#it was only supposed to be like three chapters but it is not

[silence-ofthe-llamas]

More Mech Au-Au!

Swindle-orientated chapter, with sprinkles of TexAid.

Swindle smiled at everyone.

He smiled at those he was happy with, he smiled at those who had pissed him off, he smiled at those he was making deals with, the list was endless.

The only time he didn’t smile was when he was on his own. The door would click closed behind him, the lock automatically engaging, and the facade would slide from his face.

This all had to be worth it. It had to. He’d risked so much already, he was gambling at stakes he couldn’t pay. Failure would mean death, death for all five of them, and as such, failure was unacceptable.

He’d promised Onslaught.

Vortex was a source of pride for him - a prototype mech who had survived against all odds, plumping up his resume handsomely. The only surviving AI from that round and the round that came after - against all odds, Vortex had persisted. He hadn’t self destructed like his own cohort had, he hadn’t lost his sense of reality, he didn’t completely lose himself. He remained exactly who he was, for better or for worse. The discussions of destroying him once he’d begun to show his more aggressive tendencies were terrifying, sending Swindle scrambling for ways to extract Vortex from the mech. They didn’t get this far just to be treated like they were disposable. Had they forgotten that they were real people they’d trapped within the metal? What did it matter that they were slated to die anyway? That didn’t mean they could just be destroyed when they became inconvenient, there was supposed to be a due process. They were owed that much.

Swindle hung up his hat and ran his hand through his hair. Fuck. They’d gotten so lucky with that boy – Felix, right? That was his name, and Swindle has a vague recollection of his name meaning luck. Good for them that he lived up to it – they were lucky that he was persistent and determined, lucky that Vortex seemed to like him. His teammate liked to play with his food, and it seemed he was settling in to give First Aid a good long chew. Which was good! It meant Vortex was unknowingly buying himself some more time whilst he looked for ways to extract him and put him in something else. Anything else would do at this point - shit, he could be his toaster and burn his toast for eternity. At least he’d still be alive and he wouldn’t be left alone again.

Shit. How depressing. How did this become their only option?

Swindle kicked off his shoes, neatly placing them away onto the rack, and shrugged off his jacket

“I want to make them burn in hell.”

He’d done it because he had to. He took no pleasure in what happened to his team after he gave the wrong people the right intel - but it was this, or they’d all be dead. Like, dead-in-the-ground-dead. Skullfucked by maggots dead. Not on ice, not in giant suits of armour with guns and swords bigger than buildings, dead. Dead and forgotten, and it would be all five of them. Nobody alive to fight in their corner, nobody to keep them as safe as they could, nobody to do what needed to be done.

The screams didn’t haunt him like they used to. While they were still alive, skulking around the research centre with tags and monitors and cables and cameras on them at all times, people did terrible things to them. Trepan was the most frightening. He was enraptured with the idea of creating super soldiers. That’s what they’d tried at first - they’d needed warm, fresh, and living bodies - and who would notice if a mercenary group went missing? Everyone would just assume that they had died, and that would be that. They wouldn’t even look for their corpses.

Vortex had been the most difficult one for them to deal with. He was rude, unruly, and dished back what he was given. At one point they’d had to strap him down Hannibal style just to give him his injections - after they’d removed his prosthetic arm when he’d slashed through the restraints and three researchers with the hidden blade, he’d taken to biting down hard enough to rip chunks of flesh from the researchers instead. Vortex would laugh through the blood that dripped down his chin, but he’d always ended up screaming.

Brawl was freakishly quiet. He would press his palms to his temples, his eyes dull and face gaunt. Swindle would never admit how it made his insides churn, how guilt had ravaged him into sleepless nights. They all screamed, they all cried through the agony of it, but it was the worst when they were quiet. His team wasn’t meant to be quiet. They were always doing something, saying something. Vortex was always pissing off Blast Off, winding him up like a younger sibling did to an older one. Brawl was always playing music far too loud in his headphones. Onslaught was much quieter, but he was his own kind of orchestra of sound. A gun being cleaned, turning pages, the squeak of leather.

They weren’t in the research facility. They were shadows of themselves.

Onslaught had always given Swindle his looks though. No blame. No fault given. Thankful. They’d made a promise, after all. They’d agreed that this was what they would do, how it would happen. Anything that gave them longer to figure out what the fuck they were going to do.

The experiments were a failure. All it gave them were broken men. But that only gave them perfectly usable test subjects for something else, for another failing project.

Trepan had asked Swindle personally who he would volunteer as their first test subject. Who did he think had the best chance of success? Who did he think would make the best immortal warrior?

The cockroach, he’d replied. Vortex was fucking impossible to kill. He’d seen him getting himself blown up multiple times. He’d had to pay to fix his face, he’d had to pay to fix his spine, he’d had to pay for that damn prosthetic and every single hospital stay to stitch him back together. And not once had the man been touched by death. If a nuclear bomb were to fall on them, he was convinced Vortex would emerge unscathed and demanding a cigarette.

He was also extremely resistant to control. He despised being told what to do. Onslaught was an exception because he had actually made an effort to build a rapport with him, it was a relationship built on mutual respect and understanding. And Trepan? Every single scientist in this building? Vortex would rend them to dust and ash if they even entertained the thought of controlling him.

It was a hopeful moment, a glimpse into an optimistic future. Vortex would lose his humanity, but they would all regain their freedom.

But good things didn’t favour terrible men.

Fuck, he wanted a cigarette.

The photoshoot with Blurr was overrunning. It was already eleven o’clock at night - they’d been at this since 10 in the morning, working hard to get their perfect shots. The photogenic mechanics (paid actors). The intelligent engineers (more paid actors). The trustworthy medics (yet more paid actors). Their only non-actor was Blurr, but even then he was just their show dog. He wasn’t actually a pilot, not in the traditional sense. He wasn’t deployed, he was paraded.

Blurr would want to talk after, to natter away about something or other, to get a drink together and maybe a bite to eat, but Swindle just wanted to go to bed. He was tired. Exhausted. Going into his teammates lockers to grab a photograph had just dug up old memories from where he’d buried them, and he’d woken up with Vortex’s screams in his native tongue ringing in his ears, unable to get back to sleep. He could still hear it between the sounds of the camera shutter.

First Aid seemed to be a nice enough kid. He got on well with others, he did his job without complaint, and he was efficient. He didn’t dally around when he was to clamber into Vortex, he was quick and to the point - and, Swindle noticed with growing curiosity, he studiously avoided touching his controls.

If only the pilots were smart enough to pick up on that. Shame, really. It was starting to get real expensive to keep this quiet.

So it was with quiet horror that he watched as First Aid was trapped within the cockpit, the medic accompanying him collapsing to the floor as blood spurted up the glass from where his leg used to be.

He found himself hissing through his teeth. Don’t do anything stupid, Tex!

When First Aid stumbled out looking like his first pilot he’d ever had did, Swindle felt a grim mood take over him. How hard was it to fucking behave? To not do something so unbelievably stupid? To not get himself killed? Apparently it was too much for Vortex to fucking control himself.

But First Aid had been okay. The next day he was as chipper and chirpy as ever with full recollection of the previous day. He’d thought it was funny.

And that’s when Swindle knew that the boy was their chance. If he could survive Vortex, if Vortex was allowing him to live, then they had to seize the opportunity they could.

Nobody listened. Nobody fucking listened. They were repatriating children in biohazard bags, not even a hand left intact for their loved ones to hold as they said goodbye, and they weren’t listening to him.

They needed Felix Anwyl in that mech. Now. He was sick of watching lambs being offered up for sacrifice. Vortex was a malicious bastard but even he would get bored of it all eventually - and from where Swindle was standing, he saw a much better chance of getting their brothers online if Vortex settled down and stopped acting like he was possessed by the devil.

Seeing Felix sprinting towards Vortex in a pilots suit that didn’t fit him, Swindle discretely cleared the way. He distracted the officers with him, had them avert their eyes for a second to let him pass. He redirected people, he gave distractions, he delayed who he could to buy First Aid much needed time to get to the mech before that cadet took a single step inside. Vortex would kill them for the intrusion, he’d explicitly had enough of it and was demanding what was his. His words in the morning memos were enough.

Swindle was out of options. He needed to get First Aid into that mech before they stamped the paperwork to render the supposed AI obsolete and for the scrap heap.

He didn’t have a toaster ready for him yet.

Prowl had looked thunderous on the catwalk. So had Pharma. He had to fight to keep his grin at bay - he had to press his hand to his lips to hide it when Vortex began yelling ‘mine’ through the walkie talkie.

Oh, he really liked this one.

Pharma had kicked up the biggest fuss. He didn’t want to lose his precious medic.

Swindle checked his file. First Aid hadn’t been on any major medical assignments since the previous year, and there was no record of why. No particular displeasures, no signs of any faults or major errors, any need to retrain, or competencies lapsing and requiring reassessment. Pharma had just decided to force First Aid away from his job in some bizarre, inexplicable act.

He’d grabbed him by the collar and hissed into his ear that the blood was on his hands. That if he wanted to keep First Aid, then he could be the one to clear the mech out, that he would be the one to write to the families and explain what had happened.

Pharma had opened his mouth and begun to say something about a punishment, but Swindle placed his finger to his lips and shook his head.

“It’s not on his record.” He reminded him, tapping the file. “Do you want to incriminate yourself? Right here?”

And so he’d received the stamp of approval that evening. The ink was still wet as he shook Pharmas hand, the man holding his too tightly.

First Aid seemed to like Vortex too.

Pilots didn’t usually go and hang out with their mechs. They liked to be near them – apparently there was something about the connection that had them bond in such a way that they liked to be close to them, that they’d feel drawn towards them, but First Aid’s seemed to be almost excessive. At every free opportunity, he was there. If you couldn’t find him, the advice was to check Vortex – he’d probably be in the cockpit reading a book or listening to music, or he’d be elbow deep cleaning out the joints from the gunk the clean up crew didn’t manage to get. If it was a meal time and he wasn’t in his room or in the cafeteria, he was with Vortex.

His secondary role on base was still, technically, a medic – but Pharma had made it clear that he wasn’t welcome back in the medical bay. He’d made his bed, so to speak – if he wanted to be a pilot, then he’d be one, but it was at the sacrifice of his oath to medicine, so he wasn’t allowed to perform it. He was left to spin his wheels, to attend training sessions when they could run them for him (it was an open secret that he wasn’t a pilot, but a secret it was) and scratch his arse until the alarm went off and he was marked for deployment.

Swindle didn’t know that Pharma could hold such a grudge. He’d made a mental note to never piss him off.

A few times, when Swindle couldn’t sleep and was on a walk, he’d seen First Aid slipping into Vortex. He’d raised his brows at that.

Swindle didn’t know how Vortex hadn’t squished him yet.

Vortex fell back into the Shatterdome, rain thundering down on his armour sounding like the roar of a passing train. Sparks erupted from the gaping hole where his shoulder used to be, two of his back blades torn free and the remaining hanging on by rapidly breaking cables. The mech fell to its knees, catching itself on its remaining arm, its visor flashing a single message over and over.

OBJECTIVE ONE: PROTECT THE PILOT.

For the first time, Vortex had obeyed the objective embedded into each of their mechs. Protect the pilot. More than that, he’d brought him straight back to them.

Swindle watched him in quiet awe.

Wow. He really liked this one.

When the radio had cut out in a roar of static, Swindle had half expected Vortex to stay out on the front and continue his slaughter like he usually did when his pilot died, but instead he watched as the red dot that symbolised Vortex on the screen instead turned around and began sprinting back to the Shatterdome, ignoring all of the targets around him, ignoring when a quintesson got a good hit on him, barrelling past the other deployed mechs. Mission Control received multiple communications from the other pilots out in the field, confused calls from the crews of the helicopters monitoring from above - Vortex wasn’t responding. Vortex was moving entirely independently - his pilot was unresponsive and his life signal was so weak it could easily have been the electricity from the cables exposed to the elements being detected instead.

His walkie talkie crackled as Vortex looked directly at the large room Mission Control sat in overlooking the hangar. A voice he hadn’t heard in years ground out.

“He dies, everyone dies.”

Swindle swallowed hard, and nodded.

“Tex?” The voice was weak and unrecognisable. Swindle realised it must have been Felix. He was alive and conscious enough to speak - Swindle was already waving off people trying to get permission to do things, motioning for them to just get fucking on with it.

“Get that pilot out!” He hissed at them.

“It’s going to be okay.” Vortex promised. Swindle didn’t know his voice could get so soft.

“Stay put, Tex. Don’t move a muscle and unlock your emergency escape, the medics are here.” Swindle spoke into the walkie talkie. He received a few weird looks from those around him, but he ignored them. He’d field their curiosities later - for now, he had to focus on keeping Felix alive and figuring out how they were going to safely contain Vortex.

Fuck. He wished Onslaught had been activated. He’d know what to do. For a brief moment he wished their positions were reversed. He’d have handled all this shit so much better. Swindle would never tell him or ever admit it, but Onslaught was always the brains of the unit, he always had a plan. He’d probably have had all of them activated by now, brought the whole team back together again.

He chewed his bottom lip until it bled, the taste of copper stinging on his tongue.

The medic had to live. He had to. There was no protecting Vortex if he went on a murder spree - they could just about justify the pilots being pulverised inside of him, the difference between the cost to spec up and build and test a mech that was his equal vs the cost to train a new pilot was extraordinary. Vortex could, in theory, chew through a few hundred more pilots before they’d start to wonder if they should have just built a new mech. But to destroy a whole base?

Yeah. No. It would be significantly more difficult to justify it as a misidentified ‘protect the pilot’ protocol. Sure, he could argue that the base failed to save his pilot, but how would the mech know? Why did the mech identify the Shatterdome as a target? Clearly it was faulty, glitched, and needed to go.

Vortex was not one to be reasoned with. Swindle knew that all too well. There wasn’t going to be the opportunity to talk him down from his decision.

They succeeded, or they failed. That was it. One or the other. Felix survived, or everyone died.

God, he prayed that Felix was as much of a cockroach as Vortex was.

[wheels-of-despair]

I'm Gonna Love You Forever Pairing: Eddie Munson x You Summary: Eddie gets some upsetting news and has to hide out at Evil Woman's house for a little while… it's an angsty one, kids. Contains: Fear and nightmares, bed-wetting and blood, childhood trauma and abuse, comfort and reassurance, a declaration of love. Words: 3.7k

A thwap comes from your right.

You glance over and chuckle. Eddie is lying next to you on your bed, on his stomach, and his face is planted in the middle of the history textbook he's supposed to be reading.

"Are you absorbing the necessary information better that way?" you ask, turning your attention back to a battered classroom-issued paperback.

"No," he grunts. "Need a break."

"I understand. You've been reading for a whole," you check your watch, "three minutes."

He groans.

"Finish this chapter and we'll take a break."

He groans louder, head still in his book. And then the phone rings. His head pops up. "It's Wayne, he says I gotta come home right now, can't study any more."

"Shut up," you laugh, smacking his denim-clad ass with your book as you get up and go to answer the phone.

Your brother already has it. You stand in the hallway with your arms crossed, waiting for either a hand-off or a dismissal. He covers the mouthpiece with his hand.

"Eddie's uncle wants to talk to him," he says lowly. You nod, hold up a finger, and return to your room.

"You're in luck, Munson; it really is Wayne."

Instead of looking relieved, Eddie looks concerned. It's understandable; Wayne never calls here. Eddie scrambles out of bed and skids into the hallway on his socked feet.

You sit on the bed and open your book, but don't absorb a single word... because you can hear Eddie's side of the conversation.

"What? Why? No. No. I can't. I'll stay at Rick's or something. I'll let you know. Bye."

It's tense. It's rushed. Something is definitely wrong. You toss your book aside when he hurries back into your bedroom. He closes your door and leans against it, face even paler than usual.

"You okay?" you ask, knowing the answer.

His lip begins to tremble. His eyes start to well. You're off the bed and wrapping your arms are around him in an instant. He squeezes you and buries his face in your neck.

"What happened? Is Wayne okay?"

Eddie sounds like he's starting to hyperventilate, so you guide him toward the bed. You get him to sit, then kneel on the floor in front of him and hold his hands in yours. He's hunched over; his eyes are scrunched tight, his face looking a little green.

"Breathe, baby. It's gonna be okay. Just breathe."

He squeezes your hands until you begin losing feeling in your fingers, but you don't let go. You couldn't, even if you wanted to. Eventually, his breathing slows and he releases his death grip on your hands.

"My dad's out."

You've been dating Eddie Munson for more than six months, and he's barely mentioned his father. You never asked about his parents; you figured if he wanted you to know, he'd tell you. And he did, occasionally. You'd gathered that neither of them were the nurturing type. You knew they were alcoholics. You knew Eddie's mother died when he was 7, and that he came to live with Wayne when he was 8. Everything else was something of a mystery that you figured he'd reveal in time, when he was ready.

Eddie takes a shuddering breath and begins: "He was supposed to be doing 15 years. It's only been 12. He showed up at the trailer a little while ago. Wayne says he wants to see me." Tears fall when he shakes his head. "I can't."

"Baby, you don't have to," you tell him softly. He closes his eyes. "Eddie, you don't have to see him if you don't want to. You're a grown-up. He can't make you do anything." He covers his face with his hands, and you move upward to wrap your arms around him again.

"I don't want to go home," he whimpers.

"So stay with me."

"Yeah, I bet your mom would love that," he says sarcastically, pulling back and swiping at his eyes.

"She literally went to court to fight my dad when we said we didn't want to see him anymore. She'll understand."

"I don't know how long it'll be 'til he fucks off."

"That's okay."

"What if she says no?"

"She won't," you say confidently.

You don't know what his father did to him, or why he was locked up, or why Eddie is so scared, but you know one thing: if that old man comes near the boy you love, it'll be the last thing he ever does.

You move your books to the floor and lie down on the bed together. Eddie buries his face in your chest and lets you hold him tight. You lie there in silence, gently playing with his hair, until you hear your mom come home from work.

"Be right back," you whisper with a kiss to the top of his head.

When you return to your room, Eddie is curled into a ball on his side, hugging your pillow. He looks up at you with fearful, red-rimmed eyes. You ease back onto the bed, lying down to face him, and reach out to tuck his shaggy hair behind his ear.

"Mom talked to Wayne," you tell him quietly. "He thinks staying here for a few days is a good idea, too. Said he'd bring you some stuff on his way to work. Is that okay? Will you stay?"

"Do you really want me?" he asks, his voice barely a whisper.

"Of course I do," you smile. You gaze into his big brown eyes and feel your heart swell. "I'd keep you with me all the time if I could." You kiss his the tip of his nose. "Oh, and Mom says she's making lasagna for dinner, in honor of getting our very own Garfield."

He snorts.

Eddie follows you into the kitchen when it's time for dinner like he usually does. He stays to eat with you several times a week anyway, so nothing feels at all out of the ordinary.

Until he nearly jumps out of his skin when someone knocks at the door. You place a hand on his leg under the table when your mom goes to answer it.

You both let out a quiet sigh of relief when you see Wayne step inside. He follows your mom into the kitchen, carrying a brown grocery bag and Eddie's Sweetheart.

"Can you spare a few minutes for dinner, Wayne?" your mom asks.

"No, ma'am, just came to drop off some stuff for the boy on my way to work."

Eddie gets up to take his things from his uncle.

"Talk to you outside for a minute?" Wayne asks.

"Yeah." Eddie sets his bag and other lover aside and follows Wayne outside. You stare at the door nervously while your mom packs a meal in Tupperware for Wayne to take with him.

When they return, Eddie looks shy, like a kid who's been coached on how to thank relatives for a gift he didn't really want. He takes his seat, and Wayne hovers in the doorway.

"Thank you again for takin' him in, ma'am. He gives you any trouble, you give me a call."

You smirk. Eddie blushes furiously and refuses to look in your direction.

Your mom laughs warmly. "Please. Eddie's never any trouble. We're always happy to have him." She hands the Tupperware container to Wayne. "Take this."

"Ma'am, I--"

"Take it." You're pleased to see that the Don't Argue With Me Voice works on grown-ups too.

"Thank you, ma'am."

Now Eddie's the one smirking, and Wayne's the one blushing.

"Alright," Wayne rubs the back of his neck awkwardly, "I gotta get goin'. Thank you again, ma'am. Call if you need anything. And you?" Eddie looks up to see his uncle pointing at him. "Be good."

Eddie nods, and Wayne leaves with his Tupperware meal.

The rest of dinner passes uneventfully, and afterwards, you and Eddie pick up the Wayne-delivered goods and return to your room to pretend to finish your homework.

"Where can I…?" Eddie spins around in the middle of your room, looking for a safe place to stash Sweetheart.

"Anywhere you want," you smile, placing his bag of clothes in your desk chair and dropping onto the bed. "Mi casa es… Sweetheart's casa?"

He settles her in a corner, then comes to join you on the edge of the bed. He lets out a sigh that it seems like he's been holding for hours. You wrap an arm around his back and rest your chin on his shoulder.

"You okay?"

"Yeah." He leans against you. "Wayne thinks he'll fuck off in a few days. Most of his old buddies are either dead or locked up. He's staying at the shitty motel by the laundromat. Wayne says he'll probably go back to my grandma's when he runs out of money."

"You have a grandma?" you ask.

Eddie waits a beat.

"That's what you got out of that?"

"You've never mentioned her."

He shrugs, making your head bob with his shoulder. "Didn't like my mom. Didn't like me. Don't know much about her."

"What's Wayne think about him being back?"

"Same thing I do. Wish he'd get hit by a fuckin' truck."

You're rubbing your hand up and down his back when a voice calls from the hall.

"I'm watching Dawn of the Dead, if you losers wanna quit sucking face long enough to enjoy some real entertainment."

You lift your head from Eddie's shoulder. "Wanna?"

"Does it mean I don't have to finish my history homework?" he asks hopefully.

"I was gonna skim the chapter and summarize for you anyway."

"Fuck yeah," he grins.

You head to the living room, get comfortable on the couch, and lose yourselves in zombieland for the next two hours. Not what you would've picked for a soothing distraction from a horrifying reality, but it seems to work for Eddie.

He seems calmer as you get ready for bed. You stand together at the bathroom sink to brush your teeth, letting the toothpaste dribble out of your mouths and growling like zombies at each other in the mirror.

This is, of course, when your mother walks by to say goodnight: When you've both got toothpaste dripping off your chins.

"I don't even want to know," she shakes her head, trying and failing to conceal her smile. "Everything's locked up, I'm going to bed." She doesn't usually announce that everything's locked up, but you appreciate her trying to pass it off as normal for Eddie's benefit.

"G'night," you both gurgle through your foam-filled mouths. She lightly smacks her own forehead with her palm and walks away laughing. You lean forward to spit and grin at each other in the mirror.

Once the lights are off and you're in bed, Eddie practically crawls on top of you. You hold him tight and stroke his hair, finding that one spot on his scalp that's been known to knock him out. It works. You hope his dreams are much happier than his reality as you begin to drift off to the sound of his steady breathing.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck, shit, fuck."

You open your eyes to a strange chant and suddenly remember that Eddie is supposed to be with you. You can't feel him. You roll out of bed and turn on the lamp. He's kneeling on the mattress, hair a mess.

"Turn around," he orders. "Don't look."

"Eddie, what's going on?"

"Turn around!"

You're in such a panic, you can't just turn your back on him. Your eyes drift from his frantic eyes to the wet spot he's trying to shield with his body. When your eyes meet his again, he crumbles.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so fucking sorry," he cries.

"Babe, it's okay," you begin.

"I'm so fucking sorry, just let me get my shit and I'll go," he continues.

"Eddie, would you stop?"

"I wish I was fucking dead, I'm so fuc--"

"Eddie! Stop!" Your sharp tone scares him enough to make him stop rambling.

You step toward a corner of the bed and pull the sheet back to reveal what's underneath.

"Look. Mattress pad. Easy fix. By morning, we can pretend it never happened."

He looks from the white corner of the fabric to you, and then back again. His mouth opens and closes several times.

You lean against your dresser and speak softly, resisting the urge to close the distance and embarrass him further. "You're aware that I hemorrhage for a significant amount of time every month, right?"

He nods.

"Sometimes I bleed through. My last mattress looked like such a murder scene, Mom was afraid to transport it across state lines. It's not a big deal. I go through this all the time."

He sniffs.

"Why don't you go hop in the shower? Just put your clothes in the hamper, and I'll throw a load of laundry in."

He starts to protest.

"Nobody'll suspect a thing," you cut him off before he can even begin. "I go through this at least once a month. It's practically expected of me. Nobody'll know."

He looks downward, and you let him consider his options.

"Can you turn around?" he asks quietly.

"Yep."

You turn your back and hear him rustling through his paper bag, and then hear the door open and close. You strip the sheets - only the bottom sheet had any traces of his shame - and ball them up.

You weren't lying; this does happen occasionally. Perhaps not as often as you implied, but enough that nobody would raise an eyebrow at the washing machine going at 3 am. You clean the spot on the mattress pad, change the sheets, re-make the bed, and grab clean pajamas. You'll throw your current ones in with the load, to support your 'It Was Me' story, should anyone question it. (They won't, but it would probably make Eddie feel better.)

"Did any get on you?" He'd crept back into your room so quietly, you hadn't even noticed him. He's eyeing the fresh stack of pajamas you've placed on top of the dresser.

"Nope," you smile, turning around. "Figured we could do with a complete re-set. I'll be right back."

You grab the sheets in one hand and your pajamas in the other, and head to the bathroom to collect Eddie's clothes.

Four minutes later, you return to your room. Eddie is sitting on the floor, leaning against your dresser, his knees to his chest. You sit next to him, but not close enough to touch him. Not yet.

"Please don't beat yourself up over this," you beg. "It's not a big deal."

"Fucking embarrassing."

"Eddie?"

"Yeah?"

"I love you."

He doesn't respond. You stretch your legs out in front of you, cross your ankles, and get comfortable.

"You know I'm gonna marry you one of these days, right?"

Still nothing.

"What do you reckon our life expectancy is? I figure we've got what, maybe 50 years ahead of us? That's a lot of time."

You place your hand on the floor between you, palm up, to see if he'll take it. He doesn't.

"I'm gonna love you forever," you inform him. "Sickness, health, weird haircuts, awful tattoos, all that jazz. I will love you if you suddenly develop a fondness for Madonna or disco dancing. I'll even love you if you become that guy who brings an acoustic guitar to parties and expects everyone to sit around and listen to him. Actually, maybe not with that one. Please don't be that guy." You pause, hoping for a laugh. When it doesn't come, you clear your throat and continue. "Point is, there's almost nothing that could make me stop loving you. This, right here? Doesn't change a thing. I fucking love you. Get used to it."

He lets it sink in, and then he sighs. Finally, he reaches for your hand. Your fingers lace together. You look over at him, and he slowly meets your eye.

"I fucking love you too."

"You better, Munson," you wink.

He smiles a tiny smile.

"Ready to go back to bed?"

He hesitates and asks, "Can I go out and smoke first?"

"Baby, you're a refugee, not a prisoner. You don't have to ask permission to leave."

"Right," he groans, hauling himself off the floor. He holds out his hands to help you up, and you take them.

"Do you want company, or do you need a minute?" you ask once you're standing.

He shrugs, looking at the floor.

"Because that's okay," you smile, reaching up to brush his hair out of his face.

"What's okay?"

"Needing a minute," you explain. "I just announced my intention to lock you down forever. We're probably gonna occasionally need a minute to ourselves."

"You can come with me," he whispers, kissing your forehead.

You follow him to the back door, put on your jackets and shove your feet into your shoes, and step out into the darkness. You sit next to each other on the porch steps, resting your head on his shoulder and huddling together for warmth as Eddie smokes in silence. It's pretty peaceful out tonight. The black sky is cloudless and dotted with stars. The air feels clean and crisp. Eddie's body provides just enough heat that you're not too bothered by the cold.

He seems calmer after he smokes his cigarette down to the butt, but he uses the tip to light another. It's going to be a long night. You press your fingers between your thighs, starting to feel the chill set in.

"You know the Speedway just this side of the county line?"

A run-down gas station with a cracked parking lot and a flickering neon sign comes to mind. Yeah. You know of it, but you've never been in. Gareth had suggested dropping in for snacks once when you passed by, but Eddie had said everything in there was overpriced and kept driving. You hadn't thought anything of it at the time; you and Eddie are 7-Eleven people, after all.

"Yeah," you whisper.

Eddie pauses so long, you wonder if he's reconsidering telling you whatever he was about to reveal.

"We were on a beer run," he says eventually. "Dad was already hammered. Ran over our mailbox and took out the neighbor's trash can on the way out. Swerved all over the road. I used to think it was fun, riding like that, but looking back I'm surprised nobody died." Eddie stops to take a long drag. "I stuck a pack of Sno-Balls under my shirt while Dad was paying for his beer. You know, those pink coconut cakes?" He glances at you for confirmation, and you nod. "The thought of those things makes me sick now. But when you're that hungry, they look fuckin' amazing. Anyway, the cashier spotted me and said something. Dad's face… I mean, it was already red from the drinking. But it looked like his head was going to explode. Eyes poppin' out of his head, vein throbbing in his neck. He grabbed me by the hair and just started whalin' on me, right there in the middle of the store. I heard people yelling, but I… I kinda just scrunched my eyes shut and waited for it to be over, like I always did. And then when I opened them again, Hop had the old man pinned to the floor."

Eddie sniffles and drags his sleeve across his face.

"I know you've never seen my dad, but he's not a big guy. Hopper could've fucking demolished him. But Hop had a busted lip. Blood just dripping out of his mouth and onto the old man. Sometimes I wonder… if maybe Hop let him get a swing in just 'cause he knew that's what it would take to finally put him away. And it did. He got 15 years for assaulting a cop."

A tear streaks down your cheek, and a smile tugs at your lips.

"Took three guys to haul Dad off. Still kicking and screaming. At me, at Hop, I dunno. But Hopper's the one who took me to Wayne's. Bought me a hot dog to eat on the way, and I think it might've been the best fucking thing I've ever eaten. Even with the sore jaw the old man gave me for getting caught. He always said to never trust a cop, but Hop… he's saved my ass more than once. I guess…" Eddie stubs out cigarette #2 and chuckles. "I guess if you have to leave me for somebody, Hop's a decent choice."

You knock your knee against his, lifting your head off his shoulder to look at him. His eyes are shiny and tear-filled in the moonlight. Is it a crime to think he's beautiful like this?

"What can I say?" you grin. "I've got great taste in men."

Eddie snorts, shakes his head, and stands. He offers you his hands, and you take them and let him help you off the steps. When you stand, he pulls you in for a hug.

"Thanks," he mumbles into your hair. "For tonight. For everything."

You feel like something needs to be said, but you can't find the right words. Instead, you hold him tight and kiss the side of his neck. He melts into you. You stand there, stuck together on your back porch, until a shiver rips through your body.

"Jeez, make us stand outside in the cold all night and get sick, why don't ya," Eddie grumbles, pulling away and putting his hands on your shoulders. He turns you around and pushes you toward the door. "Get inside where it's warm, you crazy woman. You've gotta take care of me for the next 50 years, you don't get to check out early."

You laugh quietly and let him push you inside. You silently shed your jackets and shoes and return to your bedroom, snuggling into your clean sheets and holding onto each other for warmth.

Four days later, Wayne stopped by to tell Eddie that his old man was back in jail where he belonged. Unable to resist the sight of the bar across the street from the shitty motel he was staying in, he'd wandered over, drank too much, and picked a fight with the guy on the stool next to him...

Who happened to be an off-duty Indiana State Trooper, visiting Hawkins to have a drink with an old friend named Jim Hopper.

[biribarabiribbaem]

Well, where do I start? Like this is supposed to be my time to shine but I'm kinda speechless. First, the name of the restaurant is chef kiss: Farfalle is one of my favourite pasta shape - especially combined with a cream sauce of salmon and heavy cream and zucchini.

Moving on, starting hard with the smut was definitely a good choice (great one he could make all my dreams come true, btw) but I already knew the disaster was around the corner 'cause he's a royal pain in the ass like The number one piece of shit but he knows he's a good chef and he only wants the best and the fact that he can't get rid of the only woman left because deep down he knows she's good is already making me giggle.

Them living in the same building is gonna give us so many things I can't wait to read what's gonna happen next and him calling Lix because he saw her in pain cause he fired half the kitchen in less than 20 mins was kind, the bare minimum, but kind nonetheless.

Miss Choi Sara you ruined a man and now it's our job to change his mind - because women belong in the kitchen and he should be ready to face this soon.

Now, can we focus three seconds on Chrispy coming in and ruin everything? Like imagine working with the Devil in a chef coat and the next day this fancy man come in and say he wants to close the restaurant you work in. Can life gets more meanier?

I loved how you focused on so many little details like the difference between a sugo and a soup and how generally shot type of pasta are eaten with a fork only and spoons are usually reserved as an aid when you eat things like spaghetti, linguine, tagliatelle, etc. You're doing a great job I promise I'll bring you to eat the most delicious gnocchi with clams and fancy gelato when you'll come visit me ehehe

Love you (as always!) cannot wait to reas the next chapter.

TASTE.

CHAPTER I

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. (15,3k words)

Author's note: It's my first fic series this year so pls enjoy it and don't be shy to share your thoughts on it ♡

Piquant. /ˈpikənt/ , /piˈkɑnt/ adj. 1. having a pleasantly strong or spicy taste 2. interesting and exciting, especially because of being mysterious.

Farfalle was more than a restaurant—it was an institution.

Nestled in the heart of city’s bustling upscale district, the Italian fine dining establishment stood as a beacon of culinary excellence. With its pristine white façade adorned with golden lettering, it was a destination where food enthusiasts and critics alike gathered to experience the extraordinary. Inside, chandeliers sparkled like constellations above the polished marble floors, while the soft hum of conversation merged with the clinking of crystal glasses and the soothing notes of classical Italian music.

For years, Farfalle had been celebrated not just for its impeccable dishes but for its unwavering commitment to authenticity. Each plate told a story—one of passion, precision, and tradition. The handmade pastas, aged Parmigiano, and imported olive oils were matched only by the artistry of the chefs who brought them to life.

Yet, behind the glamour of the dining room, the kitchen was a battlefield. The restaurant’s reputation rested on a relentless pursuit of perfection, and the pressure to uphold its Michelin star weighed heavily on the staff. Every dish was scrutinized, every garnish meticulously placed, and every mistake unforgivable.

But this year marked the start of something new—a transition that sent ripples through the culinary world. Farfalle’s long-time head chef had retired, leaving behind a legacy that seemed impossible to surpass. The news of his replacement had been met with equal parts excitement and trepidation.

Enter Lee Minho.

The name alone was enough to spark both awe and dread. A man renowned for his uncompromising standards and fiery temper, Chef Lee’s reputation preceded him. Some called him a genius; others called him impossible. And now, he was poised to take Farfalle into uncharted territory.

As the restaurant prepared for his arrival, the staff whispered in hushed tones, speculating about what the new head executive chef would bring—or destroy. Would he preserve Farfalle’s legacy? Or would he tear it apart to rebuild it in his own image?

Only time would tell.

-

Minho adjusts the cuffs of his tailored coat, standing across the street from Farfalle. The restaurant glows like a jewel in the night, its golden lettering catching the soft light of the streetlamps. A small line of well-dressed patrons stretches from the door, their faces a mix of excitement and impatience. Even from here, he hears the faint hum of life—clinking glasses, muted laughter, and the occasional burst of chatter.

He doesn’t need to step inside to know the kind of experience Farfalle offers. The meticulous exterior, the perfectly aligned tables glimpsed through the window, the hushed efficiency of the servers—it all speaks to a restaurant accustomed to excellence. Yet, as his sharp eyes scan every detail, his mind already races with ideas.

The plating could be more dynamic. The menu, from what he’s seen online, needs innovation without losing its roots. And the staff? Well, he’ll find out soon enough if they can match his standards. If not, he’ll shape them into what he needs—or replace them altogether.

Minho crosses his arms, the corner of his mouth twitching in thought. He can see why Farfalle is revered, but to him, it’s still just a canvas. A blank slate ready for his brushstrokes. He has no intention of simply maintaining its legacy; he intends to redefine it.

A gust of wind sweeps through the street, carrying the aroma of freshly baked bread and roasted garlic. The dinner rush is in full swing, and the kitchen must be at its peak intensity. His fingers itch to walk in, to observe the chaos, to see how the staff functions under pressure. But he knows better than to intrude during service.

“Not the time,” he mutters, shoving his hands into his coat pockets.

He lets his gaze drift down the street. The nightlife in the area seems just as vibrant as the restaurant itself. Neon signs flicker above bars and clubs, and the sound of music spills out into the crisp evening air.

With a final glance over his shoulder at Farfalle, Minho makes his decision. “Let them have their dinner rush. I’ll see it when it matters.”

He strides down the street, blending into the flow of people, his thoughts shifting to the possibilities awaiting him in the city’s nightlife.

Minho wanders the streets for nearly an hour before he finds what he’s been looking for—a bar tucked away from the chaos of the city’s nightlife. The dimly lit sign above the door reads Ambra, and the soft jazz drifting from inside piques his interest.

Stepping in, Minho instantly knows he’s made the right choice. The bar is intimate, with low lighting and leather seating that exudes understated elegance. The hum of quiet conversations fills the space, blending seamlessly with the music. Shelves stocked with an impressive selection of liquors line the wall behind the counter, and the bartender moves with practiced precision.

Minho takes a seat at the bar, orders a beer, and leans back to absorb the atmosphere. It’s rare for him to feel this at ease, but tonight, he allows himself to indulge. The first glass goes down quickly, a refreshing antidote to the brisk evening air. By the time he’s nursing his second, he feels a satisfying warmth settle over him.

After a while, he slides off his stool and heads to the restroom. When he returns, however, he stops in his tracks.

Someone’s taken his seat.

You.

You’re perched on the stool, casually sipping a drink, your posture radiating effortless confidence. Minho narrows his eyes as he approaches.

“That’s my seat,” he says, his tone clipped and direct.

You glance at him, unfazed. With the faintest of smirks, you take another sip. “So what if it is?”

Minho raises an eyebrow, the intensity of his gaze sharpening. Most people would flinch under the weight of it, but you remain completely indifferent, your calm demeanor only intriguing him further.

He stares at you for a moment longer, his mind tugging at a strange sense of familiarity. “Have we met before?” he asks, tilting his head slightly. “You’re not an actress or a model, are you?”

The corner of your mouth twitches, and you let out a soft chuckle. “Why? Do I look like one?”

“Something like that,” he replies, his voice steady, his gaze unwavering. “Or maybe I’ve seen you somewhere.”

You lean in, just enough for him to catch the faint scent of your perfume and the warmth of your breath. Your voice drops to a playful murmur. “Maybe you saw me in your dreams.”

For a moment, Minho blinks, caught off guard by the audacity of your response. Then, to his own surprise, he laughs quietly.

“Is that so?” he says, his lips curving into the faintest of smirks.

You lean back, returning to your drink as if nothing happened. But Minho doesn’t take his eyes off you. There’s something about the way you carry yourself that keeps him hooked, an unshakable confidence that challenges him in a way he’s not used to.

“What’s your name?” he asks, his voice soft but insistent.

You glance at him, taking your time as you swirl the liquid in your glass. “Why? Do you need it to keep dreaming?”

His smirk deepens, his curiosity growing. “Maybe. Or maybe I’m interested in making it a reality.”

You study him for a moment, your gaze unwavering as you sip your drink. Then, with deliberate slowness, you set your glass down and tilt your head. “What exactly are you suggesting?”

Minho doesn’t hesitate. “Come with me. Let’s see if your theory holds up.”

The corner of your lips curves into a smile. You take another sip, letting the moment stretch out. Finally, you set your glass down and rise from the stool, brushing past him as you head for the door.

Minho follows, his interest piqued more than ever.

-

The elevator ride is quiet, but the air between you and Minho crackles with unspoken tension. Minho keeps his hands in his pockets, stealing quick glances at you when he thinks you’re not looking. You, however, seem entirely at ease, leaning casually against the elevator wall, your lips curved in a faint, knowing smile.

When the doors slide open on his floor, Minho leads the way, his steps purposeful but unhurried. His hotel room is at the end of the hallway, and the sound of his keycard beeping against the lock breaks the silence.

He glances at you, the faintest flicker of uncertainty crossing his sharp features, but it’s gone in an instant. The door clicks open, and he steps back, gesturing for you to enter first.

You flash him a smile—one that’s more challenging than polite—and step inside. The room is spacious but sterile, the kind of impersonal luxury that defines high-end hotels. Warm, ambient lighting softens the edges of the modern furnishings, and the faint hum of the city outside seeps through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

Minho trails behind, quietly closing the door as his eyes follow your every movement. You take in the space, walking slowly, your fingers grazing the back of the leather armchair by the window. It’s a room meant for passing through, a temporary refuge, but tonight, it feels charged with possibility.

Turning around, you face him, your gaze locking onto his. The intensity in your eyes mirrors his own, and for a moment, neither of you speaks.

The silence stretches, taut and electric, until you break it. Your voice is low and laced with challenge. “So… are you ready to make your dream come true?”

Minho exhales softly, his lips curving into a slow, deliberate smirk. He takes a step closer, his eyes never leaving yours. “That depends,” he says, his voice rich with quiet confidence. “Are you?”

You hold his gaze, letting the tension simmer between you, a charged pause filled with unspoken promises. You move toward the bed, each step deliberate, each motion radiating quiet confidence. You climb onto the bed without hesitation, settling back against the pillows with an air of unshakable ease. His eyes follow the slow arch of your movements as you stretch out, your gaze locking onto his with an almost defiant intrigue.

You tilt your head slightly, one leg bending at the knee as your skirt shifts, revealing a whisper of lace beneath. The soft, seductive curve of your lips carries a challenge as you murmur, “Come. Make your dreams come true.”

A faint smirk tugs at the corner of Minho’s lips, sharper on one side than the other. His dark eyes glimmer with something dangerous, something intent, as he steps forward with measured precision. His gaze never wavers, a simmering intensity that would make most crumble—but you hold it, your calm composure only fueling his fascination.

He reaches the bed and leans down, his hands braced on either side of you, caging you in without touching. His breath is warm against your cheek, the closeness of his presence a magnetic pull. You feel the weight of his gaze as it lingers on your face, searching, daring you to falter.

But you don’t.

Minho leans over you, bracing one hand on the mattress beside your head, the other sliding gently along your jaw. His thumb brushes your skin, a touch that sends sparks down your spine. He’s so close now that his breath mingles with yours, warm and tantalizing.

You don’t break the gaze, your lips curving into the faintest of smiles as if to challenge him further. Minho takes the bait, his smirk fading into something darker, something more intent. He closes the distance, his lips capturing yours in a kiss that’s slow at first, deliberate, testing.

His mouth moves against yours with a growing fervor, each kiss deeper, more demanding than the last. His hand shifts, trailing down to your waist, pulling you closer as his weight settles beside you. The heat between you builds, your breaths quickening as the world outside the room fades to nothing.

You feel his fingers brush against the fabric of your skirt, his touch firm yet unhurried, as though he’s savoring the moment. His lips leave yours briefly, trailing down to your jaw, then your neck, each kiss igniting a fire that spreads through you.

Minho lets the silence stretch for just a moment longer before his hand trails down, finding your bent knee. With a touch that’s both deliberate and unhurried, he lifts your leg slightly, tilting it closer to him. His lips graze the soft skin of your thigh, leaving a slow trail of kisses that climb higher with every breath.

The air between you grows heavier, the atmosphere charged and electric. You sense the shift as his focus sharpens, his movements deliberate yet unspoken, the tension between you nearly tangible.

Minho finally dips his head lower, the closeness of his breath on your clothed core igniting a fire along your skin. You close your eyes briefly, caught in the moment, every action a silent promise of what’s to come.

Taking you off guard, Minho tugs the fabric of your underwear between his teeth and drags it down your legs until it's off of you. Nothing is getting in his way now but before that, he shot you a menacing look before planting his mouth on your cunt, taking the first step in making his dream comes true.

-

Minho is wrong to think that he's the one who won't be easily satisfied tonight. You're on all fours, taking it well even though he is going as hard as he can, the skin slapping sounds echoing in the room louder than the lewd noises spilling out of your parted mouth.

“Harder, harder,” you repeatedly say between your moans. You're barely holding on, your hands are gripping the sheet under you, your legs trembling, a sheen of sweat coated your skin yet Minho finds it hot that you're asking for me.

Minho grabs a fistful of your hair and gently tugs at it, using it to tilt your head to the back, allowing him to plant ferocious kisses on your neck. He then presses his mouth to your ear and whispers. “Harder, huh?”

You slightly turn your head to the side to meet his gaze. “Harder,” you simply say back to him.

Hearing you saying that with a commanding yet seductive tone, he feels challenged. He grips each side of your hips, hard enough his nails digging into the flesh and he takes a second of break before launching himself into you, harder than before.

Your moans grow louder so you plant your head onto the pillow to try muffle it, your hands are now holding the side of the pillow like it's your lifeline.

Minho lowers his mouth on your back shoulder, placing kisses with his teeth faintly scraping your skin. “Isn't it what you want, huh? I'm giving it to you.”

He adds speed to his thrusts and the intensity of his movements make the bed quakes along with it. At first, he thought you were just being greedy but fuck, you're taking it so well.

“You're close, huh?” Minho murmurs with his eyes fixated on the way his cock slipping in and out of you.

He lowers himself until his chest meets yours and putting his arms around your waist, he plants his mouth on your shoulder as he takes you with him, kneeling on the bed. His muscular, veiny arms wrapped around you, keeping you steady as he keeps thrusting into you despite you're on the brink of climaxing.

You tilt your head to the back, letting it drops onto Minho’s shoulder, your moans grow low and hoarse as you're closing in on your high.

Minho silently holds back himself from getting carried by the way your fluttering around him but he likes it, oh, the way you sucking him deeper into you. There’s nothing like it, he's enjoying every second of being inside you. His hands wander your sensuous body as you're relishing your orgasm. He catches you smiling with your eyes closed and satisfaction painted on your face, nothing arouse him more than realizing that he made you like that.

“That good, mmh?” his lips graze your ear as he speaks.

When he thought that you couldn't impress him more, you turn around and push him hard until he collapses onto the bed. He props an elbow but your hand pressed to his chest, gesturing him to stay down.

You slyly smile as you hover above him, your eyes filled with mischief as you say. “Now, I'll make your dream comes true.”

It's like you’re not tired or spent at all from the previous session. You're bouncing on his cock with both of your hands firmly resting on his chest as support and when you get tired, you're switching to rolling your hips back and forth at a painstakingly slow motions.

“I can see that you like that more,” you murmur, now rolling your hips in circular motions, earning low grunts from Minho.

He thinks it's not just about the way you're fucking him but it's also the way you're enjoying doing it to him. The sly smile never strays away from your face, provoking him but at the same time, arousing him so much that he knows his high is close, too damn close that it happens without him realizing it.

By the time he knows he’s cumming, he finds himself gripping your thighs as you keep moving, slowly and deliberately, teasing his sensitive cock as it's filling the condom with his seed.

Throwing all of your hair to the side, you lower yourself on him until your lips meet in a rapturous kiss that keeps Minho floating on cloud nine. You continue peppering his face and neck with kisses, you prop an elbow next to his head, just staring at his face with that crooked smile lingering on your pretty face.

“So, how does it feel now that you dream came true?”

Minho closes his eyes and blissfully smiles, he then shakes his head. When he opens his eyes, they instantly found yours. He hastily kisses your lips before speaking, “But it’s not the end of the dream yet.”

-

The soft shuffle of footsteps pulls Minho from sleep, his body reluctant to stir. He groans quietly, his eyes heavy with the weight of lingering exhaustion. Cracking them open, he squints at the faint glow of the city lights filtering through the curtains. It’s still dark out—far too early for his liking.

He turns his head, catching sight of you moving around the room, your bare silhouette outlined in the dim light. You’re bent slightly, picking up your clothes from the floor, the soft rustle of fabric filling the quiet space.

Minho watches, saying nothing, his gaze following the fluid movements of your body. There’s a magnetic pull in the way you carry yourself, confident and unhurried. He wants to call out to you, ask you to come back to bed, but the words stay lodged in his throat.

You step into your underwear, sliding the fabric up with practiced ease before reaching for your bra. Minho’s eyes trace the lines of your figure as you fasten it behind your back, your fingers deft and steady. Next comes your skirt, which you pull up with a casual swing of your hips.

Turning around, you catch his gaze, a flicker of amusement dancing in your eyes when you realize he’s awake.

He shifts slightly, propping himself up on one elbow. His voice is rough with sleep as he asks, “So when can I see you again?”

Your lips curve into a playful smile, your demeanor coy as you tilt your head slightly.

“Do you have plans tomorrow?” Minho tries another way.

You remain coy and continue buttoning up your blouse, a small smile tugging at your lips as you look at him.

“Why are you hesitating? You're supposed to refuse on the first time,” he teases.

“I'll be working,” you simply answer.

“What time you get off work?”

You tuck your shirt into your skirt. “I would only be free at night.”

Minho tilts his head to the side, slightly narrowing his eyes as he asks you, “At what time?”

“Around midnight.”

Minho’s eyes narrow slightly, his curiosity piqued, but he doesn’t press further. He can tell you’re not one to be cornered easily, and there’s something about the mystery that only draws him in more.

“There's only one thing a man and a woman could do together at that time,” his voice filled with playful lilt as he's sitting up on the bed and sending the duvet slides down his shoulders, exposing his bare upper half body.

Getting no response from you, Minho scoots closer to the edge of the bed. “I guess you find me attractive. You didn't turn me down once.”

His eyes are commanding as he searches for yours and won't stop until you hold his gaze. “I'll see you around midnight at the same bar then. Not tonight or tomorrow, but the day after. Let's say you turned me down for tonight and tomorrow. Okay?”

You slip on your jacket, adjusting it with a quick, practiced motion before walking toward the door. Pausing with your hand on the handle, you glance back at him, your smile softening just a fraction.

“You’ll see me soon enough,” you say simply, your voice carrying an ease that lingers in the air long after you’re gone.

The door clicks shut behind you, leaving Minho in the quiet stillness of the room. He exhales slowly, running a hand through his tousled hair. A faint smirk tugs at the corner of his lips as he stares at the spot where you stood, already thinking of the next time he might see you again.

-

The faint hum of kitchen appliances fills the early morning quiet at Farfalle. Minho arrives even earlier than expected, the weight of his position settling into his steps. He walks through the restaurant as if already claiming it. His first stop is the dining hall.

The soft morning light filters through the floor-to-ceiling windows, illuminating the elegant tables adorned with pristine white linens. He takes note of the layout—the alignment of tables, the polish of the silverware, and the sparkle of the glassware. It’s all flawless, but Minho already imagines ways to elevate it further.

His steps lead him to the heart of the restaurant: the kitchen. The air inside is cool, the silence only broken by the occasional clatter of utensils and the low murmurs of the few staff already prepping for the day. Heads turn as he strides in, his presence commanding attention even without an introduction. He doesn’t offer a word of explanation, his sharp gaze enough to unnerve those caught staring too long.

Minho moves through the space, examining the stations, the organization of the pantry, the sheen—or lack thereof—on the stoves. Every detail is cataloged in his mind. A few whispers ripple through the staff.

“Who is he?”

“Is that the new head chef?”

“He looks... intense.”

By the time the morning briefing begins, everyone is assembled in the main kitchen. The restaurant manager, Mr. Oh, clears his throat to silence the chatter.

“Good morning, everyone. As you all know, we’ve been in search of a new head chef to lead this kitchen. Today, I’m pleased to introduce the person who will be taking Farfalle to new heights.” Mr. Oh gestures to Minho, who steps forward with a composed, almost cold demeanor.

“This is Chef Lee Minho.”

Minho scans the room, his gaze sharp and assessing. “Good morning,” he says, his voice low but carrying an edge that commands respect. “Before we begin, I’d like to get to know the team I’ll be working with. Introduce yourselves—name and position.”

One by one, the staff steps forward.

“Seo Jun, Sous Chef, Meat Station.”

“Ha Yura, Sous Chef, Pasta Line.”

Each introduction is met with a brief nod from Minho, his expression unreadable.

Then it’s your turn. Dressed in your white chef’s attire with your hair tucked neatly under a bandana, you look like any other member of the team. Minho’s gaze briefly skims over you before moving on, but when you step forward and speak, something halts him.

“I'm in the pasta Line.”

Your voice is calm, but there’s a teasing lilt to it. His eyes snap back to you, narrowing slightly as recognition flickers across his face. You meet his gaze, a knowing smile tugging at your lips. The same lips he kissed the night before.

Minho’s jaw tightens imperceptibly. He feels the faintest twinge of disappointment—mixed with intrigue. You’re not just someone who caught his attention for one night. You’re one of his chefs. His interest deepens, but it’s complicated now, tangled in a dynamic he can’t control.

You hold his stare with a confidence that unsettles him. It’s clear you’re enjoying his momentary lapse, the way his usually steady composure falters just slightly.

“Welcome to Farfalle, Chef Lee,” you say smoothly, the faintest hint of amusement in your tone.

Minho recovers quickly, masking his thoughts behind his usual cold demeanor. “Thank you,” he replies, his voice clipped. He moves on to the next introduction, but the tension lingers, thick and unspoken.

The rest of the briefing passes without incident, but as the team disperses to begin their tasks, Minho’s thoughts remain on you. He can’t decide whether this is a cruel twist of fate or a challenge he’s strangely eager to face. Either way, it’s clear to him: working in this kitchen just got a lot more complicated.

-

The kitchen hums with quiet activity, a low symphony of clinking utensils and running water. The scent of freshly chopped herbs lingers in the air as you wipe down your station, the stainless steel gleaming under the fluorescent lights. You’re focused, meticulous, ensuring every corner of your workspace is spotless before the chaos of service begins.

From the corner of your eye, you notice Minho entering the kitchen. Dressed in his crisp chef's coat, he radiates authority, his steps deliberate and measured as he takes in the environment he now commands. He doesn’t say anything at first, but you can feel his gaze on you.

You glance up, catching his eyes. His expression shifts, a playful smirk curling the corner of his lips.

“When you said we’d meet again soon,” he begins, his voice low and teasing, “I didn’t think you meant here. In this kitchen of all places.”

You lean casually against the counter, resting a hand on your hip. “And here I thought you’d be glad to see me again.”

His smirk deepens, but his eyes remain unreadable. “Should I be?”

“You tell me,” you counter, tilting your head slightly. “Or did you regret meeting me that night?”

Minho pauses, letting the silence stretch. His gaze lingers on you, as if weighing his response carefully. Then, with a faint chuckle, he shakes his head. “How could I regret it?”

You raise an eyebrow at his answer, sensing there’s more he’s about to add.

“But,” he continues, his tone dropping just enough to send a subtle chill through the air, “something tells me you’ll regret meeting me here.”

His smirk turns sharper, more menacing, as he flashes a smile that feels like a warning. He doesn’t give you a chance to respond before turning away and walking to the chef’s table at the center of the kitchen.

Minho surveys the area, his sharp eyes missing nothing as he settles into his position of authority. The chef’s table, positioned strategically for both observation and action, will serve as his command post. Every dish will pass through him, every detail scrutinized to ensure it meets his exacting standards before it leaves the kitchen.

One by one, the rest of the kitchen staff begins to trickle in. The chatter picks up as stations are claimed and preparations continue. Knives flash as vegetables are diced with precision, and the air grows warmer as the stoves are fired up.

By the time the restaurant opens, the kitchen is a hive of activity. Minho stands at the helm, his arms crossed as he observes his team. His sharp gaze flicks from one chef to the next, silently assessing their movements and demeanor.

“There’s this nervousness when waiting for the first order. But there’s always happiness when empty plates return so just relax and continue what you have been doing before.”

“Yes, chef!” everyone replies in unison with a hint of excitement in their voices.

The sound of the printing machine cuts through the hum of the kitchen, signaling the arrival of the first order. The staff pauses, their eyes darting to the small slip of paper as it prints out.

“Shall we start?” Minho’s voice cuts through the tension like a knife, steady and authoritative. “Table number four. One Grancio, one porcini, two fettuccine and one vongole.”

“Yes, chef!” Everyone answers in response to Minho’s order.

The kitchen springs to life, the rhythm of Farfalle's service beginning in earnest. Minho’s eyes linger on you for just a moment longer before turning his attention to the plates coming his way, ready to set the tone for the day—and for his reign in the kitchen.

-

The faint aroma of freshly baked bread still lingers in the shared apartment as you sit at the small kitchen table, peeling apples for a late-night snack. Yura and Minji, your roommates and fellow chefs at Farfalle, chatter animatedly in the living room. Their excitement fills the quiet space with a buzz of energy.

“I swear, he’s like a fresh bottle of olive oil,” Yura gushes, her eyes practically sparkling. “Sleek, refined, and expensive.”

Minji giggles, her tone dreamy. “Not to mention, he’s so handsome. Those sharp features... and the way he walks? Confident, but not cocky.”

You stay silent, focusing on the rhythmic glide of the knife over the apple’s skin. Their words echo in the background as you continue peeling, occasionally flicking the pieces into a small bowl.

Yura’s gaze suddenly shifts to you, curiosity lighting up her features. “Hey, didn’t you say you and Chef Lee went to the same culinary school in Italy?”

The question makes you pause, if only for a fraction of a second. You quickly resume peeling, keeping your expression neutral. “Yeah, we did.”

Yura leans forward, resting her chin on her hand. “So? What was he like back then? Was he always this good?”

You slice the apple cleanly, avoiding her eager gaze. “He was... impressive,” you answer, keeping your tone even. “He was one of the best students and won a lot of cooking competitions.”

Minji’s eyes widen. “Wow, really? That’s amazing! Did you guys ever talk or hang out?”

You shake your head, carefully cutting the apple into thin slices. “Not really. He was focused on his work, and I was... just trying to keep up. I doubt he’d even remember me.”

Minji frowns slightly, clearly unsatisfied with your response. “But you must have crossed paths, right?”

“Sure,” you reply casually, placing another neatly sliced piece into the bowl. “But Minho wasn’t exactly the type to stop and chat.”

Yura sighs dreamily. “Well, he’s certainly something now. I mean, did you see how sharp he looked in his chef coat? And the way he handled the kitchen today? So commanding!”

Minji nods enthusiastically. “I wouldn’t mind getting scolded if it’s from someone like him.”

You suppress a smile, the corner of your lips tugging upward briefly. Their admiration feels almost innocent, a sharp contrast to the memories quietly tucked away in your mind.

Instead of commenting, you place the knife down and start arranging the apple slices on a plate. Yura and Minji continue gushing over Minho, their excitement filling the room with a warm, almost naive energy.

You glance at them briefly, observing the way their faces light up as they talk about him. You don’t say a word, letting their admiration float freely in the air. The stories you could share stay locked away, hidden behind the veil of your quiet demeanor.

It’s not your place to ruin their perception, not yet. So you offer the plate of neatly sliced apples to them with a small smile, pretending you know nothing about the man they’re so smitten with.

-

The sound of laughter echoes faintly through the apartment as you shuffle out of your bedroom, still bleary-eyed from sleep. In the living room, Minji is curled up on the couch, glued to the television. She’s watching her favorite cooking show—the one with Chef Sara, her idol—her expression full of admiration.

“Minji,” you call, your voice heavy with morning grogginess, “How about breakfast?”

She glances over her shoulder, her innocent smile catching you off guard. “But it’s the episode where Chef Sara visits Florence. You know how much I love this one!”

You sigh, dragging a hand through your hair. It’s not like you expected Minji to be in the kitchen; she rarely helps with breakfast. As the youngest in the apartment, she’s grown comfortable letting you take on the responsibility.

The clinking of utensils draws your attention to the kitchen. Yura’s sitting at the dining table with her hair wrapped in a towel, sipping coffee while scrolling through her phone. She doesn’t even look up as she says, “Good morning. Breakfast ready yet?”

You suppress a groan and trudge into the kitchen, tying your apron over your pajamas. It’s always like this—Minji caught up in a show, Yura leisurely sipping coffee, and you stuck cooking for the three of you. You start peeling eggs and slicing fruit, your mind wandering as you go through the motions.

By the time you finished getting ready for work, you rush out of your apartment, nearly tripping over your untied sneaker in your haste. The morning routine has become a battlefield of time with Yura and Minji monopolizing the bathroom and leaving you scrambling to get ready after them. The faint echo of the apartment door slamming shut behind you accompanies your hurried footsteps down the hallway.

Reaching the elevators, you frantically jab the button and bounce on your toes, silently pleading for it to arrive before you’re late for work. The elevator dings, and the doors slide open to reveal Minho standing inside, his hands casually tucked into the pockets of his sleek black coat.

You freeze for a second, caught off guard by his presence. Regaining your composure, you step in and flash him a faint smile. “Good morning,” you murmur, keeping your tone neutral.

Minho acknowledges you with a brief glance, the corner of his mouth twitching as though he’s amused by something. The doors close, and the elevator begins its descent, the silence stretching between you like a taut string.

You focus on the glowing numbers above the door, counting down to the lobby. Your heartbeat quickens, though you’re not sure if it’s from the rush or his proximity.

As the elevator hums softly, Minho’s voice breaks the quiet. “Don’t forget. Midnight.”

You turn your head slightly, your brows furrowing in confusion for a split second before his words click. The bar. The unspoken rendezvous.

You glance at him, catching the faint smirk tugging at his lips. His tone is casual, but the way his dark eyes linger on you hints at something more.

The elevator dings open, and the cool morning air from the lobby filters in. You step out, pausing just long enough to glance back over your shoulder. “I’ll see you there,” you reply, your voice steady despite the subtle thrum of excitement coursing through you.

Without waiting for a response, you stride toward the exit, leaving Minho behind as the promise of midnight lingers in the air like the taste of something forbidden.

-

Minho strides into the kitchen, his polished chef coat pristine, and his expression unreadable. He takes his usual place at the chef's table, positioning himself so he can observe every station in the kitchen. His eyes sweep over the staff like a hawk surveying its territory, lingering just long enough to unsettle.

Leaning casually against the table, he crosses his arms. “Is everyone excited for the first order?”

Next to you, Minji perks up, her voice carrying a coquettish lilt. “Yes, Chef.”

The kitchen momentarily halts as all eyes turn toward her, some raising eyebrows, others hiding their amusement. You keep your gaze down, focusing on your pasta dough, but you can feel Minho’s sharp stare shift toward her.

A faint smirk touches his lips. “Let’s see if you can live up to that enthusiasm.”

The printer by the wall whirs, and the first ticket slides out with a soft beep. Minho snatches it and glances at the list, his voice cutting through the quiet. “Table number two. Three Caesar salads, two fillets, one pasta primavera.”

“Yes, chef!” Everyone responds in unison.

The kitchen bursts into life, the clatter of pans and the hiss of flames filling the air. You focus on your station, expertly tossing fresh pasta in a creamy sauce, the rhythm of the kitchen taking over.

Not long after, Seungwan approaches the pass with a plate of Caesar salad. The portion towers on the plate, the croutons precariously stacked like a culinary Jenga. Minho’s brow furrows as he steps forward, his gaze fixed on the dish.

“What is this?” he asks, his voice deceptively calm.

“It’s the Caesar salad, Chef,” Seungwan replies, a nervous edge creeping into his tone.

Minho picks up the plate, holding it at arm’s length as if inspecting it for flaws. Then, in one swift motion, he sends the plate crashing to the floor. The shattering sound reverberates through the kitchen, freezing everyone in place.

“Does this look like a Caesar salad meant for a fine dining restaurant?” Minho’s voice rises, sharp and unforgiving. “This isn’t a family buffet! Start over, and this time, don’t make it look like a joke.”

Seungwan stammers, his face flushed with embarrassment as he scrambles to clean up the mess and start again. The rest of the kitchen watches in stunned silence, hands momentarily still, as if afraid to move.

Another ticket prints, and Minho retrieves it with unnerving composure. “Table number eight. Two more fillets, one minestrone, one ravioli.”

He glances around, his voice cutting through the tension. “Why is no one responding?”

The silence stretches painfully until the staff collectively murmurs a hesitant, “Yes, Chef.”

You tighten your grip on the handle of your pan, throwing yourself into your work to avoid his scrutiny. Next to you, Minji fumbles with her sauce, her earlier confidence replaced by nervous energy.

Minho’s gaze sweeps over the kitchen again, his lips twitching into a smirk. “Good. Now, let’s see if you can keep up.”

The atmosphere is heavier now, every move calculated, every dish triple-checked before reaching the pass. The truth is clear to everyone—this is Minho’s kitchen now, and no one is safe from his exacting standards.

-

The atmosphere in the kitchen is strained, the tension palpable as every chef rushes to perfect their dishes under Minho’s watchful eyes. Minji approaches the chef’s table, her plate of risotto carefully balanced in her hands. She sets it down with a nervous smile, stepping back to let Minho inspect it.

Minho glances at the dish, his expression unreadable. For a brief second, it seems like he might pass it, but then his hand moves with unexpected force, shoving the plate back toward Minji.

“This isn’t a risotto,” he says coldly, his voice cutting through the hum of the kitchen. “Do it again!.”

Minji’s face flushes with embarrassment, but she nods quickly, snatching the plate and retreating to her station.

Minho straightens, his sharp gaze sweeping over the kitchen. He steps away from the table, moving with purpose toward Hyunwoo’s station, where the younger chef is carefully garnishing a bowl of soup.

“Stop,” Minho orders, his tone laced with authority. He picks up a shrimp from the garnish and holds it up for everyone to see. “Is this a joke? You didn’t even bother to devein it.”

Hyunwoo stammers, “I-I didn’t think it was necessary for this dish—”

“Do I need to devein your brain too?” Minho interrupts, his words laced with sarcasm. Hyunwoo’s face turns red as he mumbles an apology and quickly begins redoing the garnish.

Minho moves on, stopping next to Seojun’s station. The sous chef’s cooking is impeccable, but Minho’s attention is drawn to the trash can beside him. He picks it up, examining the contents with a grimace.

“This,” Minho says, lifting the can higher, “is worth months of your salary.”

Before anyone can react, Minho dumps the contents of the trash can in front of Seojun, creating a mess of perfectly good ingredients discarded unnecessarily. The room goes silent, all eyes on Seojun, whose jaw tightens in suppressed anger.

“Next time,” Minho continues, his tone icy, “if you feel the urge to waste food, do it at home. Not in my kitchen.”

“Yes, chef,” Seojun weakly respond, his hands gripping the edge of his station, but the fury in his eyes is unmistakable. Minho smirks, satisfied, and strides back to his chef table.

The uneasy calm is broken when a dish is returned from the dining hall. The staff member hesitates before approaching Minho, holding the plate carefully.

“The customer said the lobster is too tough,” they report nervously.

Minho’s eyes narrow as he glances at the dish, then shifts his gaze to Yura. “Redo it. Now.”

Yura, already simmering with frustration, nods sharply and returns to her station. Minutes later, the same dish comes back to the kitchen, the dining hall staff once again bearing the plate.

“The customer still says the lobster isn’t right.”

Yura’s temper snaps. Without a word, she storms out of the kitchen, ignoring the stunned silence of her colleagues. She marches into the dining hall, her face flushed with anger, and approaches the table where the complaint originated.

“Excuse me,” she says loudly, placing her hands on her hips. “What exactly is the problem with this dish? Do you even know what properly cooked lobster is supposed to taste like?”

The customer, a middle-aged man with a calm demeanor, raises an eyebrow. He sets down his fork and looks up at her, his expression unreadable.

“Actually, I do,” he replies evenly, pulling out a business card and placing it on the table. “I’m a food critic for Culinary Gazette. This restaurant is being reviewed for next month’s issue.”

Yura’s eyes widen, the weight of her mistake crashing down on her. The rest of the kitchen staff watches through the small window, horrified. Minho, standing at his table with his jaws tensed.

Yura walks back into the kitchen, her face pale and her usual fiery confidence replaced by dread. The moment she steps through the door, she’s met with Minho’s piercing gaze. He’s standing near his chef table, arms crossed, his expression unreadable but undeniably intimidating.

The silence in the kitchen is suffocating as everyone watches the exchange, their work forgotten. Minho doesn’t waste time. He strides toward her, stopping just a foot away, and lifts a finger to point at her.

“You’re fired,” he states coldly, his voice carrying an air of finality.

Yura’s shock quickly turns to indignation. Her face flushes, and her temper reignites as she begins protesting. “Fired? For what? For defending my work? That critic doesn’t know anything—”

Minho interrupts her with a dismissive shrug, stepping around her and returning to his chef table. He casually picks up a spoon to inspect a sauce from a nearby plate, tasting it as if the argument isn’t worth his attention.

“Defending your work?” he says, not even looking at her. “You stormed out of the kitchen and embarrassed this restaurant in front of a food critic. If you think that’s defending your work, then you’re not cut out for this industry.”

Yura clenches her fists, her voice rising. “This is ridiculous! I’ve been working here longer than you. You can’t just walk in and—”

“Enough.” Minho’s voice slices through her tirade like a knife. He looks at her then, his dark eyes locking onto hers. “This is my kitchen now. And in my kitchen, there’s no room for your temper or your excuses.”

The finality in his tone leaves no room for further argument. Yura stands there, breathing heavily, her defiance wavering as she realizes there’s no changing his mind. The rest of the staff exchange nervous glances but remain silent, unwilling to draw Minho’s ire.

Satisfied, Minho turns back to the dish in front of him, as if the conversation never happened. “Someone clean this station,” he says over his shoulder. “We have orders to get out.”

Yura stands frozen for a moment before storming out, slamming the door behind her. The tension in the kitchen lingers, but everyone quickly gets back to work, unwilling to be the next target of Minho’s wrath.

Minho tastes another dish and smirks faintly, his voice low but audible enough for those nearby. “Let this be a lesson—anyone who steps out of line will face the same fate.”

The room is silent except for the sound of knives against cutting boards and the faint hum of the kitchen appliances. Minho’s authority is unquestionable now, his control over the kitchen absolute.

-

Minho steps out of the kitchen freezer with Taesoo following close behind, their breaths visible in the cold air as they finish inspecting the frozen stock. He closes the freezer door and turns to speak, but his attention snaps to an unexpected scene at the far corner of the kitchen.

Minji and Seungwan are leaning against a counter, locked in an intimate embrace, completely oblivious to the two men’s presence. Their quiet murmurs and soft laughter fill the otherwise silent kitchen, unaware they have an audience.

Taesoo clears his throat deliberately, and the sound jolts them apart. Minji and Seungwan freeze, their faces paling as they register Minho's cold stare.

“I-I’m sorry, Chef,” Minji stammers, stepping back from Seungwan. “We—uh—it won’t happen again.”

Seungwan nods quickly, his face a mix of guilt and fear. “It was a mistake, Chef. We weren’t thinking.”

Minho says nothing, his sharp eyes flicking between them before he turns on his heel and walks away.

“Gather everyone in the dining hall after service,” he says to Taesoo, his voice low but commanding. “We have some things to address.��

The dining hall is eerily quiet, the usual warm glow of its chandeliers casting an ominous light over the small group of kitchen staff seated at one of the larger tables. Minho stands at the head of the table, arms crossed, his expression unreadable.

“Let’s start with the lobsters,” he says, his gaze settling on Yura. “The issue lies in how they were stored in Styrofoam boxes, making it impossible for the freezer to maintain the correct temperature.” He pauses, letting the weight of his words sink in. “That’s your responsibility, Yura. You failed to ensure the proper handling of the seafood for your station.”

Yura opens her mouth to argue, but Minho raises a hand, silencing her.

“You embarrassed this restaurant in front of a critic, and now I find this. You’re fired.”

Yura’s temper flares immediately. “You can’t just—”

“I can,” Minho cuts her off, his tone cold and final. “This is my kitchen, and you’re no longer part of it. Pack your things.”

The room feels heavy with tension as Yura storms out, slamming the door behind her.

Minho’s attention shifts to Minji and Seungwan. “Now, about you two.” His voice is calm, but his words are razor-sharp. “The kitchen is a sacred space. It’s where we create, where we work, where we respect the craft. It is not where we indulge in personal relationships.”

Seungwan swallows hard. “It was a mistake—”

Minho cuts him off again. “There are no excuses. Romance has no place in my kitchen. For that, you’re both fired.”

Minji’s eyes widen, and she steps forward quickly. “Wait! Chef, it’s my fault. I—” Her voice falters slightly, but she pushes through. “If someone has to leave, it should be me. Seungwan is a great chef. Don’t take this opportunity away from him because of me.”

Minho studies her for a long moment, his cold gaze flickering with something unreadable. Finally, he nods. “Fine. Seungwan stays. But you... you’re fired.”

Minji’s shoulders sag, but she nods in resignation. “Yes, Chef,” she says quietly before walking out of the dining hall without looking back.

As the door swings shut behind her, Minho allows himself a faint smirk. Everything is falling into place. No women in his kitchen, just as he intends.

But then his eyes land on you, standing quietly at the end of the room, your expression neutral. Minho’s smirk falters for just a moment before he turns away, heading for the door.

“This kitchen isn’t for the weak,” he says over his shoulder. “I hope the rest of you can keep up.”

As the door clicks shut behind him, you feel the weight of his unspoken challenge settle over you. Minho’s plan might be working for now, but he hasn’t dealt with you yet—and that, you realize, makes you his next obstacle.

-

Minho pushes open the door to the locker room, his steps echoing faintly against the tiled floor. He walks toward his locker, his focus seemingly on the lock in his hands. The metallic clang of the lock twisting open echoes, but it’s quickly overshadowed by the soft rustling of clothes behind him.

Glancing out of the corner of his eye, Minho freezes. Two lockers away, you’re standing half-dressed, your black lace bra visible as you methodically pull on your shirt. His breath hitches for just a moment, though his expression remains neutral.

He doesn’t say a word, instead quietly observing your movements. The way you move—unhurried, deliberate—strikes him as oddly familiar. But he can’t place where he’s seen it before.

You button your shirt, unaware of his watchful eyes. Finally, you grab your bag and sling it over your shoulder, sparing a brief glance in his direction. Your expression is unreadable as you walk out of the locker room, leaving Minho behind in the lingering silence.

Moments later, Taesoo enters, a casual grin on his face. “Hey, Chef,” he calls out, leaning against a row of lockers. “So… you really don’t remember her, huh?”

Minho frowns, closing his locker with a sharp click. “What are you talking about?”

Taesoo chuckles softly. “You and her went to the same culinary school in Italy. Everyone thought you two were close.”

The words hit Minho like a puzzle piece snapping into place. His eyes narrow, and for a moment, he doesn’t respond. Memories flash through his mind—bits and pieces of a classmate who rarely took things seriously, who was more interested in fleeting romances than perfecting recipes.

“Oh? She’s the one who was always slacking off,” Minho mutters, almost to himself.

Taesoo gets confused. “Huh? She still graduated, didn’t she?”

Minho stands still for a moment, letting the realization settle in. That’s why you seemed so familiar. That’s why he couldn’t quite figure you out until now.

With this newfound knowledge, Minho’s lips curl into a faint smirk. He shuts his locker with finality, grabs his coat, and walks out of the locker room without another word.

The night air is cool as Minho steps out of the restaurant. The city buzzes around him, but he doesn’t pay it any mind. His destination is clear.

The bar isn’t far, just a short walk away. As he approaches, the faint hum of music and chatter grows louder. Minho pauses at the entrance, running a hand through his hair.

He pushes open the door, stepping into the warm, dimly lit space. His eyes scan the room, searching for you. Tonight, he plans to uncover more than just a drink.

-

It's midnight and you're here at the bar where you met Minho. You sit at the same spot, quietly sipping your drink as the faint hum of music and chatter fills the space. The warmth of the liquor burns your throat, grounding you amidst your swirling thoughts. The door creaks open, and you feel a presence slide onto the stool next to you.

You don’t have to look to know who it is.

“Funny,” Minho says, his voice low and teasing. “That’s quite a face for a girl who came to meet a guy.”

You glance at him, raising an eyebrow but saying nothing. His smirk is as sharp as ever, his eyes glinting with something unreadable.

“I wonder if you're still dating around like you did back in culinary school?” he asks casually, tilting his head as if he’s genuinely curious.

The comment stings, and you clench your glass tighter. So, he recognizes you now.

“Finally remembered me, huh?” you retort. Then, leaning slightly closer, you counter, “What about you? Still traumatized by your past experience, I see? Is that why you fired all the female chefs?”

For a moment, Minho’s smirk falters, but he recovers quickly. “Is this how you treat a guy on a date?” he asks, brushing off your words like dust on his coat.

You scoff but don’t respond. Instead, you press forward, determined to get answers. “You planned it, didn’t you? Firing all the women in the kitchen because you don't want women in your kitchen.”

Minho doesn’t answer right away. His silence feels heavier than the music playing in the background. Then, suddenly, he leans in. His face is inches from yours, his breath warm against your skin.

“Let’s do it,” he says, his voice dropping lower, more intimate. “You and me. Go out. Date.”

The words catch you off guard, and you blink at him, trying to read his expression. He’s serious, but his seriousness feels like a challenge rather than a confession.

You hesitate, weighing the implications. To say yes would mean leaving the job—leaving the kitchen you worked so hard to be in. As if reading your thoughts, Minho adds, “You can’t work in my kitchen. There’s no place for women there, and you know it.”

The bartender interrupts the moment, sliding closer to ask, “Another round?”

Minho seizes the opportunity, turning to you. “Well?” he asks, his voice smoother now, almost seductive. “What’s it going to be? Another drink with me or...?”

He leans in closer, his lips just brushing the shell of your ear as he whispers, “Stay. Have another drink. Let’s see where this goes.”

You feel the heat rise in your chest, but you don’t look away. Instead, you drain the rest of your drink, the glass making a soft clink as you set it down on the counter.

Still holding his gaze, you rise from your stool. You say nothing as you turn and walk out of the bar, your decision clear in your mind. If Minho wants to get rid of you, he’ll have to try harder.

Minho watches as you disappear into the night, the sway of your silhouette fading into the city’s glow. You didn’t look back, not even once, and yet he knows—he knows—you’ve accepted the challenge he silently laid at your feet. A smirk tugs at his lips, though his chest tightens with an unfamiliar ache he refuses to name. This isn’t just about control or proving a point anymore. There’s something about you that unnerves him, something that stirs a dangerous mix of irritation and intrigue. You’re a complication he didn’t plan for, and complications, Minho thinks, always have a way of unraveling the best-laid plans.

-

The kitchen is chaos. Orders spill from the printer at an unrelenting pace, each ticket a stark reminder of the restaurant’s packed lunch service. Farfalle is fully booked, and the staff can barely keep up. The tension is palpable, the air thick with the mingling aromas of simmering sauces and stress-induced perspiration.

At the pasta line, you’re barely holding it together. Seungwan has stepped in to help, his movements quick but clumsy as he fumbles with the pasta portions. It’s clear he’s unfamiliar with the intricacies of the station, but there’s no time to complain. With fewer hands in the pasta line, the pressure feels insurmountable.

“Move faster!” Minho’s voice cuts through the cacophony, sharp and biting. He stands at his chef table, watching every station like a hawk, barking orders that keep the team on edge. “Don’t just stand around like electrical poles.”

Your hands ache from tossing pasta, the boiling steam stinging your face as you strain spaghetti and toss it into the pan. Beside you, Seungwan drops a ladle, cursing under his breath as sauce splatters onto the counter.

“Pick it up!” you snap, your patience thinning as the next order comes in. You’re already juggling three pans, but the thought of falling behind propels you forward.

Minho’s footsteps echo as he approaches. “What’s taking so long on that linguine?”

“It’s coming!” You shout over your shoulder, refusing to meet his gaze.

You can feel his eyes boring into you, assessing every move you make. The weight of his scrutiny is suffocating, but you push through it, your focus unwavering. You can’t afford to falter—not now, not ever. Not when proving yourself means everything.

“Faster, faster!” Minho demands, his tone clipped. “The customers are screaming in hunger.”

The words sting, but you bite them back, tossing the finished linguine onto the plate and sliding it onto the pass. “It’s done,” you say, your voice steady despite the fire burning in your chest.

You won’t give him the satisfaction of seeing you falter. No matter how overwhelming the orders, no matter how loudly he shouts, you refuse to let him believe—even for a second—that you can’t handle this.

The weight of the frying pan, clams, broth, garlic and pasta is 1,5 kilograms. Since you're holding two pans, that's 3 kilograms combined. That's almost the weight of a newborn baby so right now you're practically rocking a baby in your hands and Minho is trying to say is that in the kitchen, men are better with babies? Not a chance.

This isn’t just about the pasta or the orders. It’s about proving him wrong, about showing him that women can not only survive in his kitchen but thrive.

By the time the rush subsides, your arms feel like lead, your body drenched in sweat. But when Minho glances your way, his face unreadable, you meet his gaze head-on. You don’t say a word, but your silence speaks volumes: I’m still standing.

-

The kitchen is eerily quiet after the lunch rush, save for the faint clinking of utensils and the hum of the exhaust fans. Most of the staff are resting their arms on counters or sipping water, their faces etched with exhaustion. You stand by the pasta station, massaging your sore wrists discreetly, hoping no one notices.

But Minho notices.

From his position at the chef table, his sharp eyes catch the subtle movements of your fingers rubbing against the tender skin of your wrists. His expression doesn’t change, but something flickers behind his eyes—a brief, almost imperceptible calculation.

Without a word, Minho leaves the kitchen, disappearing into his office. A faint murmur of conversation filters out from the slightly ajar door, his voice low and measured as he makes a phone call.

Dinner service looms, and the staff are back at their stations, bracing themselves for another storm. The tension is palpable, a collective anxiety that builds with each passing second. You’re adjusting your mise en place when the kitchen doors swing open.

Minho strides in, a commanding presence as always, but it’s the figure trailing behind him that draws everyone’s attention.

The new guy is tall and lean, with long, bleached hair pulled into a loose bun. Freckles dust his cheeks and nose, softening his sharp features. He’s beautiful, almost too pretty to be real, and for a moment, everyone wonders if Minho’s broken his own rule about women in the kitchen. But no—there’s no way.

Minho stops in the center of the kitchen, his eyes sweeping over the staff.

“Let me be clear,” he begins, his voice cold and biting. “Today’s lunch service was a disaster. I overestimated all of you—thought you could at least prepare one meal correctly without fumbling like amateurs. Clearly, I was wrong.”

The staff exchanges uneasy glances, the air thick with unspoken tension.

Minho turns his gaze to Seungwan. “Get back to your station,” he orders, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Seungwan nods stiffly, retreating to his corner of the kitchen.

Then, Minho gestures to the newcomer. “This is Felix. He’ll be taking over the pasta line.”

Felix steps forward, his expression calm but focused as he positions himself beside you. He gives you a brief smile���warm and genuine, a stark contrast to the cold indifference that permeates the kitchen.

Before everyone can process the change, the first order for dinner service comes through.

Minho wastes no time. “Table number six. Two risottos, one linguine with clams, one carbonara!”

The kitchen springs to life, knives chopping, pans sizzling, and voices calling out orders. Felix moves with practiced ease, his hands deft and precise as he takes over part of your workload.

For the first time all day, you feel a flicker of relief. But as you glance at Minho, watching him observe the chaos he’s orchestrated, you know this is far from over.

-

The bar is dimly lit, the warm glow of amber lights reflecting off the rows of bottles behind the counter. Minho sits at a corner table, nursing a glass of whiskey. Across from him, Felix sips a cocktail, his relaxed demeanor a sharp contrast to Minho’s brooding intensity.

Felix sets his glass down, his freckled face tinged with amusement. “I’m still surprised you called me. What’s it been? Two years?”

Minho tilts his glass, the liquid swirling lazily. “I didn’t have a choice,” he says bluntly. “The kitchen is chaos. Everyone’s far below my expectations.”

Felix leans back in his chair, a teasing smile playing on his lips. “Sudden desperation, huh? Not very Minho of you.”

Minho gives a short laugh. “I should’ve called earlier, but you know how it is. Didn’t think I’d need help.”

Felix raises a brow. “Well, I’m here now. But I gotta say, I was surprised to see her there.”

Minho’s grip on his glass tightens ever so slightly, but his expression remains neutral. “Who?”

Felix smirks knowingly. “You know who. The girl at the pasta line. What’s her name again?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Minho replies dismissively, waving a hand.

Felix chuckles, leaning forward. “So, you’re letting women in your kitchen now? Never thought I’d see the day.”

Minho lets out a low, sinister chuckle, shaking his head. “Don’t get the wrong idea.”

Felix’s teasing fades, replaced by curiosity. “You haven’t moved on from it, huh?” he asks, his tone quieter, more serious now.

Minho doesn’t answer right away, his eyes narrowing slightly as he stares at his glass.

Felix continues, “You know, Italian kitchens demand commitment and adaptability. Times are changing. There are tough female cooks these days, and some are damn good at what they do.”

Minho smirks, finally meeting Felix’s gaze. “You don’t need to worry about it,” he says, his voice smooth and composed. “My kitchen isn’t just any kitchen. It’s not meant to be easy-going.”

Felix studies him for a moment, his expression unreadable, before taking another sip of his drink. “Fair enough,” he says, though there’s a hint of something—disapproval or resignation, perhaps—in his tone.

Minho downs the rest of his whiskey, the ice clinking against the glass. “Thanks for stepping in, Felix. Just do your job, and don’t get too comfortable.”

Felix laughs lightly, raising his glass in a mock toast. “With you around? Never.”

The conversation shifts to lighter topics, but the weight of Felix’s words lingers in the air, unspoken yet undeniable.

-

The soft hum of the coffee machine fills the small apartment as you shuffle into the kitchen, still groggy from the night before. The scent of freshly brewed coffee mingles with the faint aroma of cinnamon, a small comfort in an otherwise tense atmosphere.

Yura and Minji are already seated at the kitchen table, their postures slouched as they stare at their laptops. Each of them clutches a steaming mug of coffee, their expressions tired and resigned. Yura is the first to glance up at you, offering a half-hearted smile.

“Morning,” she mutters, her voice hoarse.

“Morning,” you reply, moving toward the fridge. The silence is heavy, save for the occasional click of keys as Minji scrolls through job listings.

You decide to make breakfast, a small gesture to lighten the mood. Pulling out eggs, bread, and vegetables, you get to work, the sound of chopping and sizzling breaking the quiet. You carefully avoid mentioning Farfalle or Minho, knowing it’s a sore subject for both of them.

Yura breaks the silence first, her tone hesitant. “We’ve been talking,” she starts, her eyes fixed on her screen. “Minji and I… we’re going to have to move out soon.”

Your hand stills on the spatula for a moment before you force yourself to keep flipping the eggs. “Oh?”

“We just… we can’t afford rent anymore,” Yura continues, her voice tight. “Especially without jobs lined up. And, uh, we’ll need to take the deposit money too.”

The words hit you harder than you expect. You knew this was coming, but hearing it aloud makes the reality sink in. Living alone will be expensive—rent, bills, groceries—it’s a lot to shoulder on your own. You might have to find a roommate sooner rather than later.

You take a deep breath, steadying yourself. “I get it,” you say, your voice calm. “You’ve gotta do what you’ve gotta do. I hope you both find something soon.”

Yura gives a small nod, though her eyes are still glued to her screen. Minji doesn’t say much, just takes a long sip of her coffee.

You finish plating breakfast and place the dishes in front of them. “Here,” you say, managing a smile. “Eat up. And good luck with the job hunt.”

“Thanks,” Minji murmurs, finally looking up.

As they start eating, you sit down with your own plate, your mind already racing. The weight of their impending departure looms over you, but you push it aside for now. You’ll figure it out—just like you always do.

-

The dining hall buzzes with low murmurs as the kitchen and service staff assemble for the morning briefing. You stand in your line, feeling Taesoo’s presence lingering just behind you, a quiet support in the tense environment.

Felix strides in moments later, his presence like a burst of sunshine cutting through the cloudy atmosphere. His bleached hair glows under the morning light, and his freckled face radiates a kind, unbothered smile. “Hey,” he greets, his voice soft yet carrying a note of warmth. “It’s nice to see another familiar face here.”

You offer him a polite smile. Of course, Minho would call Felix. The two were practically inseparable back in culinary school, despite Felix being a year below Minho. Felix had always trailed after him, eager and wide-eyed. It doesn’t surprise you in the least to see him here, undoubtedly Minho’s protégé by now.

“Nice to see you too,” you reply with a small smile. “Looking forward to working with you in the kitchen.”

Felix grins, his gaze sweeping the gathered team. He greets the others with the same warmth, extending his hand as a gesture of goodwill. The service staff respond with polite nods, but the kitchen team barely acknowledges him, their faces etched with stony indifference.

Felix leans closer to you, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Why are they acting like that?”

You glance at the kitchen crew, their tension palpable. “Probably because they think the Italian grads are taking over the pasta line,” you murmur back.

Before Felix can respond, the manager enters, followed closely by Minho, who radiates authority with his sharp, no-nonsense expression. The low hum of conversation dies down as the manager clears his throat and begins the briefing. He details the full lunch and dinner bookings, emphasizing the need for efficiency and teamwork.

When the manager finishes, Minho steps forward, his presence commanding the room. “There’ll be further restructuring in my kitchen,” he announces, his voice calm yet laced with an edge.

The manager blinks in confusion. “Restructuring? You fired people yesterday, and we barely managed the orders. We need more hands, not—”

Minho cuts him off with a raised hand. His gaze sweeps the room before landing squarely on you. His finger points in your direction, sharp and accusatory. “You,” he says, his tone cold. “From today, you’ll share the locker room with the service staff.”

The words hang in the air, heavy with implication. You stiffen, refusing to back down. “No, chef,” you flatly refuse.

Minho’s brow arches, his lips curling into a faint, mocking smile. “Why not?”

“Because I’m part of the kitchen staff,” you reply firmly, meeting his gaze head-on.

The room holds its breath as the two of you lock eyes in a silent battle of wills. Minho’s jaw tightens, his gaze never wavering, but you refuse to look away. After a moment that feels like an eternity, he looks elsewhere, a faint flicker of annoyance crossing his face.

“Fine,” he mutters, his voice dripping with disdain. “Do whatever you want.”

Minho pivots, addressing the team again. “Moving on. First, Farfalle will no longer serve foie gras.”

“But that provides us a lot of sales,” someone from the service team blurts out.

Minho’s eyes snap toward the entrée line where the most resistance is coming. “Foie gras is made by shoving a funnel down a goose's throat and force feeding it until its liver becomes the size of a fist. I don’t support animal cruelty, and this restaurant won’t either.”

A ripple of shock and murmurs sweeps through the room. Sous Chef Seojun steps forward, his face twisted in disbelief. “But foie gras is our VIP customers' favorite.”

“I’m not here to pad your wallets with unethical practices,” Minho snaps, daringly gazes into Seojun’s eyes.

Before Seojun can argue further, Minho barrels ahead. “Second, spoons will no longer be served with pasta dishes.”

Hyunwoo mutters under his breath, loud enough for the room to hear, “This is ridiculous.”

Minho’s gaze snaps to him, sharp as a blade. “From now on, we're going to use half as much sauce on our pasta. Pasta should soak up the sauce so that you don't need a spoon to eat it. In other words, pasta shouldn't be so watery. You should be able to to chew it and enjoy the nutty texture, instead of slurping it down. It should be served on a flat plate without a spoon and watery sauce. So that means, there'll be no more bowl type dishes as well.”

The air is thick with tension, animosity brewing among the staff. Minho, however, stands unshaken, his stance firm, his eyes daring anyone to challenge him further. Felix shifts beside you, his expression caught somewhere between amusement and unease.

You can feel the kitchen’s collective resentment bubbling beneath the surface. And though you don’t agree with Minho’s methods, a part of you can’t help but admire the sheer audacity with which he holds his ground.

This is Minho’s kitchen, and everyone is learning that the hard way.

-

The lunch rush descends upon the kitchen like a storm. Orders pile in, each ticket a new test of patience and precision. But today, the storm is harsher. The absence of foie gras and spoons from the menu seems to have lit a fuse among the patrons. Complaints echo from the front of the house to the kitchen, carried in by the servers who are met with Minho’s unflinching glare.

“Table six wants to know why there’s no foie gras,” a server stammers, holding the ticket like it’s a shield.

“Because we’re not barbaric,” Minho snaps without looking up from the plated pasta he’s inspecting. “Next question.”

Another server rushes in. “Table three says there’s not enough sauce on their pasta.”

“It’s a sugo, not a soup,” Minho barks, flicking his hand dismissively. “If they wanted a bowl of tomato water, they came to the wrong place.”

The kitchen vibrates with tension. Even the sous chef, who usually keep his grumbling to a minimum, can’t mask their irritation. Seojun’s jaw tightens as he works the grill, his movements sharp and mechanical. Across your station, Hyunwoo mutters curses under his breath, his hands trembling as he reduces yet another sauce to Minho’s exact specifications.

You stand at your station, hands moving on autopilot as you toss a pan of pasta, the repetitive motion grounding you. The complaints weigh on you too, but you keep your head down. You’ve made it this far; you’re not about to let Minho—or anyone else—see you falter.

“Focus!” Minho’s voice cuts through the chaos like a whip, directed at no one and everyone. “If I hear one more plate leaves this kitchen without my approval, someone’s going home early. And not in a good way.”

“Yes, chef!” Despite the chaos, the kitchen soldiers on. Plates go out, tables are cleared, and somehow, the lunch service marches toward its conclusion. By the time the last order is fired and plated, an exhausted hush falls over the team.

The other cooks exchange glances, their disdain for Minho unspoken but palpable. Felix, ever the optimist, claps Taesoo on the shoulder and offers a reassuring smile.

Minho surveys the room, his sharp eyes taking in every detail. “Good work,” he says, his tone begrudging, like the words physically pain him. “But don’t think for a second this means you’re keeping up. Dinner service starts in five hours. Clean up and get back to prep.”

As the team disperses, you take a deep breath, the ache in your wrists flaring as you stretch. Another day in hell, you think. And yet, you can’t help but feel a flicker of pride. Against all odds, you finished the service.

But you know this is just the beginning. With Minho at the helm, there’s no such thing as smooth sailing. Only storms.

-

The dining hall is crowded as all of the staff are taking their break and having lunches, indulging in the rare peace before dinner service. But you have other plans. Quietly slipping away, you make your way to the cashier’s terminal, your heart thumping with anticipation.

The order history is your goal—a record of the Italian consulate’s dining habits. Scrolling through the list of past reservations, you start to see the pattern. Each visit showcases a different dish, meticulously selected as though the consulate is sampling the entire menu, piece by piece. One glaring omission stands out: Vongole.

The realization lights a spark of determination. Heading to the freezer, you prep the clams with care, imagining the dish that might just win over one of the most discerning palates to grace Farfalle’s dining room. But as you emerge with your bounty, Minho appears, as if conjured by your audacity.

“What are you doing with that?” he asks, his voice laced with curiosity and skepticism.

You straighten your back. “The Italian consulate will order Vongole tonight,” you reply confidently.

Minho’s expression shifts into a cynical smile. “And what makes you so sure?”

“I checked his previous orders,” you explain, meeting his gaze without flinching. “He’s ordered everything on the menu except Vongole. It’s the only dish left.”

For a moment, Minho simply stares at you, as though debating whether to dismiss you outright or acknowledge your boldness. Then, a sly smirk tugs at his lips. “We’ll see,” he says, brushing past you.

Dinner service is in full swing, the clamor of the kitchen almost deafening. Minho’s sharp commands ring out above the noise, each order executed with mechanical precision.

Then comes the moment everyone has been waiting for—the consulate’s arrival. The manager sweeps into the kitchen, a nervous energy radiating from him as he announces their presence.

Minho’s expression remains unreadable. “Focus,” he orders, his voice cutting through the tension like a knife.

The anticipation is palpable as the consulate’s table lingers over their menu, debating their options. When the order finally comes through, all eyes turn to Minho as he reads the slip of paper. His gaze flicks to you, holding it for just a second longer than usual before he barks out the order.

“Vongole!”

Felix raises his hand immediately. “I’ll make it,” he volunteers, his enthusiasm earnest.

But Minho ignores him, his attention fixed on you. “You,” he says firmly, pointing in your direction. “Make the dish.”

Your heart pounds, but you give no outward sign of hesitation. “Yes, Chef,” you reply, moving to your station with purpose.

As you work, Minho hovers nearby, his presence both unnerving and oddly reassuring. Halfway through your preparation, he approaches, holding a bottle of wine.

“Use this,” he says, his tone leaving no room for argument.

You hesitate, glancing at the label—it’s an expensive bottle, undoubtedly his personal stash. “Chef, this is—”

“It’ll elevate the flavor,” he interrupts, his voice steady. “Use it.”

Swallowing your nerves, you nod and accept the bottle. The addition of the wine transforms the dish, the aroma wafting through the kitchen as you plate the pasta with precision.

The staff exchange glances—some envious, others suspicious. But Minho ignores them all, his focus entirely on the dish in front of you.

“Serve it,” he orders once the plate is finished.

As the dish is carried out to the dining hall, a charged silence falls over the kitchen. All that remains is to see if your gamble—and Minho’s faith—will pay off.

-

The dinner service nears its end, the kitchen quieting as the last orders are plated and sent out. You’re tidying up your station when the manager steps in, his expression unreadable.

“The consulate wants to meet the chef,” he announces, then adds, “and the one who cooked his Vongole.”

Your heart skips a beat, an icy wave of anxiety washing over you. Did you mess up? Did it fail to meet his standards?

“Let’s go,” Minho says, already heading toward the dining hall.

You fall in step behind him, nerves gnawing at your composure. Minho walks with his usual confidence, his back straight and his presence commanding. It’s only when you reach the consulate’s table that you notice someone unexpected seated beside him.

Chef Choi Sara.

Recognition hits like a slap. Sara isn’t just a famous culinary star; she’s Minho’s ex from culinary school. They were inseparable back then, both as a couple and as rivals, constantly pushing each other to excel. Stories of their relationship are almost legendary in the culinary world—a whirlwind of passion, competition, and ambition. But something happened between them, and whatever it was, it ended both their romance and their partnership.

You glance at Minho, searching for a reaction. His face remains as unreadable as ever, but there’s a tension in his posture, a flicker in his eyes that betrays his composed demeanor.

The consulate rises with a warm smile, shaking Minho’s hand first. “Congratulations on your new position,” he says. “The food tonight was exceptional, as always. You’ve truly elevated this restaurant.”

“Thank you,” Minho replies, his voice steady and professional.

Then the consulate turns to you. “And you,” he says, his tone lighter but no less sincere. “The Vongole was exquisite. You’ve got a remarkable talent.”

You bow slightly, your voice soft with humility. “Thank you. I’m flattered you enjoyed it.”

Before the conversation can continue, Sara interjects, her smile sharp and knowing. “Well, it’s no wonder the food is so good,” she says, her voice laced with confidence. “The three of us went to the same culinary school, after all.”

Her words hang in the air, pointed and loaded. It’s as if she’s reminding Minho—and perhaps you—of their shared history, of the heights they reached together and the tension that pulled them apart. Minho doesn’t respond, his focus remaining on the consulate, but the air between him and Sara is thick with unspoken words.

The consulate gestures to a box beside his chair, lifting a few bottles of wine. “A gift,” he says, handing them to Minho. “I hope you’ll enjoy them as much as I’ve enjoyed your cooking.”

Minho accepts the gift with a polite nod, but there’s a flicker of something in his eyes, a glimpse of memories resurfacing. You can’t help but wonder what this exchange is stirring up for him.

“Shall we take a picture to commemorate the evening?” the consulate suggests, already standing to pose.

You barely have time to process the request before you’re lining up beside Minho. As you smile for the camera, you feel the faintest brush of movement. Glancing down, you see Sara’s arm looped through Minho’s, her posture relaxed and confident, as though she belongs by his side.

Your smile falters for a split second before you force it back into place. The flash goes off, but your mind is already racing.

As you walk back to the kitchen, questions swirl in your mind. What’s the nature of Minho and Sara’s relationship now? Did their rivalry ever truly end, or was it just another layer of their complicated dynamic? And more troublingly, does Minho still harbor feelings for her? The possibilities unsettle you, leaving you to wrestle with a mix of curiosity and unease.

-

The kitchen is less hectic as the only sounds that can be heard is the low hum of post-service cleanup, exhaustion settling into the faces of the staff. Minho stands in the center, a bottle of wine in hand, his expression unreadable. With a sharp twist, he pops the cork and pours glasses for everyone.

"Here," he says curtly, passing out drinks. "Celebrate while you can."

The team exchanges wary glances before lifting their glasses. Minho's tone is brusque, but his actions are a rare acknowledgment of their hard work. You sip the wine in silence, watching him walk away with the second bottle tucked under his arm.

Minho heads toward his office, his steps measured and deliberate. He’s halfway to the door when he freezes, his sharp eyes catching a figure leaning casually against the wall near his office—Sara.

"Minho," she calls, her lips curling into a knowing smile. "Still the last to leave, I see."

“What do you want?” he asks coldly, brushing past her toward his office door.

Sara pushes off the wall and falls into step behind him. “I just wanted to check on you,” she says breezily, her tone too light to be genuine. “Word is that Farfalle’s sales are plummeting since you took over. Not exactly the success story everyone expected.”

Minho stops abruptly, turning to face her. His eyes are dark, his patience clearly thin. “Mind your own business.”

She tilts her head, feigning innocence. “I just hate to see someone who used to be the best… fall so far.”

Minho doesn’t respond immediately. Instead, he steps into his office, setting the bottle of wine down on the desk. He gestures toward it, his lips curling into a bitter smile.

“Recognize this?” he asks.

Sara’s gaze flickers to the bottle, and for a moment, her confident facade cracks.

“It’s just wine, Minho,” she says, though her voice is quieter now.

“Not just wine,” he counters. “It’s a reminder. A reminder of the moment you ruined everything. Of how you planned to take me down.”

Her expression hardens, but she doesn’t deny it.

“It was a mistake,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper. “A shameful, momentary mistake.”

Minho laughs, though there’s no humor in it. “A mistake?” he repeats, his disbelief cutting through the room. “You planned it, Sara. Every step. And now you’re trying to rewrite history?”

Sara looks away, her silence speaking volumes.

Minho steps closer, his voice low and laced with disdain. “The real mistake wasn’t trusting you. It wasn’t even competing with you. The real mistake was falling in love with you.”

His words hang in the air, heavy and final. Without waiting for a response, he grabs his coat and strides past her, leaving Sara standing alone in the dim light of the office. Her carefully constructed poise falters, her hands clenching into fists at her sides as the door closes behind him.

-

The soft ding of the elevator echoes in the quiet corridor as you wait, exhaustion heavy in your limbs after a long day. Your mind drifts to the task you’ve been putting off—informing the property agent about listing your apartment for a roommate. Just as the thought settles uncomfortably, you hear footsteps approaching.

Minho steps into view, his arms crossed and his expression unreadable. He takes a spot beside you, his presence commanding the space as you both wait for the elevator in silence.

The doors slide open, and the two of you step inside. The hum of the elevator is the only sound until Minho finally breaks the silence.

“You must be happy,” he says, his tone laced with mock indifference. “I let you keep your job, I let you cook for the consulate, and I even let you use my wine.”

You glance at him, a small smile playing on your lips. For the first time in a while, this feels like the Minho you’d met that night, not the cold, sharp-edged chef from the kitchen.

“Thank you, chef,” you say softly, your smile widening. “You really are the best.”

Minho’s lips twitch as though he’s fighting a grin. “Flattery does not work on me,” he mutters, his gaze fixed straight ahead.

Amused, you turn slightly to study him. His jaw is set, his expression stoic, but there’s a flicker of something softer in his eyes. Acting on impulse, you step closer and gently cup his jaw, tilting his face toward you. His eyes widen in surprise, but before he can react, you lean in and press your lips to his.

For a moment, he freezes, but then he relaxes, his hands finding your waist as he returns the kiss. The warmth of his lips, the way he pulls you just a little closer—it’s electrifying, and the rest of the world fades away.

The elevator chimes, signaling your floor. Slowly, you break the kiss, a playful smile on your face as you step back.

Minho leans in as though to capture your lips again, but you quickly place a hand on his chest, teasingly stopping him. “Goodnight, Chef,” you say, your tone light and mischievous.

His lips part, as if to protest, but you’re already stepping out of the elevator. Glancing over your shoulder, you catch the look of longing on his face before the doors slide shut, leaving him standing there, wanting more.

-

Ever since that kiss, Minho can’t stop thinking about it. The memory keeps replaying—the warmth of your lips, the way your breath hitched right before it happened. It wasn’t supposed to happen. It can’t happen. And yet, he can’t deny how much he still wants to pursue whatever this is.

If only you weren’t working in his kitchen...

Stepping out of his apartment, Minho sighs quietly, raking a hand through his hair. He presses the elevator button and stares at the numbers lighting up as the lift ascends. The soft creak of your door opening makes him turn, and he sees you stepping out, adjusting the strap of your bag.

You spot him and offer a faint smile. “Morning,” you say, your voice light but cautious.

The elevator doors slide open, and you both step in. The space between you feels charged, the silence heavier than it should be. Minho shoves his hands into his pockets, debating whether to say something. This is his chance, but he knows he has to tread carefully.

Finally, he speaks, his voice low but steady. “Listen to me carefully.”

You glance at him, waiting for him to continue, your expression unreadable.

“I don’t want to fire you,” he says firmly. “But I need to remind you… you’re just a chef in my kitchen. Nothing more.”

The words land heavier than he expects, and he watches as your expression shifts. A flicker of something he can’t quite place crosses your face before you mask it again.

You stay silent for a moment before nodding.

Minho frowns slightly, uneasy. “Understood?” he asks, needing confirmation—for himself as much as for you.

“Yes, Chef,” you reply, your voice calm and unwavering.

The formal response makes his chest tighten. It’s what he wants to hear—what he needs to hear. But it feels like a wall has gone up between you, colder and more impenetrable than before.

The elevator dings softly, and the doors slide open to the ground floor. Minho steps out first, reminding himself of his own rules. No women in his kitchen. No romance in his kitchen. Even if he wants to break them.

-

The dining hall hums with quiet conversation as the service and kitchen staff gather for the usual morning briefing. You stand among them, arms crossed, waiting for Mr. Oh to arrive. It's strange—he’s never late for these meetings.

The minutes stretch, and impatience grows. Finally, Minho steps into the scene, exuding authority as he takes charge. “Let’s not waste time,” he says, his voice cutting through the murmurs. “We’ll start—”

The double doors to the dining hall creak open, silencing everyone. All heads turn toward the entrance, and a collective murmur ripples through the room as a figure strides in.

Dressed in a tailored black suit that seems to absorb the light, the man’s presence is magnetic. His pale skin contrasts sharply with his dark attire, and his piercing gaze sweeps over the staff, commanding their attention without a single word.

He moves with an air of calculated confidence, each step echoing in the hushed hall. Reaching the front of the room, he turns to face the gathered crowd, his lips curling into a faint, enigmatic smile.

“I apologize for the disruption,” he begins, his voice deep and smooth, laced with a subtle edge of authority. “Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Chris, and as of today, I am the new manager of Farfalle.”

A wave of whispers breaks out among the staff, curiosity and unease blending in their expressions.

Chris doesn’t waver. He clasps his hands behind his back, his sharp eyes scanning the room with an intensity that makes your pulse quicken. “I look forward to working with each of you.”

His words hang in the air like a challenge, leaving an unspoken tension that prickles at your skin. Without waiting for a response, Chris gives a final nod and steps aside, his presence lingering even as he moves.

Minho watches him with a subtle narrowing of his eyes, his jaw tight. The air in the room feels heavier, charged with the dramatic shift Chris's arrival has brought.

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

And just like that, the briefing takes on an entirely new weight, ending not with words, but with the undeniable realization that change is here—and it wears a sharp black suit.

-

Support my writings by kindly reblog, comment or consider tipping me on my ko-fi!

@svintsandghosts @abiaswreck @ppiri-bahng @drhsthl @idkluvutellme @biribarabiribbaem @skz-streamer @biancaness @hanjisunginc @elizalabs3 @laylasbunbunny @kpopformylife @caitlyn98s @hann1bee @mamieishere @is2cb97 @marvelous-llama @bluenights1899 @sherryblossom @toplinehyunjin @hanjisbeloved @sunnyseungup @skz4lifer @stellasays45 @severeanxietyissues @avyskai @imseungminsgf @silentreadersthings @army-stay-noel @rylea08 @simeonswhore @yubinism @devilsmatches @septicrebel @rairacha @ven-fic-recs @hyunjiinnnn @lostgirlinthewoodss @schniti-is-in-the-house @jisunglyricist @minh0scat @simplymoo @inlovewithstraykids @eastjonowhere

[mountainsandmayhem]

BDSMaid - Chapter 9

Series Summary: In order to save money for law school, you accept a job working as a maid for high end clients. You aren’t supposed to know whose home you’re cleaning, but your curiosity is peaked by your first client, and when the two of you have a shocking and surprising run in more than just your curiosity peaks.  Word Count: 5k CW: see small red lettering below the cut AN: I'm going to miss them!! I'm absolutely heartbroken that I'm done, but so fucking proud of myself for what I've created. Thank you to @lotusbxtch for being my beta from pretty much the very beginning. I am so grateful to you and so honoured (yes, with a u because I'm Canadian lol) to call you my friend. Also little shoutouts to @for-a-longlongtime, @alltheirdamn, @mermaidgirl30 and @littlevenicebitch69 for listening to me go on about them for 80% of 2024. As always, graphics and dividers by @saradika-graphics

My Masterlist || Series Masterlist

TW: unprotected p in v, one spank, multiple orgasms and Overstim hinted at, pining, heartbreak

Eight Months Later

Joel

“I got yelled at by a feisty brunette last night at that gala,” Tommy says as the two of them sip whiskey at the bar of the club. 

“Probably deserved it.” Joel deadpans and closes the folder of invoices he’s looking over.

He should be doing this in his fancy, and newly renovated, office across the street. He was in the large office for all of three minutes the day after you left when he could only see the ghost of you. From the chair you sat in when you first asked him to teach you how to be a sub, to the door he pinned you against and confessed how out of his mind he was over you, everything was you, and it had to go if he had any chance of following what you needed from him. Joel hasn’t even been in his room at the club out of the fear of what it would do to him. Would I still be able to smell the lavender of her shampoo in there? Still be able to hear her beautiful cries of pleasure and pain bouncing off the walls?

“She thought I was you,” Tommy says, glancing over at his brother and interrupting Joel’s impending spiral.

Joel sighs, slipping his reading glasses from his face before taking a long pull of the amber liquor from his crystal glass. Tommy looks straight ahead as he continues.

“She’s doing great, by the way. Or at least that’s what her friend said when she was scolding me.”

 Joel winces at his words, “Of course she is, Tommy.” Even though it's been almost a year since you left, just the mention of you rips his barely-mended heart back in half. It doesn’t seem to matter how much time passes, he still feels like he did in his kitchen. 

The very fibers of his being ache just as hard for you now as they did then. He longs to see you and touch you, to feel your warm, soft skin under his hands again. Anyone before you was always, ‘Yes, Mister Miller,’ even when they weren’t in a scene; but not you. You weren’t afraid to be curious and unapologetically yourself. He hasn’t laughed as hard with anyone, including Tiffany, as he did with you. But the part that he misses the most is the way you look at him the first time you see him. Your eyes soften, velvety pink lips parting slightly before they curl into a smile that makes his heart hammer behind his ribs. Then, he watches your shoulders relax and it makes him feel like he hung the moon and stars for you, and if he could have, he would have.  

He clears his throat and then rasps, “She’s too smart to not be doing well.”

Tommy stands, bringing his hands to rub at Joel's shoulders. He squeezes his tense deltoid muscles and with a hint of mischief in his voice he says, “Lots of pretty girls here tonight if you feel like moving on.”

Joel shakes his head and pulls away from Tommy’s grasp with a grunt. “Never gonna happen. Get outta here before you get yelled at two nights in a row.”

“Just too bad for me that you aren’t a hot brunette,” Tommy says with a laugh.

“I have brown hair,” Joel replies defensively, running his fingers through the grown out curls. 

“Not to kick you when you’re down, but it’s mostly grey at this point.”

Joel holds up a single finger at Tommy over his shoulder as he laughs and walks away. 

Two and a half years later

You

You’ve been up to your eyeballs in studying as you prepare for your finals. These last few years in California have been the hardest yet most fulfilling time of your life. Two nights in a row now, you’ve fallen asleep in the library, only waking when your Spotify would switch from the white noise playlist you use to help you focus, to your “getting ready” playlist. After dragging yourself to your dorm room in the dead of the night, you’d get a few restless hours of sleep before heading right back to your favourite studying spot. You can’t believe that in just a few short weeks you’ll be graduating and stepping into the life you’ve always envisioned for yourself.

The unmistakable FaceTime jingle fills your AirPods. Jamie’s name is splayed across the screen of your phone, along with a photo of the two of you at Albany Beach when she visited this past Christmas break. You put your highlighter down and slide the answer toggle over. 

“Hey!” She says, her warm smile shining up at you. You squint, trying to place where she is. You don’t often let yourself think of Joel, but the cracks across your screen make FaceTiming difficult, and the selfish side of you always wishes you had grabbed that new phone before you left. Your head cocks to the side; broken screen or not, you don’t recognize the background.

“Where are you?” You ask.

“Oh, I’m good, thanks. How are you?” She jests with a mocking eye roll.  “I’m at a cabin.”

“What cabin?” You say, glaring at her jokingly. A deep laugh comes from the otherside of the phone and your eyes widen. “Who’s that?”

The man's voice comes from offscreen, “I can’t believe you thought she wouldn’t ask where you were. She’s going to be a lawyer, for god's sake.”

“Jamie, who is that? What is going on here? Blink twice if you need rescuing!” You joke. 

Jamie blushes, looking over the phone at whoever that voice is coming from. “I just wanted to call to see how the studying is going, and to let you know that I got the graduation tickets.”

A glass of white wine appears in front of Jamie and she smiles before puckering her lips in a kissing motion towards the man in the room with her. “Ok, seriously, who the fuck is that and where are you?”

“I was also calling to let you know that Laren can’t make it anymore and Odette is in New York,” she takes a small sip of her wine.

“Oh, well that’s ok,” you say, trying to squash the disappointment and hoping it doesn’t show in your voice or face. You wished that at least two of your three best friends would be there for you. “It can just be me and you, baby!” 

“Well…I’m wondering if I could maybe bring my boyfriend? Might be a good opportunity for you two to meet.”

“What? What boyfriend?” You say, officially abandoning all study materials until you get some answers. Jamie raises a perfectly manicured finger and calls the mystery man over. 

You swallow hard as Tommy Miller appears beside her. 

Jamie glances up at him, her bright green eyes full of admiration, his mirroring hers. The starry look in their eyes tells you everything you need to know; they’re so far gone for that even a search and rescue team wouldn’t be able to save them. She looks back at you. “Meet again, I guess.”

You try to push for answers, but either of them give in, claiming you need to focus on finals. Before you hang up, Jamie promises to tell you the entire story when you see each other next. You’re happy for your friend, especially seeing the way Tommy looked back at her. Even through your cracked screen you could see the love, but as you try to go back to studying you have a hollow feeling in your stomach.

Graduation Day

You

The late afternoon sun fills your dorm room, boxes of your belongings stacked haphazardly around you. After walking the stage tonight, you are going out to dinner with Jamie and Tommy, and then he has paid for a hotel suite so the two of you can have a girls’ night. You can’t wait to hear how Tommy went from, in Jamie’s previous words, “my dad’s new asshole friend” to her boyfriend. 

You step in front of your floor length mirror, zipping up the black graduation gown over your knee length, form fitting, deep emerald velvet dress. The California sun has been good to you, your tanned legs and sunkissed nose and cheeks are glowing. You place your blue and yellow Berkeley Law stole over your head and then grab your cap, ensuring the ‘Class of ‘28’ tassel is secure. You fluff your curls one last time as a light knock comes from your door. 

“Ready to graduate, gorgeous?” Ronan smiles at you, eyes trailing down your gown. He’s the type of handsome that’s almost painful to look at, but more importantly - you wouldn’t have made it through these last three years without him. You met the first day - the lock on your door wasn’t working, and he waltzed in on you half naked when he mistook your room as his. 

You smile at him in your doorway now; remembering the way you screamed at him that first time, trying to cover your chest, and him scrambling to close the door. His eyes were clamped shut, and he slammed his finger so hard that you had to take him for stitches. Now, several years later, he fills out his graduation gown perfectly with those wide rugby shoulders, a sight you couldn’t even have imagined back then. Whichever angel made him didn’t make a single mistake - he’s tall and insanely broad, with dark sandy blonde hair, and clover green eyes that in the right light are a golden hazel. He’s easily one of the smartest men you’ve ever met and an incredible athlete. The cherry on top, because of course there’s more: he’s an international student and has a panty-melting Irish accent. 

“Beyond ready. Let's become lawyers, babe.”

He steps aside, one arm out in a ‘ladies first’ gesture. Handsome, charming, and thoughtful - a dangerous trifecta. You slide your hand in the crook of his muscle-lined arm and walk across campus together.

Ronan jerks his head towards the coffee cart. “Remember when you spilled your entire coffee on your new puffer jacket?”

You glare up at him, you saved for weeks to buy that jacket. “No, but I remember you throwing up in that trash can after the Halloween party last year.” 

“Well, if Beach Party Barbie had helped Lifeguard Ken with all those shots we wouldn’t have had that problem, would we?” You laugh as Ronan puffs out his chest, but you both know he was more than willing to take your half of the ‘Best Couples Costume' shots. 

Finally, you reach the courtyard where the law students will be walking across a stage that acts as the symbolic bridge to the rest of their lives. I’m a lawyer, you think to yourself and try to force a smile. The magnitude of the day only really starts to sink into your bones as you see the friends and families of your classmates start to take their seats. The excited feeling you had earlier starts to morph. You’re proud of yourself for what you’ve done these last three years, and this was just the first step. You have so much to look forward to, so why do you feel a sense of dread building in the pit of your stomach? 

Ronan walks you to where you need to line up alphabetically, kissing your cheek and then, after leaning in and placing his large hand on your lower back, he whispers a joke about how you better not trip. You glance around the thick crowd for Jamie and Tommy. After realizing it’s hopeless to try and spot them in a group this large, you slip your cap over your hair and get in the procession line. 

You try to soak in every minute of the day, from the speeches to the birds chirping in the background, but something akin to loss flutters at the base of your spine. You’re just as sad to be leaving Berkely as you are excited to carve out your future. Leaving here isn’t what’s causing you to feel this way, however. You try to tell yourself that maybe it’s just nerves; even with all the job offers coming in from your internships, it’s normal to be nervous about what comes next. 

As the student union president gives his toast to the family and friends, you look down at your lap, pushing back the cuticle on your left thumb. Maybe it’s leaving Ronan. He’s been an anchor for you, grounding you almost every day of the last three years and you don’t know how you let yourself become this dependent on anyone, especially a man, again.  

You shake your head at yourself and try to move your focus to the cuticle on your other thumb. Seeing the skin clean from the nail bed eases the tension slightly for you. ‘I’m allowed to be nervous when leaning on people, but not everyone will leave me,’ you recite almost automatically in your mind, the mantra you’ve had these past few years whenever you feel yourself getting this anxious. Just as you finish the thought, a car revs in the distance and the realization of what - or who - you’re actually missing slams through you so hard that you almost feel winded. Your lungs ache, tears pushing behind your eyes as his name rings loudly through your mind.  

Joel.

You kept yourself busy since the minute you left Austin. The busier you were, the less time you had to focus on the void in your heart. During the school year, you didn’t have to find things to stay busy with; law school nearly chewed you up and spit you out. Over the summers, you worked as an intern and visited your friends. There was never a quiet moment, never too much time alone with your thoughts, and it was better this way. You can confidently say that you’d only thought of Joel six times since you walked out of his house that day: when you fell asleep on the beach and were so sunburnt you could barely move for three days; when you failed your first test; when your rusted SUV, that acted as your ticket to freedom at eighteen, died on the freeway in rush hour (from that point on you had to rely on public transportation to get you to the homes you cleaned). When you experienced your first earthquake; when you stayed up for forty-two hours straight after your partner in a group project didn’t have their side of the work done; and, lastly, this past New Year’s Eve when you were in Austin and thought you saw him at a party. 

“Is he here?”, that little box of feelings that you shut away in a vault long ago wonders. “Has anything changed for him in the last three years?” 

The small smile that pulls at your cheeks, and the excited flutter of your heart when you think about the possibility of seeing him again, proves that maybe nothing has changed for you. As the minutes tick by, your mind races with all the possible scenarios for after the ceremony. What if he is here? What will you say? What will he say? How will Ronan react, you know he has strong feelings about what happened between you and Joel. Even worse though, what if he’s not here? But maybe he’s at the hotel where Tommy and Jamie are staying?  

Before you know it, your row is standing and walking single file towards the stage. With each strike of your high-heeled strappy sandals against the concrete, a memory of Joel floods your system. The toast he made you in his kitchen, the kiss in that dimly lit hallway on your birthday, the way he walked you through his club and how calmly he talked about you being in charge before going into the voyeur room. The multitude of orgasms he gave you within the four walls of his private room. Him singing on the small stage of the dive bar you found, followed by him spanking you right there in the bathroom with his hand clamped to your face to keep you quiet. His strong hand grasping your thigh as he drove you to his house. The way he tasted on your tongue. The smell of his skin: all ash and leather, occasionally mixed with whiskey or mint. The feel of his body: hard, broad and hot. His shuddered breaths as he confessed so many things in so few words. 

‘It’s only you, sweet girl.’

‘Just call me Joel.’

‘I know, and I’m so proud of you, sweet girl.’

You carefully walk up the stairs, forcing the thoughts of Joel from your mind, just in time to hear your name announced as a graduate of Berkeley Law. You float across the stage, grabbing the piece of paper that acts as your degree until the real one comes, shaking the hand of the Dean who flips your tassel before you walk to the stairs on the other side; the stairs that symbolize the ending of your time here and the beginning of the rest of your life. 

As you reach the top of the steps, you look out into the audience and see Jamie. She pumps her fist in the air and before you can process the empty seat beside her, you feel it; a strong tug from behind your navel. It takes you less than a heartbeat to find him and the sight before you floods your body with a familiar warmth. Standing under a large tree at the edge of the audience, dressed in all black, and holding his Stetson hat to his heart, is Joel. For the first time in years you feel whole again.

 You keep your gaze on him, worried that if you so much as blink that he’ll be gone. You are supposed to follow your classmates, but you veer left, walking towards Joel. The closer you get, the more at ease you feel. He’s real, you think, he’s here. You stop a foot or so in front of him. 

“Hi, Freckles,” he whispers, his voice cracking slightly. His eyes dance around your face, almost as if he’s trying to memorize this moment. You can’t help but wonder if he’s feeling exactly how you are.   

“Hi, Sweet Cheeks,” you say, the same tremble in your voice, as you try desperately to hold it together. “You’re here.”

He nods and you give him a tight-lipped smile as your mind races. There’s so much you want to say, but now that he’s standing right there in front of you after three years, you don’t know where to start. 

Joel breaks the silence, jutting his chin in the direction of the other graduates as he says, “I saw you come in with your boyfriend. When I saw you kiss, I was going to leave, but I made you a promise.”

You knit your eyebrows together and take a step closer. “Boyfriend?”

“The man you walked over here with,” Joel says, his black Stetson sliding down the chest you so desperately want to touch as he drops his hands to his sides. He’s left no barriers between the two of you except the heartbreak that’s evident on his face. 

You laugh quietly, “No, he’s - that’s Ronan.”

Joel nods. “Okay.”

“He’s my friend,” you clarify, and when Joel’s face stays the same, you add, “And he’s still as gay as the day we first met!”

Joel lets out a whoosh of a breath and closes the distance between the two of you, his free hand comes to one of your curls, twirling the end of it around his thick fingers. Soft and silky meets rough and calloused. “I’m so proud of you, Freckles.”

You don’t miss how he watches your tongue dart between your lips, “Thank you.”

“So? How does it feel?” He gives you a soft crooked smile, his dimple carving into the short facial hair of his salt and pepper beard. Between that smile, and the way his brown eyes wash over you, you’re overcome with affection. He let you go. He did exactly as you asked him. He didn’t chase you or try to convince you to stay. You told him if he really loved you, then he’d do exactly this; and in turn, he did what he said he would. 

He showed up. 

“I love you,” you state and the air between you turns electric, almost like this moment could either set you both aflame or act as a generator for your future together. Joel gives you that look, the one that makes you feel like you’re the center of his universe. He lets the curled end of your hair slip from his fingers, reaching up towards your graduation cap but hesitating.

“May I?” He rasps and swallows hard.

You nod, and knowing exactly what he’s going for, you take the Stetson from his other hand and place it on your head after he removes your cap. The brim of it blocks out everything but the two of you.

“Say that again, sweet girl,” he murmurs.

“I love you,” it’s barely a whisper this time. “Even after three years apart, you are everything to me. I asked you to let me go so I could accomplish this, and you did. You’ve always done what I asked, what I needed. I’m not sorry for what happened between us, but I am sorry that I missed out on getting to spend the last three years with you looking at me how you are now. I love you, Joel Miller.”

He brings his lips within a breath of yours, and your body practically vibrates with the knowledge that if you leaned just a bit forward, you’d finally have his mouth on you again. You can almost taste the mint on his tongue as the familiar fragrance of ash and leather surround you. “I have dreamed of hearing those three words leave your beautiful lips more times than I can count, baby. You’re it for me. I’ll do anything for you, even if it means breaking my own heart, but I’m always going to be here for you, rooting for you and encouraging you. I’m glad you’re not sorry, because I’m not, I’m so fucking proud of you. I love you, too, my sweet girl.”

Finally, he presses his warm, firm lips against yours while pulling you tight to his body. You wrap an arm around his neck, holding the black cowboy hat against your head with your other hand. It doesn’t matter that the ceremony isn’t done, or that there are hundreds of people to your right. For the first time in three years, everything goes quiet. He hums contentedly and you feel yourself melt against him, tilting your head so he can deepen the kiss. He parts his lips, letting you take the first swipe of your tongue against his. Need floods your system, and based on the way he grinds into you, he’s feeling the same. 

He breaks the kiss, but doesn’t go far, resting his forehead against yours. “Take me home,” you practically purr.

“Where do you want home to be? I’ll go anywhere,” Joel rasps, running his nose down the bridge of yours. 

“Austin,” you respond, your breath catching as his lips ghost along the side of your mouth.

“I sold my portion of the club to Tommy and Tess. I don’t have anything holding me in Austin anymore, sweet girl. If you have a job offer you really want, that’s where we’ll go.” You pull back to look at him. You can tell by the set of his jaw that he’s serious. 

“I want to go to Austin. I have a job offer there.”

“Good thing I told Tommy not to touch my room at the club then.”

“That’s a very good thing,” you moan and then pull him in to kiss again. The audience behind you erupts into cheers, celebrating the accomplishments of every student in that crowd. 

You’re a lawyer, and suddenly, the future doesn’t seem so scary.

Joel

Taking you home to Austin that night unfortunately wasn’t an option. After finding Jamie in the crowd, and being formally introduced to Ronan, he called the car to pick up the three of you. You all met Tommy at the restaurant, celebrating with all the expensive homemade pasta and overpriced wine that you wanted; even though seeing you in that curve-hugging velvet dress was slowly killing him. Joel had kept at least one hand on you since seeing you again, and he doesn’t plan on changing that anytime soon. 

He didn’t want to rush you on your big night, so he waited patiently, listening to you tell stories of your last three years, and revelling in the evident joy that you and Jamie share over being together again. When dessert comes around he catches Tommy’s attention and gives him a small smile. It’s fitting that the two brothers, who have been so close their entire lives, would fall in love with best friends. 

Once in his room, he spent two hours stripping you down at an almost painfully slow pace. He kissed every inch of your skin twice over and has pulled five orgasms, and counting, out of you so far. 

Now, Joel is seated in the wide velvet arm chair in the corner of his hotel suite. His cock is buried deep inside of your tight cunt as you straddle him. Your skin feels like butter under his hands as he trails them along your back and the globes of your perfect ass. He’s missed tying you up, but this is what he longed for: the earth shattering intimacy he feels with you in these moments.   

“Please,” you mumble into his neck, desperate to move your hips.

“Not until you answer me,” he demands softly. “How many times was it that you needed me, but were too stubborn to reach out?”

Earlier tonight you told him about the six times you really needed him. He’d kissed you softly after each confession, returning the trust with a time he needed you. After the last one, he’d pulled back to look at you with dark eyes. He’d hated that you needed him and he couldn’t be there. He’d clenched his back molars twice before he said you’d be denied six orgasms the next time you were at the club, but tonight you have permission to come as often as you need to. 

He swats your already reddened ass cheek and your pussy flutters as you cry out. “Mister Miller, stop. Please, just let me move.”

“Do you need to use your safeword?”

“No,” you respond with a pout. 

“How many times?” He says again through gritted teeth, even though already knows the answer. 

“Six,” you sob. 

He tuts and then growls, “That doesn’t sound like my good girl, does it?”

You shake your head against his throat and moan a sound of disagreement.

“Do you want to come for me again?”

“Yes, Mister Miller. Please!”

He trails his fingers up and down your back again, the thin sheen of sweat on your skin makes it easy for him to caress you. He smiles to himself at the shiver that racks through your body at his touch. You react so beautifully to him. “Yeah? You wanna grind your swollen little clit on my piercing, baby girl?”

“Please,” you whine again, stretching out all the vowels in the word.

“Show me. Ride my cock, take what you need.” 

You lift your head from the crook in his neck and pull back slightly, rocking your hips back and forth; a sultry laugh leaves his lips at your eagerness. You look at him with hooded eyes, hair stuck to your forehead. His eyes trail down your neck to the bruises he sucked into your collar bone earlier and then to your breasts; both of which are covered in his marks. He watches the little gold nipple clamps, and the chain that connects them, bounce with each flick of your hips. 

“That’s it, sweet girl. You look like a goddess, my goddess. Who do you belong to?”

“I’m yours, baby,” you say through shallow breaths. He pulls at the chain and you cry out in pain. “S-sorry, Mister Miller.”

“Again, sweet girl. Tell me who you belong to.”

“Oh fuck, y-you, Mist -” his hands come to your face and when he whispers your name the rest of your sentence dies on your tongue.

“Just call me Joel.” The commanding voice of his alter ego is gone as he says it. 

Your hips slow, changing from a frantic back and forth to a sensual swirling motion. “I’m yours, Joel. Forever.”

He kisses you softly, a silent telling of how vulnerable he is at this moment. “Don’t ask me to let you go ever again.”

The smile you give him causes his heart to skip, “I won’t.”

“You might, sweet girl. I won't survive it if you do, so I’m going to remind you of this moment as often as possible for the rest of my life. Remind you how much you’re loved and supported. You’re mine, Freckles.” Your hips swirl and he feels you tighten up around him. “Come for me, my sweet girl.” 

“Fuck, fuck, Joel!” It’s a cry and moan all at once. 

“I’m here, it’s ok, baby.” With that, your body shudders and you fall into him as you shatter. Your pussy clenches and releases rapidly around his length. His cock twitches, and once he can’t hold it anymore he relaxes, letting his orgasm rock through him in time with yours.

“I’m yours, too,” he gasps as he melts into you.

The End

Coming Soon:

Curious how Jamie ended up with her "dads new asshole friend?"

Part 2 of the BDSMaid Trilogy coming mid 2025!

Also, stay tuned for the epilogue for Joel and Sweet Girl.

[kpop---scenarios]

Whispers Of The Night (6)

Pairing: Stray Kids x Reader

Genre: College! Au, Vampire! Au

Summary: You just want to live a happy life, but currently, that wasn't happening. It's not until you meet 8 strangers who turn your life upside down and you discover what they are.

Warning: Smut!! [Oral; f. receiving, unprotected sex, choking, spitting] 18+ ONLY. MDNI

Word Count: 2.3k

A/N: as always, @skzdust , my savior, thank you for all your help!

Previous Chapters

Taglist: @steddie-steddie @hongtyong @purple-bell @deadpool15 @purplelady85 @xomakara @wife2straykidss @piscesrising01 @baby-stay92 @dwaekkiiracha @silly250 @rylea08 @imperfectlyperfectprincess1 @satosugu4l @tsunderelino @iovecb97 @1810cl @lordmaahes-nsc @sailorkoss @minh0scat @pixie0627 @50-husbands @yaorzu-blog @anskiiz @joyofbebbanburg @number1jeonginstan @skzooluvr @jisunglyricist @ambersnowxxx @ayyonoona @31maze13 @stay-tiny-things @thegingerthatwaited @hoesheez @stayatinykatsy @catlove83 @jeonginstulip @kaleigh-2002 @honeycombbaybee @hyuneyeon @flylis @kpop-choco @chloe-elise-2000 @eastjonowhere @stephanieeeyang @nightmarenyxx @0325tiny @m1nn1everse @igot7bulletproofmonstas

You didn't tell them you were leaving. You stared at what was supposed to be yourself in the mirror, but you felt like you couldn't barely recognize yourself. You had snuck out of the bathroom, glancing over at their table. They were completely immersed in a conversation so you took the opportunity to sneak out of the side door. The cool air felt nice on your skin, it helped cool down your rage, but the one thing you had a hard time wrapping your head around was why you were starting to feel so much rage when around them? This wasn't some little feeling of annoyance when someone makes a stupid joke.

This was a pure, full body, nothing more than just rage and hatred flowing through your body. You walked for a while until you made it back to the house. It was quiet, except for the faint sound of begging from Lilith in the basement. You dropped your bag on the floor, walking to the couch to sit down.

Your leg was still throbbing but you had been a little too terrified to look at it. You took a deep breath, pulling up the leg of your pants, you see three claw marks near your ankle. The scratches looked infected and your stomach dropped. You stood up, ignoring the pain, rushing towards the basement door, ripping it open. You stomp down the stairs, standing a good distance away from Lilith. Your chest is heaving, her back is still towards you. You can hear her giggling, her head hanging down as she begins to laugh harder.

“What did you do to me?” You yell.

She doesn't answer. She sits there, still laughing.

“What the fuck did you do?” You ask, your voice is a little quieter this time.

She doesn't answer. But her laughing stops. She doesn't turn around, she doesn't say anything. She only hums, ignoring you.

You turn around, walking back up the stairs, slamming the basement door shut. You stand there, your head spinning. You were tired, your body felt weak but felt like it was on fire. Whatever was going on with you, was taking its toll on you. You tried to walk towards the stairs to go to your room but it was like your legs were blocks of cement. Sweat dripped down your face as panic set in.

You wanted to call out for help, you wanted to cry but you couldn't and the more you tried, the weaker you felt. Until you felt nothing else at all, your body collapsed to the floor and everything went black.

“Y/N?” Seungmin yells, shaking your unresponsive body. “Y/N?” He calls out again, trying to do whatever he can to help you and wake you up.

The others rush in, seeing Seungmin hunched over your lifeless body, Chan sprinting into action to help you. He picks you up, rushing you upstairs to his room, laying you down gently on his bed. He knows you're alive. He can hear and smell the blood pumping through your veins. He breathes a sigh of relief, though he's confused about what happened to you. He checks your face, your neck, shoulders. You haven't been bitten. Your hands look okay, so what was causing this? He notices your pant leg pushed up ever so slightly more than the other one. He moves off the bed, kneeling at the end of the bed. He gently rolls up your pants a little more, seeing the three scratches he can only assume was left on you by Lilith.

“Fuck.” He hisses, slamming his hand down onto the floor.

You gasp suddenly and loudly, sitting up in the bed, looking around. You're confused, where were you? Your eyes slowly begin to focus, seeing Chan kneeling at the end of the bed, staring at you.

“What happened?” You whisper, laying back down. Chan stands up, swiftly making his way over to you, sitting on the edge of the bed.

“You left the restaurant without telling anyone.” He begins.

“I remember that.” You murmur.

“And then when you didn't come back to the table we started looking around for you. Seungmin found you first.” He says. “You passed out.”

“Oh god.” You groan.

“How long have you had those scratches?” He asks.

“Since… um.” You pause. “I found Lilith.”

“Why didn't you tell anyone?” He wonders.

“I was scared to look. I didn't know what happened and I didn't want to look.” You say.

“You should have told us, y/n.” He sighs. “You haven't been yourself since that day.”

“What are you talking about?” You ask, a slight change of tone in your voice. Chan detects it immediately. You were beginning to feel the anger build up in you again.

“You've been angry. Distant. You're not yourself.” He says.

“Like you fucking know me? I'm not fucking angry!” You scream, getting off the bed in a hurry, storming out of the room. You stomped the entire way to your room, slamming the door behind you. You were trying to control your breathing as you undressed, deciding you just needed to go to bed for the night. You slipped a long shirt over your head, not worrying about your shorts tonight. You crawled into your bed, Chan's words replaying in your head.

“you're not yourself. You're angry.”

You didn't want to admit it but you were angry. Whenever any of them were around, you were so fucking angry and you were sure it had something to do with Lilith, and you were sure Chan thought the same too. You tossed and turned for the first few hours until you finally felt yourself rest and relax.

Or so you thought.

“Y/n.” You barely hear, your body being shook awake, startling you.

“What? What happened?” You gasp, looking around. Your vision settles, seeing Chan standing over your bed, looking at you worriedly.

“You were screaming in your sleep. Are you okay?” He whispers. You're watching his plump lips move as he talks, And you wanted nothing more than to kiss him at this moment.

So that's what you did. You placed your hand on the back of his head, pulling him down. You could feel him go with it, his lips crashing into yours. You slide your tongue into his mouth, holding him closer to you.

Fuck you were so fucking needy right now and this is what you needed. Chan pulls away as you try to pull him on top of you.

“Y/N.” He breathes.

“Are you saying no?” You pant.

“No, that's not what I'm…” he pauses as you move the blankets off of you. You pull your shirt up a little, spreading your legs, showing him your lack of panties.

“Oh fuck.” He hisses.

“I need you Chan.” You say, pouting. “Don't you need me too?”

“Baby girl, don't say that to me. I've been trying to resist you.” He pauses, leaning in close. “Because once I get a taste, I won't be able to fucking stop.”

“Then don't.” You groan, lifting your shirt up over your breasts. You hear Chan take a sharp breath in as he stands up, undressing faster than you've ever seen anyone before. He stands before you, muscles glistening in the moonlight, his cock painfully hard.

“I don't think you know how long I've waited for this.” He says, pulling you off the bed. He lays down where you just are.

“What are you doing?” You ask.

“Ride my face.” He demands. You crawl onto the bed, hovering over him, nervous to lower yourself down. “Don't be afraid, let me make you feel good.” He says, pulling you down. You sit on his face, feeling his breath on your cunt. His tongue runs along your wetness, slowly moving up towards your clit. He doesn't stay there for long, licking up and down, with each pass picking up his pace, until he stays at your clit. He wraps his lips around your swelling bud, sucking on you, making your body jolt. His hands run up and down your thighs while you begin to rock yourself against his tongue. Your entire body begins to heat up, nothing but pleasure flowing through you. You can hear him moan from underneath you, the vibration from his lips making it feel even fucking better. You don't pay attention to how loud you are, Instead running your hands all over your body, playing with your nipple before moving up to run your hands through your hair as he brings you closer and closer to your orgasm.

You move your hands down, gripping onto his head, riding his face hard, until your orgasm finally overcomes you, exploding through your body as you scream out.

With ease, Chan lifts you off his face, your body still shaking from your orgasm. You're exhausted already. “I'm not done with you yet.” He laughs, sliding up on the bed. He leans against the headboard, pulling you towards him. You climb on top of him as he holds his cock, letting you sink down onto him.

“Fuck.” He groans. You gasp as your pussy stretches out, feeling full and he is only half way inside you. Chan thrusts up, pushing his already pulsating cock as deep into you as he could. He leans forward, pressing his chest against yours. His cold hand gently grazes your face, moving down to your breasts. He leans forward, taking your nipple between his wet lips, swirling the tip of his tongue around it. You moan as you grind on his cock, your arms wrapped around him, dragging your nails across his back while you begin to bounce harder and faster.

“You feel so fucking good.” He groans.

“Chan..” you cry out, your head thrown back, eyes closed, while you ride him.

You feel him move, his cold hand grabs your haw, forcing your face towards his.

“You look at me while you're moaning my name.” He groans. He leans forward, placing his tongue between your breasts, licking up your chest, moving up your neck and to your jaw. He smirks as he grabs the back of your head, colliding his lips with yours. He harshly thrusts his tongue into your mouth, kissing you so hard.

Chan breaks the kiss, moving his hands under your thighs. He lifts you up just enough so he can move, slamming you down onto the mattress, his cock still inside you. You turn your head, crying out as he rams his cock into you, his large hand wrapped around your neck, squeezing.

“Look at me.” He moans. You can't hear him, you're in your own little blissful world.

He grabs your jaw once again, forcing you to look at him. Your eyes open, staring at the man fucking you hard, but not as hard as you know he can go.

“Open your fucking mouth.” He spits, his eyes moving from your face to your mouth, to your tits and back up to your mouth. You stare at him as he rams his cock into you, smirking as you open your mouth, sticking out your tongue.

Chan leans down slightly letting spit fall from his lips, landing on your tongue. “Swallow it.” He whispers, watching you intently. You put your tongue back in your mouth, smiling as you swallow his saliva, making him moan louder and fuck you harder.

“So fucking hot.” He groans, holding your legs above your head. He places his thumb on your clit, rubbing fast, wanting you to cum one more time for him.

You're screaming out as he rubs and fucks you, your pussy tightening around his cock until you cum again, covering his cock in your juices. Chan holds tightly to your ankles, his own orgasm just seconds away. A few more thrusts he cums, spilling his seed deep inside of you, breathing heavily as he slowly thrusts, milking himself of everything he has.

Chan pulls out of you, smiling widely as he walks naked to your bathroom, turning on the shower for you before he comes back to help you out of the bed. As you shower and clean yourself up, Chan puts his boxers back on, crawling into your bed to wait for you. You come out in your shirt again, making him frown.

“You better have panties on this time.” He murmurs.

“No promises.” You laugh.

You crawl into bed beside him, snuggling up to him. While you felt satisfied and exhausted you couldn't help but feel the anger bubbling up again and you were getting tired of it. Chan must have sensed it, he pulls you in closer to him.

“We'll get it figured out, okay?” He whispers. You nod your head, your eyes already closed. You really hoped they would.

In the morning you woke up… alone. You looked all around your room and there was no sign of Chan.

“What the fuck?” You mumble, rolling over to sit on the edge of your bed. So he fucks you, and then leaves in the morning? You knew it was a little irrational to be this angry about it but was it really so hard to stay until you fucking woke up? Honestly, the audacity of some fucking men. You stood up, not caring you were only wearing a shirt and no underwear. You ripped your door open, stomping down the stairs. You could hear whispers coming from the living room and they stopped as soon as you entered the room.

“Good morning.” They all smiled at you. Except Chan.

“You!” You yell, pointing at him.

“Y/N.” He starts.

“Don't y/n me! What the fuck?” You snap.

“Remember how I told you we'd get it figured out?” He asks.

You drop your arm. “Yeah.”

“Well we figured it out.” He sighs.

“And?”

“And we've got a problem.”

[If you enjoy my stories and would like to help me be able to keep writing, please consider commissioning a story or donating. It would help me out tremendously. You can buy me a coffee. Thank you, I love you all.]

[phossiii]

｡𖦹°‧⭑ monsters: chapter seven

synopsis: you get into some shenanigans while on the run, reminders of your past coming back to haunt you in the process. and phosphorus comes to a life changing conclusion about you.

cw: reader is a monster, mature themes, violence, profanity, innuendos, phosphorus is phosphorus, this one's a doozy, reader deserves the world, mahalat is just... mahalat.

The sound of soft panting forced you to slowly come to, a faint groan leaving your lips as your eyes fluttered open, greeted by the sight of an irradiated back and the visible spine underneath.

'Phos...'

You attempted to move, but winced, your entire body aching from head to toe, and your strength not yet returned to break free from his hold.

Not to mention your mind was exhausted from the mental battle you fought to regain control over your body.

Healing be damned, you felt like you'd been hit by an eighteen-wheeler...

"Morning, sleepyhead," Phosphorus sang, looking both ways before quickly running across a back-alley street, just barely avoiding a Pokolistani jeep. "Sweet dreams?"

"Where the hell are we?" you grumbled, weakly lifting your head and turning to face him.

"A town, I think," he answered, making a sharp right turn. "If I had to guess, I'd say it's the last one before we reach the castle."

"Where are the others?"

"Couldn't tell ya. After we got split up, and you decided to drop by, I high-tailed it. The police were on my ass."

"Still are," you scoffed with a chuckle, nodding to the faint sirens in the background. "This your first time dodging the cops, princess?"

"I wouldn't be so quick to complain, snoozy. I'm still waiting for when it's time for us to switch."

"Like hell I'm carrying you. By the time I get back to prison, I'll be on chemo for the rest of my life."

"Demons don't get cancer."

"Skeletons don't have dicks."

"You gonna keep bringing that up?"

"I—" "Shush."

Sliding between two houses, he effortlessly hopped a brick wall, dropping the both of you into a bush just as two more jeeps drove past.

Using his hands, he put you down and pulled apart a few branches, peeking to see if the coast was clear.

You, on the other hand, were starting to really wake up, realizing that you seemed to have a fresher injury on your backside.

"Fuck, why does my ass hurt, too?" you groaned, rubbing it in an attempt to soothe the pain.

"Well... I may have smacked it once," Phosphorus admitted, suspiciously. "Or twice... possibly three times... a little over four? Honestly, I lost count after tenth or twelfth time."

SMACK!

"You keep doing that. It turns me on more than you think," he chuckled, adjusting his jaw.

"Pervert!" you whisper-yelled, pissed. "We talked about this! Hooker rules!"

"No kissing on the mouth?"

"Stripper rules."

"What was I supposed to do? You've seen your ass, you should be proud I held out as long as I did," he defended, the two of you standing up and pressing against the side of the house, using the roof as cover from the helicopters.

"Oh, yeah? And how long was that?"

"Five minutes."

"You're impossible."

Managing to reach the front door, Phosphorus melted the handle, unlocking it and allowing you both to slip inside before the search-light could catch you.

Panting, the two of you finally took a moment to breathe, looking around to familiarize yourselves with your surroundings.

"Here," you sighed, pulling off his lab coat and tossing it to him as you headed toward the living room. "I'm changing."

'Fuckin' Christ...'

He could practically feel his pants tightening at the sight of you, naked as the day you were born—save for your boots.

You looked so sexy in the moonlight, and your unabashed confidence only added to the appeal.

"Y'know..." he cleared his throat, shoving his arms through the sleeves before rolling them up. "I think now's a good a time as any to take a nice break. Relax... kick up your feet... let off a little steam..."

"Save it," you scoffed, opening the hallway closet and rummaging around until you found a black trash bag. "We've got enough to worry about."

In the bag was a secret stash of clothes, ranging on a scale of scandalous to downright slutty.

'Perfect.'

Fishing around, you managed to pull out a pair of black, open-stitch, boot-cut jeans, a matching jean jacket, and a black, leather bikini top.

"And just my size," you grinned, quickly tugging them on.

"How'd you know that stuff was there?" Phosphorus asked, confused.

"She's a pretty woman in a European country. Nine times out of ten, she was a party girl at some point," you explained, nodding to the photos on the wall as you tied up the pants. "But she grew up. Got a husband... bought a house... had a kid. They can't see this filth, but she doesn't have the heart to throw away the memories along with it. So she shoves it in a garbage bag and stuffs it in the back of the closet."

The man turned, examining the pictures, quite surprised to see that your educated guess was correct.

She was pretty, and she had a husband and daughter.

A daughter... whose face reminded him so much of his son.

"M'catchin a few more Zs before we move on," you announced, adjusting the jacket as you plopped yourself down on the couch, closing your eyes.

"Uh huh," he answered, mindlessly, as he continued to stare at the photo.

A daughter... whose face reminded him so much of his son.

"Sunuk zetam ma'ak kula baa nat su da Mahalat! Sunuk zetam ma'ak kula baa nat su da Mahalat! Sunuk zetam ma'ak kula baa nat su da Mahalat!"

"Please! Have mercy!" your mother wailed, frantically struggling against her binds as she looked around the room, searching for a kindred face past the velvet hoods. "I'll do anything!... Oh, God! I'll give you anything you want!"

But not a single one of them stopped, the entire room of cultists pressing on like she wasn't even there, continuing to bow in sync around the altar she rested upon.

"Sunuk zetam ma'ak kula baa nat su da Mahalat! Sunuk zetam ma'ak kula baa nat su da Mahalat! Sunuk zetam ma'ak kula baa nat su da Mahalat!"

"M-Money! I have money! Say whatever number, I'll give it to you!" she begged, gasping and choking for air as she attempted to get her words out, tears rolling down her cheeks in rivulets. "My house! Take my house! It's all yours! Please!"

Out from the darkness, the Grand Master emerged—along with his two attendants—a silver tray in hand.

On it were only two things:

A wooden bowl... and a ceremonial dagger.

"Oh, God!" your mother sobbed, pulling violently against the ropes that strapped her pregnant self to the table. "Please! Have mercy!... I haven't done anything wrong!"

But he drew nearer still, one of the attendants taking the tray as they reached the table, the Grand Master taking the dagger.

The handle was made entirely out of human bone, its carvings depicting the souls of the damned and their infinite torture in Hell.

Reverently, he grasped it with both hands, carrying it over until the dagger's pointed tip was aimed directly for your mother's heart.

"Please..." she pleaded for the final time, unable to stop the second wave of tears from flowing down her cheeks. "Not my baby."

But her pleas fell on deaf ears, the Master's face stone cold as he plunged the knife into her heart, her screams of pain muffled by the raging thunder and lightning outside.

Quickly taking the bowl, the Master used it to catch her blood as it spilled from her chest, waiting until the woman lost consciousness before pulling away.

"Tekchau ma'at tu na ekk bay pavak!" he bellowed, dipping his two fingers in the blood before drawing an intricate symbol over your mother's pregnant belly.

"Sunuk zetam ma'ak kula baa nat su da Mahalat!"

Suddenly, the satanic markings on the wall began to glow dark red, illuminating the room with a presence that would make any sane person turn tail and run.

"Sunuk zetam ma'ak kula baa nat su da Mahalat!"

"TEKCHAU MA'AT TU NA EKK BAY PAVAK!"

"SUNUK ZETAM MA'AK KULA BAA NAT SU DA MAHALAT!"

Roaring with passion, the Master stabbed your mother in the stomach, violently tearing it open as the followers mimicked the sound.

And with a deafening, other-worldly shriek, a malevolent shadow burst from the wound, instantly slashing the Master's throat before moving on to the others.

Blood-curdling creams of panic and terror echoed throughout the room as the followers were murdered left and right, unable to escape as the being had locked all the doors and windows.

Amidst the chaos, one of the attendants rushed to your mother's side, dodging flying limbs and splattering blood.

Sadly, your mother was long dead, but the attendant was quick to reach her hands inside her stomach, quickly fishing around before grasping onto the reason for this whole ritual.

You.

Carefully, she pulled your tiny body out, a smile breaking out onto her face at the sight of your reddened skin, pointed ears, and tail.

You were beautiful...

But her happiness was short lived, the shadow-being finishing off the last follower before zooming over to you, entering your body through your nostrils and successfully possessing your infant self.

Instantly, your tail whipped up and stabbed the attendant in the neck, forcing her eyes wide.

With a sickening slice, you slashed her throat, dropping her to the ground.

She died almost immediately... but not without uttering two final words.

"Praise Mahalat."

"Ladies and Gentlemen! It is my pleasure tonight to show you an act that had never been performed in the history of the world!" the ringmaster announced, his proud statement met with the starry eyes of hundreds of children and parents.

"Tonight... I debut the newest headliner of my show! A marvel by which the likes of you have never seen!"

Nervously, a six year-old you shifted on your feet, waiting patiently on the riser for your cue.

This was going to be your first time performing in front of an audience...

"We've pulled out all the stops tonight! Of course, for the audience, but also for a very special guest we have this evening! Everyone! Please give a big, warm welcome to Mr. Vice President [REDACTED]! And his lovely wife!"

The crowd roared with applause as the spotlight moved to him, the Vice President giving a proud smile and a strong wave before the ringmaster returned to his introduction.

"Now without further ado, I present to you the Hellish Wonder! The Monstrous Spectacle! The Flying Demon of Gotham! (y/n)!"

Quickly, you grabbed your bar, pushing off and swinging directly into the spotlight, earning loud gasps of surprise and wild roars of applause.

Using your momentum, you dismounted, performing three forward flips before Greta—a fellow trapeze artist—caught you by your ankles, swinging in the other direction.

The crowd ooed and ahhed at your display, watching intently as you performed moves that had never been done before���with about as much effort as wiggling your pinky toe.

"You are doing wonderful, (y/n)!" Greta encouraged as she swung over, catching you by your ankles before gravity took her back the way she came.

"Really?!" you asked, eagerly, relieved to hear that you were doing well, and that the crowd was loving the show.

"Ja!" she laughed, warmed by your excitement. "A few more moves and you'll be done! Make me proud!"

As she swung forward again, you let go, doing five backflips in a row before grabbing onto a rope, using it to swing yourself around to the audience.

There, you leaned over, giving high-fives to all the kids as you flew past.

"Cool!"

"Awesome tail!"

"Look at her horns!"

You were over the moon, baffled by all the overwhelming positivity you were greeted with.

In fact, you were so over the moon that you'd failed to pay attention to the last kid, your nail grazing his palm a little too harshly and drawing blood.

"Ouchie!"

The instant you got a whiff... it was all over.

"Time to feed!" Mahalat's voice cackled in your mind, forcing you to gasp and lose focus.

She took over in an instant, launching you at the boy and clamping your fangs down on his arm, tearing it from his socket.

The surrounding crowd let out screams of horror as you began to feast right then and there, tearing into the limb like a feral animal.

But the demon wasn't one to let food go to waste.

Opening your mouth, she flew into the air, spinning around as she blew blazing hellfire in all directions.

The crowds of hundreds trying to escape the big top were immediately set aflame, shrieks of agony and torture bounding through the air.

"(y/n)!" Greta shouted, swinging over and landing on your back, throwing an arm around your neck. "Stop this! You are hurting them!"

But it all went in one ear and out the other, Mahalat grabbing her by her face before effortlessly tearing her head off her shoulders, preventing her from saying anything else.

In a bout of irony, the demon bit her lips off, taking the head as she flew through the roof of the tent, leaving the countless families to burn to death as she soared through the night sky.

Enjoying her midnight snack.

"What the—? Where am—AAAAAAAAAH!" you shrieked, eyes shooting wide as they landed on the sight before you.

An absolute massacre...

Viscera flooded the closed off street, slowly sinking into the city sewers as the rain attempted to wash it away.

Half-eaten, dismembered limbs were strewn everywhere—in the punch bowl, on the buffet table, hell, you had someone's leg in your arms.

Your mouth and hands were covered with blood, the taste of human meat fresh on your tongue.

And all you had done was leave to go to the store...

"AAAAAAAAAAAAH!" you frantically threw away the leg, trembling violently as your hands moved to tightly grasp your hair.

Even the children weren't safe, a tiny hand with a Dora the Explorer watch sitting not too far away.

"These are the consequences of your rebellion, (y/n)..." Mahalat stated, coldly. "You forget your place."

Horrified, you turned around, utterly hysterical as you barfed up a bloody mess.

Eventually, though, you caved, racked with sobs as you crumpled into yourself, wanting nothing more than to be arrested and put to death.

But fate had other plans, the Dark Knight himself swooping in as your angel of mercy.

As he stood over you, surveying the scene, his expression dropped slightly in an uncharacteristic bout of pity.

Especially when you weakly grabbed onto his cape.

"Please..." you begged, voice barely above a whisper. "Kill me."

"Yana!" a voice shouted, snapping you out of your sleep.

Abruptly, you sat up, eyes frantically scanning over the room in search of Phosphorus.

But he was nowhere to be found.

'Shit.'

Jumping off the couch, you used your sense of smell, following his scent all the way to backyard.

The backyard... where he was playing with a little girl.

And the backyard... where her mother and father were less than pleased.

"I'm sorry," he apologized, carefully putting the girl down and letting her run back to her parents. "We were just... pretending to fly."

Sensing the sincerity in his voice, you saved the scolding, deciding not to ask questions.

'We gotta get moving.'

"C'mon," you sighed, grabbing his arm and dragging him toward the fence as you turned to the parents. "Thank you for the clothes!"

You let him hop over first before following, waiting until you both got a good distance away from the house before you spoke up.

For the very first time since you'd known him, he was completely silent, not saying a word as you trudged over a grassy hill.

Not one pun.

Not one sex joke.

Not even a single pass at you.

Just... nothing.

It worried you, making an odd string to tug at your heart and force you to get to the bottom of it.

"Phos?" you started, softly, resting a comforting hand on his shoulder. "You okay?"

Lifting his head, he turned to you, eyes widening as—for a split second—your expression morphed into that of his late wife.

Right then and there, it felt as if his whole paradigm shifted, the jigsaw pieces of his life seeming to fall into place right before him.

Taking the shape of you.

Your laugh... your smile... your warmth—they were things he wanted to be in the presence of well-past the end of the mission.

He wanted you, past a friend or a fuck, but as someone to stay by his side, someone to hold.

Someone to care about again...

"Alex..." he blurted, unable to take his eyes away from your face. "Call me Alex."

Surprised, your eyes widened slightly, a familiar burn rising to your cheeks at his intense stare.

But the shock was quick to subside, replaced with understanding as you stopped in your tracks, smoothly taking his hand in yours.

Intently, he watched, your touch singeing his skin as you held his hand, flashing him a coy smile.

"Alright, Alex... let's go kill a princess.

[hungermakesmonsters]

The Red Ribbon

Chapter Three

Plot Summary : By day you’re Billy Russo’s clumsy PA, but by night you’re a host at New York City’s most exclusive gentlemen's club. At The Red Ribbon everyone is anonymous and masks conceal the identities of patrons and hosts alike. But your two lives are about to collide and Billy Russo is about to see a whole new side of you without even realising it..

Pairing : Billy Russo x Reader

Story Rating : R 

Warnings : [This is a fic for 18+ only, minors DNI] Smutty behaviour. All chapters will deal with smutty themes and include mentions/suggestions of sex work/work at a gentlemen's club (don't like, don't read). Please check the warnings on each chapter if you choose to follow this story. 

Word Count : 6.2k

A/N : I lied, this is definitely going to need 4 chapters. Also... sorry not sorry...

CHAPTER ONE | CHAPTER TWO

Master List

Chapter Three

You felt like something had been taken from you, cruelly snatched away, and you felt its loss so acutely that the pain manifested itself as a physical ache in your chest. You felt bereft, like he’d reached into your chest, scooped out your heart with his bare hands and left a gaping hole in its place.

And that empty feeling had only grown with every step you took away from the ice rink. From him.

How and why you’d allowed yourself to care so much about a masked man, a fiction you’d only met twice, you didn’t know, but the loss of that idealised fantasy had an uncharacteristic rage simmering inside you.

How dare he.

How dare he do that to you.

How dare he make you feel something for him.

He’d almost made you -

- what?

As quick as the rage had started to burn inside you, it fizzled out and you deflated. You were blowing things out of proportion, assigning blame to things that were no one's fault. You’d told him yourself that it wasn’t real, so why were you now allowing yourself to grieve its loss as if it was?

You’d demanded that your mask stayed in place while he’d been the one to want to end the charade and turn it into something terrifyingly real.

It wasn’t some deliberate action of a spiteful man, he hadn’t done it to hurt you. He’d done it to know you.

Ultimately, you’d pretended and played make-belief just as much as he had, and you only had yourself to blame for the results.

Cold wind stung your eyes as you blinked back tears all the way back to your apartment. You hated that you knew and wished that you could turn back time and unsee it all. Ignorance had been bliss and, now, every memory of him felt tainted and wrong. Part of you even started to wonder if you could ignore it, pretend that you didn’t know, so you could have just one more night in his arms, seeing him smile and hearing his laugh.

But that was impossible. There was no pretending, no getting over the awkward knotting in your stomach when you remembered every sharp word and irritated look that he’d shot you while working at Anvil.

Still, you couldn’t help but grieve the loss of connection as you curled up in bed, hating that it was him or all people who’d managed to make you feel so happy, so wanted.

For the longest time you avoided the obvious question, not wanting to even think about it.

Why had he been at the ice rink in the first place?

It was simple; he’d been looking for you.

No, he’d been looking for Bunny.

He’d tried to find Bunny, despite everything you’d told him about your connection having an expiry date and everything you’d said to maintain a professional distance from him. He’d gone looking for you in the real world - why? Because he wanted something real.

You replayed it all, over and over, wondering how you’d been so blind and hating yourself for not being more careful. You weren’t supposed to feel any of it, you weren’t supposed to feel anything at all for him. He was a customer - a customer you’d only dealt with twice at that.

You felt like a stupid teenager mourning a crush but, no matter how you tried to rationalise it, there was no stopping the ache in your chest.

Even now, knowing who he really was beneath the mask, you felt something.

What, exactly, you weren’t sure, but if felt it could have become something more, something special.

And now it was gone.

As you choked back awkward sobs, you found yourself stuck on another infuriating question; which version of Billy was the real one? Was he the man who didn’t seem to care if he hurt your feelings, or was the man who’d been concerned for your wellbeing when he found out that you’d changed your limits at The Red Ribbon?

Eventually, you finally managed to fall into a fitful and restless sleep, that left you feeling exhausted when your alarm woke you a few hours later.

You had to force yourself to get out of bed and face the day, not knowing how you were going to deal with seeing him again.

But Mr Russo was nowhere to be seen when you reached your desk on the top floor of the Anvil building. The light in his office was on but, even after you’d been sitting at your desk for over an hour, you still hadn’t seen him.

The longer you sat, the worse you felt. Your mind started to race, imagining all kinds of terrible scenarios where he’d figured out that you were Bunny, and how he was just waiting for the perfect moment to humiliate and fire you.

More than once you started to draft a resignation email, wanting to beat him to the punch and be out of there until whatever cruel revenge he had planned started to unfold. But you couldn’t bring yourself to hit send, feeling sick at knowing just how much you needed the money.

Eventually, the waiting became too much to bear and you decided to take the initiative, leaving your desk and going to get him his morning coffee, not wanting to risk being yelled at for not following his usual schedule. When you got back from Starbucks, he was still holed up in his office and it didn’t seem like he’d left.

You knocked on his door, lightly at first and, when that didn’t get a response, again a little louder.

You expect to hear some barked and exasperated order, instead you got something else entirely.

“What?” 

It was soft, barely audible, so much so that when you started to open the door, you half-expected to be screamed at for just barging in. 

At the sight of him, you faltered, almost tripping over your own feet but managing to save yourself at the last second; he was sitting with his elbows braced on the desk and his head in his hands. Something swelled inside you, some feeling that you knew that you shouldn’t be having, something wrong given the circumstance. Something of Bunny bleeding into your real life and making you ache for the man in front of you.

“Mr Russo?” You asked softly, your voice trembling, scared you might give yourself away with just those two little words and the concern they carried.

And when he looked up - fuck, you wondered how you’d never noticed how tired he always looked, like he was carring the weight of the world on his shoulders. Seeing him made you think of every other time you’d seen him looking exhausted and drained, but had chosen to ignore it because he was being an asshole to you. But you couldn’t ignore it anymore. Not when you knew there was a softer side to him lurking just beneath the surface.

“Yes?” He asked, his tone betraying him even more than his appearance. 

For a few seconds all you could do was stare at him, looking into those dark and tired eyes, searching for a flicker of recognition. And there was nothing.

He still had no idea that you were Bunny.

It took a few moments to remember the coffee cup that was gripped tightly in your hand (the same hand that, less than forty-eight hours ago, had been wrapped around his cock, pulling the sweetest moans from his lips).

“I - I have your morning coffee,” you said, managing to swallow the lump in your throat as you stepped forwards.

The tired look of confusion on his face had your gaze dropping to his desk, feeling like you were seeing too much, seeing things he didn’t want to share. His desk was in the same state as he was; messy. As you placed the cup down, you scanned the papers strewn across the desk; financial documents and mission reports, some highlighted, others plastered with post-its and scrawled handwriting. 

And, when you stepped back, you noticed the thin blanket draped over the sofa in the corner of the office. 

He’d slept there.

Or, not slept there, as the dark circles under his eyes seemed to suggest. 

“Thank you,” he muttered, dispondantly, barely raising his eyes to look at you.

You took another step back, an uncomfortable sense of shame filling you. You knew that you weren’t supposed to see him like this, obviously struggling with something, while you held some secret knowledge over him. It felt like an invasion of his privacy, an even greater breach of his trust.

“Is -” you started, then hesitated, “- is everything okay, Mr Russo?”

As he finally looked up, you found yourself flinching, bracing for some cutting remark about minding your own damn business or  I don’t pay you to ask questions, but it never came.

“Everything’s fine.”

And that was that.

Billy Russo might have been a lot of things - very confusing things - but a world-class liar, he was not.

His attention dropped back to his desk, not even bothering to reach for the fresh, hot coffee in front of him, and you found yourself lingering, not wanting to leave. Actually, you wanted to move closer, wanting to wrap your arms around him and hold him. 

At that moment, you didn’t see Billy Russo, your boss, you saw Tall, Dark and Handsome, the man who’d made you feel seen, the man who’d made you laugh. You saw a man who needed comfort, and it made your heart ache that you couldn’t give him it.

“You can take the rest of the day,” he said when he realised you were still standing there, assuming that you were waiting for him to give you some work to do. “I won’t be needing you today.”

“But it’s only 10:30 -” you started to protest, not wanting to be sent away.

“I said I won’t be needing you.”

Even that sounded hollow, like he couldn’t muster his usual sharpness. He didn’t even look at you as you, finally, started to move back towards the door.

“Yes, Mr Russo,” you answered, making sure to softly close his office door behind you.

You grabbed your things quickly, your mind racing as you left the building. He’d never sent you home early before - hell, most days you were lucky if he even let you finish on time. If you hadn't gone for his coffee, would he have left you at your desk all day with nothing to do?

And why had he been sleeping in his office?

As much as you found yourself flitting between hating him for being an asshole and longing for the man you knew he could be, you would have welcomed his cold and cutting tone over whatever that had been in his office.

More than once on your way home, you found yourself slowing, glancing back over your shoulder and considering returning to the office to confront him, to comfort him, to tell him everything just so you didn’t have to contend with all of the unsettling what-ifs in your head anymore. Seeing another, unknown version of him was just too much for you to handle, and you wanted desperately to find a way to make sense of it all.

For the rest of the day, you were an anxious mess. You felt like you were waiting for something to happen but you didn’t know what. Not once did your phone ring or buzz with a demanding message from him, nor did any email notifications appear. 

He really didn’t need you.

The man who wouldn’t even walk across the street for his own Starbucks order most days, didn’t need you.

And, of course, that led you to darker thoughts; without you there, what was he going to do for lunch? Was he even going to eat? Should you order something for him and have it delivered should you -

Fuck.

Fuck.

Fuck. 

You were left worrying about a grown man who, you assumed, could take care of himself. (But, just because he could take care of himself, didn’t mean that he was taking care of himself.)

All the conflicting feelings inside you made you feel like you couldn’t even be certain what you were feeling anymore. It made you feel sick to your stomach knowing that there was really no way out of it.

You could tell him the truth and destroy your own life, or you could continue to lie to him and struggle to deal with the tsunami of emotions he inspired inside of you, and neither option was particularly appealing.

And if you continued the lie? He’d keep coming to see you at The Red Ribbon, until you found a way of stopping him and - well, that just presented more challenges.

Lost in thought, you also lost track of time, spending the whole day fretting until it was time to have dinner and race across town to get to The Red Ribbon in time for your shift to start. You changed quickly, storing your things in your locker, stopping by the mirror to make sure you were presentable and didn’t look as awful as you felt. Then you headed to the board, hoping that you’d have something good to distract you for a few hours, a bachelor party, a large group, something.

But it was all just wishful thinking.

There, beside your name in brackets, were those two little words again; by request.

He wanted to see you again. Already.

You wanted to refuse, to come up with some excuse why you couldn’t see that customer again so Val would send someone else in your place. But you couldn’t. You knew that you had to see him again, had to finally figure out just what the fuck was going on and what you were going to do about it, even if it meant coming clean and putting an end to everything.

He deserved that much, didn’t he?

But, once he knew, you were certain he’d give up on you, he’d give up on the fiction that you’d both had a hand in creating. Then you’d lose your job at Anvil and, as much as the thought stung, the more resigned you became to it. No matter what happened tonight, you were already starting to realise that you couldn’t continue working for him.

Your fingers trembled as you pulled on your mask and tied the red ribbon around your neck, the soft fabric feeling more like a noose just waiting to tighten.

You tried to force your anxiety away, to become Bunny and exude her confidence, but the spring in your step was gone and, for the first time since starting to work at The Red Ribbon, you felt an uncomfortable and roiling nervousness in the pit of your stomach. You shrugged it off when Rocky questioned you unusually reserved demeanour, telling him that you were just feeling a little tired.

And you hated that you were having to lie to someone you considered a friend just to get through it all.

Once you were in the private room, you started to pace, doing none of your usual checks, not caring that the cushions on the sofa were askew or even making sure that the bar was stocked. You just paced, trying to ignore your racing heart and the weight on your chest, all the while rehearsing what you might say to him if you could bring yourself to come clean.

I didn’t realise it was you until after I gave you the handjob. I wouldn’t’ve flirted if I knew it was you. I didn’t do it on purpose. I know you’re disappointed that it’s me. You’re the last person I wanted to know that I work here. Of course none of it was real and, even if it was, it doesn’t mean anything now.

If you weren’t such an asshole, maybe we -

The door opened, cutting off that line of thought before it spiralled too far out of control.

You turned to face him, the first syllable of your confession dying on your lips the moment you saw the state he was in.

Even with the mask, you could see the way that exhaustion clung to his features, the dark circles beneath his eyes looking even more pronounced than they had that morning. His shirt was creased beneath his tailored suit jacket, the top button open and his tie pulled loose, causing his collar to sit awkwardly. If there was one thing you knew - one thing anyone who knew him knew - it was that Billy Russo was a man who cared about appearances, so seeing him so dishevelled had your stomach knotting with concern.

Before you could think to say anything or even step forwards, he’d cleared the distance between you and had taken your face in his hands, urging your head up so he could kiss you.

And - oh, how easy it was to lose yourself in his kiss, to lose yourself in the way that he made you feel wanted.

Your arm wrapped around his waist of its own accord, holding him against you - not that he had any intention of pulling away from you. His tongue eagerly, desperately, ran along the seam of your lips and you parted for him, giving him what he needed. A soft whimper slipped from you at the taste of his lips and tongue, helping you forget all about being anything but his Bunny for the moment.

When the kiss finally broke, he didn’t pull back or pull away, instead he buried his face against your neck and held you tighter, hiding from the world.

The seconds started to tick by and... nothing.

He just held you. Saying nothing, doing nothing.

After a couple of minutes had passed, you cautiously lifted your head and ran your fingers through the back of his hair. He shuddered against you, holding you tighter, but not moving, not speaking.

Something was wrong. Very wrong.

And it wasn’t the kind of wrong that you’d expected, the kind of wrong that came from him knowing the truth about you.

He was upset.

You weren’t sure why it bothered you, why it caused the knots in your stomach to pull tighter. Given the number of times he’d upset you over the last few months, you should have found some sick satisfaction in it, but there was nothing but worry and heartache to be found.

Another minute passed, tenderly stroking his hair, hoping he’d snap out of whatever was bothering him but he didn't and you were forced to take action.

“What’s wrong?” You asked, forcing yourself to speak in Bunny’s calm, reassuring voice.

He shook his head but continued to hide from you, and you quickly got the impression that he’d remain like that for the rest of the night if you let him. And, some part of you wanted to let him. If holding him was bringing him some much needed comfort, then you didn’t want to pull away. 

But it wasn’t that simple. Nothing between the pair of you was that simple.

“Hey,” you tried again, “what’s going on?”

His chest shuddered as he took an awkward breath. “Everything's fucked up.”

“Everything? What's everything?” You asked, desperate to understand what was happening in front of you.

You felt him huff another breath, his arm continuing to tighten around you to an almost uncomfortable degree. 

“My life... everything I’ve worked for...” he muttered despondently, “I could lose it all...”

There was a weight to his words that made your stomach coil tighter still. His life, what he’d worked for, surely that meant Anvil. And if he was faced with losing Anvil... well, that would certainly explain his behaviour around the office lately.

Again, it felt wrong, like you were learning things that you had no right to know, things he wouldn’t tell you if he knew the truth of who you were. But the way he was holding you left you feeling conflicted; he trusted Bunny with this information and wasn’t Bunny just a part of you?

“Come on,” you finally muttered, managing to pull back from him a little, “let’s sit down and have a drink, yeah?” 

He looked at you, his dark eyes catching on yours and, for a split-second, you were sure you caught a spark of recognition in his eyes. Dread filled you but amounted to nothing. You pulled away finally, ushering him towards the sofa while you headed to grab him a generously sized glass of scotch from the bar, hoping that a drink might settle him a little.

All the while, you could feel his gaze on you, like he was scared you’d vanish if he dared to look away even for a second. At any other time you might have basked in the feeling but, right then, it just made you feel worse.

Forcing a gentle smile, you headed back to him, taking a seat beside him, letting your leg rest against his as you handed him the glass. But he didn’t drink, he just stared at it for a few seconds before letting another sigh slip out.

“When was the last time you slept?” You asked, remembering that you’d asked him the same thing only a couple of nights ago.

And you remembered his answer.

It had been a rough couple of months.

Months. Perhaps even longer than you’d been working for Anvil.

“I don’t know,” he answered, finally taking a small sip of scotch. “I can’t sleep. Can’t rest. It’s like... like there’s a weight on my chest, something pushing down...”

“That sounds like anxiety.”

And you should know. Out in the real world you’d always been anxious - though for the longest time you’d been told you were just shy, that you’d grow out of worrying and assuming that the very worst was about to happen, and that you’d learn to put yourself out there more. But then something bad had happened and, for the longest time, it seemed to confirm all of your worst fears about yourself.

But this moment wasn’t about you.

“Anxiety?” He repeated, huffing as he shook his head. “No, that’s - that’s not me. I used to be a Marine. A sniper for fucks sakes. We don’t get anxious.”

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of,” you said softly, knowing that at least that was true, but Billy shook his head again. “Why don’t you tell me what’s going on? Maybe it’d help to get it off your chest?”

With every moment that passed, you were digging yourself a deeper hole, putting yourself in a position you’d never be able to escape from, saying and doing things that would only make your deception seem worse when it was finally discovered.

Regardless, in an attempt to soothe him, you placed a hand on the back of his neck and started to play with the strands of hair at his nape. Billy leaned into your touch and let his eyes fall shut for a few seconds, allowing himself to almost relax.

“I never had anything,” he said quietly. “Had to fight for everything I ever got. Joined the Marines the moment I graduated high school, fought my way up to lieutenant, left with an honourable discharge. Everything I’ve ever done, I did it on my own.”

You listened intently, not sure how his past tied into his current problems, but you wanted to know because it was him, because you wanted to know him.

“I got the idea to start my company not long after I got back to New York, but everything I’d done, it - it didn’t count for anything to the banks. No one wanted to give me a loan, and I had no family to ask for help.”

He paused to take a drink, obviously putting off the next part of the story.

“There was this... guy. I met him while I was serving in Afghanistan, and he offered to front the cash I needed. Told me he’d just be a silent partner, that I’d do all the hard work and he’d get a cut of the profit.”

As he spoke, you continued to brush your fingers over the nape of his neck, trying to get him to relax a little.

“He lied to me, he -” he gave an angry huff, “- he’s been using my company to move drugs from the Middle East to the States, and he’s been laundering the money through the company accounts. I’ve suspected it for months now, but I finally put it all together last night...”

Fuck. That explained the documents you’d seen on his desk that morning and the fact that he’d slept in his office.

“The one time in my life I let someone help and...”

You felt tension fill his body and you felt so useless, so helpless. If what he was saying was true - and, honestly, you had no reason to doubt him - then everything finally made sense. It didn’t make up for the way he’d treated you, but the stress of going through all of that had to be taking its toll on him.

“I have over a hundred people working for me,” he continued, his voice an awkward mixture of anger and something else that you couldn’t quite pin down. Pain, you supposed. “I don’t know how many of them I can even trust. And if it comes out that this has happened, they could all lose their jobs, just because I was too fucking stupid to realise what was going on right under my nose.”

You didn’t expect the worry in his voice, the genuine care he seemed to have for the people who worked for him, because it was something you’d never seen or experienced before. But you were starting to realise that maybe it was because, in the few months you’d worked for him, he’d been struggling with all of this.

“You’re not stupid,” you told him firmly.

All you got was a grunt in response before he lifted his glass to his lips and drained it in one. 

“You’re not,” you told him again.

When he still didn’t respond, you took his empty glass and deposited it on the table. Then, in an act of absolute insanity, you straddled his lap and took his face in your hands, forcing him to look at you.

Your thumbs caressed his cheeks over the stubble that lined his jaw, and you allowed yourself to slowly drown in his dark eyes. Your expression softened and your heart stuttered, finally realising the one thing you’d been desperate to ignore; you didn’t want this to end.

“You. Are. Not. Stupid.” You repeated slowly, emphatically, still holding his gaze.

While there were lots of things you could say about him - several of which you had said about him beneath your breath over the last few months - you’d sat through enough meetings with him to know that Billy Russo was anything but stupid.

“Then how did this happen?” He asked. “How did I let this happen?”

Of course, you didn’t have an answer for him, but you didn’t let him look away. Your chest ached for him, hating that this was how you were learning about what he’d been struggling with. If you’d known sooner, if he’d trusted you with it at Anvil, maybe you could have helped him shoulder the burden, maybe you would have been more understanding when he’d been an asshole to you.

“I don’t know,” you said softly, “but I can tell that this isn’t what you wanted to happen and that you would have stopped it if you’d known.”

If only because he cared about his company, about the thing he’d built from scratch.

He didn’t answer, seeming to want to slip back into silence, but you weren’t going to let him.

“Why are you here?” You asked softly. “Shouldn’t you be trying to... I dunno, fix things?”

“I’ve been trying, I’ve got a friend - a lawyer - looking into it. I just -” he sighed, “- I wanted to see you. I know it sounds crazy and I barely know you, but when I’m with you, I don’t feel like my whole life is falling apart.”

You didn’t even notice his hand move, you were too caught up in the dark depths of his eyes to realise until it was pressed between your breasts, over your racing heart. For a moment he seemed to consider the way your heart was pounding and, then, realised that he was the cause.

“I don’t know why or how, but I feel like I can trust you, Bunny. You make everything feel better...” he said, a soft almost shy confession. “Even with the mask I - I feel like you see me better than anyone...”

Your chest shuddered, lungs refusing to draw breath in case he moved his hand away.

It was so fucked up but again - and again, and again, and again - you wanted so desperately to believe him. You ached for him to want you, to trust you, even though you knew that you didn’t deserve it and that it would all fall apart the moment he found out who you were.

You needed to tell him, but everything was already too far out of control. You wanted him to know, wanting him to choose you, but you knew that it was impossible. He wanted Bunny and Bunny was only a part of you, a tiny insignificant little part.

There was no telling who closed the distance, all you knew for certain was that his lips found yours again and forced aside any thought that wasn’t wanton, selfish or carnal in nature. He’d let you see so much of himself tonight, let you see that he was even more than you ever thought he was and, greedily, you only wanted more.

“Bunny,” he groaned against your lips.

It was almost enough to undo you just hearing the desperation and need in his voice.

A soft moan spilled from your mouth and into his as his hand slipped down your body, reaching between your thighs. You tensed as you felt the fabric of your body suit and panties pulled aside, but you didn’t break from the kiss, didn’t try to stop him.

He wanted you.

In some fucked up way you managed to lie to yourself, managed to convince yourself that he didn’t think you were worthless and useless. 

You were Bunny. 

You could be Bunny, for him.

Fingers, still cold from holding his glass, trailed through your arousal, and you moaned again. Even if you’d wanted to, even if you’d somehow managed to come to your senses, there was no stopping it. You needed his touch more than you needed the air in your lungs.

“Fuck, Bunny,” he muttered, barely pulling back from the kiss, “you’re so wet for me already.”

Heat licked across your cheeks and down your neck and chest, knowing that he was right. And your arousal only became more obvious as he continued to touch you, using his fingers to spread your folds, fingertips teasing at your entrance before moving up to your clit. It wasn’t long before you were trembling and desperate for more.

“Please,” you murmured against his lips, needing more, needing everything.

Your back arched, needily grinding yourself against his hand as a finger breached your walls and sank into you. His other hand wrapped around the back of your neck, keeping you in his kiss.

You felt his lips pull into a smile against yours and it was - fuck, it was incredible to know that you’d been able to make him smile again.

He set a slow pace to begin with, despite the needy shift of your hips, taking his time with you, letting you know that he was in control. Your fingers gripped his shoulders, clinging to him as he continued to kiss you, and continued to steal the last of your sanity. 

This shouldn’t be happening, but you didn’t want it to stop.

A second finger easily slipped into the heat of your body, causing your breath to catch and another eager moan to escape you.

“Fuck, you’re perfect.”

You weren’t sure if you imagined the words, if you were hearing what you wanted to hear in order to convince yourself that this was, somehow, real, but you kissed him more fiercely because of it. 

He paid attention to every little gasp and the way your back arched every time his fingers grazed that sensitive spot inside of you, like he was learning what brought you the most pleasure. You’d never had a man take such an interest in what you needed, and it just pushed you deeper and deeper into denial, telling yourself that you could have your cake and eat it, that Billy never had to know who you really were.

You were Bunny.

You could be anything that he wanted you to be.

“Oh - fuck - god...” you whine as his fingers bent again, your lips tearing from his so you could gasp for breath.

Your head dropped back and you barely noticed his other hand pulling down the front of your body suit until he started to trail kisses down your neck and over the tops of your breasts. When you didn’t complain or make any sign you wanted him to stop, he pulled the fabric down further, revealing your lace strapless bra and popping one of your breasts from its cup.

You gripped his shoulders tighter, your knuckles aching as you held on for dear life, getting closer and closer to the edge. But you didn’t want to go over, you didn’t want the moment to end, so you fought against it, your body clamping tight around his fingers, and biting your lip as his tongue circled your nipple.

It took your last shred of sanity to keep yourself from screaming his name as you lost your battle. You came hard on his fingers, pleasure shooting up your spine, causing you to arch and press your breasts into his face - something that he seemed to appreciate.

His fingers kept moving, kept drawing out your pleasure until you were little more than a writhing mess on his lap.

Finally, you collapsed against him, pressing your face against his neck as you struggled to catch your breath, acutely aware that his fingers were still inside you and he seemed in no rush to change that fact.

“I want you,” he muttered into your ear.

Without thinking, your hand slipped between your bodies and came to rest on the prominent bulge in his pants, but you didn’t give him an answer. 

It was the point of no return - if you fucked him, there would be no getting over it, no moving past what you’d done.

“Please,” he groaned, his free hand covering yours, pressing your hand against his erection, “I need you, Bunny. I want to feel you fall apart while I’m inside you.”

To make his point, he flexed the fingers that were still buried inside the heat of your body, causing you to gasp, still sensitive from your orgasm. His lips pressed against your shoulder, his teeth lightly scraping the skin, as if he couldn’t get enough of you.

“I want to make you moan for me, Bunny.”

And, try as you might, you couldn’t fight it. You couldn’t be the decent and honest person that he deserved right then. You wanted him too much, and this would be your only chance to have him.

His hand moved a little, dragging your hand over his pants, guiding your touch so you were stroking him. 

“Can you feel how much I want you?” He asked.

“Yes,” you answered breathlessly, finally lifting your head.

Before you could second guess yourself, your lips crashed against his, kissing him hungrily, telling him without words how much you wanted this, wanted him. His fingers started to move again, sending sparks of pleasure up your spine.

“Tell me you want me,” he muttered against your lips.

“I want you - fuck, I want you.”

Quickly, you found yourself moved, laid out on your back beneath him, his fingers still thrusting in and out of your eager body, sending your arousal through the roof. Your own hands were awkwardly fumbling, undoing his belt and pants so you could get to his cock and finally feel him again.

His lips roamed your face and neck, seeming to worship you with every press of his lips. 

He groaned as your fingers wrapped around his cock and started to stroke him, wanting to give him some small taste of the pleasure he was giving you.

It was too much.

It wasn’t enough.

It was everything and nothing all rolled into one.

His thumb pressed against your throbbing clit as he drove his fingers into you, and it was all over.

“Mr Russo!” you cried out as you came again, your body arching and shaking beneath him, only for your pleasure to crash and burn around you when you realised what you’d done, what you’d said.

“What the fuck?”

You couldn’t tell if he was shocked, angry, or some other third thing, but you were too frozen by panic to even think about stopping him as he reached for your mask, revealing not only your face but your lies as well.

A/N : Look... I know at this point no one is going to believe me, but it genuinely wasn't my intention to end this on an even worse cliffhanger than last time 😅 because I got carried away with the angst it got so long that I couldn't finish the plot in this chapter, so the final part will be out next week (or sometime between friday and monday, depending on how my week goes). Anyway, I'm loving how much everyone seems to be enjoying this and all your comments and reblogs have been an absolute joy to read, so thank you so much. And thanks for all the get well soon messages, I'm finally feeling back to normal now (the flu is awful i s2g).

Either later tonight or sometime tomorrow I'll be putting up a poll so you can all vote on my next Billy fic, I'll also probably mention a little something about the Bucky thing I'm planning next and throw around a few other random ideas because new year, new head full of ideas I desperately need to empty out 😂

Edit : the poll is here!!!

Hope you all have a great week!

Let me know if you want to be tagged!

Tag List : @lincerad @xxxsweetcarolinexxx @fireeyes-on-teller-dixon-grimes @dreadfulxives18 @shwnirwin

@ladyblacky @spitecrow @oliviaewl @snowkestrel @theendofthematerialgworl

@super-clearlysaltybouquet @danzer8705 @benbarnesprettygurl

[peleksstuff]

escape V. l rafe cameron x pogue!reader

*gifs not mine*

ive been gone so long hope you didnt forget that last chapter cause i do but heres an update so sorry for the long wait

---------

one

two

three

four

“You’re not useless, Rafe. You’re more than what he says. You just… need to stop trying to be what he wants you to be.”

Rafe’s gaze locked onto yours, and for a moment, the air between you felt charged, heavy with something unspoken.

_______

Rafe’s heart raced as he roared down the dark, empty road on his motorcycle. The wind whipped against his face, but it did nothing to cool the burning anger, frustration, and heartbreak bubbling up inside him. The sound of his father’s voice still echoed in his ears, cruel and sharp.

“Useless. You’re a disappointment, Rafe. You’re not my son.”

His father had saved him tonight—paid off Barry to cover his debt after Rafe's reckless run with drugs and poor decisions had spiraled out of control.

But Ward Cameron hadn’t just stopped there. He disowned him, severing whatever thread of connection Rafe had desperately clung to for so long.

The validation he’d craved from his father had been ripped away, leaving him feeling hollow, unwanted.

He squeezed the handlebars harder, his knuckles white. He wanted to cry—hell, he needed to—but something inside him wouldn’t let the tears fall.

Instead, he felt stuck in the numbness, trapped in the anger that swirled with his sorrow.

Where was he even going? He didn’t know. He just needed to escape, to run from the weight of his father’s rejection. He’d always been good at running.

Before he knew it, the familiar neon glow of the diner lights cut through the dark. Kiara’s family diner. Your workplace. Without thinking, Rafe pulled into the parking lot, the motorcycle’s engine cutting off as he came to a stop.

He was exhausted, emotionally drained, and he didn’t have the energy to go anywhere else. Something about seeing you right now felt like the only thing that might tether him to reality.

As he pushed the door open and stepped inside, the bell above the entrance jingled softly. You were behind the counter, wiping down the tables, unaware of his presence at first.

The diner was mostly empty at this hour, just a few late-night regulars scattered around. When you finally looked up and spotted him, your eyes widened in surprise. You stared at him for a moment, caught off guard by his presence.

He made his way to a booth near the window, sitting down heavily. You caught his eyes briefly as he stared out into the night, lost.

There was an intensity in his sadness that you hadn’t seen before, and it unnerved you. Rafe Cameron wasn’t supposed to look like that.

You wiped your hands on your apron and walked over to him, keeping your voice steady as you asked, “Can I get you anything?”

He looked up at you, and for a moment, there was something so open, so broken in his expression that you almost wanted to sit beside him.

He held your gaze, his voice low and a little hoarse when he spoke. “You.”

You blinked, not expecting that. “Rafe—”

“I just… need someone to talk to,” he said, his words barely above a whisper.

His eyes were glassy, like he was on the verge of tears but refusing to let them fall. “And it’s you. I don’t know why, but I need you.”

The honesty in his voice caught you off guard. Rafe wasn’t the kind of guy to admit weakness, especially not to someone like you—a Pogue. But there was something so genuine in his sadness that you found yourself nodding before you could think better of it.

“My shift’s over in fifteen minutes,” you said softly. “I can talk to you then.”

As you turned to head back to the counter, you noticed Kiara leaning against the kitchen door, her arms crossed as she watched the exchange.

Her eyes narrowed slightly as she took in the sight of Rafe in the diner.

“Rafe, huh?” Kiara said, her tone carrying a hint of suspicion. “That’s… unexpected.”

You shrugged. "Its not like that."

Kiara let out a soft laugh, her eyes narrowing in playful disbelief. "You know he’s bad news, right?”

There was an edge to her voice that told you it wasn’t just casual gossip. Kiara had seen what Rafe was like, how he treated her friends—Pogues. Her warning wasn’t out of jealousy or teasing. It was genuine concern.

Rafe had a reputation, and it wasn’t a good one. But the Rafe sitting in that booth looked nothing like the guy who was always stirring up trouble.

He looked… lost. And something in you couldn’t walk away from that, not after everything he did for you.

“I’ll be careful,” you promised, offering Kiara a smile.

After the clock finally struck the end of your shift, you pulled off your apron and approached Rafe’s booth. He glanced up at you, still looking like a storm was brewing inside him.

“Come on,” you said softly, nodding toward the back exit. “Let’s go somewhere quiet.”

The two of you stepped outside, the night air cool against your skin. You led him to a small bench behind the diner, away from prying eyes.

For a while, neither of you spoke. Rafe just sat there, staring down at his hands, lost in thought. You weren’t sure how to start, so you waited for him.

Eventually, he broke the silence. “I fucked up. Again."

Rafe took a long, shaky breath, rubbing a hand across his face. “My dad… he’s done with me.”

His voice cracked, and for the first time, you saw the raw pain behind his eyes. “He paid off my debt tonight—saved my ass from Barry—but then he told me I was a disappointment. That I wasn’t his son anymore.”

“I just… I don’t get it,” he continued, his voice growing more frustrated.

“No matter what I do, it’s never enough for him. I’m never enough.”

He looked at you, his eyes filled with a pain so deep it made your chest ache.

“I don’t know what to do anymore. I’ve been trying so hard to prove myself, but… maybe he’s right. Maybe I am useless.”

“Don’t say that,” you said firmly, your hand resting on his arm.

“You’re not useless, Rafe. You’re more than what he says. You just… need to stop trying to be what he wants you to be.”

Rafe’s gaze locked onto yours, and for a moment, the air between you felt charged, heavy with something unspoken.

His eyes searched yours, and you could see the vulnerability in them, the desperation for someone—anyone—to believe in him.

“You really think that?” he asked quietly, his voice laced with disbelief.

“I do,” you said softly. “You don’t have to be perfect, Rafe."

Something shifted in his expression then, a flicker of hope or maybe relief, and before you could process what was happening, Rafe leaned in.

His lips brushed yours, soft at first, like he wasn’t sure if you’d pull away. But when you didn’t, he deepened the kiss, his hand gently cupping your face.

The world around you seemed to fade, the only thing you could focus on was the warmth of his lips against yours, the way his hand gently cupped your face as if he was afraid to break you.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his breath shaky.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice rough.

“Don’t apologize,” you interrupted softly, your fingers brushing the side of his face.

Rafe didn’t need to say anything more, and neither did you. All you knew was that in this moment, Rafe needed someone—and for some reason, he had chosen you.

[the-100-days-of-junkan]

Day 97

Smile by Kayleen756894

Same as when we covered Burning Lungs, check the tags for this fic before ya jump in cause it gets pretty dark even within the first chapter. 

It’s a big day for the project people, I mentioned back on Day 60 that there were three fics that I consider directly responsible for this entire thing since they’re what set me on this path of a comically large amount of Junkan. And today we FINALLY talk about another one of them, even if I admittedly did cover a little bit of my history with this specific story during Day 60 for the sake of context. Apologies if I repeat myself a few times!

The previous few days I’ve been covering fic first, then the art. For this day however I’m going to cover the art first, along with any other bonus facts I have, and THEN i will do my best to adequately sing the praises of today’s stories.

Also let it be known that the music I put on while I read through the whole fic in preparation for today’s ramble was “LEASE” by Takeshi Abo. 10 hour loop too. Someone will find that funny probably, maybe even you!

(This is another long one, get ready)

Before I address the art I might as well have a little fun and discuss the order I decided to do these in, interesting I know.

Days 91-92 were easy, the first Soft Fic and the first fic to use the Non-Abusive Tag, they had to be the opener. Day 93 was one of the longer stories so I did that one first, since I did read each story before working on the art. From there it’s a pretty simple pattern of “Short Fic followed by a longer, more serious fic that I gotta psyche myself up for.” And it was done pretty much with todays subject in mind, but we’ll get for it. 

You’ll notice I have two different art pieces today, the reason is simple. I wasn’t very happy with the initial art, so I made a much more direct adaptation of a scene from the first chapter to go with it. And in a rare instance I can also bring you some early versions of the initial piece!

From the initial sketch you can see that this was supposed to be a proper cover for the story, as I wanted to feature scenes from each of the three chapters, that middle shot is one I’ve had in my mind since the first time I read the story. Those who have read the fic can probably recognize each one. The second image was almost the final version of this. I scrapped the lower portion of the art for a few reasons. The flames of burnout were miniscule but still present, though rest assured these would not come into play until after the point of when the fanfic art is all finished. Secondly, when I was supposed to work on this art, a power outage hit my house. This also meant that in terms of making the art I only had the first chapter read, anything else was purely memory (Like I said though, I read the full fic for todays ramble, rest assured). And thirdly, I kinda, just thought it didn’t look good? And as you can see this version had details cut despite how far into the process it was, fully removing the expressions outside of the two smiling. Cause y’know . . . “Smile.” Plus in retrospect the eyes, while striking compared to the rest of the art, look kinda fucking silly?

Why didn’t I like the end result? Honestly I think I was just in a bad headspace at the time due to the combination of the power out stressing me out, and just generally speaking my mental health has never been the most structurally sound aspect of myself. I’m good at drawing, not so much being well put together. Looking at it now, while I think the piece is a bit esoteric and might not be what I’d make today for a piece based on this fic, I like it a lot.

And at the end of the dead even if I didn’t like how the first one turned out, I’m pretty happy with it! Even with perfectionist brain bitching at me that I could have done Junko’s hair a bit better at the given angle. Just a straight adaptation of Junko and Mikan’s first kiss from Chapter 1. The most interesting note on it’s creation is that I had to make last minute changes to Mikan because I realized her hair needed to be a lot shorter and more well put together, as earlier in the fic Junko does fix it up a bit. 

Oh! I did also send the second pic to the author herself as a way of introducing myself and showing appreciation, so that’s a bit of added sentimental value! Kayleen’s an absolute treat by the way, super fun to talk too, great insight on writing, you should absolutely check out the rest of her writing! I’m not in most of the fandoms featured say for RWBY, but based on the quality of her writing on the Danganronpa side of things, I feel confident recommending anything she’s published in the past, present, and future!~ 

Speaking of writing, I should probably like. Talk about the god damn fic, huh? Well. Nope! I still have more fun facts!

I almost didn’t adapt Smile! I knew for certain that Kayleen needed a spot on this list, it would have felt wrong otherwise. And there were two fics in mind for adaptation.

“Smile”, obviously, and “Soft (But only for Her).” My earliest plan was going to be to just do both. However I only had 8 days to work with, and spoilers, Day 98 is in fact a returning author, so I didn’t want to take up half of my slots on two authors, I wanted to show my appreciation to as many as I could during this string of the event before going back to my own stuff for the last two days. So I thought it over, and decided that Smile was too important to pass up on this project, leaving Soft (But only for Her) for later.

I did have a full plan for it though, unlike Smile where I didn’t really have an idea going into it. I’ll tell you what the plan was gonna be.

Most people would be curious which of the around 30 wonderful one shots I could have chosen to adapt, I’ve already done one of them with the very first chapter in that collection! However you my audience, are not most people. There’s a good chance you’re reading this paragraph, rubbing your temples and resigning yourself to the fact that I was very much going to draw art based on every single piece of that collection. Because yes I was just gonna adapt all of it. Was gonna make a big collage out of all of em, even the chapters that have so much angst I struggle to even read them cause they make me too sad! I’d still do it too. I probably will. When you least expect it. 

For now though I really wanna draw something based on Chapter 25 when I have the time. I wanna draw art based on a lot of other fanfics actually, I’ve just been pretty swamped. But rest assured, to those of you who’ve written a Junkan fic and weren’t featured. Rest assured, I have my eyes open, I’m always looking that tag over, and there were definitely some stories omitted that I really wish I could have included IN the project. Give it time. My self control grows weaker by the day!~

Okay, okay. NOW, I should be able to talk about the fic. Probably.

So I’ve told this story before, but now you’ll get to hear it in a bit more detail compared to before. Will hopefully not be too repetitive for ya’ll!

So once again we jump back a few years during say, 2020, MAYBE early 2021. I find a fic that includes Junkan when I was simply trying to find Ikuzono. It ends up being pretty cute and makes me curious, “I thought this ship was super toxic? How is this one so cute?”

So, I look around the tag, still not sure how to Navigate AO3 even after gaining a lot of experience through the power of many late night tokomaru binges. And as you already knew or could guess, I came across Smile.

At the time it only had 2 chapters, which normally might have turned me away at the time, I wasn’t a desperate animal like I am today. However I guess I either ignored that, or just didn’t care, too curious to see what else this ship could entail.

So here I am, sitting in my bed, writing this ramble, trying to figure out once again how to talk about one of the fics that set me off on this obsession with Junko and Mikan as a softer, loving couple. That and also a fic that is much more serious in terms of its tone and content, as this fic, like Drowning, is one of the only fics in this stretch of the project that is definitely set in the main canon of DR. Serving as essentially a new origin for Junkan as a couple prior to the tragedy. 

I’m sure I’ve said before that when it comes to how I view Junko and Mikan’s relationship, that Val’s work is basically the primary blueprint for how I interpret and portray them. However that’s for the Non-Despair AUs, while there is some bleed over in how I handle Canon portrayals (And I admittedly haven’t done a lot with a serious interpretation of that), in my brain this story, Smile, is the blueprint of how I view a canon timeline version of Junkan. That might just be bias from it being the first fic I read that like, but it does kind of help that this is just one of the most excellently written interpretation of these characters I’ve ever bared witness to.

The first chapter was originally supposed to be a Standalone according to the Author’s Notes, and it really works as one! It’s a very complete story that’s super well put together, and ends very satisfyingly if you just stop after finishing it. I’m extremely glad it continued, as I don’t think my obsession would have come to fruition when it did if not for those following two chapters. But maybe I’m wrong cause this fic certainly knows how to hook you on a ship!

I was god damn mesmerized reading the first chapter. This has to be one of the saddest takes on Mikan’s character that I’ve ever read. Burning Lungs comes close however we never get to actually see things from her perspective, that’s all from Junko’s outsider point of view. Here we get to see it all from Mikan’s perspective, all of it, the sad stuff, the extra sad stuff, the stuff I don’t really know how to talk about because I’m inadequate with this kind of subject matter. And some gay panic, because it’s not Junkan without at least a little gay panic somewhere in the mix.

Junko is really god damn good in this first chapter, she’s god damn good in the whole fic but we’re talking about chapter one right now so i’m specifying. She has such a mysterious aura around her the entire time, and not just the obvious “Oh she’s planning the tragedy behind the scenes,” but also the mystery of how she feels about Mikan! It’s something left up to viewer interpretation in the first chapter, and to a much lesser extent the following chapters (I say lesser extent cause it does eventually lean into her having real feelings for Mikan, just being super confused by them. At least that’s how I look at it). Everytime I read one of these stories that serve as an origin point for these two’s relationship, it’s always really interesting to see how things initiate. It’s pretty much always Junko initiating of course, I’m not sure I’ve ever seen a fic where it was Mikan who made the first move? If there is I’m having a severe lapse in memory it seems, or I’ve misinterpreted! The point of course being I really like the way Junko handles things here, saving Mikan from her darkest point, all that good shit! 

And the kiss? I drew it for a reason, it’s amazing. From the buildup to the way Mikan has a rare instance of boldness and grabs Junko’s tie? The grabbing the tie part makes my brain explode, the fact that Junko herself was surprised by it is even better. I love it whenever Mikan can actually get Junko surprised or flustered. It’s great!

I feel like I should be more detailed, more meticulous, but it really is a struggle trying to be in depth when discussing something this good, I wouldn’t consider it my strong suit? 

So let’s try moving onto chapter 2! I do at least have a story with this one but that can be for when I finish desperately trying to talk about the chapter itself. 

It’s lovely! Big shock! We get to see the two of them just acting like a normal couple for a bit, and even better we get to see the two partaking in some sleepy cuddles. That scene also does one of those Junkan things I fuckin love where Junko just, fucking reads Mikan’s mind. I know that’s not what she’s doing but also it’s funnier to put it that way. I just like Junko putting her analytical ability to use by reading Mikan and understanding her finer details. It can be used in all kinds of ways, cute ways, funny ways, saucy ways, but this might just be my favorite way? Her being able to tell when Mikan’s about to spiral and snapping her out of it quick. 

Their date is lovely by the way, love the drive there, the conversation is just a treat. And I really like the reference to the grenade scene from the DR3 anime, I might not have fond memories with that series like, at all, but that one clip of Junko tossing the grenade and Mukuro (We’ll get to her) catching it is just a really fun bit of energy. It’s also just fucking funny because it reads like they practiced that shit for like 2 fuckin weeks- Sorry, distracted. Anyway I think the scene is both a fun reference, and another good way to kinda remind of us the darker parts of this storyline underlying the softer surface. Junko is in fact trying to burn the world down, she just also happens to have a tooth rotting-ly sweet relationship with a very sad nurse. The moments where Mikan unintentionally peers into that world, whether hearing an explosion or seeing the red roots of Junko’s true haircolor, I love it all!

Great moment with Mikan helping that kid from bullies, always love to see Mikan flourishing in these stories (foreshadowing)! I think it is very funny that the small child just immediately clocked that Mikan and Junko were dating, the kid either has a crazy gaydar or Mikan and Junko are the least subtle people alive . . . okay yeah it’s that second one.

The following scene is great too, fuck those parents, and fuck yeah to Junko coming in for the clutch as she is one to do in this fic. The kiss to follow? Fantastic. Junko’s joke about exhibitionism? Also fantastic. The part where Mikan says she’s gonna go see her parents- Fuck.

Okay so, I’mma make the assumption that if you’re this deep into my ramble you’ve probably read the fic already. And if you skipped out on the fic due to the subject matter noted in the tags, you can probably already tell by my apprehension that everything in this fic from here on out is like, the opposite end of the spectrum from all the sweet (albeit ominous) stuff we’ve had up till now. And you’d be correct, and I quite frankly don’t know how to talk about it, like, at all. There are parts of this that I do wanna talk about from this and the following chapter, but also I feel neither confident nor comfortable explicitly discussing what happens to Mikan here. Even if you can probably already tell.

Still, I must show my respects to the literature and it’s author, so I will do my best. Apologies if I fumble here.

I’m still not gonna talk in depth about Mukuro here, but I do like the conversation leading up to this scene, before Mikan shows up. It’s something that was going to inevitably come up, because yeah, Junko can make Mikan fall deeply in love with her, but that won’t exactly prepare her for being complicit in the apocalypse. There’s a part of me that’s curious what her gameplan was before the end of this chapter happens, how was she going to try and turn Mikan over to her side 100% and make sure she’s ready. The world will never know.

Junko’s great at the end of this chapter, not just the comfort she provides. But the way she, in the words of the story, Snaps. That line? That stuck with me when I first read this. I think it’s the moment that confirmed for me personally, that yeah, Junko does love Mikan even if she doesn’t understand it. And it wasn’t just that moment that stuck with me, it was the whole fic by this point.

That’s right, it's story time. So when I found this fic, there were only two chapters. And I wanna remind ya’ll that before this fic I read a fic so silly, soft, and fluffy that it made me question what this ship could be. Jumping from that, to this was definitely . . . Whiplash?

What happened after that is fun, because I don’t fucking remember. I think unironically the amount of stress that ending put me under just from the shock of it, made me fuckin black out?? Which by the way, huge kudos, it takes some really fucking good writing to get me so invested that I get real life stressed as shit because of bad things happening to the characters. But anyway, I didn’t actually just, black out from stress. But everything after that is so blurred that it’s borderline incomprehensible, I try to remember past that point, and it’s like looking at memories put through a paper shredder before being put back together by a toddler doing a handstand. 

All I can say for sure is that starting from the morning after, I was obsessed. I woke up, and kept fucking checking to see if Chapter 3 was out yet. I hadn’t checked the time of the latest update, I still barely fucking understood how AO3 actually worked. I’m pretty sure it was through this fic that I learned that when a fic updates it moves to the top of the page for a given tag. This was also way before I had an AO3 account, so I couldn’t just subscribe or bookmark it. I’m sure I read other fics at this point, probably including Kayleen’s other works? But the timespan between Chapter 2 and 3 feel like white noise, whatever I read didn’t exist in my memories by the time that story ended. And god damn did it end.

When Chapter 3 popped up, it was late I’m pretty sure. I don’t know what I was doing at the time, maybe looking at manga online, talking with friends over discord dms, failing homework over online school, maybe even doing some of my own writing since i’m pretty sure this was back before my passion for it died out. Whatever it was, I dropped it fucking IMMEDIATELY. I needed to see this ending, I needed that catharsis.

So I layed in my bed, in a house I was still new to, and read the god damn chapter.

It was perfect. One of the first times to my knowledge where I’ve had the satisfaction of reading an unfinished fic and getting to actually see it end.

Where do I start, what do I even say? Anything I say just kind of boils down to “Junko and Mikan are perfectly written and I love their interactions and also god dammit I feel so bad for Mikan.”

The scene on the rooftop is great, I remember in one of Kayleen’s other fics Mikan shows concern for Junko’s eating habits, so getting to this scene and seeing the reverse was nice. And like, god, Junko’s so good in this. I get she’s trying to start the end of the world but she’s doing such a fucking good job here. Sure, she asks Mikan to kill her parents right after this, which might not be the most normal way of helping your girlfriend through a severely traumatic experience, but that’s just Junko y’know? 

Should I talk about Mukuro now? I should probably talk about Mukuro now, I really wanted to wait like one more scene but fuck it we’re talking about Mukuro now. 

Have I ever really talked about Mukuro in the context of Junkan? I know I’ve definitely made note of her, and I’ve obviously included her in these pieces with varying degrees of prominence. But I don’t think I’ve ever noted how I think she’s is one of the most interesting and amazing assets of Junkan as a ship. Calling Mukuro an asset feels like a disservice, but I lack the words to adequately describe what I mean here. 

The Despair Sisters are already one of the most interesting dynamics in Danganronpa, and a pretty versatile one at that based on the various interpretations I’ve seen of these two. And I think adding Junkan into the mix is just lovely, because it adds an outsider perspective, but not just that, it’s the outsider perspective of someone who’s closer than anyone else due to Mikan dating Junko. Bonus for the contrast of Junko pampering Mikan and shit talking Mukuro, even if I believe that shit talking is just a very layered way for Junko to express that she does care about Mukuro as a sister. 

And I think Mukuro and Mikan is a really fun dynamic too! I love the idea of Mikan finding love through Junko, and then in turn getting a second person in her life that cares about her. Mukuro being Mikan’s bodyguard bare minimum is great, protect that sweet little nurse you desaturated girliepop you. But I think the way their dynamic can evolve overtime as Mikan continues to date Junko is great. 

Mukuro getting to see firsthand how Mikan is changing Junko for the better, even if it’s in a canon timeline where Junko’s still like, very locked in on the apocalypse. She’s getting to be happier in a more genuine way, which I’m sure Mukuro would be grateful for, and that just makes her caring about Mikan’s wellbeing all the better.

Plus like, something I don’t think about often, at least not until very recently, but if Junko and Mikan are dating, and inevitably get married. That does just kinda mean Mikan and Mukuro are sisters in law. And, I fuckin love that? Mikan not only gets an amazing relationship with Junko, but she also just gets to have a sibling, something that to my knowledge she doesn’t have in canon. It’s that found family stuff that I love, even if the found family in this case is a bit more literal rather than just being a metaphor. And Mukuro gets a new sister, one who cares about her just as much as Junko, but is just significantly better at expressing that by comparison. I think Mukuro would really appreciate having a sister who like, hugs her without slinging an insult, or just getting any kind of open, visceral appreciation without having to read between the lines. 

I love to see Mikan with plenty of friends, she has a bunch of dynamics that I appreciate. But I also have a lot of appreciation for the idea of Junko and Mukuro being the only people she cares about, the only people she needs to survive. 

Where was I- Oh right.

Kayleen’s depiction of Mukuro and her dynamic with our other two primary characters is amazing. Spectacular even. Fucking perfect perhaps. It does everything I love about the Despair Sister’s dynamic without bordering into uncomfortable territory like some facets of the main canon does. But what I especially love is her dynamic with Mikan in the few moments we get to see them interact. A protector, a friend, and eventually a sister to her, it’s amazing. The scene when Mikan wakes up to Mukuro watching over her while Junko is away is phenomenal, and I love Mikan’s concern for her given the way Junko treats her, which does look pretty bad without the deeper context. The moment at the very end of Chapter 2 where Mukuro just heads off to (I assume) kidnap Mikan’s parents after just sharing a look with Junko, it’s another one of my favorite bits in that scene.

And of course, the scene that lead me to start yapping about Mukuro like that out of fucking nowhere, her talking to Mikan about Junko’s test. It’s great how she tries to help Mikan come to a decision without forcing anything. But also finally giving some more confirmation that Junko definitely feels something for Mikan, expressing how many changes in her demeanor she’s noted. And the reveal that Junko routinely struggles with Nightmares whenever Mikan isn’t around?? Fuck I love that. God dammit. 

I feel like I should talk more about this scene, but I feel like I kinda did? To an extent? A lot of what I just said about Mukuro’s place in this dynamic kinda sums up a lot of the great things about this scene. So I suppose we move on.

The buildup to the big scene of this chapter is wonderful of course, not much to say there. And I admittedly just really want to talk about the scene that follows.

Because god it’s everything I was hoping for when I finished that second chapter and had no idea whether I’d see this scene or not. 

The reveal is great, and as grotesque as I anticipated. I do cringe a little reading some of the details, not the modern dickhead definition of cringe either I mean the “Oh god fuck that’s brutal” kind of cringe. And it is so perfectly contrasted by Junko being Junko, love the idea that Junko and Mukuro just nabbed up these people and didn’t explain a goddamn thing until this very moment where they finally figure out that this crazy bitch is dating their daughter. Mukuro punching Mikan’s dad in the face was fucking great too. 

And the buildup to what comes next, is so god damn good. It feels weird out of context celebrating it, but the scene where Mikan breaks? Fucking spectacular. The distortion on the word Red hits like a fucking truck, and also speaks to my childhood of being a creepypasta kid because i’m like, half sure that’s the zalgo text filter, correct me if I’m wrong of course. Point is it was an out of nowhere detail that perfectly emphasized the tensity of what’s about to happen.

And I can go on another tangent now, because this is something I have had no opportunity to talk about during the entire duration of this project. At least not to my memory or knowledge.

I love Angry Mikan. I love the Mikan that snaps and is fully over the edge, not willing to deal with anyones bullshit. I of course have criticisms of Chapter 3 in DR2, but Mikan’s reveal of her true self, or I suppose the herself prior to the NWP, I love that moment. 

I’ve never depicted Angry Mikan before, but someday I really want to. So until then I take great enjoyment in seeing such a rare side of Mikan, which itself is even rarer in these fics. I think counting this one there are only 3, maybe 4 other fics off the top of my head where we get to see Mikan fully lose her temper. Now of course, I could be suffering another lapse in memory, or I just haven’t read the other stories that feature it. I only think I’ve read like, 90% of the Soft Junkan out there, I can’t confidently claim I actually have for certain, so maybe I missed it! 

Point is, seeing Angry Mikan is a treat. And here especially is fucking amazing, the verbal teardown, the havoc of it all. It’s great. And Junko just adds to it with her sheer excitement (which is putting it lightly given some of the dialogue), getting to see Mikan finally become, from her perspective, the best version of herself. Someone who can survive alongside her. 

When things start moving, it’s amazing. A small moment I really love, and the moment I was originally gonna wait for to talk about Mukuro with. Her offering up an assortment of firearms from “Her personal collection.” is just, weirdly wholesome? The things I get to say talking about this ship I swear. I dunno, it feels like such a small, personal moment and offer that only Mukuro could provide, and feels like the perfect cap to Mikan and Mukuro’s dynamic throughout this fic.

Also, fucking enamored with the the presence of a Rocket Launcher. Funniest alternate timeline sitting right there, imagining Mikan with a fucking rpg over her shoulder is hilarious.

Junko offering the reverse side of the weaponry coin is lovely too of course, but it’s the wonderful stuff I’d already expect with Junko, so much less of a pleasant surprise like Mukuro. I do appreciate her keeping a knife used on Mikan’s father as a trophy though, imagine that over the fireplace.

Anyway I don’t know how I could really explain to you why the torture scene is nice. It’s catharsis, it’s just catharsis. I don’t even remember how fucking long I waited to read this moment but it was so worth it, Junko and Mukuro joining in to help setup equipment was also really cute . . . i feel like i shouldn’t be calling segments from a torture scene cute. Hm. Well anyway, I can say that while I appreciate its existence, I’m also glad Kayleen chose not to drag it out for too long. Ironic coming from the most excessive bitch around here, but it probably would have been a bit much if it took up the grander majority of this chapter.

Which means we say goodbye to Mukuro and return to our regularly scheduled Junko and Mikan moments. 

And yeah what do you want me to fucking say, it’s amazing? Because it’s amazing as fuck, yeah. I’m running out of ways to just say how fuckin much i love this, but i’ll persevere best I can. 

I mentioned way earlier that I love it when Mikan catches Junko by surprise, and we get more of that here. Though in this instance I think it’s better to describe that this is the first time Mikan just gets the upper hand on Junko, who’s struggling to fight back in the conversation because she’s already struggling to figure out her feelings. And it’s really lovely to see Mikan fighting past Junko’s own insecurities, especially when she regards herself as a bad girlfriend. It’s great, and it’s more of that role reversal I love. 

The book analogy near the end of this conversation is so good, it’s sappy as fuck but that’s why it’s good. And Junko leaning into it despite how lame it is makes it all the better, and I only noticed on this recent reread that there’s even a cheeky V3 reference as well, clever!~ 

The kiss is of course great, and I think i’ve just fully fucking run out of ways to talk about how much I love Junko and Mikan kisses in these stories. Thank god there isn’t one in tomorrows fic- getting ahead of myself. 

Rip to Scissorhands, thanks for the gay but you will not be missed.

God damn amazing fic, so well written. It’s one where I have to be in a very specific mindset in order to read it, as that middle chapter really does stress me out enough to be a bit of a roadblock. But admittedly this most recent reread wasn’t the worst compared to the previous few times. That said the fic definitely had it’s effect on me like usual, my body felt all kinds of wild ways, my heartbeat was a lot more intense, breathing a bit wacked out, my nerves up. The whole shebang, so good fucking writing. Equally bittersweet considering that, at least I assume, the normal events of DR are going to follow this story, even if not immediately. So Mukuro’s gonna die, Junko’s gonna die, and then Mikan’s going to have her brain undespaired and probably lose all her feelings towards Junko (Though I will admit, the idea of Mikan after the actual events of canon still having feelings for Junko while not being a remnant is pretty interesting). 

However, I can live with that. It’s still an amazing story even with main canon in consideration, and I think I’ve run out of things to say here. 

Tomorrow is the last fic based art in the event, Days 99 and 100 are all on me. And by process of elimination you probably have an idea of what Day 98 is, you may even know the exact fic. 

I said there were three fics that were vital to me reaching this point in my life, being this obsessed with Junkan as a ship.

The Third Fic, Everything You’ve Ever Dreamed, is the fic that sent me spiraling into brainrot to the point of snapping and drawing art of it behind closed doors, eventually snapping me into drawing more Junkan than I imagine most if not anybody ever has.

The Second Fic, Smile, is what got me obsessed with the ship in the first place, of course only enough to enjoy reading it in secret, which would lead me to EYED.

All that’s left is The First Fic, which you’ll see tomorrow. The fic that made me bother to even give this ship a chance in the first place. Hilariously, I will probably not yap about it nearly as much as the previous two, even if I love it. 

As always, Reblogs, Comments, and Little Notes in the Tags are appreciated!~ They always make my day!~

[linearao3]

I don’t have a new Publish or Perish chapter and probably won’t any time super soon because I am very tired and also I hate that I am being accidentally Relevant due to H-1B Discourse. So please accept this tiny little interstitial — probably the only Kaz POV I will provide for this fic. You could say there are spoilers but I think it’s more like foreshadowing? This might not even be canonical to the fic. Who can say. But please enjoy.

—

He reaches for the phone out of habit, because that’s what he does now at night, look and see if Inej has texted him. And yes, she did just leave, but you never know.

She hasn’t texted. She just left; of course she hasn’t.

He thinks vaguely that he might have read somewhere that you should ask people to text you when they get home safely. He can’t remember if this was etiquette advice, or a devious way of making sure they kept thinking about you.

He’d had some notion, in his head, that after he kissed her, she might turn in the doorway and close her hand around his jaw, pull him down to kiss her. She is so warm, and her mouth is warmer, and he imagines — imagines too much, with too much of his time and too much presumption that he’ll ever find out — that it’s even warmer than that in her cunt.

He’s jealous of the stupid toy. He’s so smug that she likes it.

He types

Sex is so strange. I had all these notions of what I wanted to do, and I didn’t do any of them, and what I did do feels like the only good thing that has ever happened to anyone ever. That’s how I felt when you came to my office, too.

He never texts her first. He likes knowing she chose to start it, that she wants it. That she’s lying in bed thinking about him. He keeps typing.

The thing is that my brother died. And that’s the only thing that ever happened to me, really.

He’s forty — okay, no, he’s not forty, but he feels like he ought to be forty — and he’s tried to have sex exactly twice before now, once with Jesper and once with Imogen and they were both so disastrous he tries not to think about it. But he’s forty or thirty or whatever and he’s coming to the end of his debt and he will take care of Rollins soon, soon, pull out the brick of Marya Van Eck and everything will crumble. And then he’ll just be — a professor, he supposes. A professor with a good salary who could get stupid nice small things and could have friends over for dinner and could have a girlfriend. Because why shouldn’t he? Except that there’s a gaping savage maw where his heart ought to be.

I do still want to fuck you. I bought some condoms. I imagined you putting one on me, like a horny sex ed class with Dr. Ghafa, and I’d be so hard in your hand.

He jerked off before she came, with the idea that he might last longer when she was actually there, and he doesn’t know if he can physically manage three in a night but his body seems interested in trying it.

He was never really a teenager, he thinks— he woke up in the hospital whatever thing he is now, which wasn’t a child and has maybe never been an adult — so maybe now he’s doing adolescence as a crash course, an intensive study in constant graceless horniness and short-sighted stupidity.

You’re never going to forgive me. I want you to. You shouldn’t. It’s just that I’m selfish. If you asked me I’ll say that it’s because I promised you but it’s really because I just want to be able to see you sometimes. I want to be able to give you things. I’m not going to send this. I just got so used to telling you things. You are so beautiful and I want you so much and I am so tired. I’m going to sleep. Sleep well, Inej. Come and talk to me.

He force-quits the chat application, drops the phone, and falls asleep. He dreams Inej smiles, bright and vicious and righteous, and tells him he did everything just right.

[chimneyz]

To Think We Could Stay the Same

Words: 30,684 and Counting | 7 out of 15 Chapters

Evan 'Buck' Buckley/Tommy Kinard

post episode 8x06 | angst with happy ending | make up

Pain radiated across Buck’s leg, it wasn’t as often his leg was in pain these days, but when he was in pain, it shot him down, crushing him in excruciating waves. Today happened to be one of those days, and it was a bad one. Buck hasn’t left his bed in hours, waiting out the pain. The meds he took didn’t seem to help at all, leaving him in tears as he gripped the pillow.  He was supposed to be on a date right now, he and Tommy had plans to go hiking. They loved to hike. It became one of his favorite things to do with Tommy. They would talk for hours and hours as they gazed upon the beauty of nature around them. Tommy even got in the habit of picking one of the wild flowers they would come across, pressing them and placing them in a frame, labeled with which trail they went on. They have been on three so far, which wasn't much but they have only been together for a little over three weeks. A pit of guilt grew in his stomach when he texted Tommy less than an hour ago that they had to postpone their date. He hated that he had to do that, he hated that his leg was crushed all those years ago, he hated that he still felt the consequences to this day. Buck didn't tell Tommy why he had to delay it, he felt embarrassed, that the pain from all those years ago still sneaks up behind him every once in a while. He knows he needs to tell Tommy eventually, but not yet.  Buck could hear the door open below, who the hell was here?  “Evan?”  Shit, Tommy was here, how the hell did he get in?  Tommy emerged from the stairs with multiple bags in his hands.  “Tommy? How did you get in here?” Buck croaked still clinging on to the pillow.  “Eddie lent me his keys to your place, he said you have days where you can't get out of bed because of your leg.”  Shit, he wasn't supposed to know, not yet at least. Sure he told Tommy about the fire engine crushing his leg but he didn't say he still felt the lingering effects years later. He wasn't supposed to know. He'll have to talk to Eddie about it later.  “It's fine, I'm fine,” Buck muttered. 

continue on ao3

or start from the beginning here

SUMMARY: The breakup was harder to deal with than they had expected, both Evan 'Buck' Buckley and Tommy Kinard now have to face the new chapter of their lives alone. It seems like the universe has other plans though.

tag list (if you want to be added or removed please interact or remove your interaction with this post)

@buckhastwohands, @giallos, @grimmsdead, @dangerouscupcakeperfection, @brokenpiecesof

@geekwarrior107,@bidisasterevankinard, @mountedeverest, @samas8, @rosyhoneydew

@a-mel0n, @here-be-fics, @mmso-notlikethat

[hazzashouse]

The Space Between Us (Harry Styles series)

You voted for chapter three of The Space Between Us - so here we go! ✨

Triggers: Subtle angst.

Pairing: Harry Styles x Sophie Pearson

Word Count: 3,712 Words

As always, thank you for your support!

tag list: @lizsogolden @fangirl509east @sassamanda77 @wheredidmyeyesgo @triski73 @hopeyoustaythenight

If anyone would like to be added to the tag list - lemme know in the comments 🩷

CHAPTER ONE: HERE

CHAPTER TWO: HERE

Chapter three: Crossing the Line

Sophie stood at the kitchen counter, absentmindedly arranging and rearranging the hors d’oeuvres. It was a task she’d already completed twice, but she needed something—anything—to keep her hands busy.

Her encounter with Harry had left her rattled. Seeing him after all these years, hearing his voice, being so close she could catch the faint scent of his cologne—it had dredged up feelings she thought she’d buried long ago.

She leaned against the counter, taking a deep breath.

“It’s fine,” she whispered to herself. “You’re fine. Just focus on the wedding.”

But her pep talk was cut short when her brother Anthony appeared in the doorway, looking slightly frazzled.

“Sophie!” he called, startling her.

“What?” she snapped, turning to face him.

Anthony held up a roll of ribbon. “We’re short on this for the chairs. Can you handle it?”

“Sure,” she said, grabbing the ribbon.

“And one more thing,” Anthony added, rubbing the back of his neck. “Harry’s supposed to help with the table settings, but he doesn’t know what’s what. Can you explain it to him?”

Sophie froze. “What?”

“You’re the only one who knows the layout,” Anthony said, completely oblivious to her hesitation. “Just go over it with him, yeah?”

“Anthony—”

“Please, Soph,” he interrupted, giving her a pleading look. “I need to go check on something else, and I’m running out of time.”

Before Sophie could argue, Anthony disappeared, leaving her alone in the kitchen.

Sophie found Harry in the dining room, standing awkwardly by the long table that had been set up for the reception. He had rolled up the sleeves of his dress shirt, revealing the tattoos on his forearms, and was holding a small stack of plates.

He looked up as she entered, his expression shifting from curiosity to something softer.

“Hey,” he said.

Sophie forced a smile. “Hi.”

Anthony’s request echoed in her mind, and she sighed, stepping closer. “I hear you need some help.”

Harry chuckled, setting the plates down. “Apparently, I’m terrible at table settings. Thought I’d be better at it, considering how many fancy dinners I’ve been to.”

Sophie raised an eyebrow. “How are you bad at this?”

“Do you want the long list of reasons or just the highlights?” he teased, his dimples making an appearance.

Despite herself, Sophie felt a small smile tug at her lips. “All right, let’s get this over with.”

She moved to the table, explaining the arrangement in a brisk, professional tone. Harry listened intently, nodding along and occasionally asking a question.

“Got it,” he said after a while, picking up a napkin and folding it into a neat triangle.

Sophie arched an eyebrow. “Not bad.”

“See? I’m not completely hopeless,” he said, grinning.

As they worked side by side, the silence grew heavier. Sophie could feel Harry glancing at her occasionally, but she refused to meet his gaze.

Finally, he broke the silence.

“Sophie,” he said softly.

She paused, her hands stilling on a stack of cutlery. “What?”

“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice earnest.

She frowned, turning to look at him. “For what?”

“For everything,” he said. “For leaving. For not staying in touch. For… all of it.”

Sophie’s chest tightened. She opened her mouth to respond, but the words wouldn’t come.

“I know I let you down,” Harry continued, his green eyes filled with regret. “And I hate that. You meant so much to me, and I just—” He broke off, running a hand through his hair.

“Harry,” Sophie said, her voice quieter than she intended. “You don’t have to do this.”

“Yes, I do,” he insisted. “I’ve been carrying this guilt for years. I need you to know that I didn’t forget about you. I couldn’t. You were always there, in the back of my mind.”

Sophie stared at him, her heart pounding. She wanted to believe him, but the hurt from their past still lingered.

“It’s not that simple,” she said finally, her voice trembling. “You can’t just say sorry and expect everything to go back to the way it was.”

“I know,” Harry said, his gaze steady. “But I want to try. If you’ll let me.”

Before Sophie could respond, the sound of footsteps echoed from the hallway. Lizzie appeared in the doorway, her eyes flicking between them with barely concealed curiosity.

“Sorry to interrupt,” she said, though her tone suggested she wasn’t sorry at all. “Anthony needs you both outside. Something about the seating arrangements.”

Harry stepped back, giving Sophie a small, almost apologetic smile.

“Let’s go,” he said, his voice gentle.

Sophie nodded, following him out of the room.

As they stepped into the crisp afternoon air, Sophie couldn’t shake the feeling that this day was far from over. Her emotions were a tangled mess, and Harry’s presence only made it harder to keep everything in check.

And when Harry glanced at her, his expression filled with something she couldn’t quite name, Sophie knew one thing for sure:

This wasn’t the end of their story.

It was only the beginning.

————————

like and reblog if you liked it and follow me to not miss my future content - I will very much appreciate it! Lots of love, A.

[icarusflewsworld]

Rhysand & Cassian & Azriel X OC

Hello, here is the chapter 22 of a fanfiction on the world of Acotar where our three favorite Batboys are the mates of a single woman.

🚫THERE IS A LITTLE SMUT SCENE IN THIS CHAPTER ! DO NOT READ IT IF YOU DO NOT WANT TO, IF YOU ARE UNDER THE LEGAL AGE OR IF YOU ARE JUST NOT ALLOWED TO -> PASS DIRECTLY TO THE FOLLOWING CHAPTER !🚫

For everyone else, do not hesitate to tell me what you think about it.

! Don't forget to read the previous and following chapters ! : Here

Enjoy the read ! ❤️❤️❤️

Chapter 22

Cassian followed to stand beside Rhysand. Azriel put his knife back in its place to join Luxiana, grabbing her by the arm and pulling her between him and Cassian, next to Rhys's throne.

Luxiana moaned at Azriel's grip, almost letting out a sob and flinching with fear as soon as he touched her.

Cassian glared at his brother, "don't hurt her!"

"Did I hurt you?" questioned Azriel hastily, suddenly worried as he loosened his grip a little on the blonde's arm.

Luxiana gritted her teeth to keep from smiling and trying to keep her head down. "Not at all, I'm just acting like you asked me to. Stop taking gloves with me," she threw a discreet glance full of provocation at Azriel. "I like it rough and painful."

The three Illyrians were paralyzed through and through, their erections awakening in their pants.

Azriel had to let go of Luxiana to clench his fists and cross his arms to restrain from throwing himself at her, kissing her or doing dirty things to her in the middle of all those people.

Cassian lowered his head to hide his smile. "Oh fuck," he only managed to reply in their heads.

Rhysand contracted his fingers on the armrests of his throne. The primal things that stirred in his chest at Luxiana's words were wild and he couldn't quell them. He closed his eyes for a second to collect himself, then looked to Mor's father for news of his court, while waving the other faes away and ordering them to return to their discussion.

Mor's father moved towards Rhysand. His eyes were downcast, but he was consumed with curiosity, and being closer to her, he glanced slightly at Luxiana to detail her head to toe with a grimace of disgust.

Azriel almost jumped as he tensed. He was about to react, but Rhys forbade him to do so. "No, it's Mor's father." So Azriel only gritted his teeth, holding back with all his might not to go and kill this fae who dared to look at his soul mate with that grimace.

Rhysand had to intervene to calm things down. He glanced at Luxiana. She'd told him not to take precaution with her, and besides, she was his soul mate, so if she accepted them, she'd have to get used to his high lord mask. "What do you think of her?" he finally asked Keir.

Mor's father grimaced a little more. "You could have found a better pet than a pitiful, miserable, disgusting human."

The three Illyrians tensed with all their muscles, their chests clenching. The three of them wanted to react, and they weren't even going to be able to calm down. "How dare he talk of her like that? I'm going to break his teeth," Cassian screamed in their heads as he took a step forward. Rhysand leapt to his feet and was about to unleash his power on Mor's father, breaking every bone in his body.

But Luxiana -although she didn't understand their reaction- rushed towards Rhysand and past Cassian to stop him from advancing any further. "Aren't you supposed to agree with him?" she questioned in their minds. Then she dropped to her knees beside Rhysand's leg to look from the ground at him.

The three males frowned. "What are you doing? Get up," Rhys exclaimed in her head, unable to hide his confusion.

"I'm acting like your pet, like you're controlling my mind, because that's what big bad High Lord Rhys would do, right?" replied Luxiana, wrapping her arms around Rhysand's calf to rest her cheek on his thigh and rub it gently.

Rhysand looked down at her, but the gleam that trailed in his eyes was a mixture of excitement and other emotions resembling disagreement. "Get up. No matter how much we have to play, I'd never ask you to kneel before me." He meant it, but even so, the bulge in his pants was growing at the sight of his soulmate in that position before him.

"You're cute," she replied, giving him a perverse look that excited Rhysand a little more. "But it's all right, I'm playing along, play along too." Luxiana turned a blank gaze towards Mor's father and grinned before barking once. "Woof."

Rhysand didn't like it, but at the same time, he liked it. It was strange, but she was right. He had to play along too. He put his hand on the top of Luxiana's head to stroke it gently. "No, I don't think I could ever find anything better," he said to Keir. Then he leaned forward to grab Luxiana's arm and lift her up. He sat down on his throne, dragging his soul mate with him to sit on his thighs.

Luxiana allowed herself to do so, pressing her cheek against Rhysand's pectoral and rubbing his face to it, but she couldn't help giving him a look of playful brilliance when she felt Rhys's erection beneath her buttocks.

The lord placed one of his hands on his soulmate's cheek before sliding it under her chin and then over her Adam's apple. The blonde's breath caught in her chest as Rhysand's fingerprints descended a little further between her breasts, following the line of her low-cut to her lower abdomen, where he lowered his fingers a little further down her leg to deflect them inwards. "She's very interesting and receptive for a human." Rhysand grasped Luxiana's inner thigh savagely, pulling the skin of her crotch a little.

The blonde let out a low moan, trying to keep all her emotions under control while her panties were already getting wet and her lower abdomen was on fire. Her chest rose and fell rapidly with the accelerated rhythm of her breathing. She buried her head in Rhysand's neck. "Is it okay for me to touch you?" she asked him in his head.

Rhysand contracted beneath her, almost making her wince. "I've already told you , I won't do it again," he replied in a hard voice, irritated despite himself. "You don't have to ask that. You never do. You'll always have that authorization."

Luxiana buried her face a little deeper in the night lord's neck to hide her smile. Her chest was bubbling with a little too much joy at this response. She then delicately placed her lips in a gentle kiss on Rhysand's carotid artery. She could feel his pulse suddenly pulsing a little harder under her mouth, so she continued. She placed another kiss lower down on the base of his throat.

Rhysand shivered wildly. He tried to keep his composure, but when his soul mate ran her tongue up and down his neck, he couldn't help but growl as he tightened his grip on Luxiana's hip and on the inside of her thigh to press her a little closer to him. He forced himself to speak. "As you can see she's very tactile and inclined to please," he added for Keir, trying to justify his reaction.

Excitement coursed through Rhysand's body, but not just through him, through his two brothers too. Azriel and Cassian were breathing just as fast as the two on the throne. They knew they weren't in the right environment, but they couldn't afford to be.

They simply couldn't take their eyes off their soulmate, who was kissing Rhysand's neck. They were both so jealous and envious but at the same time just so excited by the sight.

Rhysand asked Mor's father to relate the news from court, but he was only concentrated on Luxiana. He couldn't help but move his hand up her thigh a little closer to her panties as Luxiana continued to kiss the angle of his jaw.

Rhys, Cassian and Azriel's erections only grew in their pants, but when Rhys's fingertip made contact with his soulmate's wet panties and Luxiana moaned softly, all three Illyrians contracted at once at the wave pleasure that washed over them. They wanted more.

But Rhysand kept his hand still. He would go no further. Feeling her wet panties and not wanting his soul mate to feel bad about it, he comforted her with a thought. "It's all right, it's just your body reacting, it doesn't mean anything."

Luxiana understood his words and did her utmost not to contract at their hidden meaning. She then moved a little away from Rhys's neck to plant a serious gaze in the lord's. "But I like what you're doing, so if you want to keep going, don't stop."

Something flared in Rhysand's pupils, and he had to hold back from kissing Luxiana full on the lips as if he were starving for her. Which he was. He tried to remain calm and keep his heart from exploding, even though it was already giving that feeling. He turned his eyes back to Mor's father, who was still explaining but all his attention was focused on his hand, which was moving a little further up between his soulmate's thighs.

Luxiana laid back her face on Rhys's neck and wanted to kiss him again, but she was unable to do so while he ran his fingers along the edge of Luxiana's panties, shifting them slightly and slipping his phalanges inside. Luxiana's breathing had stopped, her heart beating wildly and irregularly in her chest. She could no longer move, vibrating with excitement.

Rhysand first traced the contours of Luxiana's crotch with his index finger then, with the tip of his fingertips, he gently rubbed the blonde's clitoris, causing her to gasp with pleasure.

She lifted her head to look Rhysand in the eye while she was electrocuted through and through. She wanted to kiss him. Could she now? She wanted so much more.

Rhysand finally looked down at her, and when he saw her shining eyes and cheeks flushed with arousal, he grunted. He passed his middle finger more firmly back and forth between Luxiana's down lips.

The blonde couldn't hold back a high-pitched moan from escaping her throat at the explosion in her belly. She pursed her lips and closed her eyes as a wave of pleasure washed over her from this simple contact.

But the sound and the sight were too much for Cassian and Azriel, who finally decided to move and took  slow, heavy steps towards her.

Hearing them move, Luxiana opened her eyes to see Azriel grab her throat with a firm hand. He positioned himself on the other side of Rhys's throne, with his back to Mor's father and the Fae assembly to hide Luxiana's face from everyone. The Illyrian placed his second hand over the blonde's mouth to push her head back and press it against his abs. "They don't have the right to see you like this," he told her in his mind. "They're not allowed to hear you moan, either. So you're not going to get a single sound out of that pretty mouth, okay, princess?"

Luxiana could hardly breathe with Azriel's large hand on her mouth close to her nostrils, and also a little because of the one on her throat that excited her far more than it should. Besides, everything about them, including Azriel's authoritative way of speaking, aroused her way too much. She nodded as best she could, looking at him from his belly. Azriel smiled. "Good girl. I'll just keep my hand over your mouth for damage control in case it occurs to you to disobey, but you're not going to disobey, are you? Good girls don't disobey and you don't want me to be angry or punish you, do you?"

Luxiana nodded her head in all directions, completely lost and unsure of what she wanted or what she should do. Azriel took a deep breath as his chest swelled with satisfaction. He let out a guttural sound.

Cassian stood on the other side of the throne, next to Rhys and next to Luxiana’s legs hanging over the armrest. He grabbed both her ankles with both hands to spread her legs slightly.

Luxiana wanted to straighten her head to stare at Cassian but Azriel tightened his fingers on her throat for a second to capture back her attention and he pressed her mouth with his other hand to keep her head back. "Keep your eyes in mine, princess. All the time, okay?"

Luxiana could breathe less and less, but nodded slowly nonetheless as she locked eyes with Azriel.

Cassian ran one of his hands up the blonde's shin and then around her thigh, making her shiver.

Rhysand - understanding in an exchange of glances with his brother what he wanted to do - pulled his fingers out from under Luxiana's panties so that, slowly, Cassian's fingers took their place. He grazed Luxiana's intimacy with his index finger, and she arched her back in spite of herself, wanting more.

She still wanted to look down at Cassian, but Azriel stopped her long before. "Don't even try," he growled in her mind. Luxiana closed her eyes to fight the urge to look at Cassian. Then she opened them again to stare at Azriel, whose breathing was just as hurried as hers, whose air was just as serious and whose eyes were just as bright.

Mor's father had stopped talking when he saw what they were doing. His eyes flitted between embarrassment and weariness. "Go on Keir," Rhysand ordered without even looking at him.

The lord detailed Luxiana from top to bottom, observing every inch of her skin, which he began to caress with his fingertips, moving from her thigh to her belly and then between her breasts. When he reached her throat, Azriel withdrew his hand to catch in his fist Luxiana's hair at the back of her head. Rhyand was then able to run his fingers over the blonde's throat and look at her neck, where her pulse was pulsing violently. Rhyand looked as if he could die of excitement and impatience.

Mor's father keep going to talk in spite of himself, but Rhysand took no notice. He plunged his head into Luxiana's neck to return the same kisses she had given him, tasting his mate's sweet skin. Then he licked her up and down and devoured her, even biting her gently or sucking her skin in some places.

Luxiana's breathing became even more labored as she leaned back a little more her head to allow Rhys access as thousands of electrifying tickles invaded her neck.

Cassian, for his part, had an amazing view of Luxiana, grabbed by one of his brothers and kissed by the other. He felt like he was going completely mad when he could cum in his pants at the sight alone. He could resist no longer. He touched his soulmate's clit, sliding his middle finger around it like a shark around its prey.

Luxiana, electrocuted through and through with pleasure, arched her back. She had to stop a moan to get out, helped by Azriel's palm on her mouth. She raised her hand to grip the master spy's wrist, needing to hold on to something.

Azriel, noticing her silence and restraint, smiled even more contentedly. "That's my good girl," he whispered in her head. "So quiet for me."

Cassian, after playing with her clitoris for a few minutes - and enjoying watching all his soulmate's muscles react accordingly - decided he wants more and goes further. He slid his middle finger up and down the blonde's slit several times.

Luxiana, impatient, tried to spread her legs but Cassian held one of her ankles and Rhysand - sensing her movement - grabbed her other leg, pressed against his torso to clamp her thigh and immobilize her too.

Luxiana was completely at their mercy. She couldn't move and God she loved it. They could do whatever they wanted to her. In fact, she wanted so much more. "Cassian, please," she begged in his head.

The three Illyrians grunted as they heard her, their erections pulsing in their pants.

Cassian waited no longer to thrust his middle finger slowly into the blonde's vagina, gently stretching it from the inside to the shape of his finger.

Luxiana closed her eyes, throwing her head back a wave of warmth and pleasure washed over her.

"Tsk, tsk, tsk," Azriel growled into Luxiana's head, tugging a little at her hair to make her open her eyelids. "Keep your eyes open and planted in mine, princess."

Cassian pulled out his finger before tucking it in deeper this time, stretching Luxiana a little more from inside as she arched her back, gritting her teeth to keep from closing her eyes and moaning. She was so wet that it slipped right in.

Cassian's heart pounded back and forth in his chest, vibrating every muscle in his body. He wanted to do her good, so much good. He began to move in and out of her, but he remained slow and gentle so as not to hurt her or her body. So as not to rip off her hymen since she was a virgin. But he was progressively faster, pushing his middle finger in as far as he could.

Luxiana wanted more and unconsciously spread her legs. Rhysand sensing this, still holding her thigh in his hand, smiled against his soulmate's neck while kissing her skin. He then slid his fingers from her thigh to the inside of her panties - passing from the top and sneaking over Cassian's hand - to place his middle finger on the blonde's clit, which he began to caress back and forth.

Luxiana - while one of her hands was still holding Azriel's wrist - grabbed Rhysand's wrist with the other as he played with her clitoris. Cassian accelerated his deep movements inside the blonde's vagina and Rhysand matched his brother's speed to caress his soulmate's clit.

The blonde, under the explosion of pleasure in her belly and as she was doing her best to keep her eyes open, let out a muffled sound resembling a moan, in spite of herself.

"Luxiana," Azriel reminded her sternly. "This is the last time I warn you. Do not let them hear your moan or I'll punish you by shutting you up myself in a way you'll immediately find less pleasant, okay?"

Luxiana couldn't answer, too beleaguered by all the strange sensations she was feeling. "Princess," Azriel growled aloud this time. "Answer! Immediately."

Luxiana finally nodded, coming back to herself a little under the Illyrians dry, deep voice. She forced herself not to take her eyes off him or moan, but she had the impression that this only accentuated her sensations, which were gathering in her lower belly with so much pleasure and frustration that she could have cried.

Cassian bent his middle finger inward, pressing against the top wall of her vagina. Luxiana's muscles contracted, making her almost jump, she let go of Azriel and Rhysand's wrists to cling to the lord's knee and shoulder.

This was too much for Luxiana. Cassian's finger caressed a precise point inside, Rhys's fingers rubbing her clit and Azriel's grip on her hair. An explosion of pleasure started from her lower abdomen and exploded throughout her body, contracting all her muscles. muscles . Her face contorted with pleasure she struggled to keep her eyes open. After what seemed like an eternity, her muscles relaxed and her back fell on the throne's armrest.

The three Illyrians were so proud of themselves that a broad smile crossed their faces.

Cassian withdrew his finger from inside Luxiana to go out of her panties and slide his fingerprints down her leg. He lifted her ankle, which he was still holding, to bring it to his mouth and place a kiss on it. "You were perfect," he whispered into the blonde's head.

Azriel gently loosened his grip on his soul mate’s hair, smoothing it down and trying to rearrange his braid, which he'd undone a little. He also removed his hand from her mouth, allowing Luxiana to take a deep breath and reveal her noisy breathing.

"You were such a good girl for me. I am so proud," Azriel added via their link as he leaned over to give her a gentle kiss on her forehead. Then he put a hand behind her back to push her gently onto Rhysand, who pulled his hand out from under the blonde's dress to catch her and press her to his chest.

The lord wrapped his arms around Luxiana, who was still absent, trembling and gasping for air. She was staring into space, still veiled by pleasure. Rhys placed his chin on the top of Luxiana's head. "It's all right, I'm here. We're here. It's all right." he reassured her, placing a kiss on her hair and stroking her back.

Azriel and Cassian resumed their place and, with Rhysand, turned their attention back to Mor's father and the other Fae, red with embarrassment and evasive glances. Keir continued, despite himself and with great difficulty, to recount what had happened here, then Mor re-entered the room. She nodded to Rhysand, telling by thoughts that she had indeed put back in place Véritas and the three Illyrians blink in confusion. They must have made a very good diversion because even they hadn't seen Mor absent herself.

Chapter 23 : Here

[kyouka-supremacy]

(╥﹏╥)

[its-all-papaya]

Oh girl I promise you I will be THRIVING reading 100k words. There is not enough long chapters fics in this fandom.

You write to whatever your heart desires. If long chapters is what happens then you write those long chapters 😤😤 and I will happily read every word.

- og dad!Lando anon ofc

there are in fact ONLY 15 landoscar fics on ao3 currently over 100k. in reality i know it's like. an insane amount of work to write a 100k fic (clearly bc my brain has melted 26 times over the last three months) and that's why there aren't that many, but i'm still like.... there isn't really a model to reassure myself with.

ANYWAY. it's the length it is. and it's obviously going to get posted regardless bc i worked really hard on it and i love it and i know there are dedicated readers such as you, dear dad lando anon, who will consume it all regardless. and that will be enough for me!

[sskk-manifesto]

Next time we should just skip over ep 3 and do a chapters 84-87 reread