—work without pause, talk without hesitation. But do you ever stop to think about yourself?"

"Self-reflection is inefficient in moments like these."

She chuckled, shaking her head. "One day, you'll have to let yourself breathe. But I suppose today is not that day."

"Today is just another day" you replied.

She let the conversation drift into silence, but the warmth in her voice lingered. And as the hum of the lab surrounded you both, it was enough.

----

The following morning, you decided to do something different.

Carrying a tray of breakfast, you walked into the lab, setting it down near where Ruan Mei and Herta were working. "For saving me."

Herta barely glanced up before smirking. "Oh? A rare moment of generosity? How fascinating."

Ruan Mei took a delicate sip of tea, her expression unreadable but her tone teasing. "Perhaps we should make you thank us more often."

They both laughed, though you simply shrugged it off, indifferent to their reactions. As you turned to begin your work, neither of them made any further remarks, but something lingered in the air—an unspoken possessiveness in the way they watched you.

You didn’t notice.

For them, that was fine.

[valentine-cafe]

Cnc overstim with 209 rishen, making him beg us for mercy as m reader fucks him senseless, degrading him and humiliating him, lightly spanking his cock every so often. Wringing out round after round to no end 😌😌😌

˖⁺. ﹙ bottom switch mad scientist x top dom male reader . ﹚ .𖹭 ݁

. . . we're not stopping until i say so !! 🍒 :  villain ˖ yandere character ˖ spider-mantis-moth hybrid ˖ mad scientist﹙ verse 209 rishen. ﹚

some nice cnc overstim with rishen 209 <3, cw: cnc, so much cum, overstimulation, begging, silk slit overstimulation, rough sex, neck pinning, degreadation, humiliation, handjob ( rishen recieving )

Bated breaths fill the room, you have your pretty husband below you about to cum again for the 6th time.

Whines spill from his pretty lips and trickle into the bedsheets from below, after the light spank his cock recieved in as your own hit one of the specific bundle of nerves in his pretty little hole that had him out cold almost.

“p-please— Please- ple— Mercy, god I— mnhgh!!”

His pretty moans pull you into a state of extacy. Bathing in the feel of soft velvet walls hugging against the hard dick that fill them so well and nudge against the silk slit inside of it multiple times.

“What? Mercy?” Barks of laughter vibrate through your chest, while stroking your right hand up his chest, then up towards his neck squeeze it down against the pillows

“I thought you were the kind of whore that could take it.”

deep maroon hues make loops at the degredation that slither’s through red tinted ears.

You shake his head a little. Murmuring for him to open up his mouth. Only to spit into it the second that his lips part, enjoying the sound of his little choke.

The speed only continues to develop, as if your pace wasn’t already skull shattering enough. You go to rot away at the most intelligent brain the world has ever seen.

“—p— mhn, c-can’t take any-m-more— nhgh!”

Most satisfying of all, you managed to shut your husband’s smart mouth earlier when your dick began ramming into that silkslit of his. Oh the vulnerable spots you love to overstimulate over and over again to watch the hybrid below you spread like a million flowers all at once.

“C’mon, you know you can, slut. Cumming so much, just because of a little bit of overstim.” You cackle, only to raise a brow when he narrows his eyes and tries to let out a weak: “S-shut up.” Yet he’d fall to his doom once more at the reminder of the strong hand wrapped around his neck like the most fine jewellery.

“Gonna have to pound you a little harder if you can act bratty still.”

A loud whine, follwed by a wheeze of air passing through Rishen’s lungs like it never has. Your entire body pins him against the bed. Joined by your other rough hand jerking away at the sensitive dick between your abdomen and his.

With a rough thumb rubbing away at the silk slit right below the hood of his tip, and your leaking dick hitting against the web slit inside, he ends up passing out due the amount of pleasure gonig through him. You slow down in pace by quite a lot, humming softly as you wait for him to wake up again.

Slowly, when he comes back to consciousness, you huff with a little smirk.

“Felt that good?”

“Mhhn. . . I’ll— Get you back for this.” He laughs quietly and claws down your back, stealing a groan from your lips with his and swallowing it down, bucking his hips upwards feverishly.

[semihearts]

Wait you think I’m pretty?

Pairing: Thanos x reader

Summary: Thanos and you are childhood friends and joined the game together, when he almost mess up during a game for being too high, he understands that you cant loose him… because you love him

AUTHOR’S NOTE: Hope you like this one!! Feel free to leave opinions and suggestions <3

༺ ༽♡༼ ༻

When you agreed on joining some shit game Thanos was talking about all week, you could never guess that they weren’t just normal games, but actually deadly ones.

-‘’Where the fuck did you get us in Thanos? I swear I’ll kill you”. -“Senorita relax!! This first game was easy, ,we’ll make out of here alive with all that money”.

You and Thanos are friends since you can remember, and honestly you can never get used to his weird personality and he still manages to get you surprised all the time. Of course he brought with him his necklace, which is full of surprises as well, but you didn’t expect that in a place like this, his first concern was to get high as hell.

During lights out, Thanos would get in your bed and lay with you, and you knew he never slept. Maybe its the effects of the drugs, but you like to believe that he’s taking care of you - and you’re actually correct, he could never sleep knowing that there’s even crazier people then him a few steps away, who knows what they would try to do to you if he weren’t close -.

During mingle, he always made sure to grab your hand and tried to stay focused, even though he was literally seeing rainbows and unicorns - all thanks to the colored pills on his cross-. When the robotic voice said Two, he already knew who to pick. You ran first to secure a room, but once you got there… where the fuck was Thanos?

In the middle of the room, there he was. Completely still, with a confused face, and lost eyes, is he out of his mind??

-‘’Thanos!! Thanos what the hell are you doing?” You screamed his name but it seemed like he was in another world

10, 9, 8…

You ran towards him, grabbed his arm and ran, of course there was people getting in the room you secured before, as you had to leave it. Thanos was clearly off, his life was in a thin line and he had no reaction or expression. This game is about surviving, even if it means killing others, and that’s the thought you stuck to.

Using all your willpower, you managed to push those players out of the room and drag Thanos inside, locking the door.

-“Thanos!” Nothing -“Thanos!!” Nothing -“Su-bong!” His eyes were immediately on you.

Like he just woke up from a bad dream, his eyes found yours, he was awake. You never called him by his real name, which is almost dead to him, he is Thanos, that’s him now, he’s way happier being this new person.

‘’What- what just happened? Oh my God Senorita I’m literally sooo high right now-“

‘’Im tired of this, really Thanos. You could’ve died right there, all thanks to these stupid pills. But of course you never listen to me when I tell you to not use them before a game. I don’t know why out of everyone I chose to love you! You’re a complete idiot”.

“Wait did you just confess?”

“That you’re a jerk?”

“Nah fuck that, you just said that you love me girl”.

[totaly-obsessed]

Good Luck, Babe!

➳ Nika Mühl x reader

➳ pt. 2 of Casual

➳ Summary: A complicated, on-again, off-again relationship where they try to move on but keep getting pulled back together. There’s jealousy, mixed signals, and heartbreak, but no matter what, they can’t seem to fully let go - until maybe they have to.

➳ Word count: 4.178 (idk how I got here)

➳ Warnings: A lot of cursing? Pls be nice to me, it's my first fic in like 6 months...

It's fine, it's cool You can say that we are nothing, but you know the truth. And I guess I’m the fool

Ignoring someone who was such a constant in your life turned out to be much harder than you expected. Sure you were convinced you were done with her and didn’t need her anymore, but pulling through with it? It was a whole different world.

The Huskies had just played a fantastic game against Creighton when the brunette finally managed to catch up to your friend group outside in the hallway. Nika had put in a shift in the game, giving her all on the court, so she was already out of breath, when she called out a sharp “Hey, stop!”.

A deep sigh left your body, there was no way out of this now, once she set her eyes on something, there was no other option in the basketballer's mind. “It’s alright, I’ll catch up to you guys later.” They didn’t seem too sure to leave you alone with someone who just a couple of weeks ago had brought out a side of you they had never seen before.

“You’ve been acting like we’re nothing. Like I don’t exist.” Nika’s arms were crossed over her chest, clearly frustrated and ready to defend herself. And the scowl on her face told you that she did not like the scoff you let out, or your rolled eyes.

“Isn’t that what you wanted? Casual, no attachment?” You hadn’t even noticed the hallway emptying, leaving just you and Nika. Carefully you tried to shift away from her, putting a bit of space between the two of you, trying to save yourself some embarrassment. But the brunette was quick to follow your movements, forcing you closer to the wall behind you.

“It’s fine. It’s cool,” and just like that her eyebrows that tend to make her look angry relaxed, and that damn cocky smirk won over her face. By now you were completely pressed against the rough wall behind you. Nika came closer and closer, eventually leaning down, her face only a couple of inches away from yours.“You can say that we are nothing, but you know the truth.”

She was right. You did know.

That didn’t mean you could continue being toyed with.

You took a deep breath and steadied yourself before finally locking eyes with her. Christ. You had nearly forgotten just how deep they were, and you could feel yourself slipping. But your voice was firm, unwavering “Yeah, I know the truth, Nika. And I guess I’m the fool but I’m done being something to you only when it’s convenient or you’re bored for 5 seconds.”

The Croatian’s smile nearly fell off her face, and you swear if you squinted you could see a quick flash of hurt on her face. But you decided not to wait around to question it, instead moving past her - ignoring the pain in your chest and the way her hand twitched in your direction.

But walking away didn’t feel like you were winning like you finally stood your ground. It really fucking hurt.

With her arms out like an angel through the car sunroof

After you got back to your friends they decided to do something against the tears streaming down your face. And what better thing is there to do in Storrs Connecticut than 5 young adults in a car chasing sunsets?

By now the sun had been long gone, and the cold night air bit at your stretched-out arms, but you barely noticed. The trees flew by in a blur as Daisy held on to your legs, terrified that you would fall out of the sunroof of the car.

Just for a second, it was as if you were flying. Like you were free like an angel.

But was freedom supposed to feel this empty? Were angels truly free or just servants of god?

The howling wind tangled your hair, as you squeezed your eyes shut - trying to get rid of the ache still left in your chest as if someone was squeezing you too hard. Maybe you could leave it all behind. But who were you kidding? As dramatic as it sounds, right now there was not a possibility in your mind to get over Nika.

Daisy’s grip on your thighs tightened, pulling your attention away from the star-painted sky. “Alright, I think that’s enough main-character moment for one night,” she yelled over the blaring music and the roaring winds. You could hear the slight concern hidden behind a laugh.

With a sigh you let her pull you back down to earth, but also back in the car as you collapsed against the worn leather seats, your heart still racing. The others were singing along to some old song, not hitting any note of it and laughing about themselves. It was warm and safe in the chaos of it all.

But the emptiness was still there.

Maybe angels weren’t free. Maybe just like you, they were stuck between wanting to fly and staying.

I don't wanna call it off But you don't wanna call it love

It turned out, that Nika isn’t all that calm, cool, collected either. Her performances in recent games had been sloppy and everyone was able to see that something was off with their secretary of defense.

The worst part of it all was seeing her get frustrated with herself. Whenever Geno took her out, she had tears in her eyes as her jaw clenched on the bench.

Giving up, however, didn’t seem to come to her mind. At any party, game, or lesson she had a glimpse of you, Nika tried to find excuses to be near you.

Oh, look! You’re here too, directly next to the fan whose shirt I’m signing. What a coincidence!

And it was safe to say that you weren’t oblivious to it. The way she lingered just a second too long when you were close, how her eyes automatically looked for you in crowds (just to find that you were already looking at her once she actually found you), the way she laughed extra loud, hard and fake at people, trying to act unbothered, just to stop once you turned away. 

At first, you thought this was just Nika being Nika - dramatic, relentless, and not accepting of a loss even if it wasn’t on the court. But the coincidences started to pile up.

Oh wow, the only open seat in the dining hall just happens to be at your table? No way.

Oh, she’s just suddenly best friends with the person sitting next to you in class? What a small world!

Oh look, you’re leaving a party at the exact same time, at the exact same exit, and she just has to walk in the same direction as you? Who would’ve thought?

Despite her games, her need to be close and her pure annoying-ness, she never actually said what you needed to hear. She never called it what it was.

“I don’t wanna call it off,” she had once told you in passing, the first thing she actively said to you after the hallway conversation, her voice low and her gaze unreadable.

But she never called it love either.

You can kiss a hundred boys in bars Shoot another shot, try to stop the feeling

If the dumb universe wouldn’t help you get over Nika, you would just have to do it yourself, or at least that was the plan. Which is why you ended up at some Alpha Delta Phi Frat party - halfway through your third drink that you barely liked, in a mass of sweaty people with hands on your body. 

You were trying to pretend that the warmth of someone else’s hands on your waist would be enough to make you forget.

Of course, it wasn’t.

But it was better than nothing, which is why you still threw your head back, downing whatever vile concoction was in that cup, and dragged the guy, whose hands were currently trying to find a home on your hips, off the dance floor. He was cute enough, said the right things, well as far as your drunken mind cared, he leaned in a little too close - but none of that mattered.

Because even with the bass running through your body, and unfamiliar lips brushing against yours, all you could think about was her. 

Daisy caught you when you stumbled your way back over to the bar, promising the guy to get some drinks. “You done?” she asked unimpressed, arms crossed over her chest. She seemed strangely sober. Or maybe you were really drunk. 

“Not even close”, you leaned over the counter so that the barkeeper, who really was just another frat boy, could actually hear you as you ordered more drinks.

These were supposed to help, right? This is what people did when they wanted to move on. But it didn’t work, not for you at least. You could kiss a hundred different people in a hundred different bars, take a hundred shots, but the feeling never left. 

No matter how you tried to drown her out, or maybe drown yourself with other sensations, she always resurfaced.

And the worst part? You knew exactly where she was.

Just across the room. Watching you. 

You can say it's just the way you are Make a new excuse, 'nother stupid reason Good luck, babe

She was staring.

And it wasn’t an ‘oh I was just looking over, and there you are! What a surprise!’. No. Nika was standing on the other side of the room, arms crossed, jaw tight and eyes locked with yours. She was daring you to keep going.

Like she was waiting for you to break first.

Fuck this. Instead of breaking, you took the shot instead. The burn in your throat was nothing compared to the ache you felt in your chest, as you made your way back to the guy from before.

Finally meeting her gaze again felt like a crime, but you could see it. The frustration, the jealousy. But she didn’t move. She didn’t storm over like you had thought she would. 

She just stood there, watching.

The smirk made its way onto your face before you could control it - just to piss her off even more. You let the guy, whose name you still didn’t know pull you closer, feeling him breath down your neck, and you prayed that the Croatian didn’t see the way you grimaced. If she wants to pretend that everything is fine, then two can play that game.

You could nearly hear the scoff all the way across the room - Well you couldn’t hear it, but you saw it, and you knew exactly how that expression sounded - before she turned her head and walked away.

What you didn’t see was Daisy pulling the tall basketball player back inside by her arm before she could fully escape.

“You just gonna stand there all night?” Daisy snapped, her voice low but sharp.

Nika clenched her jaw, ripping her arm away. “What do you want me to do?” she muttered, eyes flickering back toward you, wrapped up in someone else’s arms.

Daisy scoffed. “I don’t know, maybe stop acting like a fucking coward.”

Nika’s glare snapped to her. “I’m not—”

“Oh, spare me,” Daisy cut in, shaking her head. “You can say it’s just the way you are. Make a new excuse, ‘nother stupid reason.” Her voice dripped with frustration. “But you and I both know that’s a load of shit. So… Good Luck, Babe.”

Nika didn’t respond, just tightened her fists at her sides, nails digging into her palms.

Because Daisy was right.

And she fucking hated that.

I'm cliché, who cares? It's a sexually explicit kind of love affair And I cry, it's not fair I just need a little lovin', I just need a little air

To no one's surprise, you didn’t last much longer at the party. Maybe it was the thick air or the alcohol in your system. Or maybe it was the fact that you couldn’t think straight. A certain brunette is always present in there. 

So you left. Slipped out the front door silent as a grave. But before you had reluctantly taken the guy's phone number that he had scribbled on a piece of paper ‘just in case’. The cold air had hit you in the face. This felt nice, to finally be able to breathe. Clearly, you needed this.

You didn’t expect her to still be here, after seeing her leave earlier. But of course, she waited. 

“You think that’s funny?” Nika's voice had cut through the night like a blade. And you didn’t even need to turn around to know that she was right there, just a step behind you.

“What?” You decided to play unknowingly, pretending not to know what she was talking about.

“You know what,” As the last few times you’ve spoken to her, her voice was sharp but you could hear a slight wavering. “Dragging some random dude with you, making a show off it.”

With a scoff, you now fully turned around to her. “What I do, is none of your business.” She let out a dry laugh, not the kind of laugh that you liked, but a mocking one. “Bullshit. You were looking at me the whole time. Don’t lie to yourself.”

And that was the problem. You were looking at her. All the time.

“God, you’re so fucking - “ you stopped yourself, hands gripping the hairs at the side of your head in desperation, trying to push down all the feelings. Make them go away. “I don’t get you, Nika. One minute you don’t want anything to do with me. The next-”

“I never said I didn’t want anything to do with you.” Her interruption was sudden, but not unexpected. Her voice was quieter than before, but it sounded dangerous somehow. “I never said that.”

“No?” It was your turn to chuckle now. “Then what the hell is this,” you pointed wildly between the two of you, becoming aware of the lessening distance, “Because I can’t keep doing whatever this is.” Your chest was heaving up and down, so fast as if you had just run a marathon.

The brunette didn’t say anything for a moment, she was just looking at you, trying to find the right words, and just when you thought you had broken her again - “I’m cliché, who cares?”

“What?” You were the broken one now.

“I’m cliché,” she said again, repeating herself, her lips curling into that goddamn smirk you loved so much. “Dramatic, stupid, jealous as fuck - I’m all of it, you’re right. But you -” She took a step even closer, and suddenly, there was barely any space left between you, to the extent that you could feel the warmth radiating off of the tall girl in the cold night. “You make me lose my goddamn mind.”

And instead of heaving like before, your chest stopped moving as you held your breath. Fuck. If she had said this a few months ago, you would have folded instantly. Maybe none of this would have happened and instead, you’d be - No. You couldn’t even think about it. 

But it was too late, wasn’t it?

“Yeah, well,” you took a step back, ignoring the pain. “Maybe you should have figured that out before you decided I was only good for convenience and in private.”

The smirk fell off her face.

“That’s not-”

“Save it, Nika.” The words hurt in your throat. And seeing the hurt on your face nearly killed you. But you were doing this for yourself. Too long you had yourself as a last thought. “You don’t get to be mad. You don’t get to act like I did something wrong when all I ever did was want you.”

Something behind her eyes snapped, and her right hand went up to grasp at her shirt. “You - You think I don’t want you?” Nika’s voice broke slightly as she demanded an answer “You think I don’t feel this?”

You stared at her. “Then say it. Tell me what you feel.”

She hesitated. Of Course, she did.

Because that’s what she always did. That’s what she’s good at. Dancing around the truth, playing games, got close but never too close or close enough. She was a coward. And you were so fucking tired of it.

"Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

You turned on your heel, ready to walk away. For real this time. But then -

“I just need a little lovin’,” she said, with a voice so quiet that you nearly missed it. 

You froze.

“I just need a little air,” Nika’s beautiful eyes were glued to the ground, hands fidgeting with each other when you turned back around. She looked wrecked. 

Something in you twisted painfully. Because god you understood.

You understood what it was like to want something that scared you. To be so afraid of losing it, that you ruined it yourself before anyone else even had the chance to do it.

But that didn’t change the fact that she had hurt you. And she knew that it hurt you. She made you believe that she didn’t care all this time when in reality she did.

“I cry,” the admittance made her scoff at herself, but seeing you smile, made it feel a little better. “It’s not fair.”

“No,” you agreed, the cold night wind carrying it over to the brunette, “It’s not.”

The silence felt suffocating between both of you, the tears in your eyes were begging to be set free. But then - 

“It’s a sexually explicit kind of love affair,” she said like she was confessing something like she was finally laying herself bare.

This was her way of saying It was never just about sex. It was never just a fling. It was always more than that.

The noise you made was somewhat between a laugh and a sob “Yeah,” you whispered. “It is.”

When you wake up next to him in the middle of the night With your head in your hands, you're nothing more than his wife

The sheets felt wrong. Too crisp, and not familiar. The room was bathed in soft moonlight, casting shadows on the wall. But it was all strange, hazy, like a blur. Like she was watching it, instead of actually experiencing it. 

Nika turned over in her bed, expecting to find it empty, but the weight beside her made her stomach sink. His breathing was steady and peaceful. It was like he belonged here, the room was colorless, without character, which fit to him. But she didn’t belong here. This wasn’t right.

The Croatian squeezed her eyes shut, pressing her hands against her temples. This wasn’t real. It couldn’t be. 

When she was lowering her hands, the wedding band on her finger caught her eye, the moonlight reflecting off of it.

No. No, no, no. 

Suddenly she felt as if she was suffocating, the breath getting stuck in her lungs. The air in the room was thick, pressing down on her chest. She didn’t know who was beside her, didn’t know his name, and she couldn’t remember how she got there. She couldn’t feel anything besides the aching hole inside her. The one that has been there before.

The one that has always belonged to you.

She stumbled out of the bed, feet hitting the cold hardwood floor. Nika could feel her heartbeat in her ears. The reflection in the mirror was a stranger - with tired, empty, and lifeless eyes. 

And when you think about me all of those years ago You're standing face to face with "I told you so"

And then she saw you. Standing in the doorway like you had always been there, always waiting. 

She couldn’t read your face, but your eyes - god your eyes - held everything. The frustration, the hurt, the longing, the knowing.

She had fucked this up.

You tilted your head, arms crossed over your chest, lips parting just a tiny bit like you were about to say something. But Nika already knew what you were going to say.

“I told you so.”

It wasn’t smug, you weren’t trying to hurt her more. It was just the truth. A truth that crushed her.

Her throat tightened again like she was drowning. It came so suddenly it felt as if she let go of something that wasn’t just important, but vital - necessary.

The brunette wanted to reach for you, take you in her arms, and tell you that she was sorry. That she never stopped thinking about you. But before she could move, say something, you were gone. And you took all the warmth and light with you.

You were gone.

And she woke up.

You know I hate to say, I told you so

Nika jolted upright. Her chest heaving as if her air was cut off in real life and not just her dream. Sweat clung to her skin and her heart was racing, and she wasn’t sure if it was from the dream or the realization that came with it.

Shaky hands ran through her hair, blinking at the darkness, but familiarity of her room as she was trying to calm herself down. But it wasn’t working. Because she knew.

This wasn’t just a dream, this was a fucking warning.

If she didn’t do something, that’s how she would end up. Incredibly unhappy, a wife to some dude. Without you. If she didn’t stop running or hiding and she stopped being a coward, this would be her future. 

And she would lose you for good.

She wasn’t going to let that happen.

Not now. Not ever.

Nika threw the covers off and grabbed her phone.

It was time to fight for you.

You'd have to stop the world just to stop the feeling.

“Can you meet me?”

It was nearly 3 am when you got the text. Of Course, you were still awake. After coming home and explaining what had happened to Daisy, the two of you decided to watch some movies. 

The answer was easy, “Yes.”

“I’m outside.”

The next minutes were a blur as you grabbed your keys, got some shoes, and put on a jacket. Why were you so nervous? This was only Nika.

Walking down the flights of stairs to get to the front door of your student housing felt endless. Outside you could see her. Standing on the sidewalk, hands gripping the strap of her bag, shifting on her feet - you feel it before you even reach her. That pull. That undeniable force.

After seeing you, her face lights up. But you could still see the dark circles under her puffy eyes. 

At first, neither of you speak. Just standing across from each other, reveling in the comfort the others' presence brought. Then with a deep breath, Nika took an uncertain step forward before finally pulling you into a hug, resting her head on yours, while you buried your face in her neck.

“You’d have to stop the world just to stop this feeling,” she whispers against your hair.

And right then, you know - you never want it to stop.

You held her tighter as the world outside kept moving. Every now and then cars zoomed by or people walked past you. But for you and Nika time slowed down. 

She pulled back just enough to be able to look at you, one of her hands cupping your cheek so gently, that she must have thought you would break. There’s something unreadable in her expression. Something raw.

“I was scared,” she admitted. “That if I said this out loud, it would disappear. You would disappear.”

Your fingers brush a strand of her behind her ear “It’s real,” you say softly. “It’s been real the whole time.”

She exhaled shakily, but the hand that was holding onto your jacket didn’t let go. Instead - she smiles. A small one, but it was there, and it was as if a boulder was lifted off of your chest. 

“I don’t want to run from this anymore,” she murmured before pressing a kiss on your forehead. You could feel the heat shoot up to your face, knowing she could feel it too, one hand still cupping your face.

“Then don’t.”

A beat. Then she laughed, and it’s the kind of laugh that melts through every doubt you have ever had. “Okay.”

You had to laugh too, and before you could think, before fear or hesitation could creep in, you cupped her face right back and pressed your forehead to hers. The warmth of her skin, the way she sighed like she was finally home - was enough to make your heart ache in the best way.

“This is crazy,” she whispered, but she was smiling.

You grinned. “Maybe. But I don’t care.”

And then, finally, she kissed you.

It wasn’t rushed or uncertain. It was slow, filled with every unspoken word, every moment that led you here. 

It was a promise, a beginning.

[sacr1ficialang3l]

Can you read my mind? (I've been watching you.) 𓆩♡𓆪

DEAN WINCHESTER X CUPID!READER

SUMMARY: Dean and Sam get a little unexpected help with a weird case. 2.3k

WARNINGS: none. first meeting. fem!reader. dean being wary of the supernatural but weak to a pretty face.

NOTES: VERY late valentine's post. I was struck with inspiration at 2 in the morning. Idk if Valentines are a thing or if i made them up but whatever. This is my first time writing for supernatural and my first time writing a fanfic in years pls be nice. Enjoy<3

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” You sigh as you materialize behind the brothers, making them almost jump out of their skin. “Love all over the place.”

You ignore their flabbergasted expressions as you look around the crowded plaza. It was Valentine’s day, and the whole place was decorated with pink and red hearts, the white streamers hanging from the trees moving with the breeze as couples and groups of friends walked around.

“Who are you?” You ignore the shorter one’s question as your gaze focuses on two kids sitting on a bench.

You could feel how much they liked each other, but they sat facing opposite ways, hands on laps and eyes stuck to the ground. You sigh and swiftly move your manicured hand towards them, pink nails shining under the sunlight. You can feel the brothers’ wary eyes on you, but you simply watch as the boy on the bench suddenly gets a notification on his phone.

“I just won two tickets for the My Chem show tonight.” He announces to the girl, voice incredulous. As they both start celebrating, the boy shyly looks up and invites her to go with him. She says yes, and after a few giggles and babbled words, they get up from the bench and leave.

You can’t help the little squeak that comes out of your mouth, your pastel pink wavy hair bouncing as you give a little jump. You immediately turn to the Winchester brothers, covering your mouth with your hand

“Sorry. You would think that after so many years on the job I would get used to it.” You sigh, twirling a lock of your hair with your fingers. “But sometimes it still manages to make me all giddy.”

You turn around just to find a gun being pointed towards you, barrel pressed to your stomach as green eyes bore holes into your head. Who you assumed was Dean Winchester was glaring at you, scowling, while his brother tried to block civilians from noticing the firearm in his hand.

Who would’ve thought green could be so beautiful.

You chuckle, not intimidated at all, which only made the brothers look even more confused.

“What the fuck are you?” Dean asks, the gun digging a little deeper into your skin.

“Are you Cupid?” This time it is Sam, his eyes studying your tiny pink dress, pink hair, and pink boots. But more importantly, the little bow and arrow that hung from your back.

You give the tall guy a cheeky smile.

“You must be Sam, hm? I’ve heard you’re the smart one.” You look back at Dean, delicate hand wrapping around the gun that was still being pressed against you. “Why don’t we put this away before you hurt someone.” You keep your eyes on him as you lower the gun. He lets you, a lost look on his face as to why he is letting you.

You take a step back and smile again, all rosy cheeks and fluttering eyelashes. “To answer your question, I guess you can call me a cupid, but I’m not the Cupid.”

“Yeah, I can see that.” Dean’s eyes roam up and down your body.

“We’ve met Cupid before.” Comes Sam’s explanation. “So, you work for him? Are you an angel?”

You hum softly, pouty lips pursing. “I don’t work for the Cupid you met, the angel. But you humans also call my boss that.” The brothers’ expressions stay equally clueless. “I work for Eros, the-”

“Greek god of love.” You send Sam a sweet smile for his right answer.

“And desire, yes!”

“So you’re a Goddess.” Dean affirms more than asks, and when you turn back to face him you are struck with his beauty once again. Both brothers were drop-dead gorgeous, but something about the sharpness in the older one’s features made you want to ask if he was in any way related to Lady Aphrodite.

“Oh, no. Gods no.” You shake your head, making the multiple silver jewelry in your ears clink. “We work for Eros. Think about us like a version of Artemis’ hunters.”

“Yeah, because that gives me so much clarity.” Dean’s voice was breathtakingly deep, it reminded you of being in Lord Ares’ presence. (Happened once, never again.)

“Gods are incredibly powerful, but they often need help from mortals to do certain deeds. Artemis’ hunters, Hecate’s priests and priestess, so on and so forth.” You explain quickly. Sam seemed to understand you perfectly, Dean still looked a bit like he wanted to shoot you. “We don’t have an official name like that, but you can call us Valentines.”

“So you, what? Go around making people fall in love?” He asks with skepticism. You sigh. Everyone always had the same wrong idea.

“We don’t make people fall in love, we simply… present them with opportunities.” You chuckle and turn to look around the plaza, teeth biting down on your lower lip as you try to look for an example. You find a blond guy who was messing around with his friends near an ice cream shop. Right behind him, a girl in roller skates was moving his way.

“See those two?” I ask the brothers, pointing towards the pair. “If I didn’t intervene, they would never cross paths. But their auras, they are compatible, and they’re both lonely.” You squint, concentrating. Aura reading wasn’t as easy as fake witches made it seem. “But if I just…” Once again, you move your hand delicately towards them.

Suddenly, Blond Boy's friend's milkshake falls to the ground. It causes Blond Boy to take several steps back, getting right in Roller Skates Girl’s way. She immediately tries to stop, but it makes her lose her balance. Blond Boy’s hands are instantly on her waist, preventing her from falling on her back. They look at each other, eyes lingering, and your job is done.

You turn to the Winchesters with a satisfied smile, your flowy skirt dancing around you as you twirl, and they just stare back at you with wide eyes.

“I can’t tell how I feel about it.” Declares Sam, making you snicker.

“If it makes you feel better, I can assure you I can only influence circumstances.” You sigh, looking back at the two lovebirds. They’re already exchanging numbers. “Whatever happens from here on out is in their hands.”

That seems to do the trick, at least for the younger brother. Dean still looked like he was going to reach for his gun anytime soon. You sigh again.

“Look, I am not here to cause trouble.” You raise your hands in surrender, bracelets sliding down your wrists. “I came to talk.”

“Why would you want to talk to us?” You start to walk down the plaza, a little skip to your step. You stop right on the edge of the plaza where you could look down at the sea, waves hitting against the asphalt in a calming manner. Both brothers share a confused look before following you.

“You two are here for a hunt, right?” You ask walking down the edge of the shoreline, go-go boots click-clacking against the cobblestone. “The deaths that have been happening? People killing people they love?”

“What do you know about it?” You turn around at Dean’s accusatory tone. His gun was back in his hand, and it makes you roll your eyes. His eyebrows raise in surprise.

Looks like there was an edge in between all that sugar-covered whimsy after all.

“You know, everyone says you are distrustful, but damn.” You tsk. Why was it always the cute ones that had the biggest attitude problems? “I wasn’t going to intervene, but when I found out that the Winchesters were in my zone, I had to do something. You two are kind of famous for wiping out any supernatural beings you come in contact with.” You continue to walk down the shoreline. When you get to a light pole, you twirl around it until you’re facing the brothers again. “Any other day, I would’ve just hidden until you finished your job, but it is Valentine’s. The boss likes us to be extra active today.”

It looked like Dean wants to retort, but Sam interrupts him. “What do you know about the case?”

Your smile fades a little, and you let go of the light pole, your shiny eyes dropping to the floor.

“You’re looking for an Anti-Valentine, or that’s what we call them.” Your cheeks blush with shame. “They’re like us, Eros’ followers, but they…”

“Turn evil?” Dean guesses sarcastically, and you nod.

“Why would they want people to kill who they love?” Asks Sam, crossing his arms. “I mean, you look like you love love.”

That makes you giggle. “It is… hard. To do this job.” You lean back into the light pole, looking out at the sea. “There’s only so many times you can make two people who are perfect for each other meet, only for them to cheat or hurt each other before you start to have doubts.” You bite your lip, doe eyes glossing with sadness.

“And that makes them turn evil?”

“Well, most Valentines have had doubts at some point in our lives. But Anti-Valentines, they start to think humans don’t deserve love. They start getting angry and hateful, and it starts to poison them.” You swallow harshly, looking down at the floor before your eyes meet Dean’s green one, and the heavy weight on your chest turns a little lighter. Huh. “Valentines can’t manipulate mortal’s emotions, but Anti-Valentines… They've learned how to blind humans with anger. I think you humans may call it a rage blackout or something.”

The brothers seem to be processing your words. Dean studies you slowly while Sam looks like he’s racking his brain for any information on Valentines. If you hadn’t been so sad, you would totally be flirting with Dean right now. Yes, Eros was the God of love, but everyone seemed to forget he was also the God of desire. You could be a hell of a vixen when you were in the mood.

“So, how do we kill it?” Asks Dean, always ready to fight. It was hot.

“That’s the problem.” You sigh for what felt like the millionth time in the last hour, twirling around the light pole once again, cheeky smile returning to your face. “If I tell you how to kill them, I tell you how to kill me.”

Dean’s eyebrow raises, but his mouth twitches into a half-smirk. He looks you up and down one more time before his tongue runs over his lower lip, earning an incredulous huff from Sam.

“So, what’s the deal?”

“I’ll tell you how to find the Anti-Valentine and how to kill it, and you promise not to come for me after.”

“You got yourself a deal, sweetheart.”

𓆩♡𓆪

Dean was soaked in black blood when you appeared in front of him again.

Sam and he had just finally killed the Anti-Valentine, after being thrown against walls and dodging heart-pointed arrows for what felt like hours. Looks like those little bows aren't only for the aesthetic.

So while Sam and Dean looked a little worse for wear as they tried to catch their breath, there you were, in the middle of a filthy warehouse looking like a literal goddess. Pastel pink hair perfectly styled, shiny lips and shiny eyeshadow, your pink boots not getting dirty at all even as you walked through the dirt on the ground. The worst part was how you were pink everywhere. He wasn’t talking about only your clothes and hair. Your cheeks, your knees, your elbows. The palm of your hands and your pouty lips. Made him wonder, just how many other places were pink too.

“Nice to see you two are as good as they say.” You walk close to where the brothers are leaning against a wall. They were covered in blood and grim, slight cuts all over from when they weren’t quick enough while avoiding the Anti-Valentine’s arrows.

You stand right in front of Dean, and there is a halo of light around you. You were literally glowing. You were just so glad the Anti-Valentine had been taken care of. You would’ve done something about it before the Winchesters got into town, but Valentines couldn’t attack other Valentines, even if they were evil.

“Happy to meet your expectations, sweetheart.” Dean grunts, hand pressing to his side where there was a long gash.

You extend your hand towards him with a grin, palm up and ring-clad fingers waving. “My blade, please and thank you.”

You had given the brothers your celestial bronze dagger to use against the Anti-Valentine with the promise that they would give it back.

“What if we ever need to kill another one of these, hm?” It is impressive how Dean managed to look so hot when he was slowly bleeding out from his side. “Or another Greek creature.”

You smirk, and with a little jump you land in front of him. You lean in, biting your full lower lip and blinking up at Dean, long eyelashes fluttering. “Then I guess you’ll have to give me a call, sweetheart.”

You softly press a hand to Dean’s chest, making his breath hitch. You subtly wrap your hand around your dagger in his jacket’s pocket. When his eyes drop down to your lips, you press your hand harder against his torso. Gods, he was firm.

In less than a second, all injuries in Dean’s body were cured. Even the gash on his side. He looks up at you in surprise, and you swiftly take a step back, dagger in hand. You let out a dreamy giggle, taking a step towards Sam and pressing a finger to the tip of his nose, making a little “boop” sound and curing him instantly too.

You take another little jump back, facing both brothers as you brush your hair behind your shoulder and dangle the dagger between your slender fingers. With one last giggle, you wink at Dean.

“See you later, boys.”

You disappear in a cloud of pastel pink smoke, leaving behind a smell of caramel and red velvet cake.

And you knew you were gonna see them again. After all, you had a soft spot for pretty things.

[gallavichsreddie1128]

A Deal (Sam Wilson)

Description: Y/N has info Sam wants and there’s only one way to get it.

Warning: Smut, SPOILERS FOR BNW

Word Count: 1,191

Author’s Note: Spoilers for BNW

She sat across from him, cuffed up with a smirk. “The Captain America, how exciting.” She said in a seductive tone. Sam’s eyebrows raised a little at that, “They think you had something to do with the terrorist attack on the president?” He asked her. She slowly slid her foot up his leg watching him stiffen, “I don’t know Sam, Do you think I had something to do with it?” She asked with a smile. A smile that told him she loved to play games.

He stared at her, studying her movements and the way she bit her lip. Did she really have something to do with it? He leaned forward and watched her do the same. “I know that Bradley is innocent.” He said and she smiled. “That is correct.” She winked and his face fell. She sat back and watched how conflicted he looked. She knew things, things that could help him out but he could tell that she wasn’t going to give up information that easily. “What do you want?” He asked her, hoping that they could make a deal. She leaned forward again, “What makes you think I want something?” He rolled his eyes, annoyed with the questions.

“You have information that I want, so what do you want?” He wasn’t oblivious to the fact that she was eye fucking him and that her body language was screaming at him. She gave him a look and he didn’t even have to guess. “Is that what you want?” He asked, his voice dropping a little bit. “We couldn’t do it anyways, there’s cameras.” She pointed out and while that was true, she was forgetting that he was Captain America. “It couldn’t get out.” She rolled her eyes, if she wasn’t telling him anything with a deal what makes him think she would go tell the world she fucked him.

“You really think I’m going to run my mouth about this?” She made his comment sound ridiculous but he didn’t even really know her. “You have your ways, let's just make it happen.” She says, wanting out of these cuffs. 

How he got the cameras off was a mystery to her but he reassured her that nobody could hear or see them. He kept her cuff in case she tried to get away,not that he couldn’t stop her. He hated to admit it but she was very hot and had a nice body. Stripped down to a tank top and panties as she stood waiting for him. “Remember you give me everything you know.” He said as he pulled down his pants. Her eyes widened as she saw his hard cock straining against his boxers.

He pulled off his shirt, showing her his ripped body that she could have guessed he had. “What exactly do you want?” He asked and she walked forward until she was inches away from him. He looked down at her as she stared up at him with dark eyes, full of lust. She sank to her knees and eyed his huge cock before looking up at him. He smirked and pulled his boxers down letting it free. “You’ll have to help.” She said and licked her lips. She opened her mouth and waited for him to guide his cock in it. He tried to hide the gasp as her lips wrapped around him, so warm and wet.

He couldn’t remember the last time he got a blowjob but he certainly didn’t think it would be like this. She kept eye contact with him as she bobbed her head, taking him in her mouth more. He bit his lip and tried not to make any sounds but that was impossible. She was really good at this. She had him nearly done her throat as she sucked on him. He let out a moan and gripped her hair, “Fuck.” He whispered and she hummed against him. The vibrations made him shiver and he stared down at her in awe. Was this really happening? She closed her eyes and enjoyed the taste of him. He closed his eyes, no longer able to keep them open as he felt himself about to cum.

He was twitching in her mouth and she managed to go faster wanting him to finish. His noises became desperate and he gripped her hair more. “I’m gonna cum…fuck.” He whined as he came down her throat. She hummed against him, liking the taste. He watched as she pulled away and licked her lips, humming at the taste. “You taste good.” She winked. He caught his breath as she stood back up. “Hands and knees.” He told her and motioned to the table. She walked over and did as she was told. She climbed on the table and stayed on her hands and knees.

He got behind her and noticed the wet spot on her panties. She leaked through them during the blowjob. He pulled them down, making her gasp. The cool air hit her soaked pussy, almost making her moan. Her ass was perfect and he rubbed her cheeks with his hands. She whimpered a little at how needy she was and he didn’t waste any time in rubbing his hard again dick against her hole. “You're very wet. All because of my dick?” He asked as he gathered her slick and started to push in her. She gasped as he pushed in her, not needing to be gentle. She couldn’t answer his question, she was at a lost for words as he began fucking her.

Her noises were immediately loud and he was thankful for the room being soundproof. Her gripped her hips pulling her back into him as he thrusted. “Fuck Sam.” She whined and gasped as he picked up the pace. If he had taken the serum he could have hurt her by how fast he was going. Her head fell forward, wanting nothing more than to rest on the table. He groaned, feeling her clench around him. She was close and by the sounds she was making, it wasn’t a secret. “S-Sam fuck.” She whined and he chuckled, “Are you gonna cum for me?” He asked and she nodded. “Cum for me.” He groaned and she gave in.

Her screams and cries would have been heard through the place if it wasn’t for the room being soundproof. He moaned feeling her juices all over him as he thrusted in a different rhythm to let her ride out her climax. She whined at the over sensitivity but gasped when she felt him cum inside of her. His eyes closed, enjoying the orgasm and the feeling of her warm pussy. He pulled out of her and she nearly slumped forward. Both of them were breathing hard and sweating. The room smelt of sex and was very hot.

Once she got enough strength to turn around, she pulled him in for a kiss. He kissed her back still in a daze and let her wrap her arms around his neck. The kiss went on until she broke it and licked his ear. Her breath was all he could hear, “I’m working for Sterns.”

[tabiito]

INEVITABILITY — OLIVER AIKU note: no warnings other than underage alcohol consumption n brief harassment, they are idiots in love and KNOW IT but just don't do anything. i needed to get this man OUT OF MY BRAIN so i can study don't @ me for getting the physics stuff wrong i've been rewatching big bang theory. can be read as a precursor to his part in dtmf

You weren't supposed to meet Oliver Aiku at seventeen.

You weren't supposed to meet him ever, really.

It was a hot summer night of your junior year, and you'd just been strong-armed into sneaking off to a seedy club with the friend whose house you'd been sleeping over at. Not only were you woefully underage, you were sure you'd alerted her dog as you scaled the gate and nearly broken the heel of the boots she'd lent you on landing.

It had been an out-of-character day for you, in retrospect. Firstly, you'd agreed to the sleepover, which you usually wouldn't, given your schoolwork, and secondly, you'd let her bitching and moaning about how you "never did anything fun and memorable" get to your head.

So there you were, three hours, two thousand yen notes slipped to the bouncer, four turned down drinks later, crawling your way to the door as she'd abandoned you in favour of a much older, sleazy looking man. (Someone had to accept the drinks, she'd argued. Otherwise it looked rude.)

Truth be told, you were shitting bricks. Unfortunately, people couldn't tell your polite taps on the shoulder apart from the more intimate contact that occurs on the dance floor, or hear your soft "excuse me's", that were instantly drowned out by the bass. So the crowd didn't move an inch, and you were attempting your best worm impression as you tried to squeeze through the sea of bodies you'd read horror stories about — in this swarm, newspapers posited there were hungry loan sharks, ready to corner desperate drunks, over-enthusiastic salarymen preying on their next one night stand and gang members scanning the vicinity for vulnerable youngsters.

You were slowly, but surely, getting to the door, and miraculously not falling over and flipping up the miniskirt (once again, lent to you) that you'd been pulling down all evening. The bouncer looked akin to an angel, and the door, the gates of Heaven as you finally made off the dance floor.

Alas, making it to Heaven wasn't in your fate. A large body blocked your view, filling up your eyeliner with a rumpled suit and breath that reeked of the cheap whiskey that they'd been serving at the bar. He slurred his words, grabbing your wrist, mumbling something or the other about one dance. Your brain was screaming at you to move, but the bead of sweat that rolled down your forehead was the only motion your body could produce as you remained glued to the floor.

His hold on your hand tightened, more insistent, as your throat ran dry, unable to comprehend what to do in this scenario. You couldn't take him in a fight, nor did you think anyone would hear you crying for help over the stupid EDM blasting.

You were sure you were toast. The next third-page column title in day after's newspaper, until you felt a warm hand snake around your waist, gently pulling you close to a body, breaking out of the other man's hold with ease.

"They're with me," a raspy baritone states firmly, and you look to your side to see a pair of mismatched eyes calmly surveying the fellow.

"Isn't that right?", he adds, and you can only manage a hasty nod as he squares his shoulders back, sizing up the drunk and giving him a once-over. Back then, though he'd hit six feet, and was in the process of filling out nicely, his hair were a swathe of well kept black and there wasn't the stubble he normally kept, so it took the salaryman a few more seconds than it would take him in the present day to decide to fuck off.

Unfortunately, Oliver's presence did less to alleviate your fears. In fact, you figured you were between a rock and a hard place, and chose to agree with him since he didn't have the foul smell liquor radiating off him. Perhaps you'd be able to reason with a sober person better.

He instantly let goes of you, and you get a better look at him, in his cheap white polyester suit (that he's still got tucked away in some part of his cupboard and you make fun of) and leopard-print shirt. Young Oliver did not have the well-honed partying panache that older Oliver had, and you were biting back a laugh at his Yakuza X Great Gatsby look. "Thank you," you'd managed to stutter, and he flashes you his trademarked charming smile that you still succumbed to, all those years later.

"You could be, by the way," he'd responded, and you'd looked at him quizzically. The line still keeps him up at night, as he cringes internally at the way his attempt at flirting never even had a chance with you.

"Be with me tonight. If you want," he'd pressed on, unabashedly giving you a once over in the outfit you later had nightmares about. The laugh you'd been holding escaped your lips, comfortably disarmed by his non-invasive, but persistent nature.

"Thank you, no," you replied, and he'd been taken aback then by the phrase you used. Of course, he later learnt that it was the more polite and apparently, correct way of declining an offer.

He'd shrugged in response, internally consoling himself with something along the lines of "missing all the shots he doesn't take." Normally, this would've been the end of his ministrations, but he doesn't miss the unsure way you eye the door, or how you eye the time.

"Let me call you a cab," he offers, and you smile appreciatively. In retrospect, you should not have trusted him, because you'd read up about cab-calling scammers too, but there was something idiotically, inherently trusting that Oliver made you feel, in his awfully put together outfit and voice that didn't quite match his face yet.

Braving the cold outside while waiting for a cab and draping his jacket that stank of overpoweringly inexpensive cologne made you throw him a bone and give him your number, veiling it with an excuse of possessing some means to reach him when you'd return his dry cleaned jacket back to him.

You were sure the jacket would never go back to him. It wasn't practically possible. You chalked up your encounter with him to a moment of good karma for you, and left it at that. You'd get his jacket to the cleaners and ask for his address, never actually going there, of course.

He was the kind of guy who felt perfectly at home in a club. You were a student who wouldn't leave the house if you had a choice. There was no way your paths would cross out of the 14,000,000 people who live in Tokyo.

Three years later, your number is his emergency contact.

You're sure it's his persistence that's kept your relationship alive. His first text didn't come until three days later, sending you some corny pick up line when he was going through a dry spell in flings. You promptly responded with a clear "No LOL", and that became your dynamic.

At first, he'd try his luck with you when he was bored, and strike out every time. Maybe that's what spurred him to keep texting you, and you were sure there was something deeply wrong with you that enabled you to keep texting him back, finding his repetitiveness endearing rather than annoying.

Fast forward a few months, you managed to piece together pictures of each other as you traded parts of your life in between banter.

Unlike your previous conception of him, he wasn't some club veteran who'd spend his days partying away. In fact, in that club, he was just as underage as you were, with his debauched lifestyle not suiting an aspiring professional footballer. Initially, you were sure he'd fail. He took great joy in proving you wrong.

His conception of you, though, was spot on. You were perpetually busy, a trend that's continued to the present, but he seemed mysteriously motivated to carve out a place for himself in your life, even if it wasn't in a romantic capacity. He chalks it up to pity, at first, assuming that your stressed homebody lifestyle needed a person to vent to, to be occasionally flattered and entertained.

Though he was right about needing someone who you could be a distraction, he's now sure it's not pity that's keeping him in your life.

His clarity is stolen from an article in a quantum theory magazine you'd raged on about in your first year of university.

In most occasions, when you'd go off on your theoretical tangents relating to your major, most of it would fly right over his head. That time, though, when you'd called him to help you move in (with "helping" mostly being you yammering away to glory and him hoisting your boxes up and down the stairs without complaint), he remembers what you said vividly, even going so far as to dispute you.

"The laws of physics are not inevitable," you'd snorted derisively, jabbing at the headline. "What a piece of nonsense," you'd added, brandishing the magazine in his face. He'd lazily skimmed through the article, ignoring most jargon-y parts and instead focused on the essence of it.

A domino needs a full turn to get back to the same place. A two of clubs needs only a half turn. And the hour hand on a clock must spin around twice before it tells the same time again.

Inevitability.

Oliver doesn't believe that he can be friends with his exes. Oliver has chased, and slept with (to put it crudely), every woman who's attempted to friendzone him, til he's no longer interested in them. He's, ironically, a dwarf compared to you in the real world, not coming anywhere close to your intellect, occasional neuroticism or humour. You've blossomed beautifully from seventeen into your twenties, no longer needing him to distract you from the stresses of academia. You have a full, stable life, complete with a doctorate and other honorary credentials that he's sure most people in their mid-twenties aren't supposed to have.

Oliver, on the other hand, is crashing and burning his way through life. You like to call him a controlled flame off the pitch, and have regularly tried to diagnose him with something on your late night FaceTimes since he exhibits both hedonism and self-sacrificing behaviour, but more often than not you have to settle for the fact that he's a scientific anomaly and call it plain idiocy.

Inevitability's made your relationship come full circle. From you ranting about college applications and dead-end research work to him, he now crawls back to you with his frustrations about Japanese football, his constantly busy schedule, each and every failed fling and situationship with that same telling grin on his face.

He's now convinced inevitability is what's keeping him in your life. You have no need for him, and he can just book a therapist with the stupid amounts of money he's earning, but Oliver can read your face as plain as day when he's rambling on about Suki or Mara, tinged with longing. He's caught his expression in the mirror far too many times when you slap on under-eye patches on him in your small bathroom to recognise it as lovesickness staring back at him to not understand that the two of you are dancing around an unspoken pact, one where his heart is already spoken for every time he steps foot into the clubs you pick him up drunk from.

It's not like he hasn't tried to speed up the process, but with you it's an immovable object vs. an unstoppable force sort of situation. Every time his lips have almost caught yours, every time you've contemplated taking him up on the offer of sleeping on his bed rather than letting him take the couch, it just feels like the wrong time with the right person.

It's unhealthy, and he knows it. You go on dates with boring, serious men that make you feel much older than you actually are, and he chases after the thrill of youth, found in cramped bathroom stalls, gambling dens and back-alleys.

Despite this, it's baffling to you how much of a contradiction he is. In all other situations, you can only attribute this self-destructing behaviour to people with no clear purpose in life, forced to engage in this lifestyle. What do you say to someone who's captaining a Serie A team?

It's one of those nights again in the offseason, where he'd already shot off a message to you that he's going to sleep over, and you'd already prepared his spot on the couch along with ordering hotpot for his hangover the next morning.

"You're so fucking stupid," you sigh, handing him a icepack for where he'd tripped on your stairs in a slightly tipsy stupor. He only cheeses lazily in response, the small bruise on his cheek lifting, as if to tease you by saying: and yet, you indulge in my stupidity.

He takes his seat on the couch as you prop up your legs in his lap. His hands ghost over your ankle, calloused and large, but just as warm as the first time they settled on your waist.

"What time's your flight tomorrow?", you ask, pulling out your phone so you can request the academic coordinator to post a message rescheduling your classes so you can drive him.

"Ten thirty. You don't need to, ah, drive," he says, wincing at the way you reach over and press the pack harder into his cheek. You respond by making a sour face, and he recognises the futility of his words: you never need to drive, and yet you do anyways.

"Are you still going to stop in Milan sometime?", he asks, tipping his head back over the edge of the worn sofa. He needs a haircut, you note.

"If I get a decent connection while on the way to Geneva, yeah," you mumble. The question's so infuriating that you've gotten used to it. You've followed him everywhere: Rome, Milan, and, if transfermarkt.co.in has it right, maybe even Spain soon. It's a given by now — if you were on your way to a conference or visiting faculty, you'd make a stop for a week wherever he was, no matter what the time of season. It's the same way he's considering no longer paying the rent for his Tokyo apartment since his toothbrush and bathrobe are perpetually parked in your toilet.

He clicks his tongue in irritation.

"C'mon, don't make it a connection. Just fly in and let me worry about how you get to Switzerland."

"I'm going to CERN, not a holiday," you grouse, and he waves you off.

"Yeah, yeah, whatever. Spend some time in the Sun before the Swiss suck your brain juice for what it's worth," he says dismissively. "The guys have been asking about you," he tacks on, and you roll your eyes.

"Ah yes, a team of professional footballers is interested in my measly string theory research," you intone, and Oliver cracks an eye open at you.

"Hey, don't say that. When I told Sendou you might be nominated for a Nobel on your deathbed he seemed very interested," he speaks, and you make a gagging sort of noise.

"Really? I should go from someone who got a fields medal to Sendou?", you say exasperatedly. Oliver shrugs.

"Hey, at least he'll pay for your meal instead of calculating up to the fourth decimal for how much you should split," he counters. "I've taught him well."

"Oh, so that means he'll ghost me a day later, too?", you laugh, and Oliver grins sheepishly. He's pulled you closer by your calves, you realise, since you can't feel the softness of your souvenir Ubers cushion behind you that he got for you and you keep as a tacky joke.

"Only a fool would ghost you," he says, and you mentally add this to the Wikipedia page of "things-Oliver-Aiku-has-said-sound-romantic but-because-he's-Oliver-are-actually-not"

"I guess I'm living in a noodledom then," you say matter-of-factly, and Oliver adds the word to his list of "things-you-say-that-he-has-no-idea-about-but-religiously-Googles-later-to-sound-smart-in-conversation."

"Ahh, my mother's going to send me one of her "why are you single voicemails again", you groan, flopping flat on your back onto the leather.

He chuckles. "At least you're not getting child support threats every two days."

"That's a choice you make. I'm single involuntarily," you snicker, sitting back up and noticing the way your shoulders bump given the proximity.

"Do you think we'll still be like this?", he asks, setting the icepack onto the table in front of him. "Bitching and moaning our way into our middle age?", he asks, and you make a face. Your answer, though, surprises him.

"God, I hope so. There's no way I'm staying sane if I can't complain to you about all the marriages that are coming up."

"Ha. You're assuming you're not going to drag me there with you as your plus one."

"You wound me. I never assume. I already know that's a fact," you say, dramatically laying a hand on your chest and resting your head against his shoulder. He scoots just a bit closer, and you can smell the vodka on him ever so slightly. Thankfully, he's opted for a less nasally invasive cologne.

"You're saying it's inevitable?", he questions, and you hum, nodding.

"It's just a matter of time, my dear sir," you answer, and you nestle imperceptibly closer to him. As sleep washes over you, Oliver doesn't move an inch, even though he's up for the next two hours, plagued by his own mind.

Oliver knows that on the basis of inevitability, it's just a matter of time when everything falls into place, til it becomes the right time with the right person.

You drop him off to the airport and hug him a little tighter than the last time when you say bye. He picks you up three months later and doesn't miss the way you began playing to the music he recommended. You pretend to be cordial with the Instagram model he goes out to dinner with and gets back home. He pretends to be happy for you when you show him the not-so-friendly sweet messages your coworker's sending you. You don't know how he breaks up with the girl the day after he makes his little road trip by dropping you to Geneva. He doesn't know that you say "I have a boyfriend", when you're asked out on a date by the same colleague.

You don't believe the laws of physics being inevitable, but you also didn't believe that you could know someone who's both selfless and selfish at the same time. Oliver's a contradiction, and you're scared. Time, though, is one of the few physical forces that's on his side, from seventeen to twenty three. So he doesn't mind wiling it away, and neither do you, even if it means twisting the knives in your heart just a little deeper.

You'll come around someday. And he'll be waiting.

[biribarabiribbaem]

The "add something, If you'd like" stared at me for like 5 minutes while I tried to find the right words to comment this. You are absolutely amazing my Effie, like abso -  fucking - lutely amazing at this, you could write a book and I's be your first customer lining up for an autograph, just like they do in the movies.

This chapter was full of everything as always but the one recurring thing I felt was Minho finally accepting that people love him even if he was a bit rough and that love can actually erode your edges and he loves, he just need to vocalize it but we'll wait Minho, don't worry.

I'm glad we've all forgiven Sara, because at the end she's just a girl fighting for her life and being a girl in a man’s world it’s not easy.

And Minho finally smoothing his edges around the other boys (still kinda hate them tho) and being their manager chef !!! FIGHTING BOYS!!!!

and the posso farcela coming back :( yeah Minho, you can do it!!! You all. can do it.

Chris, we love you. Like really love you but we girls are stubborn and sometimes we follow something more daring but we love you. We really do. 

I am rambling about all and nothing because I am speechless about this chapter and it’s because the whole series started with a solid gold smut scene and then we had just a glimpse of it, the right amount of it - it was the whole story that was fantastic and kept all of us here.

I cheered at every smile they shared, at every little kisses, even the fights were engaging, If I had to talk in culinary terms the plot was a good serve of tender meat, medium rare, with salt grain on top of it and the smut was a side dish of grilled veggies and soft potatoes: everything is balanced there’s not too much of everything, this is definitely some of your works that I’m gonna read again and again just like I do with The Crowd series. 

I am in awe at everything you write my amore, I am so so grateful you are sharing this with us - with me. Never stop doing this because I will always be here supporting everything you'll write. <3

TASTE.

CHAPTER VII: DELECTABLE.

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. (17,5k words)

Author's note: Consider this as my Valentine's gift for you, cuties. I truly hope you enjoy this chapter and don't forget to share your thoughts on it ♡

Delectable. /dɪˈlek.tə.bəl/ (adj) looking or tasting extremely good, and giving great pleasure.

This is uncharted territory for Minho. Meeting your father feels like being handed a complex recipe without any instructions. In cooking, he can always rely on techniques, measurements, and experience. But here? There’s no guide on how to impress your dad. No step-by-step process to follow. Just instincts—and his instincts are telling him he’s in trouble.

Awkwardly, he leads the way through the restaurant, glancing back every few steps to make sure your dad is keeping up. He catches sight of you behind him, trailing anxiously, your hands clasped together like you’re holding yourself together.

Once they reach the kitchen, Minho turns to your dad and says politely, “If you take a seat in the hall, I’ll prepare a dish for you right away, sir.”

But your dad doesn’t sit. Instead, he fixes his gaze on Minho and says, “I didn’t come here to eat your food.” Then, he turns to you. “You make it.”

Minho sees the way your body stiffens. The sheer panic that paints your face as you stammer, “Why don’t you try something the chef makes? You don’t always get the chance.”

Minho steps in, offering himself up immediately. “What would you like, sir?”

But your dad waves him off. “No, I want her to bring me the dish she’s been working on lately.”

Minho hears you gasp, a mix of surprise and dread. But you obey without argument, walking to your station and preparing the grilled scallops you’ve been refining. He watches intently as you cook, noting the way your hands shake slightly. When you make a mistake, he silently winces but holds himself back from correcting you.

Next to him, your dad speaks. “I had to come and see for myself,” he says, his voice firm. “She’s never talked about a man she’s liked before.” He glances at Minho. “I hope you don’t mind.”

Minho shakes his head. “No, I don’t mind, sir.”

Your dad hums. “I liked the other guy I sent home earlier.”

Minho stiffens. Chris. Of course that annoying guy makes a better impression on your dad than him. But before Minho can respond, your dad adds, “Not that it matters. She never listens to me anyway.”

Minho almost smiles at that, but then he sees you approaching with your dish, setting it on the chef’s table. “Try this, dad,” you say, your voice carefully controlled.

Your dad doesn’t reach for it. Instead, he asks, “Why are you giving this to me?”

You blink in confusion. “What do you mean?”

Your dad’s expression remains unreadable. “Don’t you need your chef’s permission for your dish to go out to the hall?”

Silence stretches between you.

“Why do you think I’m eating your food instead of his?” your dad continues. “It’s not because I prefer yours.”

Minho understands then. Why scoldings and harsh words don’t seem to shake you. You’re used to it.

Your dad turns to Minho. “Go on. Taste it.”

Minho nods, picks up a fork, and cuts into the scallop. He dips it in the purée and sauce before bringing it to his mouth. He knows he has to be truthful, no matter what.

“Do it again.”

You freeze, shell-shocked. But then, you snap into motion, nodding quickly. “Yes, Chef.”

You turn back to your station and start over. When you present the second plate, Minho glances at your dad, who gestures for him to try it again. He hates to say it, but it’s still not right. “Do it again.”

This time, Minho sees the disappointment flicker across your face before you drag yourself back to your station. The third time, it’s still not right. With a quiet sigh, he repeats himself. “Do it again.”

Your dad looks away and scoffs. “We’re going to be here all night.”

Minho doesn’t miss the resentment in your eyes. Still, you offer, “I’ll do it again, Chef.”

But your dad snaps. “Is this how you work all day long?”

You shake your head quickly, but then your dad suddenly picks up the rejected dish and sets it down so hard that the spoon clatters against the plate.

He turns to Minho. “You must be giving her a hard time.” His voice is sharp. “Look at her. Does she look like someone who’s in love to you?”

Minho doesn’t know how to answer that. He can’t even decide if he should give himan honest answer or should he sugarcoat it for you.

Your dad exhales, shaking his head. “As soon as I heard she liked you, I couldn’t concentrate on my work.”

Minho bows his head slightly as he mutters an apology. “I’m sorry, sir.”

Your voice comes next, trembling. “Dad, I’m fine. I'm ashamed already. Can you stop now?”

Your dad snaps back, “You think you’re the only one ashamed? I feel the same way too.”

Minho stays quiet, unsure of how to navigate this. Heck, he doesn't even know which side to choose. After a pause, he tries, “Sir, what if we asked to do it one more—”

Your dad cuts him off with a scoff, then turns on his heel and walks out.

Minho hurriedly turns to you. “Go after him. Go! Follow him out.”

But you don’t move. Instead, you glare at him. “Did you really have to do that?”

Minho blinks. “What?”

You grit your teeth. “It wasn’t like I was cooking for customers. That was the first time my dad came here to try my food.” Your voice wavers as your eyes falter. “Did you have to show him that I get rejected all the time?”

Minho’s chest tightens after realizing how upset you are. He lowers his voice and mutters an apology. “I'm sorry, mmh?”

But you keep going, holding back tears. “Just because I don’t say anything and hold it all in doesn’t mean I don’t have feelings.”

Minho understands. He really does. He steps forward and gently places his hands on your shoulders, pulling you close. “I said I’m sorry.”

But you push him away, hard enough to make him staggering backward. Your tears finally spill over.

Frustration coils in Minho’s chest. “As long as I’m the chef, every dish that goes past my table is mine, even if I didn’t make it myself.” He exhales sharply, his voice quieter. “That was the first dish I made for your dad. I wanted to impress him.”

You shake your head, tears brimming in your eyes. “I don’t want to hear it. Even if you’re right, I’m sick of it. I can’t take it anymore.”

Minho clenches his jaw. His voice comes out sharper than he intends. “Then why didn’t you do it right the first time?”

Your breath hitches. More tears fall, and Minho’s frustration dissolves instantly. He doesn’t want to make you sad. He steps closer again, his voice softer.

“Stop crying, mmh?” His hands cup your face, wiping away your tears. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it.”

This time, you don’t push him away. You bury your head in his chest and let him hold you. Minho kisses the top of your head while continuously murmuring quiet apologies, his hands gently rubbing your back. Then—

“Get away from her.”

Minho’s body tenses. He immediately steps back, turning to face your dad, who watches him with unreadable eyes from the doorway of the kitchen. Then, your dad says, “Come to my bakery sometime. I’d like to hear what you have to say about my cooking.”

Minho stares, still freezing in place and giving no response.

Your dad stares back at him and asks, “Aren’t you going to answer me?”

Minho scrambles to respond. “Of course, sir”

Your dad turns to you now and clicks his tongue seeing you cry. “Bring your chef. Or your boyfriend. Or whatever. Just come together.”

Your eyes widen in surprise. “Together?”

Your dad nods. “Of course. Were you going to send him alone?” Then, he turns and walks away.

You run after him, leaving Minho standing in the kitchen, dazed. He turns to face the chef’s table, staring down at all the rejected dishes. He picks up the fork and have another bite of it, he can tell that you're getting better at it.

“He left,” You announce when you return shortly after, standing next to him.

Minho exhales. He doesn’t know what to say first. The fact that he made you cry. The fact that your dad caught him holding you. Or should he address the whole situation with your dad.

But then, you suddenly turn to him and say, “I think my dad likes you.”

Minho frowns in confusion, “What?”

You smile—shy, small. “He told us to come together. I think that means he likes you.”

A grin tugs at Minho’s lips. His hands find your waist as he pulls you close. “That so?”

You giggle, nodding. You melt into his arm as he pulls you closer. Minho hugs you tight, and as your bodies calibrating into each other, you both bursts out laughing to shake out all the worries and concerns from earlier.

Minho exhales, letting relief wash over him. He has made an impression and it matters because it's your dad. For the first time, he feels like he did something right.

-

Choi Sara Admits to Cheating in Piazza dello Chef Contest—Sabotaged Rival's Dish.

Renowned chef Choi Sara, once celebrated as the only female chef in the city’s top Italian restaurants, has publicly admitted to cheating in the Piazza dello Chef Contest, a prestigious culinary competition that propelled her to fame. The shocking confession has resulted in her losing several high-profile positions, including her role as the star host of the cable food channel's "The Chef’s Table", her judging seat on the New Chef Culinary Challenge, and her position at Farfalle, the city’s most esteemed Italian restaurant.

Choi Sara confirmed the long-standing rumors of her misconduct, revealing that she sabotaged her rival’s chances of winning by tampering with his key ingredient. The contest’s challenge featured ginseng pasta, with wine serving as the essential element in neutralizing the ginseng’s bitterness. Choi admitted to oxidizing her rival’s wine by placing it in boiling water the night before the competition, rendering it ineffective and ultimately securing her victory.

The chef who was cheated out of his rightful win has now been identified as Lee Minho, currently the co-chef of Farfalle. His loss in the competition significantly altered the trajectory of his career, while Choi’s tainted victory opened doors that have now been abruptly closed.

The scandal has sent shockwaves through the culinary world, with many calling for Choi to be permanently banned from future competitions and culinary institutions. Neither Farfalle nor the New Chef Culinary Challenge has issued an official statement regarding the controversy.

As the culinary industry reacts to this bombshell revelation, Choi Sara's career now faces an uncertain future.

-

The moment you step into the restaurant, you barely have time to process the usual morning bustle before Taesoo comes charging toward you. His eyes are wide with urgency, his mouth opening as if to speak—but no words come out. Instead, he thrusts his phone toward you, his fingers trembling as he points at the screen.

Frowning, you take the phone from his hand, your gaze dropping to the glowing display. An article fills the screen, the headline alone enough to send a jolt through your chest. Your eyes dart across the text, skimming past the formalities, searching for the core of it.

"Choi Sara Admits to Cheating in Piazza dello Chef Contest—Sabotaged Rival's Dish."

The words slam into you, one after another, but nothing hits harder than the revelation buried in the details. The rival chef she cheated out of a rightful victory—the one whose career could have been different if not for her actions—was Minho.

A sharp gasp escapes you. The abrupt end of their relationship, the distance, the bitterness—it all makes sense now. But why confess everything now, and why to the press?

Your grip tightens around the phone before you shove it back into Taesoo’s hands, your feet already moving before you fully register what you’re doing. Your heart pounds as you sprint toward the stairs, taking them two at a time.

Chris’s office door looms ahead. You don’t bother knocking—you push it open with force, breathless from your rush. Chris is already on his feet, his expression unreadable but undoubtedly aware.

“Chris—” you manage between pants, but he’s already moving, reaching for his suit jacket as if he anticipated your arrival.

“I know,” he says simply, slipping the jacket over his shoulders as he walks toward you.

“You’re going to see her?” you ask, though you already know the answer.

He nods, adjusting the lapels of his jacket. “I’m heading out now.” Then, as he reaches you, his hand rests gently on your shoulder. His touch is steady, reassuring. “I’ll let you know when I get back. And I’ll tell Sara you’re worried about her.”

You nod, exhaling a quiet, “Thank you.” Your voice feels small, barely audible over the storm of thoughts in your head.

Chris offers a final nod before stepping past you, out the door.

You remain standing there, watching him go, unable to shake the weight settling in your chest. No matter where she is, you can only hope that Sara is alright.

-

You’ve expected Minho to keep his head down and work as if nothing happened, and he does exactly that. The tension in the air is almost suffocating—everyone in the kitchen knows about Sara’s confession, and Minho knows that they know. But as always, he moves through the lunch service with precision, barking out orders in his usual sharp tone, as if the weight of the news hasn’t touched him.

The last order of the lunch service prints through the machine, and Minho tears it off, scanning it quickly.

“Table 14. Two filet mignon course meals. Make them both rare,” he announces.

Sous-chef Seojun, who handles the steaks, pauses as he reaches for the meat. “Rare? Both of them?”

Before Minho can respond, a service staff member rushes into the kitchen, looking slightly panicked. Just as he opens his mouth, Minho beats him to it.

“Did the customers at table 14 really request them rare?”

The service staff nods quickly. “Chef… it’s them. The food critics—the same ones who complained about the lobster last time.”

A hush falls over the kitchen. Everyone still remembers the criticism Farfalle received, and now those same critics are back. You glance around, noticing how the team has subtly stiffened. Minho sees it too.

“Everyone! Pay attention to your frying pans,” His voice cuts through the tension like a knife. “Start the entrée line course, now.”

“Yes, Chef!” everyone answers in unison, snapping back into motion.

The next several minutes pass in focused silence. The steaks are cooked, plated, and sent out. The kitchen moves efficiently, but the underlying unease remains.

Then the service staff returns. “Chef, the food critics would like to speak with you.”

Minho barely reacts. He removes his apron and straightens his jacket. “Clean up,” he orders before stepping out of the kitchen.

But instead of following Minho’s instructions, everyone slowly gravitates toward the chef’s table. Hyunwoo is the first to break the silence.

“Do you think the restaurant’s reputation took a hit because of Chef Sara?” he asks, his voice low but curious. “Maybe they’re here to change our star rating.”

Seungwan hums in thought. “It could be. The new menu, the press conference—it all happened when Chef Sara was still here.”

Taesoo chimes in next. “Or maybe they just want to evaluate Chef Lee alone now that he’s the only head chef.”

Felix, leaning against the counter, shakes his head. “Chef doesn’t care about any of that.”

Taesoo raises an eyebrow. “Why not? A higher rating is always good. I hope we get something better than whatever rating Chef Sara got.”

Felix nods, glancing toward the dining area. “Ah... so that’s why they ordered the steaks rare.”

Taesoo frowns. “Wait… is there a reason why they ordered it rare?”

You finally speak up. “Because when meat is rare, they can evaluate its quality better. The freshness, how it was stored, how well it was prepared and cooked—it all shows.”

Taesoo gasps, as if the realization just hit him. Hyunwoo grins, nudging Seojun. “Good thing we have Sous-chef back there. You’ve got the Midas touch when it comes to the grill.”

Seungwan nods in agreement. “Yeah, when we think of steak, we think of Sous-chef Seojun.”

Seojun, clearly flustered, smiles shyly at the praise. They’re not wrong—if anyone could pull off the perfect steak, it’s him. But you’re not as reassured as they are. Your thoughts linger on the bigger issue.

If the critics are here for a reevaluation, that means trust in Farfalle’s kitchen might already be wavering. And trust, once lost, isn’t so easy to regain.

-

Minho moves through the dining hall with practiced ease, ignoring the curious glances from guests and staff alike. He knows everyone is watching—waiting to see how he’ll handle this. But he doesn’t falter, doesn’t let the weight of their expectations slow him down.

When he reaches table 14, he stops at a respectful distance, straightening his posture. He meets the eyes of the two food critics seated before him and offers a professional nod.

“Good afternoon,” he says smoothly. “I’m Lee Minho, head chef of Farfalle.”

One of the critics, a man in his late forties with sharp eyes, returns the greeting and slides a small card across the table. “Nice to meet you, Chef Lee Minho. We’re from Culinary Gazette.”

Minho picks up the card, glancing at it briefly before slipping it into his pocket. Straight to business.

The first critic leans back slightly, a small smile on his face. “The filet mignon was well executed. The composition of the course was balanced, and if it had been ordered medium, it would have made for a solid, traditional dish.”

Minho remains silent, waiting.

The other critic, a woman with neatly tied-back hair, tilts her head as she adds, “You used high-quality meat. That much is obvious. But it lacked a clean, light taste. Even when it’s barely cooked—still dripping with blood—the best kind of steak should have that purity in flavor.”

The first critic nods along, placing his utensils down with a soft clink. “A few years ago, this dish at Farfalle was excellent. But now… it’s falling behind.” His expression remains neutral, but his words carry weight. “We can’t give high marks to a kitchen that doesn’t keep up with the times.”

Minho takes it all in, keeping his expression unreadable. He isn’t foolish enough to dismiss their critiques outright. They have a point. But he also knows when someone is testing him.

He pauses for a moment before responding. “Eating rare meat—something even the most seasoned chefs in Italy shy away from—and having such a discerning palate for the flavor of an almost-raw steak…” His lips curl into the faintest of smirks. “I’ll take it as belligerence.”

There’s a beat of silence, then— The first critic lets out a low chuckle, nodding in approval. “You're good.”

The woman beside him smirks, impressed but not entirely won over.

Minho meets their gaze, his smirk never wavering. “A true professional should be able to solve that issue as well.”

The critics exchange glances before the man leans forward slightly. “We know Chef Choi Sara used to be a co-chef here.”

Minho’s smirk barely falters, but there’s a subtle shift in his posture. There it is. He doesn’t look away, keeping his voice even as he asks, “And what does that have to do with Farfalle’s star rating?”

The woman tilts her head, considering him before answering simply, “Can we trust the dishes from this kitchen now?”

Minho knew this was coming. He knew this was the real test. And this—this is what he’s feared the most. People losing trust in his kitchen.

-

Minho sits at his desk, fingers drumming idly against the wood as he waits for the team to gather. One by one, they filter into his office, standing in a semi-circle, some looking confused, others tense. He can tell they’re wondering why they’ve been called in. Good. He prefers getting straight to the point.

Seungwan is the first to speak up. “Chef, why did you call us?”

Minho shifts his gaze to Seojun. “It’s about you, Sous-chef.”

Seojun blinks, clearly caught off guard. “Me?”

Minho crosses his arms, his tone cool and precise. “I’m talking about the steak that went out earlier—rare.” His eyes sharpen. “There was a hint of odor from the fat that I didn’t taste when the meat was cooked medium or well done.”

Seojun tenses at that, his lips pressing into a thin line before he retorts, “Isn’t that exactly why they eat it rare? If they don’t like it, they should order it well done.” He pauses, his expression growing more defensive. “Wait—was this what the food critics told you?”

Before Minho can answer, Hyunwoo interjects, his voice rising in panic. “Did they lower our stars?”

Minho flicks his gaze to him, unimpressed. “Why are you talking about stars when I’m talking about the steak?”

Seojun huffs, clearly frustrated. “But why do they eat it rare? Because they can’t find a problem when it’s cooked medium or well done?” His jaw tightens. “I only hear this as them nitpicking.”

Minho exhales, calm but unwavering. “So you’re not grateful for them pointing out a flaw in your dish?”

Seojun stiffens at that.

Minho continues, voice even. “If we eliminate that odor—if we make the rare steak taste cleaner—then it’s only going to get better when it’s cooked medium or well done.”

But Seojun isn’t backing down. “Perfect taste, best taste—that’s all in the heads of critics.” He exhales sharply, frustration evident. “Why do we have to play along with these people?”

Minho smirks, tilting his head. “We can play along. And if we find a better way, we’ll benefit from it.” His voice is casual, but his eyes gleam with intent. “So let’s play along.”

Hyunwoo hesitates before asking, “Does that mean… you’re going to change the filet mignon recipe?”

Minho shakes his head. “No.”

As if on cue, Taesoo steps forward, handing over a cut of wrapped meat. Minho takes it, holding it up for everyone to see.

“This,” he says, “is meat tightly wrapped in cloth and plastic wrap. By compressing it like this, the blood is squeezed into the corners of the wrap.”

Seojun folds his arms, unimpressed. “That kind of odor can be taken care of with a sauce.”

Minho shakes his head. “That’s like covering up an unwashed, greasy face with makeup.” He lets the words hang in the air before adding, “The best steak doesn’t come from the sauce. It comes from the meat itself.”

Silence lingers—until you raise your hand.

Minho nods at you. “Go ahead.”

You glance at the wrapped meat. “What about the steak losing its juiciness?”

Minho picks up another cut of meat and turns it slightly in his hand. “That’s why we’ll tie it with strings.” He demonstrates, then continues, “We’re also not putting it directly on the grill anymore. First, we sear it on a pan. Then, we finish it in the oven.”

You tilt your head. “So it’s cooked twice?”

Seungwan’s eyes widen slightly. “You’re telling us to start doing all of this during a busy service?”

Minho glances at the team, watching their reactions carefully before announcing, “I want everyone to stay after work and start wrapping the filet like I showed.” His tone leaves no room for negotiation. “That’s your homework.”

A collective groan ripples through the group. Taesoo mutters something under his breath.

Before anyone can complain further, Minho points at you and Taesoo. “The two of you are excluded.”

Taesoo triumphantly grin but you raise your hand to offer yourself. “I can help—”

Minho interrupts smoothly, “This requires strong pressure on the meat. But if you want to help, be my guest.”

Hyunwoo’s face contorts in frustration. “Why do we have to do all this?”

Minho meets his gaze, unreadable. “Because you’re in charge of the filet mignon course.”

But there’s another reason—one Minho keeps to himself.

-

Minho stands at the coffee station, cradling the warm ceramic cup in his hand, relishing the quiet moment before the chaos of the kitchen pulls him back in. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee fills his senses as he takes a slow, deliberate sip. Then his phone rings.

He exhales sharply, already suspecting who it is. When he checks the caller ID, his irritation is confirmed—an unknown number. He answers with a clipped "Hello?"

"Chef Lee Minho, this is Reporter Shin from The Daily—"

Minho doesn’t even let the man finish. The moment he hears reporter, he hangs up. He knows exactly what they want. They want his thoughts on Sara’s public confession, on the scandal, on him.

He shoves his phone back into his pocket, but before he can even enjoy his coffee, it rings again—same number. Minho ignores it.

His fingers tighten slightly around the cup as he brings it back to his lips, focusing on the warmth, the taste, anything but the persistent buzzing in his pocket.

Across from him, Felix watches, his eyes lingering for a little too long. Minho doesn’t acknowledge it at first, but he knows Felix isn’t the type to keep his thoughts to himself.

Sure enough, Felix finally speaks. “Why don’t you just meet with the reporters and tell them the truth?” His voice is casual, but there’s an edge beneath it. “Tell them how she screwed you over—how you lost so many opportunities because of her.”

Minho takes another slow sip before setting his cup down, then levels a sharp glare at Felix. “If you ever blab about this to the press, I’m going to kill you.” His voice is even, controlled, but the weight behind his words is unmistakable.

Felix falters, but only for a split second before he recovers with a grin. “I just want to make sure you get the honor and recognition you deserve.”

Minho studies him, narrowing his eyes slightly. He doesn’t expect Felix to hold more of a grudge against Sara than he does.

He leans in slightly, his voice dropping to something lower, almost amused, but laced with warning. “You’d better stop before I fill your mouth with fillings and steam you in the oven like dumplings. Got it?”

Felix’s grin wavers, replaced by a wary smile. “Okay, okay—message received.”

Minho doesn’t linger. He gets off the stool, intending to head back into the kitchen, but his phone rings again. He nearly ignores it until a notification pops up on his screen.

A text. From Sara. Minho hesitates before unlocking his phone.

“I can finally breathe now. I loved you, Lee Minho. I lost, Lee Minho.”

Minho stops walking. He rereads the message, his grip on the phone tightening. Lost? That sounds like a goodbye. Like she’s accepting defeat.

That’s not the Sara he knows. The Sara he knew for years wouldn’t just—give in like this. Something unsettles in his chest, a frustration, an unease. This doesn’t feel like a win. Without a second thought, his fingers move over the keyboard, typing out a reply.

“What do you mean you lost? The real match begins now. Don't run away. Let's start over. Come back.”

Minho stares at the screen, his message hanging there, waiting, as if his words alone could pull Sara back. But deep down, he knows it’s not that simple.

She should have just accepted the truth and moved on—quietly, without dragging this mess into the public eye. Without making a spectacle out of it. What good did it do, confessing everything like that? It didn’t fix anything. It didn’t undo the damage.

Minho exhales sharply, locking his phone and shoving it into his pocket. If she thought this was over, she was wrong. Because this didn’t feel like a win.

-

Minho ordered the entrée line to gather in the kitchen after work, and now here you are, taking out slabs of meat from the freezer and setting them on the counter. The cold seeps through your fingertips, but what’s worse is the glares Hyunwoo and Seungwan are shooting your way.

You grab another piece of meat, and that’s when Hyunwoo scoffs. "Did Chef tell you to keep an eye on us?"

The accusation comes out sharp, like he’s already convinced of the answer. You frown and mutter, "You're impossible."

Seungwan clicks his tongue, shaking his head. "Chef acts so righteous all the time, but I guess he’s just another snob obsessed with the star rating."

You don’t take the bait. "Let’s just get this over with. The longer we stand here arguing, the longer this is going to take."

Hyunwoo groans, throwing his hands up. "Do we really have time for this? Everyone else is busy working on new dishes, but no—we’re here, squeezing blood out of perfectly fine meat."

He exhales sharply, muttering under his breath. "We better win first place at the New Chef Culinary Challenge, or—"

Seungwan slaps a hand over Hyunwoo’s mouth. They freeze. Seungwan’s jaw tightens, and Hyunwoo looks like he wants to sink into the floor.

But it’s too late. You already know. You cross your arms. "So you guys are preparing for the New Chef Culinary Challenge."

Silence. Then—

"Uh—no? I mean, yeah? Wait, no—" Hyunwoo stammers.

You turn to Seojun. Unlike the others, he doesn’t look surprised—just resigned. "Is it true, Sous-chef?"

His lips press into a thin line before he sighs. "Yeah. But since you've already been keeping it a secret, just keep pretending you haven't heard anything."

Your stomach twists uncomfortably. "You know you can't keep this from Chef forever. You're representing the restaurant. He should know."

Seojun exhales through his nose. "I just need you to keep quiet."

You take a step forward. "Why not just ask him?"

His expression hardens. "The Chef? We’d be grateful if he didn’t get in our way."

They don’t understand Minho like you do. "He wouldn't. You guys are wrong about him."

Hyunwoo lets out an exaggerated scoff. "Oh yeah? He thinks we’re wrong too. Apparently, even after all these years, Sous-chef doesn’t know how to grill meat."

You stare at them, pulse thrumming. "Then let me ask him for you."

"Hey! No way." Hyunwoo is quick to shut it down.

"Don’t even think about it," Seungwan adds, crossing his arms.

You look back at Seojun, hoping he’ll be reasonable, but his gaze is sharp as he says, "You should know when to stay out of things. This is not as simple as you think. Please do us a favor. Keep quiet."

Your jaw tightens, but you know when to step back. "Yes, Sous-chef."

Seojun nods, then turns to Hyunwoo and Seungwan. "Put the meat back in the freezer."

Your stomach churns. "Wait—shouldn’t we still do what Chef ordered?"

Seojun doesn’t hesitate. "I’ll take care of it. Just go home."

Before you can protest, Seungwan grabs your arm and pulls you out of the kitchen. He only lets go once you’re outside, turning to you with a finger pressed against his lips—an unspoken command to stay silent. Then, without another word, he disappears back inside.

You exhale, rubbing a hand down your face. This isn’t right. Minho is going to find out eventually. And when he does—

"Hey, why are you standing there?"

Your heart jumps. You turn around to find Minho standing there, already changed, backpack slung over one arm. His gaze flickers to the kitchen door behind you, then back to your face. Did he hear anything?

He raises an eyebrow. "Let’s go home."

For a second, you hesitate as the weight of secret tugging at your chest. But then, without a word, you fall into step beside him.

The car ride home is quiet. You keep your mouth shut, afraid that if you say too much, Minho will find out the truth—that the entrée line isn’t doing what he asked. That they’ve been using the kitchen to prepare for the New Chef Culinary Challenge instead.

You shift in your seat, staring out of the window. The streetlights blur past, casting fleeting shadows inside the car. The only sound is the soft hum of the engine—until Minho’s phone vibrates against the center console.

You glance at the screen out of reflex. No name. Just numbers. It rings once. Twice. Then stops. You ignore it at first, but curiosity gets the better of you. "Why aren’t you answering the calls, Chef?"

Minho keeps his eyes on the road. "Reporters have been calling all day."

You nod, looking away again. Silence lingers between you both, heavy and unspoken, until you can’t hold back anymore.

You turn toward him. "Chef, I know the meat is important, but you have to respect other chefs’ methods too."

Minho doesn’t react so you press on. "You can tell me what to do all you want, because I like you and I know you're trying to help, but—"

"That’s enough." Minho cuts you off, voice firm. He knows exactly where you’re going with this.

But you refuse to stop now. "They’ve been working for years, Chef. They’re experienced. You can’t treat them like they don’t know the basics."

One hand on the wheel, he answers easily, "They don’t know the basics."

You exhale, gripping your hands together. "They just want to improve and do better. That’s why they’re doing New—"

You freeze and feel like slapping your mouth for almost spoiling the secret.

Minho’s eyes flick toward you, sharp and narrow. "New what?"

You shake your head. "Nothing."

He doesn’t push, but you can feel his gaze linger before he focuses back on the road. You let out a quiet breath of relief, choosing your next words carefully.

With utmost caution, you sweetly ask, "Can you at least show them half the affection you show me?"

Minho doesn’t even hesitate. "No."

You blink. "What—why?"

"Why should I share my affection for you with those guys who don’t even listen to me?" He glances at you. "My affection is too valuable. I don’t want to share it."

When the two of you enter the elevator, he reaches for your hand, fingers curling around yours with ease. But before you can enjoy the warmth, your phone rings inside your bag.

With a sigh, you pull away and rummage through your things. Dad. You pick up. "Hello?"

Your dad skips the small talk. "Are you done with work?"

"Yes."

"How many times did the chef say 'do it again' today?" he asks. "Did the number go down?"

You sigh. "Actually, it’s been going up."

Instead of comforting you, he scolds you. "You should be doing a better job. Imagine what it’d be like for him if you keep messing up while dating in that kitchen."

Betrayal stings at your chest. You grumble, "Whose side are you on, dad?"

Your dad ignores the question entirely. "When are you going to bring him over?"

Annoyed, you snap, "I don’t know." Then, without waiting for a response, you hang up and shove your phone back into your bag.

Minho smirks. "So, your dad is taking my side, huh?"

Then—he laughs, a devilish little sound that only annoys you more.

You groan, leaning against the cold metal wall. "All the men in my life are so annoying."

Minho’s smirk grows—until you add, "Except Chris."

The smirk instantly vanishes, he shot you an icy glare. "What did you just say?"

Before you can answer, the elevator dings open. You step out and stop to look over your shoulder as you call back, "I said you’re annoying."

And with that, you turn toward your apartment, leaving him behind.

-

The first thing Minho does when he steps into the kitchen is check the meat. He doesn’t greet anyone. Doesn’t look anywhere else. He walks straight to the freezer, Taesoo trailing behind him like a shadow.

The moment Minho opens the freezer, his jaw tightens. The meat looks exactly the same as it did yesterday.

They didn’t do a single damn thing. Minho mutters under his breath, voice sharp with irritation. "So they made sauces instead of doing what I told them to do."

He slams the container shut. Crosses his arms. Exhales harshly through his nose. "I told them to tie it up," he bites out, his jaw clenched so tight it hurts. "They didn’t even do that either."

Taesoo opens his mouth, maybe to explain or make excuses, but Minho doesn’t let him. "Not a single thing I told them to do. Not one."

The anger simmers, but he keeps it under control. He turns to Taesoo, ready to unleash hell—but then he remembers. He told Taesoo not to do it.

At the start of lunch service, Minho stalks to the chef’s table and raises his voice. "Since we're not prepared, we’re not taking any steak orders today."

Murmurs ripple through the kitchen. Some chefs glance at each other, others stiffen, but Minho doesn’t give a damn. His eyes land on Seojun’s station, where containers of sauce sit lined up neatly. He points at them. "Stop wasting your time on useless things and just do as I tell you."

Seojun bristles but Minho’s gaze stays locked on him. "Did you put gold in that sauces? Hm? Why are you so obsessed with them?"

Seojun doesn’t answer. Instead, he glares. "Why don’t you stop picking on us?"

Before Minho can respond, Felix cuts in. "Why do you think he’s just picking on you, Sous-chef? Aren’t we supposed to follow the chef’s orders no matter what?"

Seojun ignores Felix, his anger still focused on Minho. His jaw clenches, eyes burning with frustration. "If your goal was to insult me, congratulations. You’ve succeeded. Do whatever you want, Chef. Take filet mignon off the menu if you want—it’s your kitchen, your rules."

Minho scoffs, stepping closer. "Do whatever I want?" He tilts his head. "So if I wanted to pull you guys out of the New Chef Culinary Challenge, I could? Or keep you in? Since, you know, I can do whatever I want?"

Silence. The entrée line stiffens. Their faces betray pure shock—like they never expected him to know. Their heads immediately turn to you. Their eyes accusing.

You shake your head fast, hands raised in defense. "I didn’t say anything, I swear."

Minho lets the tension settle, then continues, voice cold. "You can’t even follow your own chef’s orders. What makes you think you can satisfy the judges?"

His lips curl into a smirk. "You didn’t even bother preparing the meat. If you can’t do that, how the hell am I supposed to believe you can cook a decent steak?"

Silence again. Minho watches them squirm before delivering the final blow. "I know you’ve been practicing for the competition behind my back. But whether you enter or not, one thing’s for sure—you’re going to humiliate Farfalle."

Minho can’t take their defiance anymore and that’s when he makes his decision. He lifts his head, sweeping his gaze over the entire kitchen. His deep brown eyes hold authority, intensity, and absolute control.

"From now on, no one is allowed in this kitchen after business hours. The doors will be locked."

The words drop like a hammer. The tension is thick enough to cut with a knife, but before anyone can protest, the first order comes through the machine. The ticket prints out with a sharp, mechanical beep, cutting through the heavy silence.

Minho grabs it. Starts calling out the order when—

"How could you do this to us?" Hyunwoo’s voice cuts through the air like a crack of thunder.

Minho watches as Hyunwoo turns to you, his expression full of betrayal. He expects them to think that he knew about it from you just because the two of you are dating.

You shake your head, voice firm. "I didn’t tell him anything. I never told Chef."

Felix frowns, arms crossed. "I knew something was weird about you guys lately." He looks at Hyunwoo. "How long were you gonna keep this a secret? You didn't even tell your own Chef."

Hyunwoo’s fists clench. "Stay out of our business."

Felix doesn’t back down. "How is this just your business?" He looks at the entire entrée line. "If you're competing under Farfalle’s name, doesn’t this involve everyone?"

No one answers and then Felix shakes his head, disbelief in his eyes. "How could you keep this from us?"

Seungwan snaps. His body tenses, ready to lunge at Felix, but before he can move, Minho’s voice slices through the chaos. "ENOUGH!"

Everything stops and Minho glares at them all. "I’m going to read them again and if any of you cannot hear our customers orders, then you should leave this kitchen right now."

He reads the orders loud and clear. The weight of his words presses down on everyone. "Table number 8. One Sicilian eggplant dish, one vongole, one basil pesto."

When he finishes, no one answers. His patience snaps.

"Are you all deaf?" His voice rises, sharp and commanding. "Are you not going to answer me?"

Reluctantly, the kitchen echoes back. "Yes, Chef."

Minho exhales, shaking his head. He knew the entrée line was stubborn, but this? This is worse than he expected. They’re not just disobedient. They’re reckless. And Minho hates reckless chefs.

-

You finish your lunch quickly, not bothering to linger like the others in the dining hall. Minho isn’t here. In fact, you haven’t seen him since lunch service ended.

Something tells you to check his office first, but when you peek inside, the chair is empty. The tension from earlier still lingers in your mind, making you restless as you continue your search. The rooftop is your next stop, and when you push open the door, you sigh in relief at the sight of him. He stands by the railing, arms folded, gaze fixed on the city bathed in the warm afternoon sun.

You approach quietly, coming to a stop beside him. The breeze is soft against your skin, carrying the faint scents of the restaurant below. You lean against the concrete railing, mirroring his posture as you let the silence settle between you.

After a while, he turns his head slightly. His eyes meet yours, and you offer him a small, knowing smile.

“Have you had lunch yet, Chef?” you ask.

Instead of answering, Minho exhales a slow, heavy sigh and looks ahead again.

Curious, you tilt your head. “How did you know about the entrée line entering the New Chef Culinary Challenge?”

“I just found out by chance,” he says simply, as if it isn’t a big deal.

You study his face for a moment. “Then why did you give them such a hard time if you already knew?”

Minho turns toward you again, this time lifting his fingers in a familiar motion, gesturing for you to come closer. “Come here.”

You narrow your eyes. “No.”

He quirks an eyebrow, feigning innocence. “I won’t flick you.”

You don’t believe him. Your weight shifts back slightly as you take a small step away. “Then why do I have to come closer?” you ask, wary.

Minho doesn’t wait for your compliance. In one smooth movement, he closes the distance himself, looping an arm around you to keep you from slipping away. His head presses gently against yours, his warmth sinking into you as his voice drops to a quiet reprimand.

“How could you just stand there and say nothing while they were all ganging up on me?” he murmurs.

You blink. “Chef—”

“Now that you’re in the entrée line, have you decided to team up with them?” His voice is smooth, but his grip tightens ever so slightly. His eyes are mere inches away, sharp and searching, holding you captive beneath his gaze. “Am I not your priority anymore? Is that it?”

Your heart stumbles over itself. Overwhelmed, you answer in a small voice, “I only did that because I care about you.” You swallow, willing yourself to meet his gaze. “It wouldn’t have looked good if I took your side.”

Minho pulls away, exhaling in frustration. “You never admit when you’re wrong,” he mutters, shaking his head. His arm falls from around you as he turns back to the view.

For a second, you hesitate. Then you inch closer, determined to get back on his good side. You reach out, gently patting his shoulder.

“I trust you, Chef,” you tell him softly but full of conviction.

You pat his shoulder again—harder this time. “Posso farcela!” you exclaim.

A chuckle escapes him, low and amused. Those are the very words he used to encourage you once. Catching you off guard, he leans in, pressing his forehead against yours. His voice is quiet, but firm as he repeats the words back to you, his accent crisp—“Posso farcela.” Then, with a teasing smirk, he corrects, “That’s how you say it.”

You giggle as he pulls away, but your hand lingers on his back. Slowly, you rub gentle circles against it. “Cheer up, Chef,” you murmur, knowing he needs to hear it.

Minho smiles, softer this time, before repeating the words once more—“Posso farcela.”

But you know that, right now, he’s the one who needs to believe it.

-

You’ve just finished changing, slinging your bag over your shoulder as you step toward the door. Just as you’re about to exit the locker room, the door swings open with force.

Sous-chef Seojun barges in, his face tight with panic. Hyunwoo and Seungwan follow closely behind, looking equally unsettled.

“Where’s Chef right now?” Seojun demands, slightly out of breath.

You blink at him, caught off guard. “He left earlier. Why?”

Seojun presses a frustrated hand to his forehead. “He locked the doors to the kitchen. We can’t get in to practice for the contest.”

You stare at him, momentarily at a loss. He actually did it. When Minho said he would, you thought it was just another one of his threats—nothing serious. But he wasn’t bluffing.

Your hand instinctively moves to your bag. “I’ll call him.” You hurry to take out your phone, already dialing.

But Seojun stops you. “Don’t bother,” he says sharply. “If he was going to change his mind over a phone call, he wouldn’t have locked the doors in the first place.”

Hyunwoo exhales harshly, running a hand through his hair. “Then what do we do, Sous-chef?” he asks, voice laced with frustration.

Ignoring Seojun’s protest, you press the call button anyway. You start pacing back and forth in the dimly lit hallway of the empty dining hall, fingers tightening around your phone as the dial tone rings in your ear.

After a few rings, Minho picks up. He doesn’t waste time on greetings. “What?”

You don’t bother with formalities either. “Chef, please unlock the kitchen doors. Everyone’s here right now.”

“I told them I would lock the doors.” His voice is calm, unaffected.

You grit your teeth. “Are you really going to stop them from competing?” You press the phone harder against your ear. “This could be a chance to bring peace to the kitchen. It’s good for them, and it’s good for you. Isn't that what you want?”

You let out a slow, frustrated sigh before continuing. “But I don’t understand why you’re doing the opposite.”

Minho exhales, and you can hear the edge in his voice when he finally speaks. “Do you really think they’ll suddenly welcome me with open arms if I offer to help them now?”

You scoff, disbelief bubbling to the surface. “How can you only try to get in your own way?”

Silence stretches between you both. Your heart pounds. You try one last time. “Please, Chef. Just unlock the doors. The kitchen isn’t only for you.”

Flatly, he rejects you. “No.”

Anger flares inside you. Your grip tightens on your phone. “Fine,” you snap. “Then at least give them the key. I won’t ask for your help anymore.”

Silence.

You plead again. “If you're not really trying to interfere, just let them practice here.”

A pause. Then, Minho exhales sharply. “I’m hanging up.”

And then, nothing. The line goes dead.

You lower your phone, chest rising and falling with barely contained anger. You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to steady yourself before turning around.

They’re all standing there—Seojun, Hyunwoo, Seungwan. Their expressions are tight with expectation, waiting for you to deliver an answer.

When you don’t say anything right away, their hope falters. You swallow hard, your voice barely above a whisper. “Sous-chef, I’m sorry.”

-

Minho exhales sharply, tossing his phone onto the passenger seat after ending the call. His fingers drum against the steering wheel, his gaze flicking downward. The kitchen keys sit inside the center console, glinting under the soft glow of the streetlights outside. His jaw tightens.

Is this really the right thing to do?

Keeping the kitchen to himself—locking them all out—does it actually make things better? Or is he just being stubborn?

He grips the keys, turning them over in his palm, his mind tangled in the same frustrating debate.

Then, his phone rings again. He doesn’t even check the screen. He already knows it’s you, calling to argue with him, to insist that he stop being difficult and return to the restaurant.

With a sigh, he pulls over to the side of the road before answering. “Yes, I’m coming back,” he snaps into the phone. “I’ll unlock the damn—”

A voice he doesn’t recognize cuts him off. “Hello, is this Chef Lee Minho?”

Minho’s expression hardens. He lowers his voice. “Who is this?”

“This is Reporter Shin. We spoke briefly the other day.” A pause. “I’m calling because Sara is here with me. I’d like to interview both of you for the article.”

Minho stares ahead, grip tightening on the keys. The restaurant will have to wait. He turns the car around, heading straight for the café at the address the reporter sends him.

The moment he steps inside, his eyes find Sara.

She’s slumped in her seat, hands clasped together on the table, looking as if she’d rather be anywhere but here. Across from her sits a man in his late thirties, dressed sharply, a notebook and recorder set neatly in front of him.

Minho strides toward the table. “Chef Lee Minho,” he introduces himself flatly.

The reporter stands, offering a polite smile and extending a business card. “Thank you for coming, Chef Lee. I appreciate your time.”

Minho takes the card without looking at it and slides into the seat beside Sara. He feels her eyes on him, but he doesn’t acknowledge her.

“I wanted to write this article after hearing both sides of the story,” the reporter begins. “It’s quite unusual, don’t you think? After everything that happened, you and Chef Sara still chose to work together in the same kitchen.”

Minho glances at Sara, who offers him a small, defeated smile. He looks back at the reporter. “Yes, everything written in the article is true,” he says evenly. “Sara did put my wine in boiling water. I did lose the contest because of it.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Sara sink further into her seat. “However,” Minho continues, turning his gaze back to the reporter, “what your article left out is the most important fact—”

He leans forward slightly. “I was going to lose that contest anyway.”

The reporter blinks. “What?”

“Wine or no wine,” Minho states plainly, “Sara’s dish was better than mine that day.”

The words hang heavy in the air. Sara’s head snaps toward him, her eyes wide and glossy.

Minho doesn’t waver. “The only mistake she made was that she didn’t believe in herself. But what’s even clearer is that she regretted what she did. She worked harder than anyone to prove herself. And now?” He exhales. “Now, she’s an even better chef than before.”

Sara presses her lips together, a sad smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.

Minho shifts his gaze back to the reporter, his voice sharp. “What upsets me is that because of this, an excellent chef might not be able to cook again.” He meets the reporter’s eyes.

The reporter hesitates but then straightens in his seat. “That’s beside the point,” he says. “Chef Sara’s misconduct is evident—”

“I have forgiven her.” Minho cuts him off, his voice firm. “And I stand by what I said. She was an excellent chef then, and she’s an excellent chef now.”

The reporter remains silent but Minho pushes back his chair, rising to his feet. He looks at the man one last time. “That’s my confession.” His voice is quieter now, but no less resolute. “What more do you need?”

The reporter doesn’t answer so Minho turns to Sara. “Are we done here?”

Sara blinks rapidly, as if snapping herself out of a daze. She nods.

Minho extends a hand. “Let’s go.”

For a moment, Sara just stares at it. Then, she smiles—a real one this time—and takes his hand.

-

You pace near the entrance of the restaurant, your arms crossed tightly over your chest. Every few steps, you glance toward the street, expecting—hoping—to see Minho approaching with the kitchen keys in his hand. But no. He’s been keeping you on edge for nearly three hours now, feeding you nothing but false hope.

Behind you, Seojun sighs loudly, his impatience mirrored by Hyunwoo and Seungwan, who have been shifting their weight from one foot to the other for the past hour.

Seojun exhales sharply. “Are you sure Chef said he’d bring the keys?”

You hesitate. Truthfully, you’re not sure. Minho never actually promised, but you want to believe he’ll come through. You want him to prove you wrong, just this once.

“Can you wait a little longer, Sous-chef?” you plead, looking at Seojun desperately.

But Hyunwoo finally snaps. “A little longer?” he scoffs. “What time is it now? Chef could’ve gone to his house and come back twelve times already!”

That’s it. They’re done waiting. Without another word, Seojun turns on his heel, leading the other two toward the parking lot. Hyunwoo mutters under his breath as he picks up the bag of ingredients they brought, grumbling, “I swear, Lee Minho must’ve been my sworn enemy in a past life.”

Panic surges through you. You step forward, ready to stop them, to say something—

But Seungwan spins around, pointing an accusatory finger at you. “This is all because of you.”

You freeze. “What?”

“You told Chef about the New Chef Culinary Challenge.”

“No! I told you so many times,” You shake your head quickly, your voice rising with frustration. “I didn’t tell him anything!”

Seungwan doesn’t look convinced, but before you can argue further, Seojun turns to face you. There’s no anger in his expression—just quiet disappointment.

“Do we look that pathetic to you too?” he asks, his eyes sad and defeated.

You open your mouth but nothing comes out. Seojun shakes his head and gets into the car. You watch as they drive away, their frustration, their disappointment, all of it sinking into your chest like dead weight.

-

Instead of going home, you take a detour to the bar, sinking onto a stool with a weary sigh. The dim lighting and quiet hum of conversation offer a moment of escape, and you find yourself nursing a glass of alcohol, letting the bitterness settle on your tongue.

Your phone buzzes. A text from Minho.

Where are you?

You scoff, rolling your eyes as you stare at the screen. You don’t bother replying, choosing instead to grumble at your phone, “None of your business.”

Another buzz. Another text.

I’m sorry.

You let out a sharp, humorless laugh and mutter, “Whatever,” before taking another sip of your drink.

Then, another message pops up.

Look at the moon.

You huff at the absurdity of it—you're inside a bar. But curiosity wins, and you turn your head toward the window, eyes landing on the bright, glowing moon outside.

Before you can react, a warm presence settles beside you, and then—soft lips press against your cheek.

Your breath catches as you turn to find Minho grinning at you, his expression smug. You purse your lips, looking away with a pout, pretending his sudden appearance doesn’t affect you.

Minho slides onto the stool next to yours, resting his arm on the counter. “I can see the tower of complaints from a mile away,” he teases.

You take another sip of your drink, the warmth of alcohol making your words bolder. “What did they do that was so terrible, Chef?” you blurt out, the frustration you’ve been holding back spilling over.

Minho raises an eyebrow.

“The sous-chef, the cooks—they’re working hard every day to get better, isn’t that a good thing?” You lean in slightly. “Why do you think they had to hide it from you? Why couldn’t they just ask you to be their manager chef?”

Minho exhales sharply, reaching for your glass. He takes it from you and lifts it to his lips. “Are you their spokeswoman now?” he scoffs before taking a sip, his face twisting at the bitter aftertaste.

“No,” you say, shaking your head. “But if you weren’t the Chef, I’d be standing right beside them, feeling the same frustration.”

You meet his gaze, voice softening. “They’ve never been to Italy, never studied at a prestigious culinary school. And maybe you think that doesn’t matter, but it does—to them.” You pause, searching his face. “They don’t have the privileges you and I do, Chef. It’s discouraging.”

Minho stays quiet, his fingers resting against the glass. You take a breath and try again. “Chef...”

He looks at you, eyes guarded. “What?”

You hold his gaze. “Don’t lock up your feelings like you locked up the kitchen doors.” You lean in just a little closer, your voice gentle yet firm. “Can you open up your heart to them like you did to me?”

Minho studies you for a long moment, then exhales through his nose. “Fine,” he mutters, nudging your glass toward the bartender for a refill. “You can stop with the nagging now.”

A slow smile spreads across your face. You lean in further, eyes gleaming. “Do you really mean it?”

Minho sighs, but there’s a suppressed smile at the corners of his lips. “Yes.”

You watch as he gestures to the bartender before muttering, almost menacingly, “The entrée line is dead meat now that I’m going to be their manager chef.”

You laugh, the sound light and genuine. “Thank you, Chef.”

He turns to you, eyes narrowing slightly. “Why are you thanking me?”

You don’t answer—just smile. But then, out of nowhere, Minho frowns slightly. “But what if... What if they don’t want me to be their manager chef?”

You wave off his concern. “There’s no way.”

Still, he continues, almost pouting now. “It would’ve been better if they asked me first.” His voice lowers. “What if I offer, and they turn me down? I’ll die of humiliation.”

You blink, momentarily surprised. Even Minho has his insecurities and the thought endears you. You chuckle. “That will never happen.”

Minho leans in, tilting his head. “How can you be so sure?”

You smirk. “Because you’re Chef Lee Minho.”

Minho scoffs, mumbling, “You never know.”

“But you’re the best chef in the world,” you say simply.

He bursts out laughing, a delighted, almost bashful laugh that makes your heart swell. You notice the tips of his ears turning red, and it only makes your smile grow.

Propping your chin on your hand, you let out a dramatic sigh. “This isn’t good.”

Minho raises a brow. “What now?”

“I wanted you all to myself,” you pout.

Minho nearly chokes on his drink but manages to swallow before laughing again, shaking his head in disbelief.

You keep your eyes on him, the warmth in your chest turning into something softer.

Then, Minho leans in close, his voice low, teasing yet sincere. “Take me then,” he murmurs. “Take all of me. I’m yours anyway.”

There’s something different about him tonight—not just in the way he’s humoring you, but in the way he’s actually listening. You’ve seen it happening, little by little.

At first, Minho was nothing but sharp edges and closed doors. He ruled the kitchen like an untouchable king, and anyone who didn’t meet his impossible standards was cast aside without a second thought. But lately—lately, he’s been changing.

And now, here he is, actually considering what you’ve said instead of brushing it off with another snide remark. Your chest swells with something warm. Pride.

Without thinking, you grab the front of his jacket, pulling him in. Minho barely has time to react before you press your lips to his, the kiss stealing the last of the space between you.

For a second, he’s stunned—but then he melts into it, kissing you back. When you pull away, you look into his eyes and whisper with all of your heart, “Thank you.”

Something flickers in his eyes—surprise, maybe, or something deeper, something unspoken. He doesn’t respond right away, just stares at you as if trying to decipher whether you really mean it. And then, he smiles.

-

Minho feels lighter than he has in a long time as he steps out of the elevator, your hand still warm in his. He glances at you, and that same sweet smile lingers on your lips. It makes his fingers tighten around yours instinctively, an urge blooming in his chest—he wants to kiss that smile, claim it, keep it for himself forever. But then, you stop.

Minho halts beside you, following your gaze, and that light feeling instantly dissipates the moment he sees him. Chris.

Your hand slips from his grasp so quickly it almost stings. You step forward, greeting Chris with the same warmth you always have, and Minho clenches his jaw when Chris smiles back at you, his voice gentle as he notes, "You're home quite late."

Minho rolls his eyes. Why does he care what time you get home?

He doesn’t let the moment stretch, stepping into the interaction with a sneer. “You’re obviously not here to see me.”

To Minho’s surprise, Chris doesn’t immediately brush him off. Instead, he looks at him directly and says, “Actually, I am here to see you.”

Minho glances at you, confused, but you only nod, taking this as your cue to leave. You excuse yourself, voice softer now, telling them both goodnight before retreating into your apartment.

Minho watches the door close behind you before unlocking his own and pushing it open. “Well?” he says, keeping it ajar for Chris.

Chris steps inside, following Minho into the dining room. Minho gestures for him to sit before heading to the kitchen, grabbing a bottle of wine and two glasses. When he returns, Chris is already watching him, his expression unreadable.

“I heard everything from Sara,” Chris begins, voice steady. “Thank you.”

Minho sets a glass in front of him, pouring the wine smoothly. He doesn’t sit down just yet. “I don’t think that’s something for you to be thankful for.”

Chris swirls his glass, taking a slow sip before responding. “Whether you and Sara were in love or not, she’s someone important to me and is a good friend.”

Minho finally takes his seat, pouring himself a drink. “I didn’t do it to get thanks from you,” he mutters. “But how did you and Sara even become friends?”

Chris smiles faintly. “Thanks to you.”

Minho raises an eyebrow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Chris leans back, fingers resting on his glass. “She told me that if you ever came back, she wouldn’t be able to love anyone else. That she still had feelings for you.”

Minho exhales sharply, gripping the stem of his glass.

Chris doesn’t give him time to dwell on it. “Now that she’s hit rock bottom, will you help her get back up?”

Minho’s eyes narrow. “How about you? I thought you were her friend.”

Chris shrugs, a hint of coyness in his expression. “You’d probably be more of a help to her than I would.”

Minho scoffs. “She should get back up on her own from now on.”

For a moment, silence lingers between them, only the faint sound of Chris tapping his fingers against his glass filling the air. But Minho has his own questions—one he’s been meaning to ask for a while.

He takes a sip of his wine before speaking. “I don’t get it.” His voice is casual, but his gaze is sharp. “Why didn’t you tell your feelings for her before I came? Why did you keep it a secret for three years?”

Chris looks caught off guard for a split second, probably not expecting that Minho would ask about you.

Minho smirks, leaning back in his chair. “You’re a step behind me,” he taunts. “It’s too late.”

Chris only grins, and something about his calmness is inexplicably annoying. “I’m not a step behind you,” he says smoothly. “No one knows until the goal gets in.”

Minho tilts his head, lifting his glass in the air as he muses, “If Sara is your friend, then what does that make her?” His eyes narrow slightly. “What is she to you?”

Chris doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t waver. “She’s my chef,” he says, voice steady. “A chef that I love.”

Minho bursts into laughter, the sheer audacity of it catching him off guard. He’s not sure if he should admire Chris for his boldness or pity him for his foolishness.

But as his laughter dies down, Chris’s expression doesn’t change. He remains calm, unwavering, as if he’s already decided—no matter what Minho says, no matter what happens, he’s not backing down. And that’s when it hits Minho.

Chris isn't just saying this to provoke him. He means it.

Minho grips his glass a little tighter. The realization settles uncomfortably in his chest—Chris isn’t planning to stop.

For the first time tonight, Minho feels something unexpected creep in. He should be worried.

-

You're about to step into your room when Sara’s door creaks open. She stands in the hallway, looking at you with an unreadable expression before casually asking how you’ve been—when it should be you asking her that question.

The two of you end up sitting in the living room, cups of tea in hand. Sara lets out a small, content sigh before she speaks. “It’s only been a couple of days, but this place feels so unfamiliar.”

You smile and tell her that everything is the same.

Sara returns the smile, though it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “The place is the same,” she murmurs, “but maybe it’s because I came back a different person.”

She sets her cup down on the table, then looks at you directly. “Are you disappointed in me?”

You don’t answer right away. Instead, you tell her the truth. “I was worried about you.”

Something in Sara’s expression shifts, as if she wasn’t expecting that response.

“I admire you,” you continue earnestly. “I knew who you were and looked up to you long before you moved in. That’s why it felt like we’d been friends for years.”

Sara blinks in surprise, and then, to your relief, she looks happy—elated, even.

You go on. “All the female chefs dream of becoming like you. Even back in culinary school, we all did.” You lean in slightly, studying her face. “You’re going to shake this off and get back on your feet again, right? Like you always do?”

Sara hesitates. “I don’t know…” she admits. “Would I be able to do that?”

You shake your head immediately, refusing to accept that. “What do you mean you don't know. You’re Chef Choi Sara.”

Sara lets out a small laugh at that, but there’s something thoughtful in her gaze. Then, her expression turns serious. “I should’ve come forward and admitted my mistakes first. But I think… I changed the order around for my own convenience.” She sighs. “I guess I thought people would forgive me and understand my wrongdoing if I made a fresh start.”

She looks at you again, hesitation flickering across her face before she says, “Minho couldn’t come to you or the cooks because he was helping me.”

Your lips part slightly, surprised.

“He came to speak to the reporter I was with,” Sara explains. Then, as if recalling the moment in her mind, she smiles to herself. “I knew right then that Minho wasn’t the same Minho I used to know.”

You raise an eyebrow at that. “What do you mean?”

Sara looks at you, then smiles. “Minho is an even more wonderful man now. Because of you.”

Your face warms at her words. You don’t know how to respond, but before you can even try, Sara sighs and leans back. “You’re too strong of an opponent for me,” she says lightly. “So I’m going to drop out of the competition now.”

Flustered, an awkward laugh escapes you.

Sara watches you with amusement before her gaze softens. “I’m going to start over from the beginning.” Then, turning to you, she asks, “Will you help me?”

You don’t hesitate. “Yes, Chef.”

Sara frowns at that. “Don’t call me ‘Chef.’ I’m not qualified for that title anymore.”

You shake your head in disagreement. “That’s not true, Chef.”

Sara chuckles, a real, warm laugh this time. The weight of the past days lingers, but for the first time in a while, the night doesn’t feel cold.

-

Minho is startled to see you already waiting outside his apartment door. You’re grinning, your eyes bright as you greet him with a sweet, “Good morning, Chef.”

He suppresses a smile and hoists the strap of his backpack higher on his shoulder before walking past you toward the elevator. You follow closely behind, your steps light and eager.

As the two of you wait for the elevator, you turn to him. “What did you and Chris talk about last night?”

Minho doesn’t answer. Instead, he glances at you and asks, “How’s Sara?”

“She’s sleeping,” you reply, then add, “She must be really tired.”

Minho nods. “Good.”

The elevator chimes, and both of you step inside. As it descends, you turn to him again, curiosity evident in your voice. “So? What did you two talk about?”

Minho feigns innocence. “Who?”

You roll your eyes. “The two men who growl at each other every time they meet. What could you possibly have to say to each other?”

Minho glances at you, tilting his head. “What did you girls talk about?”

With a teasing smile, you answer, “We talked about you.”

Minho smirks. “We talked about you.”

You narrow your eyes and search his face, trying to get him to look at you. “What exactly did you talk about?”

Minho shrugs. “I don’t know.”

The elevator doors slide open, and before you can press further, he steps out, leaving you to follow.

On the car ride to work, Minho’s phone rings. He glances at the screen and sees Sous-chef Seojun calling. You see it too.

He picks up, skipping the formalities as usual. “What is it?”

There’s a pause on the other end before Seojun hesitantly mutters, “Chef…”

Minho cuts in before he can finish. “Yes, I’m your manager chef for the New Chef Culinary Challenge.”

You swat his arm and mutter under your breath, “Be gentle.”

Minho side-eyes you but keeps listening as Seojun stammers, “Are you… serious?”

“Yes.”

“But why—”

Minho’s tone turns teasing. “What? You don’t want me?”

“N-No! That’s not what I meant!” Seojun quickly corrects himself.

“Then?” Minho presses. “You do want me to be your manager chef?”

There’s a brief pause before Seojun confirms, “Yes, Chef.”

Minho smirks. “We’re going to start right away.”

This time, he hears the entrée line shouting in unison through the phone, their enthusiasm palpable. Minho leans back in his seat, enjoying the moment before casually warning, “Brace yourselves.”

“Yes, Chef!” they chorus back.

And then, just because he can, he adds menacingly, “You’re all dead meat now.” He hangs up, satisfied—only to yelp in pain when you hit his arm.

“Do you really have to say that?” you scold, glaring at him.

Minho rubs his arm dramatically. “It’s called motivation.”

You shake your head, but a second later, both of you burst into laughter, the sound filling the car as the morning sun casts golden light over the city streets.

-

The moment Minho steps into the restaurant, he heads straight for the kitchen. He expects chaos, hesitation—maybe even defiance. But to his surprise, the entrée line is already working on the meat exactly as he instructed.

He watches them in silence, moving through their stations one by one. His sharp eyes scan each movement, each technique.

When he reaches Hyunwoo’s station, he stops. “You’re not wrapping it properly,” Minho points out, his voice calm but firm. “The juice will seep inward.”

“Yes, Chef.” Hyunwoo doesn’t argue like he usually does. Instead, he immediately corrects his mistake, adjusting the wrap with careful precision.

Minho observes him for a moment, realizing something. The way he approaches the problem changes everything. He’s spent years pushing, demanding, forcing results—but he didn’t know there was an easier, better way until now. A small, satisfied smile tugs at his lips.

Turning away, he strides back to the chef’s table and leans against it. “Taesoo,” he calls out.

Taesoo looks up from his station. “Yes, Chef?”

“Gather everyone in my office before lunch service.”

“Yes, Chef,” Taesoo enthusiastically answers.

Minho watches them for a moment longer before heading toward his office, feeling something settle in his chest—something that feels a lot like pride.

Once everyone is crammed into his office, Minho wastes no time. He leans against his desk, arms crossed, and gets straight to the point.

"Farfalle has been invited to participate in the New Chef Culinary Challenge," he announces. "If we win first place, we'll be given the title of Best Italian Restaurant—and the winning chefs will get the opportunity to study in Italy."

A ripple of murmurs spreads through the room, excitement mixing with uncertainty. Minho lets it settle for a beat before he continues.

He turns his gaze to the entrée line, calling their names one by one. “Sous-chef, Park Hyunwoo and Choi Seungwan have been chosen to represent Farfalle in the competition.”

Felix, standing next to you, looks utterly bewildered. He blinks rapidly, his confusion clear. But Minho isn’t done.

“In addition to that, I’ll be their manager chef.”

Felix’s head snaps toward him, mouth slightly open. Minho ignores him.

“We’ll be represented in the contest by our locally trained chefs, but all of us will be preparing for this together,” he states. His tone leaves no room for argument. “I want everyone to stay after hours every day to prepare and practice.”

Felix points at himself, then at you. “Wait—does that include us?”

“Yes,” Minho confirms without looking at him. “Which also means everyone will have to partner up.”

Felix looks even more surprised. “Partner up as in—”

Minho hisses through his teeth, cutting him off. Felix immediately quiets down, mumbling an apology.

Minho exhales sharply. “You two already have three years of experience in Italy. You’ll share your skills with your partners, step by step, course by course. Got it?”

A chorus of groans rises from the entrée line, but only Seojun has the nerve to voice his complaints. “Chef, we don’t have time for this, and we don’t even get along. Are you doing this to us on purpose?”

Minho’s expression remains blank. “Yes.”

Seojun gapes at him then turns to Hyunwoo and Seungwan but they're just as bewildered.

“And to make it worse, I’m pairing you with the person you hate the most,” Minho adds casually.

The room erupts in protests. Minho tunes them out. Taesoo raises his hand and Minho gestures for him to speak.

“What about me, Chef?” Taesoo asks.

“You just keep doing what you’ve been doing,” Minho answers. “You don’t need to worry about the contest.”

“Yes, Chef,” Taesoo replies immediately.

Minho gives them all a sharp look before concluding, “That’s it. Get back to work.”

A collective, reluctant “Yes, Chef” murmurs through the room as everyone drags themselves toward the door.

Minho notices Felix hesitating, clearly about to protest, but before he can open his mouth, you grab his arm and pull him along, laughing. “Come on, it’s going to be fun.”

Felix groans dramatically, but Minho catches the small, amused smile he’s trying to hide.

-

After dinner service ends, everyone takes a one-hour break, but once the clock runs out, they gather back in the kitchen, ready for after-hours practice. Minho walks in, eyes sweeping over the group, noting their varying levels of exhaustion and determination. Good. They’ll need both.

He steps up to his chef’s table, resting his hands on the edge as he speaks. “There’s only one ingredient we can predict with some certainty,” he begins. “Beef. But we don’t know which cut it’ll be.” His eyes scan the room. “Could be tenderloin, could be sirloin—but one thing’s for sure: the main dish is beef.”

A few nods. No one dares to interrupt as Minho continues. “The hors d’oeuvre, soup, pasta—every course has to complement the main. Got it?”

“Yes, Chef,” they all respond in unison.

“For tonight’s practice, we’re working with tenderloin you guys have prepared. Each of you will come up with a full-course meal to go with it.”

Another unified, firmer, “Yes, Chef.”

Minho wastes no time assigning partners. “Felix, you’re with Seungwan. Hyunwoo, you’re with her.” He jerks his chin in your direction before turning to his own station. “I’ll partner with Sous-chef.”

With that, practice begins. Minho heads to Seojun’s station first. “Cook the meat rare, medium rare, medium, medium-well, and well-done. I want you to cook all five.”

“Yes, Chef,” Seojun answers without hesitation.

Minho lingers, watching as Seojun methodically seasons each cut with salt and pepper. There’s a rhythm to his movements, precise but almost too careful.

Minho studies him for a moment before casually asking, “Sous-chef, have you always been this brusque?”

Seojun glances at him and—unexpectedly—smiles. He doesn’t answer.

Minho slyly smiles and moves on. At Felix and Seungwan’s station, Felix is deep in conversation with himself. “We could do a tomato-based starter. Or maybe something lighter—citrus?”

Seungwan nods. “Sounds good.”

Felix hums. “Or we could go with mushrooms. What do you think?”

“Sounds good.��

Minho sighs. He strides up behind Seungwan and gives him a light smack on the back of the head. “Stop saying sounds good to everything,” he scolds. “Think before you answer.”

Seungwan swallows and nods quickly. “Yes, Chef.”

Minho turns to Felix. “And you—stop giving him multiple-choice. Make him answer your question.”

Felix straightens, nodding. “Yes, Chef.”

Satisfied, Minho moves on to your station, just as you return from the pantry with tagliatelle. He barely makes it two steps before you whip around and snap at Hyunwoo.

“Why did you put in the spaghetti?” you ask with your eyes widened.

Hyunwoo doesn’t even look up as he nonchalantly says, “Why does it matter?”

You exhale sharply, incredulous. “Because it’s a cream sauce pasta.”

Minho steps in before you bore a hole on Hyunwoo’s head with your laser glare. “Spaghetti is good with olive oil sauces,” he explains, crossing his arms. “For cream sauces or bolognese, use wide pasta—like tagliatelle.”

Hyunwoo nods, but you suddenly point at the pan and scolds, “At least, shake the pan. The pasta’s getting mushy.”

Hyunwoo startles and hurriedly shakes the frying pan to salvage it.

Minho exhales through his nose and walks back to his chef’s table, observing the kitchen as everyone continues working. It’s still rough. Not perfect. But at least it’s a start.

-

Minho lingers in the kitchen, arms crossed as he leans against the chef’s table, watching you and Taesoo clean up after practice. The kitchen is quieter now, save for the sound of running water and the occasional clang of metal against metal. It’s almost peaceful. Almost.

Then, the peace is disrupted as Chris walks into the kitchen.

Minho lifts a brow but doesn’t straighten up. “What brings you here?”

At the sound of Chris’s arrival, you and Taesoo pause mid-task, glancing over in curiosity.

Chris doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he pulls out a credit card, placing it on the chef’s table with a small but deliberate motion. “This is for the contest preparations,” he announces. “I don’t know how else to help, but I want to do something. And I figured this way, I can actively support both the harmony and quality of this kitchen—especially for the competition.”

Minho picks up the card, turning it between his fingers before giving Chris a flat look. “So, this is your way of pressuring us to take first place?”

Chris only smiles, coy and confident. “Weren’t you going to take first place anyway?”

Next to you, Taesoo grins, clasping his hands together in exaggerated admiration. “Wow, that was so cool. Giving Chef the credit card like that,” he gushes.

You lean forward on the counter, propping your chin on your hand. “Right? That's our manager.”

Minho glares at you. You, of course, are too busy swooning over Chris and his stupid credit card to care. Annoyed, Minho turns back to Chris. “If you were just going to give me this, you could’ve done it privately. Why make a big deal out of it?”

Before Chris can respond, Taesoo cuts in. “It’s not that big of a deal.”

You let out a soft sigh. “It is a big deal.”

Minho hisses at both of you, but you and Taesoo only grin in response.

Chris, ever composed, simply adds, “Since I did make a big fuss, I’ll say this too—let's not overwork everyone. I don’t want the contest interfering with regular kitchen duties.”

Minho nods and shifts his gaze to Taesoo. “As a matter of fact, Taesoo, you can go home now. From now on, just focus on your regular duties.”

Taesoo brightens immediately. “Seriously? Thanks, Chef!”

Minho turns back to Chris, exhaling through his nose. “How about you go home too, Mister Manager? Wouldn’t want this interfering with your regular duties.”

Chris slyly smiles, giving everyone a casual, “Goodnight,” before leaving the kitchen with Taesoo in tow.

Now, it’s just you and Minho in the kitchen. He looks down at the credit card, rolling it between his fingers again before glancing at you. “If we don’t win first place, Chris might tell me to reimburse him for all this.”

You laugh softly, tilting your head. “We’ll win first place.”

Minho raises a brow and leans in slightly. “How do you know?”

You playfully bump your shoulder against his, a small, easy gesture. “Because you’re managing the team.”

Minho hates how easily you can make him smile—but that’s exactly why he loves you. You stay when everyone else can’t stand him for long.

-

It’s early in the morning, and the restaurant is still empty. The silence stretches through the halls, interrupted only by the soft hum of a computer. As expected, Chris is already in his office, his brows slightly furrowed as he reads something on the screen.

You pop your head through the door, a bright smile tugging at your lips. “Good morning.”

The moment he looks up and sees you, his face lights up—like it always does. “Hey,” he greets, his voice warm. “Come in.”

You shake your head. “Actually, I want you come with me?”

Chris blinks, confused, but doesn’t hesitate to push his chair back and stand. As you lead him toward the kitchen, he falls into step beside you, eyeing you curiously. “You’ve been working late nights,” he comments. “Aren’t you tired?”

You glance at him and reply softly, “It’s not like I’m the only one tired. Everyone, including the chef, is working hard.”

When you arrive in the kitchen, you turn to him with a small grin before stepping aside to reveal a plate of mini spinach lasagna—the dish you know is his favorite.

Chris stares at it, momentarily stunned, before his lips stretch into an elated smile. “Wait—is this what I think it is?”

You nod, confirming, “Your favorite spinach lasagna.”

Grabbing a fork and a napkin, you place them beside the plate and gesture toward it. “Go ahead, have some.”

Chris narrows his eyes at you playfully. “What’s the occasion?”

You shrug, keeping your voice light. “No occasion. Just felt like making it.” You don’t tell him the real reason—that you made it as a quiet thank-you for everything he’s done.

Chris eyes you again like he doesn’t quite believe you, as if he’s about to tease you for it, but instead, he mutters a quiet, “Thank you,” before digging in.

You watch as he eats, a contented smile plastered on his face. The sight of him enjoying the food makes something warm settle in your chest. But as he nears the last few bites, curiosity tugs at you, and you finally break the silence.

“What did you and Minho talk about last time?”

Chris glances at you mid-chew so you continue. “At his place, the other night,” you clarify. “Chef said you guys talked about me. Is that true?”

Chris spears the last piece of lasagna with his fork, shoving it into his mouth as a sly smile curves his lips. He chews slowly, deliberately dragging out the suspense. Then, finally, he answers. “It’s true. We talked about you.”

You tilt your head. “What did you say?”

Chris dabs his mouth with the napkin, casual as ever. Then, in that same effortless way, he says, “I told him that I love you.”

A laugh bursts from your lips before you can stop it. “Yeah, okay,” you chuckle, shaking your head, assuming he’s joking.

But then Chris meets your gaze—steady, unwavering. “I’m serious,” he says.

The smile slips from your face but he holds your stare, his voice gentle yet firm as he repeats, “I love you.” A beat passes before he continues, “I’ve always been in love with you. Since the moment I met you.”

Your breath catches as Chris exhales, almost like he’s relieved to finally say it aloud. “That’s why I offered you the job—because I wanted you close to me.”

You knew he liked you. But this—to say that he loves you—it’s something you never even dared to consider. And now, your heart aches in your chest because you know the answer he wants from you isn’t one you can give.

Chris watches you, his expression unreadable. When you fail to find the right words, he simply smiles again, softer this time. “Thanks for the food,” he says before turning and walking out of the kitchen.

You stand frozen, your mind spinning as a lump forms in your throat. The sadness settling inside you isn’t just sadness—it feels more like guilt. Guilt that you can’t return his feelings.

Before you can think twice, your feet move on their own, and you break into a run. “Chris!”

He stops in the hallway, his back still to you. Slowly, he turns, his eyes meeting yours. You search his face, desperate to say something, anything that will make this feel less heavy.

But in the end, all that comes out is, “I’m sorry.”

Chris smiles. Not in disappointment, not in pain—just a simple, understanding smile. He nods.

Your own lips curve into a faint, wobbly smile, even as tears prick at your eyes. This time, you say what you can say. “Thank you.”

Chris holds your gaze a moment longer before murmuring, “Just stay close to me. That’s enough for me.”

You nod, swallowing back the lump in your throat, and as you stare into his eyes, you let them say all the things you don’t have the words for.

-

Minho steps into the restaurant, the familiar scent of freshly brewed coffee filling the air. His eyes scan the room instinctively, pausing when he spots Chris sitting alone at the coffee station. With a quiet sigh, Minho makes his way over, grabbing the stool beside him without a word. He reaches for the pot, pouring himself a cup, the rich aroma curling in the air between them. Neither of them speaks at first. The silence lingers, comfortable in a way that only comes with familiarity.

Then, Chris calls him. “Chef.”

Minho barely glances at him. “What?” His tone is indifferent, automatic.

Chris sets his cup down, fingers loosely curled around it. “She told me that I’m not for her.”

Minho expected this. He knew it was coming. And yet, hearing it out loud still catches him off guard. He takes a slow sip of his coffee, letting the bitterness settle on his tongue before he says, “Let’s have a drink later.”

It’s not a suggestion, more of a casual invitation, the kind that doesn’t need much thought.

But to his surprise, Chris shakes his head. “I don’t want to.”

Chris doesn’t elaborate. He just sits there, sipping his coffee like he hasn’t just turned Minho down flat.

Minho scoffs, but there’s no real annoyance behind it. Chris is annoying but now that he’s used to it, Minho thinks he is not that bad.

-

The clock creeps past midnight, but the kitchen is still alive, filled with the rhythmic clatter of knives against cutting boards, the sizzle of pans, and the quiet murmur of focused conversation. Minho moves through the space, eyes sharp, hands tucked into the pockets of his apron as he surveys the progress of the night’s practice. He stops first at Seojun’s station, dipping a spoon into the sauce meant to accompany the steak. The rich aroma fills his senses as he tastes it. The balance is almost there, but—

“Add more brandy,” Minho says, licking the remnants off his lips. “The meat’s already tender, so I’m not sure about all this sweetness.”

Seojun hums in thought, nodding. “I agree. I’ll fix it, Chef.”

Minho moves on, his steps light but deliberate as he approaches Seungwan’s station. Felix is there, nodding approvingly as he tastes the cauliflower soup. “The sweetness is perfect,” Felix comments. “And the aroma’s nice.”

Minho watches for a moment, the satisfaction settling in his chest before he continues his rounds. At your station, he stops in front of the stove, lifting the pan of pasta he’s been working on and holding it out to you. “Here. Try it.”

You grab a fork, testing the pasta first before twirling a portion coated in sauce and popping it into your mouth. Minho watches as Hyunwoo waits, anticipation written all over his face. Then, your lips curve into a grin. “It’s a success.”

Hyunwoo grins back, holding up a fist. You bump it without hesitation.

Minho exhales through his nose, amusement flickering in his chest, before turning back to his chef’s table. He surveys the kitchen one last time, then announces, “Let’s finish up here. Clean up and get some rest. We have an important day tomorrow.”

The kitchen shifts—knives are set down, stations wiped clean. But before anyone disperses, there’s a quiet moment of camaraderie. Pats on the back, murmurs of “Good luck,” and tired but proud smiles exchanged between teammates.

Minho watches all of it. No matter what happens tomorrow, this—his kitchen—has done well. And he’s proud.

-

Minho doesn’t have to look to know that you’re asleep in the passenger seat. Your soft, steady breathing fills the quiet space, the faint rise and fall of your shoulders confirming just how exhausted you are. You don’t even stir when he shifts the gear into park.

He exhales, leaning back against his seat for a moment before deciding not to wake you. Instead, he unclips his own seatbelt, steps out into the night air, and rounds the car to your side. When he opens the door, the dim streetlights cast gentle shadows over your sleeping face.

Minho watches you for a beat longer than he should. There’s something about seeing you like this—unguarded, peaceful—that makes his chest feel tight in a way he can’t explain. The corner of his lips tugs upward as he reaches out, brushing a few strands of hair away from your face with careful fingers.

Then, he leans in, unbuckling your seatbelt with the same tenderness. He takes your bag first, slinging it over his shoulder, before positioning himself to carry you on his back. With practiced ease, he lifts you, adjusting his grip as he straightens up. The car door swings shut with a quiet thud behind him.

You stir, your arms tightening around his shoulders as you slowly wake. Your voice is groggy when you mumble, “You can put me down now. I can walk.”

Minho scoffs and tightens his hold on your legs. “Just stay still.”

You obey, resting your head against the crook of his neck, your breath warm against his skin. He starts walking, the cool night air contrasting the warmth of your body pressed against his back.

After a moment, he asks, “Do you know why it’s tough for women to become chefs?”

You hum in question, still half-asleep. “Why?”

Minho shifts your weight slightly before answering, “Because women aren’t stupid.”

There’s a pause before he continues, his voice softer now. “Only stupid people would dig for a well in a dry desert. And as a chef, it feels like you’re endlessly digging, never knowing if you’ll find water.” He slows his steps, turning his head slightly toward you. “You’re beautiful to me because you’re stupidly stubborn.”

You blink sleepily at him, but he doesn’t stop. “You turned down a rich guy. You take whatever impossible task I throw at you just so I can hold my head up as a chef. You helped me be a good chef.” Minho smiles to himself before adding, “I’m so grateful for you… because you’re stupidly stubborn.”

You look at him then, a quiet smile forming on your lips. Your eyes hold something deep—something that makes Minho’s pulse stutter for a second. He holds the gaze, but then you move first, leaning in just slightly—just enough for him to meet you halfway.

His lips capture yours in a slow, tender kiss. It lingers, warm and unspoken in its meaning, a silent gratitude that words could never quite hold.

When he pulls away, he finds you smiling at him. You place another soft peck on his lips before resting your head against his neck again, sighing in contentment.

Minho exhales, warmth overflowing in his chest. Without another word, he tightens his grip on you and keeps walking, the weight of you on his back feeling a little lighter than before.

-

The night is quiet, save for the faint rustling of the sheets and the soft cadence of your breaths. The world outside feels distant, insignificant, as if nothing exists beyond this room, beyond the warmth of Minho’s skin against yours.

He takes a moment to worship you, how your body is a vision against the white sheets, so perfect, so divine but at the same time, he feels the temptation to ruin you.

Minho aligns his cock with your entrance, he pushes just enough before withdraw it and then pushes it back inside, this time not stopping until he fully sheathed inside you.

His face hovers only a few inches above you as he murmurs, “How do you always feels so good?”

He thrusts slowly, deliberately, as though memorizing the way your body responds to him—the way your breath hitches when his fingers trace the curve of your spine, the way your lips part when he leans down to kiss you, deep and unhurried. His hands explore you with reverence, as if he’s searching for something he never realized he was missing until you.

Minho has never been like this before. Never taken his time like this, never felt the urge to savor each moment as if it’s something fleeting. But with you, it’s different. You make him want to stay in this moment, to drown in it, to lose himself in the warmth of your body and the way you whisper his name like it means something more.

“Minho...”

His forehead presses against yours as he moves, his breath warm against your lips. His hands cradle your face, his thumbs brushing over your cheeks like he’s trying to etch this feeling into his bones.

He’s had lovers before, but this—this is something else. This is intimacy in its purest form, a connection that seeps into him, filling the hollow spaces he didn’t even know existed.

When he looks into your eyes, half-lidded and full of something he’s almost afraid to name, Minho knows.

He’s never been this into someone before. And he doesn’t think he ever will be again.

The night wraps around you both, quiet and intimate, the world beyond these walls forgotten. The only thing that exists is the warmth of Minho’s body against yours, the slow rhythm of your breaths mingling in the still air. His movements are unhurried, each touch deliberate, like he’s memorizing the way you feel beneath him.

Then you look at him, eyes hazy, searching.

“What are you thinking, mmh?” you whisper, your voice barely more than a breath.

Minho stills. His grip on your waist tightens just slightly, like he’s anchoring himself. He could say it—could tell you that you make him feel things he never thought he would, that this is different from anything he’s ever known. But the words don’t come, not yet. He isn’t ready.

Instead, he answers with a kiss. Slow, deep, reverent. His lips move against yours as if trying to tell you everything he can’t say. His hands trace over your skin with purpose, lingering, savoring. He holds you close, pressing his forehead to yours as he stills completely, just staying like that, connected, feeling every bit of you against him.

Time stretches, the moment suspended in something weightless, something sacred.

Then, with a breathless murmur, he finally thrusts into you again, pouring every unspoken word into the way he touches you, into the way he loves you.

-

The competition hall buzzes with tension, the air thick with the quiet hum of anticipation. Minho surveys the crowded space, noting the presence of teams from some of the city’s most renowned restaurants.

The competition is stiff, but he isn’t here to lose. He glances at the trio seated next to him. Seojun, as always, maintains a calm exterior, but Minho knows him well enough to see the flicker of nerves behind his eyes. Hyunwoo and Seungwan, on the other hand, don’t bother masking their anxiety—it’s written all over their faces.

Beyond them, Minho catches sight of the small group of supporters from Farfalle. You’re nestled between Felix and Taesoo, talking quietly. Minji and Yura sit nearby, also here to cheer the team on.

The announcement comes: it’s time to unveil the secret ingredients.

Minho steps forward, his pulse steady as he rounds the table. His hands are sure as he lifts the lid off the box, revealing the ingredients inside. He hears the sharp intake of breath beside him as Seojun spots the meat—tenderloin. Good.

Minho digs further and pulls out a pack of fresh squid. The second Hyunwoo sees it, he sighs in frustration. "Squid! But this is the cheap kind," he mutters under his breath.

Minho doesn’t even look up as he replies, “It’s a contest. They want us to prove we can turn cheap ingredients into something worth serving.” His gaze flickers to the panel of judges, landing briefly on Chef Rossi. He has a feeling the challenge stems from him.

Turning back to his team, Minho straightens. “The judges are testing us,” he says, voice firm. “But this is where we show them our skills.”

He grabs the board and pen, holding them up for emphasis. “Listen, once we submit our course menu, we can’t change it. So think carefully. Look at the ingredients. What dishes work?”

He gives them a moment to think before turning to Seojun first. “Main course?”

“Tenderloin steak,” Seojun answers without hesitation.

Minho nods, writing it down before shifting his attention to Seungwan. “Hors d’oeuvre?”

Seungwan hesitates, rifling through the ingredients, his expression frustrated as he picks up the squid. “What am I supposed to make with this?” he sighs.

Minho clicks his tongue. “Don’t start that.” He levels Seungwan with a look. “You’re the most optimistic person in this damn kitchen. You always find the best in any dish. Do the same here. What’s the positive in these ingredients?”

Seungwan’s brows furrow. He looks back at the squid, fingers tapping against the packaging. A few seconds later, his expression shifts—realization dawning. “Squid carpaccio,” he says. “There’s a unique taste to squid when it’s fresh. I can work with that.”

Minho smirks. “Are you confident with it?”

Seungwan meets his eyes. “Yes, Chef.”

The four of them continue finalizing the menu, the tension in the air shifting into focus and determination. Once everything is set, Minho hands their submission to the panel, his mind already calculating the next steps.

They have little time before heading into the kitchen. He turns back to his team, gaze sharp as he looks at each of them.

“This is it,” he says. “Soon, there won’t be any chef to answer to. No one yelling at you to do it over. You’re on your own.” His voice lowers slightly, just enough to make them listen. “I hope this is the last time I’ll have to curse you out. Go out there and take first place. Got it?”

The three of them answer immediately. “Yes, Chef!”

Minho exhales. “From here on, it’s all up to you guys. I’ve done what I can to help.”

Another firm, unwavering reply: “Yes, Chef!”

Minho glances at each of them before nodding. “Come on, let’s do this properly.”

He extends his hand, and they all gather in, hands stacked together in a show of unity. He looks at them one last time before murmuring, “Good luck.”

With that, he watches them leave for the competition kitchen, a rare smile tugging at his lips. No matter what happens next, he’s proud.

-

The tension in the competition hall is almost suffocating. Minho watches as the chefs return with their finished dishes, the air thick with anticipation. From the sidelines, he sits with you beside him, your warmth grounding him amidst the pressure.

“The final round of the New Chef Culinary Challenge is about to begin.”

The words echo across the hall, and Minho exhales sharply. It’s time. He feels your fingers tighten around his hand, a reassuring squeeze before you lean in, your breath warm against his ear. "Posso farcela."

Minho glances at you, smirking at your whispered encouragement. Without another word, he stands and strides toward the table marked with Farfalle’s name.

Seojun, Seungwan, and Hyunwoo are already there, standing stiffly in a line. Minho claps each of them on the shoulder, his touch firm, steady. “Good work.” It’s all he says, but the weight behind it is clear.

The judges begin making their rounds, moving from table to table with slow, deliberate steps. Each contestant watches with bated breath as they meticulously sample every dish, jotting down scores with unreadable expressions.

Minho stands still, hands clasped behind his back, his eyes fixed on one judge in particular—Chef Rossi. The old man tastes each dish in front of him with careful consideration, his gaze revealing nothing. Minho has always respected his palate; in a room full of critics, his opinion is the only one that truly matters.

But when Chef Rossi finally sets down his fork, his expression remains cryptic—an almost imperceptible flicker of something in his eyes before he turns away, leaving Minho grasping at straws.

A slow, simmering frustration builds in Minho’s chest. What the hell was that? Approval? Disappointment? Amusement?

As soon as the judges move to the next table, Minho wastes no time. He grabs a fork, slicing into the tenderloin and lifting it to his mouth. The moment the flavor bursts onto his tongue, his mind is made up.

The judges would have to be idiots not to give them first place.

Minutes stretch into eternity as the judges tally their scores. The murmuring in the hall grows restless. Beside him, his team is standing stiff, their confidence wavering in the face of the unknown.

Finally, the host steps forward, microphone in hand. The murmurs die instantly. “It is now time to announce the winners of the New Chef Culinary Challenge.”

Minho’s fingers curl slightly against the table. He’s not the only one holding his breath. A pause. A beat too long.

“We will now announce the first place winner.”

Minho doesn’t blink. He already knows. But then—

A flicker of something in the host’s expression. A hesitation. A subtle shift in the air.

Minho’s heart kicks up—just slightly.

“The winner of the 8th New Chef Culinary Challenge is...”

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