#or how hard the ground will be when they fall
Explore tagged Tumblr posts
Note
What do you think would be the reaction of the Love and deepspace men to finding the Mc reading spicy books (the very spicy ones)? I would love to see what you think!
Spicy Secrets
Tumblr media
Warnings: suggestive dialogue A/n: sorry for the wait anon!
Tumblr media
Zayne watches you reproachingly. It’s rare for you not to engage with him when he’s over and he’s beginning to lose his patience at your lack of attention. You’re curled up on the side of the sofa, a book resting on the arm and you’re utterly engrossed. He notices the slight dusting of pink across your cheeks and with a sigh, gets off the chair he’s on and sits as close as he can next to you. You make a noise of surprise as he does so but allow him to cuddle. 
“I see you’ve entered a committed relationship—with paper and ink," Zayne quips with a touch of humor, but it’s obvious you’re being chastised. “What are you reading anyway?” Zayne brushes past your shoulder to read the page you’re on and you hurriedly snap the book shut.
Zayne’s eyebrows knit together in confusion. “What’s the matter?”
You’re blushing furiously as you place your hand over the top of the book, determined to hide the cover. “It’s nothing!”
“Your face looks like a tomato.” Zayne tugs at your hand and you struggle, picking up the book and pressing it against your chest to keep it out of his view. There’s a playful tug-of-war before he gives you a forceful yank, and he falls onto the sofa cushions with you landing on top of him.
From this angle, he reads the reviews on the back of the dust jacket. 
“A tantalizing piece of fiction. If you’re looking for a steamy romance look no further. Guaranteed to make your panties drop-” He’s cut off as you abruptly toss the book away over your shoulder. 
“Ohhh, so that’s why you’ve been blushing at random times. Should I be jealous or take notes?” He teases, enjoying the way you avert your eyes. You suppress a gasp as he puts his ear to your chest. “Your heart’s racing,” he murmurs, his eyes darkening at the sight of your sweetly red face. 
“Perhaps we should do something to alleviate it?”
Tumblr media
“No luck finding that high school yearbook pipsqueak?” Caleb wanders back into the attic as you rummage through some old boxes. You shake your head no, then reach up to pull down another box on a high shelf.
“Careful,” Caleb warns as he approaches you to help get the box down. 
“I’ve got it!” You insist and give the box a hard tug. It wobbles and then tips off the shelf, landing with a loud thud on the wooden floor. You squeak and cover your head with your arms right before it goes crashing down. The contents spill everywhere, soft paperback books flying in all directions. 
“I told you to be careful! Now we have to clean this up too.” Caleb squats and starts gathering up the books. “Looks like all those old storybooks you used to read ended up in here.” 
You glance down at the mess and, with a jolt, see a familiar cover with a woman gazing at a half-dressed man, before scrambling and trying to cram as many books as you can back into the box. 
“It’s not a competition pipsqueak.” Caleb watches you perplexedly before he picks up a random book with a black dust jacket and flicks to a random page. His eyes widen, then a sly grin forms on his lips. You freeze, books stacked haphazardly in your arms, heart thumping in your chest as he starts to read out loud. 
“You’re mine, understood? He asks as he bites into my neck. His large hand grips the back of my hair as his fingers sinfully slip between my legs-”
Caleb lets out a bark of laughter as you interrupt him, lunging in a panic and sending the gathered books cascading back onto the floor. He’s still shaking with mirth as you both hit the ground. 
“My my pipsqueak,” Caleb says teasingly as your face flushes. You try to punch his shoulder but he catches your fist, grinning. “Be honest… have you been imagining me as the male lead in these stories? And if not, how do I get the part?"
You groan and try to escape but Caleb only tugs you more firmly against him. 
“You know…if you told me…I might just do it.”
Tumblr media
“Sweetie…I thought perhaps you’d be interested in wearing this later tonight.”
You glance at Sylus over the rim of the glass you’re drinking from, then give him a perplexed look as he dangles a silk blindfold from one of his fingers. You swallow your water and frown. 
“What makes you think that?” 
“Well, because I think it might be fun. And also because-” he pulls out a small, red, paperback book that was hidden behind the sofa pillow, “-you seem to enjoy reading what happens to the protagonist while she’s wearing one.”
You splutter, water filling your nose as you try to recover from what you just saw. “Where did you get that from?! Were you snooping through my things?”
“Not at all.” Sylus grins wickedly. “Mephisto saw it lying open on the couch last night. Of course, he brought it to my attention. I was going to put it away…until some interesting words caught my eye.” 
You turn away, trying not to melt into a puddle of embarrassment. 
“Why so embarrassed kitten? The things in this book are tame.” Before you can reply, Sylus has already closed the distance between you, your back coming into contact with his chest. “If you had told me you wanted to experiment,” he purrs into your ear, “Do you think I wouldn’t have said yes?” 
The little silken object brushes against your skin, creating sensitivity that hadn’t been there a moment ago, and you shiver in his embrace. Triumphantly, Sylus chuckles in your ear. 
“Remember your safe word kitten. I know exactly what I want to do with you tonight.” 
Tumblr media
“Are you…happy?” Xavier asks the question carefully as you snuggle into him lazily, ready to enjoy an afternoon nap.
You regard his expression and cup his face between your hands. “Yes, Xavi. Why?”
He shakes his head sheepishly. “I meant…you know. In the bedroom.” 
Your lips part but no sound comes out as you regard his question. This was unexpected. You rack your brain trying to think of something that had happened the last time you’d made love to bring on this question. Nothing comes to mind and you kiss the tip of his nose.
“Of course I am. Why?”
Xavier’s adorable blue eyes are looking at you with a strange expression. “Are you sure?”
You sigh and snuggle into him. “Yes, Xavier. I’m very sure.”
Silence fills the room before Xavier speaks again. “It’s just that…the book you’re reading. It seems like the couple do a lot of…risque stuff.”
Your eyes widen and you bury your face into his chest to hide your embarrassment. 
“Did I say something wrong?” You shake your head no, further pushing yourself into his chest. Xavier gently disengages, putting space between your body and his. “You’ll run out of air.” 
“Nothing is going on in that book that would make me unhappy with what we’re doing.” 
“But I’ve seen how your face gets when you read it.”
Xavier’s eyes seem to change, something primal coming into them as he rolls and pins you under him. You gaze up at him slightly breathlessly as his hands stroke your sides.
“Maybe…we can try them?” His hand slips along your thigh, and it’s obvious where he’s going. You nod shyly and a smirk comes onto Xavier’s face before he brings his lips to yours and into a sensual kiss.
Tumblr media
He’s positively pouting as you tell him you don’t want to go out tonight. It was the third time that week. His lower lip is quivering as he watches you put your favorite chips into a bowl and getting ready to slip into bed.
You’re reading again?” he asks exasperatedly. “There’s no way a book can be that good.”
You smile and pat his cheek. “We’ll plan something for next time Raf. Promise.”
He rolls his eyes but relents and watches you walk away to the bedroom. It takes a half an hour before he gets bored and he listlessly wanders around the studio. It wasn’t fair, he reasoned with himself. He deserved your attention more than the characters in your book. 
He reaches the bedroom and cracks open the door. You’re engrossed, leaning comfortably on the pillows with the book in hand, munching on your chips. You glance up at him as he approaches the bed. 
“Thought you’d be painting!” 
“I miss you.” Rafayel dramatically flops down on the bed, his eyes narrowing as he looks at the dark and romantic book cover. “Why does this guy have his nipples out?”
“He’s the hero.” 
"Wait, wait, wait. You mean to tell me that I have competition… and it’s a fictional man with a six-pack and a dark past?" He glares at you and you stifle a laugh. 
“No one compares to you.” You reassuringly pat his head but it only worsens his neediness. He crawls up towards the headboard and snuggles against you.
"I think it’s only fair that you read me a passage or two. For research purposes, of course."
Tumblr media
© unintentionalseductress original work | no copying, plagiarizing or translating
@tokyorevengersrin @brekkersgf @ladyparamount @otomegamesforlife @shddyboo @supernaturalbaesduh @sweets-kozume @theimmortalbuns @venussakura @prisjean @laddelulu30 @lethargiccryptid @ravenclaw-jojo @redactedbimbo @crypt-0rchid @fattybattysblog @xinnn6
311 notes · View notes
atiyasnake · 6 hours ago
Text
As predicted, I wrote some more (1,143 more words). TW for mentions of blood and vomiting.
~~
On The television Gotham watched as the Joker smiled with glee at this ‘supposed Wayne’. It was hard to believe considering how many black-haired and blue-eyed children there were. Either way, it was with waited breath that they watched what was about to happen to the Joker's latest victim. 
When the Joker finally released the kid’s face he pranced around on the screen before reaching off to the side to grab something.  A modified gas makes came into view. A crude drawing with red and white paint of a familiar smile was on the front. 
With resignation, they watched as the Joker roughly put it on the boy’s face. 
__________
The mask was tight. It dug into Danny’s skin and pulled at his hair from the straps the Joker roughly pulled over his head. In comparison, it wasn’t as bad as what he had grown used to. Still, he wanted to rip the damn thing off.  
Instead, a hand gripped his hair and yanked, showing his face again to the camera. The Joker hummed before caressing his hair and then clapping with a laugh. 
“Now! Ladies and gentlemen, I give you a front-row seat to a new treat I’ve made with my dear dear friends,” the Joker said as he showboated in front of the camera while a couple of men stood off the side. 
He was getting tired of this shit. He didn’t want to be anyone’s show pony, he had enough of it with Vlad. 
The Joker kept talking with little chuckles in between, and with each one Danny clenched his jaw more and more. 
“Now let the show begin!”
Suddenly, there was a hissing sound from the mask and reflexively Danny tried to hold his breath. He had heard about the different gases in Gotham before in short mentions in the news. He’d rather not test anything. He had enough experience with all sorts of ‘concoctions’ and their ‘interesting effects’.
Though, as expected, whether it be scientists or rogues in Gotham they didn’t like to see him be stubborn. So with a snap of the Joker’s fingers, a swift punch was delivered into his gut and Danny couldn't help but gasp and try to take another breath.
A sickly sweet and rotten smell filled his nose, making him gag which only made it worse. 
At first, it didn’t do anything, but slowly his chest began to hurt and there was a warmth inside. The Joker laughed, monologuing to the camera and the warmth began to burn. 
Danny had already been hurting. He’s been continuously hurting for far longer than he’d care to think about. He knew the routine. He knew how this went. 
Stay quiet. 
Keep still. 
It’ll pass. 
He tried to keep telling himself this when the echoes of screams started. 
Danny didn’t know how much time passed as he just kept still. The fire was burning underneath his skin and he could feel it leaking out of his nose and mouth. There were still men around and the red dot of a camera looking towards him. He kept quiet and a bigger hand grabbed his hair, pulling it enough to make his neck strain as he was still tied down to the chair. 
Then suddenly shadows rained down with shattering glass and all hell broke loose. 
The hand retreated but another pulled his chair down and he fell to his side, his head knocking into the ground. Another point where fire leaked out while the mask dug into his cheek. He could only watch around him. 
There was yelling and laughter. The sound of crackling of electricity sent phantom spasms down his limbs as the echo of screams reached a higher pitch. 
There were so many shadows moving around. The grunting sound of bodies surrounded him.
At some point, he felt the restraints fall away but still, he didn’t move. 
Be still. Be still. Be still. Be still bestill bestill bestillbestill bestillbestillbestill. 
Except a hand was reaching for his face. 
The mask straps tugged at his hair as it was slipped off. It no longer dug into his face. The gas was taken away. Except whenever they take away the mask it's for something worse. They lure you into a false sense of relief only to rip it away. So he did what he always did. 
He got his mouth on the closest hand near his face and he bit down.
They hated when he did that in the lab. They’d scream for ‘it’ to let go. He never let go unless they made him. 
Danny knew how this went. He clenched his jaw shut harder and felt something begin to give beneath his teeth. He couldn’t taste whatever it was given his mouth full of his own burning blood. He still didn’t let go. 
He could barely see past it all but he would not let go. He couldn’t, he was burning inside and out and the screams were pulling at him. Hands were reaching out to him but then there was an explosion and they were blown back. 
His body rolled and he caught himself hitting something before scrambling onto all fours. Fire was licking at his throat and he couldn’t stop it from coming up. He hacked and coughed as something wet and hot filled his mouth. The taste of iron and the sight of red on his skin were far too familiar. 
It was ironic. This weird ‘concoction’ seemed to make him bleed just like the lab did. Just when Danny thought he finally got away. He chuckled. 
Light and shadows danced off to the side. Two of them looked like they had pointy ears and one of those looked like it had wings. They moved swiftly and gracefully around each other, never straying too far as if they were bound back together by some unseen force. 
Huh. 
The light caught on something and Danny found himself looking at the camera, its red light still lit. His limbs shook as he grabbed the camera, it was surprisingly high quality and he couldn't help but laugh lightly. Still, the button to turn it off was the same.  Someone was running towards him and he threw the camera chuckling again when it hit their head and they dropped though he had to stop when he coughed up more blood that burned. 
It hurt.
The room wouldn’t stop shifting as the colors warped around him with stains of black. His chest was in agony and pressing his head against the floor and curling up wouldn’t stop it. The whispers and screams were coming back again, reaching out to grab a hold. His throat kept spasming with each cough that wouldn’t let him get rid of the taste of iron. 
He couldn't do anything but let the agony and darkness take hold. 
Be still. Be quiet. 
It’ll pass.
Shrodinger's BatCat Child
DP x DC Prompt
When Selina was pregnant with her's and Bruce's child, she was thinking of settling down and raising the child. But when she had given birth to the boy, someone had broken into the hospital and stolen not only her baby but also other babies had been taken from the hospital. She tried to find out who took her baby boy but couldn't find the perpetrator.
Heartbroken at the loss of her baby, Selina masks her grief with being Catwoman. She doesn't tell Bruce about their baby boy, even after the new boy that goes under the Bats wing. She does treat each new Robin as if they were her own son. She talks to Harley about what had happened when Damian comes into the fold, where she then reveals that she had a baby with Bruce to the man and what happened to their baby after a few sessions with Harley.
Danny is on the run from Amity, from the Fentons, from the GIW, and from Vlad. The Fentons found out about him being Phantom and attacked him. They then teamed up with the GIW to hunt him down. He doesn't want to go to Vlad, as the Fruitloop is slowly becoming more and more crazy to get him to become his son and slowly focusing less and less on Maddie.
He heads to Gotham, as the city spirit, when she was chosen to be part of his court because of her knowledge and power, had told him that he was one of hers, a child born in Gotham to a woman that wasn't Maddie, Catwoman, and that's also how he found out that he's the son of Batman as well, because Lady Gotham gave him that answer as well, but she didn't tell him their real names. He just hopes that his mom and dad will be happy to learn that their son is still (mostly) alive and on his way to them.
And then Danny is caught by the Joker. He couldn't put up that much of a fight as he used up a lot of Ectoplasm escaping the lab he was in. Tucker's family moved away during middle school, and so did Sam's family when the start of high school came, Jazz had returned from college to help him escape the lab he was held in, but had to go back if she wanted to keep the scholarship.
The Batfam was having a family day out in Gotham. Bruce and Selina were engaged and wanted to bond as a family. Then Joker began broadcasting across Gotham.
"Hello Gotham! Today, I have a special guest with me"
The camera panned to a boy tied up in a chair, head hanging low.
"Brucie Boy seems to have forgotten to mention that he has another brat to call his own, so I took it upon myself to inform you all about him!"
When Joker grabbed the face of the boy and showed it to the camera, the entire Batfam tensed. Because the boys face had the features of both Bruce and Selina, the cuts, bruises, and blood on the boys face couldn't hide that fact, and now they need to find the boy to save him from what Joker has planned for their son.
2K notes · View notes
seospicybin · 3 days ago
Text
TASTE.
Tumblr media
CHAPTER V: TENDER.
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. (20,7k words)
Author's note: Congratulations for making it through the week. Pls enjoy this chapter and let me know what you think about it after ♡
Tender. /ˈten.dər/ (adj) 1. showing gentleness and concern or sympathy. 2. easy to cut.
There’s something about the way sweet things linger on your tongue—like the moments you’ve shared with Minho. Each one, fleeting and intoxicating, feels like a sugar rush. The stolen glances, the secret smiles, the warmth of his presence beside you—they all flood your senses, leaving you craving more.
But now, that sweetness has turned cloying. The secret you’ve been keeping together, delicate as spun sugar, is starting to crack. And like biting into something bittersweet after too much indulgence, the sharp edge of reality cuts through.
You’re walking toward the locker room, hands balled into fists on each side of you and you brace yourself for what's coming as you push the door open. It feels like the aftermath of a sugar addiction—the kind of crash that leaves you wondering why you allowed yourself to get so carried away in the first place.
The memory of Taesoo’s panicked face lingering in your mind, his words ringing in your ears: Everyone knows now.
Your heart sinks again, as if hearing it for the first time.
The taste of bitterness is unmistakable now, grounding you in the realization that this thing between you and Minho—this private, fragile thing—has been exposed to the light.
The locker room feels like a battlefield the moment you step inside. Seungwan charges toward you like he’s been lying in wait. His voice comes out in a rapid-fire assault.
“Minji saw everything!” he declares, practically vibrating with excitement. “She watched you and Chef Minho in the café! She even sent me a picture—proof!”
Your stomach drops, but you force yourself to stay calm. Before you can even respond, Hyunwoo appears at Seungwan’s side, his expression stern. “So? Is it true?”
Before you can answer, Felix suddenly slides into view, positioning himself at your side like a protective shield.
“Hey, it’s not true.” His wide, bright eyes lock onto yours as he asks for your confirmation, “That’s not true, right?”
The weight of their combined stares is suffocating, but you take a deep breath and let it out, bracing yourself. “It’s true.”
The room erupts. Seungwan gasps in victory, practically glowing as he boasts, “See? I told you I wasn’t lying!”
You quickly raise your hands, trying to regain control of the situation. “Wait, listen. It’s true we went to the café, but it’s not because we’re dating, we're close because we were friends back in Italy.”
The uproar falters, and Hyunwoo crosses his arms, skeptical. “Minji said she saw you give him chocolate.”
“I did,” you admit, “but not everyone who exchanges chocolates on Valentine’s Day is a couple by default.”
Seungwan isn’t buying it. “Minji said you looked like a couple.”
You meet his gaze head-on. “Does she have proof? Did she see us kissing? Did she see us sleeping together?”
That bold challenge silences him for a moment, but before you can feel any relief, Felix jumps in, clearly desperate to squash the rumor.
“Hey, it’s impossible!” he insists. “Chef isn’t the type to fall for some random woman in the kitchen. Even if you like him, no matter how hard you try, he won't budge.”
You don’t know if that comment stings more than it should, but you keep your face neutral. In the corner, you catch Taesoo trying to suppress a laugh. He quickly looks away when your eyes meet his.
The tension in the room gradually deflates as the others seem to accept the lack of solid evidence. Seungwan narrows his eyes at you, his voice low with warning. “If it turns out you are dating, I’m not going to sit back and allow it.”
You force a small, indifferent smile. “Fine.”
The others shuffle out of the locker room one by one, grumbling amongst themselves. As you listen to Felix and Hyunwoo bicker about whether or not you’re really dating Minho, you lean against the cold metal of the lockers and close your eyes.
Finally, blessedly, the room is empty, and the air feels breathable again. You sag against the lockers, exhaustion creeping in. The bitter taste of the confrontation lingers, but at least, for now, the storm has passed.
But even in the bitterness, there’s a part of you that clings to the sweetness. The way Minho looked at you, the way his voice softened when he said your name. Those moments are what keep you going, what make the risk feel almost worth it.
You glance down at the chef coat hanging in front of you, then yanking it off the hanger and taking your time as you put it on. Maybe you need the space to breathe, or maybe you’re just trying to drown out the ache in your chest.
Because no matter how much you tell yourself to stop, to quit this dangerous craving, your heart keeps whispering the same thing: One more taste.
-
The echo of his footsteps feels heavier today as Minho walks through the hall and up the stairs to his office. Everyone knows. That single thought loops in his head, clinging like a bad smell he can’t shake off.
He’s prepared himself for the inevitable questions, even rehearsed his answers, but when he steps into his office, the tension he expected isn’t there.
Sara is at her desk, her pen gliding smoothly over her notebook. She looks up briefly when he enters, her brow furrowing slightly as if she senses his unease. But she says nothing.
Minho pauses, unsure. Her lack of reaction is almost more unsettling than if she’d pounced on him with questions. They share a quiet glance, her expression a mixture of curiosity and confusion. When he doesn’t speak, she simply returns to her notes, the faint scratch of her pen filling the silence.
Minho crosses the room and drops into his chair, swiveling it slightly to the side to put himself out of Sara’s line of sight. His fingers reach into his coat pocket, pulling out the card you gave him.
He stares at the envelope for a moment, running his thumb along the edge before carefully pulling the card out. The words you wrote are simple, yet they hit him with an unexpected force.
"I'm happy that you're always around me, Chef. You make me feel like I’m cooking the best pasta in the world."
A small, lopsided smile tugs at his lips as his eyes fall to the tiny heart you’ve sketched in the corner, next to your initials. It’s so you, and it’s perfect.
Minho lets himself sink into the warmth of your words, feeling them settle in his chest. For a brief moment, the weight of the morning—the rumors, the tension, the stares—fades away. All that matters is this little card and the emotions it carries.
He leans back in his chair, holding the card in one hand as he gazes at it. The dread that had been clawing at him since Taesoo’s outburst dissipates. It doesn’t matter anymore.
Instead, he thinks of you. The way your eyes light up when you talk about food, the shy smile you tried to hide when you slid the box of chocolates across the café table, how you thought of him when you wrote these words.
Minho’s grip on the card tightens slightly, a spark of determination igniting within him.
-
The kitchen hums with the usual chaos—clanging pans, sizzling oils, and sharp orders cutting through the air—but today, there’s a peculiar tension simmering beneath it all. It’s intangible, like an invisible thread tightening around everyone, pulling them taut.
Minho feels it, the weight of too many eyes fixed on him. He’s used to being the center of attention in the kitchen, but this is different. Suspicion hangs in the air like the smell of burning garlic.
He notices Taesoo, his eyes darting nervously between stations. First at you, then at Minho, then at everyone else, as if trying to track invisible lines of connection. Minho doesn’t miss the way Sara leans toward you, whispering something. You shake your head, feigning obliviousness, but your stiff shoulders betray your discomfort.
Minho keeps his face neutral, but inside, he’s amused. He knows exactly what’s happening.
Walking the perimeter of the kitchen, he checks on everyone’s progress, pausing here and there to critique, encourage, or chastise. When he reaches your station, he pauses longer than necessary. Without warning, he grabs your wrist, guiding your hand to shake the frying pan properly.
“Faster, but steady,” he says, his tone deceptively soft. His hand remains over yours a moment longer than needed, and he can feel the heat of your skin through the fabric of his gloves.
It’s deliberate, of course. A tiny act of rebellion against the scrutiny, a way to poke at the invisible tension until it snaps.
You pull your hand away quickly, your cheeks flushing as you mutter, “I’ll do better.” Your eyes dart nervously around the kitchen, and Minho knows you’re aware of the stares.
He smirks faintly. “Good.”
Then, louder, for everyone to hear, he says, “Come with me.”
The room freezes for a moment, and Minho doesn’t miss the way Taesoo’s face pales. Minho walks toward the freezer without looking back, trusting that you’ll follow. Sure enough, he hears your footsteps trailing behind him, hesitant but obedient.
The freezer door closes with a soft thud, and the chill immediately bites at his skin. You cross your arms, glaring at him.
“Chef, we shouldn’t be doing this,” you grumble, your voice low but firm.
Minho raises a brow, feigning innocence. “Doing what, exactly?”
“Everyone is watching,” you hiss.
He steps closer, tilting his head slightly. “I called you in here to scold you. Don’t get any ideas. Do I have to tell you so many—”
Before he can elaborate, the door bursts open, and Taesoo rushes in, his face a mask of panic.
“Chef,” he stammers, his voice a frantic whisper. “Everyone’s watching you two. You can’t—”
Minho cuts him off with a sharp look, his patience thinning. “It seems you the two of you are getting too comfortable with me. It’s time to fix that.”
Both of you blink at him in confusion.
“Kneel,” Minho orders, his voice cold and authoritative.
“What? Why?” you ask, incredulous.
“Kneel on the floor and raise your arms. Now.”
There’s a moment of hesitation before you and Taesoo comply, kneeling on the icy floor and raising your arms awkwardly.
Minho crosses his arms, pacing in front of you. “Respect in the kitchen isn’t optional. Do you think I'm a friend? You will both stay like this for ten minutes as punishment.”
He walks over to a nearby bucket of clams, gesturing toward it. “And apologize to the clams. You didn’t clean them properly, and they still smell like mud.”
For a moment, there’s silence. Then, to his surprise, you burst into laughter, your giggles echoing in the cold space.
Minho glares at you. “Do you think this is funny?”
Through your laughter, you manage to say, “I’m just… glad I’m being punished.”
Taesoo, unable to hold it in, starts chuckling beside you. The sound is contagious, and for a brief second, Minho’s composure cracks, a small smile threatening to escape. He quickly regains control, his expression hardening.
Minho straightens, his authoritative mask slipping back into place. “Now, stop grinning like an idiot and keep your arms up. Ten minutes isn’t over yet.”
As he turns to leave the freezer, a small, satisfied smirk plays on his lips. Whatever happens next—whatever fallout this may bring—he’s ready. For you, he’ll face it all and if anything, he feels braver now.
-
Minho’s office feels smaller than usual, the air heavy with the weight of unspoken words. Felix hesitates, glancing between you and Minho before knocking on the door.
“Come in,” Minho’s voice calls, steady and commanding.
You step inside, Felix right behind you, both still clad in your chef coats. Minho and Sara are already waiting, their expressions unreadable as they stand side by side.
Minho doesn’t waste time with pleasantries. “Hyunwoo is moving to the pasta line and Seungwan will take over the grill which leaves the antipasto line open.” His sharp gaze moves between you and Felix. “Which of you wants to take it?”
Sara chimes in, her tone softer but no less serious. “We’re leaving the decision to you two.”
You exchange a brief glance with Felix. The silence stretches just long enough to feel uncomfortable before Felix clears his throat. “I… I don’t think it’s a good idea to break the current dynamic. But—” He hesitates, his voice growing quieter. “I’ve had some issues with the entrée line. I’d rather not work directly with them.”
All eyes shift to you. The unspoken expectation presses down like a weight. You’re the senior, the one with more experience in antipasto, and everyone knows it.
Minho’s eyes lock onto yours, and with one look, he makes the decision for you. “You’ll take it.”
Sara immediately protests. “We need to hear her opinion first.”
“It’s final,” Minho replies without missing a beat, his gaze shifts back to you. “You’ll take Seungwan’s position starting tomorrow.”
Before you can argue, Minho dismisses Felix with a curt nod. Felix glances at you, his lips parting as if he wants to say something, but he thinks better of it and leaves.
“Can you give us a minute?” Minho asks as he turns to Sara, his tone leaving no room for negotiation.
Sara pauses, her expression conflicted, but she nods. As she passes, her gaze lingers on you, offering a silent apology before she exits.
The door clicks shut, leaving you alone with Minho and the second you and him are alone in the room, you don't hold back.
“I don’t want to switch, Chef,” you blurt out, your frustration bubbling to the surface.
Minho leans against his desk, arms crossed. “This isn’t about what you want. A cook who stays in one section becomes stale. Hyunwoo didn’t get moved because he complained—I made that call.”
You narrow your eyes, doubt creeping in. “Is this because of the rumors?”
He straightens, his tone sharp. “No.”
But it’s too late. The thought takes root, and your voice softens. “If this is about protecting me because of our… relationship, I understand.”
Minho steps forward, his hands landing firmly on your shoulders. His touch is steady, grounding. “I told you this isn’t about that,” he insists, his gaze searching yours. “Look at me.”
You hesitate but eventually meet his eyes.
“Don’t you trust me?” he asks, his voice quiet but intense. “Don’t you trust your chef?”
You do. You trust him more than anyone else in this kitchen, but a small part of you doesn’t trust his judgment on this decision. Still, you keep that thought buried.
You don’t answer, and the silence stretches between you. Minho’s hands drop from your shoulders, and he steps back.
“Be ready for tomorrow,” he says, his tone unreadable.
You nod stiffly, turning to leave, but the tension lingers, heavy and unresolved, as you close the door behind you.
-
The morning light streams through the curtains as you wake with a heavy head, your body feels sluggish, and for a moment, you consider calling in sick. But no—you refuse to let anything, not even a budding illness, make you seem weak or incapable.
You drag yourself out of bed and shuffle into the kitchen, your eyes barely open. Sara is already at the dining table, her laptop open, fingers typing away. She glances up as you enter.
“Morning,” you mutter, your voice scratchy as you make your way to the coffee machine. The promise of caffeine is the only thing pulling you forward.
“Morning,” Sara replies, her tone light but curious. Her gaze lingers on you as you prepare your coffee.
The smell of freshly brewed coffee offers some comfort as you pour yourself a cup and take a slow sip. The warmth spreads through you, waking you up just a little.
Sara leans back in her chair, her expression thoughtful. “You’re still upset about Minho’s decision, aren’t you?”
You glance at her but quickly look away, shaking your head. “It’s fine,” you say, forcing a faint smile.
She doesn’t seem convinced. “If you don’t want to leave the pasta line, you can tell me. You don’t have to go along with it if it’s not what you want.”
You take another sip of your coffee, letting the bitter warmth fill the silence. “It’s fine, really,” you repeat, this time with more finality.
Sara watches you for a moment longer, then smiles faintly, taking a sip of her own coffee. “If you say so.”
The sound of her typing resumes, filling the quiet space between you.
But then she pauses again, tilting her head slightly. “The kitchen was… weird yesterday,” she says casually, though her eyes are sharp. “Is there something going on I should know about?”
Your heart skips a beat, but you keep your face neutral. “I have no idea what you mean,” you reply, your tone light and innocent.
Sara raises an eyebrow, clearly skeptical, but she doesn’t push further. Instead, she nods slowly and returns her attention to her laptop.
You take another sip of your coffee, the bitterness grounding you as your thoughts swirl. Sara’s question hangs in the air, her suspicion like a quiet storm waiting to brew.
“It’s better this way,” you murmur under your breath, so softly that Sara doesn’t hear. Keeping things under wraps—keeping him under wraps—is the safest choice for now.
You glance over at Sara, who’s focused on her screen again, her typing steady and uninterrupted. If she, with her sharp intuition, catches on, it’s only a matter of time before everyone else does. And then what?
You set your cup down on the counter, the sound sharper than you intended, and Sara glances at you again. You force another faint smile her way, but your mind is already elsewhere.
Minho’s decision might sting, but he’s right about one thing: in a world like this, appearances matter. As much as it frustrates you, the secrecy shields you both—for now.
You press your palm against the counter, steadying yourself as a quiet resolve builds in your chest. Yes, this is the best thing for now. But for how long?
-
The locker room smells faintly of detergent and metal, the silence punctuated only by the quiet clink of locker doors and the shuffle of clothing. Minho steps inside, and his eyes immediately find you. You're standing at your locker, back partially turned to him, moving with a distracted air.
He pauses, taking in the tension in your shoulders, the way your movements lack their usual grace. He knows you're still upset about yesterday, about the decision he made for you without asking, but he also knows this isn't something you can discuss openly.
Taking a steadying breath, Minho calls your name softly.
You glance over your shoulder, your expression unreadable, before turning to face him fully.
Minho steps closer, his voice calm but firm. "In the kitchen," he starts, his gaze holding yours, "I'm just your head chef. Not the man you like."
The faintest smile graces your lips, but it doesn't quite reach your eyes. "Yes, chef," you reply, your tone polite but distant.
That won’t do. Minho closes the distance, resting his hands lightly on your shoulders. The warmth of your body beneath his touch grounds him as much as it does you. "Listen," he says, softer now, his tone almost a whisper. "In the kitchen, there’s no Minho. Just the chef. Do you understand?"
This time, your smile is a little brighter, a touch more genuine, and it eases some of the tightness in his chest.
"Yes, chef," you reply again, and this time, there's a hint of lightness in your voice.
Minho hesitates for a moment, then lets his hand trail up to your cheek, his thumb brushing softly against your skin as he tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers linger, warm and steady, before he leans in slightly, his voice low. "Be prepared."
Your smile deepens, and this time it’s convincing. "Yes, chef," you say again, and something about the way you say it fills Minho with an unfamiliar ache—a longing to stay like this, even though he knows he can't.
The sound of approaching footsteps snaps the moment in two. Instinctively, Minho drops his hand and takes a step back, turning to his locker and shutting it with practiced ease.
Before he leaves, he risks one last glance at you. You're standing there, watching him, your expression softer now. Minho doesn’t say another word, but he hopes that brief moment between you was enough to bridge the unspoken gap.
As he walks away, he also reminds himself it’s all about work. What he does to you at work is nothing personal. Not at all.
-
The kitchen bustles with the usual clamor of voices, clattering utensils, and the sharp hiss of flames.
Your new station feels foreign, the rhythm and layout unfamiliar compared to the pasta line you’d grown so comfortable with. Across the room, Felix gives you an encouraging grin, his eyes sparkling with reassurance. “Good luck!” he mouths.
You smile back, appreciating his gesture, but the nerves gnawing at your stomach refuse to settle. Your attention shifts to the front as Minho steps up to the chef’s table, commanding immediate silence with his presence.
His gaze sweeps across the kitchen, lingering for the briefest moment on you. Then, his voice cuts through the room, authoritative and unyielding. “There are changes in the kitchen,” he begins, his tone firm. “Just because you're in the new line, does not mean you can make mistakes. I won't accept excuses like 'I need time to adapt' or 'I'm not used to it'. Customers are blind to what's going on in the kitchen. Just because we have a change in personnel or because they're not used to doing it, there's no customer whose willing to put up with bad food. Understood?”
A chorus of “Yes, Chef” echoes in response, your voice among them.
The first orders start rolling in, and the kitchen launches into motion. You throw yourself into the work, your hands moving with practiced efficiency, but there’s no denying the subtle awkwardness of being in a new environment.
You present your first dish, a carefully grilled medley of vegetables, to Minho. He barely glances at it before his voice cuts through the din, sharp and precise. “What are you doing to these vegetables?” he snaps, holding up a forkful like it’s a crime scene. “Did you forget how to grill? Or is this because it’s not pasta?”
Heat rises to your cheeks, and you stammer out an apology as he continues. “The basic of grilling it is to let it sear lightly so that it's brown on the outside but still juicy inside. This? This is dry.”
“I'll do it again, Chef,” You admit your mistake quickly, grabbing the plate and retreating to your station. His words sting, but you force yourself to focus, determined to get it right on the second try.
As you work on the next dish, a bowl of potato soup, Minho’s voice startles you again. “When are you going to come to your senses?,” he slams his spatula onto the counter before pointing it at your garnish choice. “The soup is potato. When it comes to course meals, balance is everything. It's different from pasta, the garnish should be something refreshing like tomatoes. Do you think the customer only eat potatoes, huh?”
Swallowing your frustration, you apologize once more and excuse yourself to retrieve a container of tomatoes from the freezer. The cool air hits you like a slap as you step inside, and for a moment, you just stand there, clutching the empty container.
Your thoughts race as you try to steady your breathing. He’s just doing his job, you remind yourself, but the harshness of his tone lingers, cutting deeper than you want to admit. Was it really just about the food, or was there something personal behind his words?
The door creaks open, and you jump, turning quickly. Relief floods through you when you see Taesoo grinning at you.
“Jeez, you look like you saw a ghost,” he jokes, grabbing something off a nearby shelf. “Man, the way Chef yelled at you, no one’s gonna think you two are dating now!”
You force a smile, trying to match his lighthearted tone. “Yeah, I’m glad no one thinks so,” you reply, though your voice comes out strained.
Taesoo chuckles, oblivious to your inner turmoil. “Seriously, it looked like he was just trying to knock you down a peg. Guess that’s his way of making things... normal?”
His words blur into background noise as your thoughts drift. Was it really just about appearances? you wonder. Or was there something else behind the way Minho singled you out today?
You shake your head, pushing the thought aside as you grab the tomatoes and head for the door. Taesoo’s voice trails after you, but you don’t respond.
As you step back into the heat and chaos of the kitchen, your resolve hardens. If Minho wanted to prove something today, he succeeded—but the sting of his words still clings to you like a bitter taste that lingers on your tongue.
-
The dining hall is empty now, the faint hum of the refrigerator the only sound echoing through Farfalle. Minho knows exactly where to find you. He steps out to the back entrance and spots you sitting on the narrow steps that lead up to the dining hall, your arms wrapped around your knees.
You’re not crying, but there’s something vulnerable about the way you sit, staring ahead as though trying to push away the memory of today’s relentless scoldings. Minho pauses for a moment before joining you, settling onto the steps with a sigh.
Your expression is calm, but he catches the faint pout of your lips. It’s… cute, in a way that annoys him because it’s distracting.
“Today was tough,” he begins, his voice softer than usual, “but it’ll get better from now on.”
You hug your knees tighter, still avoiding his gaze. “Were you harsh on me because people are suspicious of us, Chef?”
The question catches him off guard, but he recovers quickly, his tone firm. “No. I scolded you because you didn’t get it right.” His lips twitch into a faint smirk as he adds, “And it’s honestly annoying how you’re worse than I expected.”
That earns him a glare. “The last time I handled antipasto was four years ago,” you retort defensively.
Minho leans back, his tone warning. “This is just the beginning.”
Your eyes widen in horror. “Does that mean you’re going to scold me more?”
“Yes,” he replies simply, relishing your exaggerated groan as you bury your face in your hands.
After a beat of silence, you call him. “Chef?”
He hums in acknowledgment, and you wait until he meets your gaze before asking, “Are you the chef right now, or are you just Minho?”
The corner of his mouth lifts into a teasing smirk. “Which one would you prefer?”
You glance around, gesturing to the empty surroundings. “This isn’t the kitchen or anything.”
Minho raises a brow, his tone dry. “There are still people around who haven’t left work yet.”
You pout again, your lips jutting out in that same way that makes something tighten in his chest. “Then when do you stop being the chef and just become Minho?”
He smirks, leaning slightly closer. “What’s wrong with the chef? Don’t you like him?”
You sigh dramatically and mumble. “I hate the chef. He scolded me all day long.”
He chuckles, the sound low and warm. “What about you? Is this my line cook, or just you?”
“Just me,” you mutter, though your eyes dart nervously around.
“If it’s just you then why are you sitting so far away from me?” He asks, one corner of his mouth raises higher than the other.
“But people could still see us like this,” you say as you crane your neck to spot any prying eyes.
Minho shrugs and calmly responds. “We’re in an open space. No one would suspect anything.”
You glance at him, then the empty surroundings, before scooting closer. You both exchange playful glances at each other until you break into a series of giggles, light and sweet, and for a moment, Minho feels the weight of the day lift. Your warmth draws him in, and he considers, just briefly, risking everything by kissing you.
But the moment shatters as Chris appears at the top of the steps, his expression far too cheerful. He squeezes himself between you and Minho, blatantly ignoring the latter’s glare as he takes your hand.
“You've finished your work today,” Chris begins, his tone warm. “I’ll give you a ride home. Let's go.”
Your gaze flickers to Minho, seeking his reaction, but Chris notices. “It’s past working hours, Chef,” Chris says pointedly to Minho. “Surely, she’s allowed to leave.”
Minho exhales sharply, locking eyes with you. “It’s up to you,” he says cryptically, his voice unreadable.
Confused by his cryptic response, you hesitate, but Chris barrels on. “I know it’s not allowed for kitchen staff to date each other,” he muses aloud, “but hall staff and kitchen staff? That’s a different story, right?”
Chris grins slyly, his words grating on Minho’s nerves. “I personally think the restaurant should be a happy place, don’t you think? Love, friendship—it’s all fine by me.”
Minho’s patience snaps. “What are your intentions with her?” he asks bluntly, his tone sharp.
Chris meets his gaze with an infuriating calmness. “Anything,” he replies smoothly.
The audacity makes Minho’s blood boil, but he reins himself in. “Go inside,” he orders you curtly.
You hesitate but obey, and Minho waits until he hears the sound of the door slamming shut behind you before talking again.
Minho turns back to Chris, his eyes blazing. “I know why you’re doing this. You like her, don't you?”
Chris doesn’t deny it, his calm stare unflinching. “That’s right. I like her.”
It's not a rocket science to figure it out, Chris' treatment toward you tells it all and Minho can tell the difference between favoritism at workplace and romantic feelings.
“How long were you planning to keep it a secret?” Minho boldly asks him.
Chris smirks and puts on a coy smile. “I'm not going to love cowardly like you do, Chef. It's difficult to just watch and support her now. Thanks to you.”
The words hit like a punch, and Minho scoffs, masking the sting.
Chris shrugs, his tone casual. “The secret ends now. I'm going to tell her.” He announces before walking off, leaving Minho stewing in his frustration.
You return a moment later, your expression hesitant as you sit beside him again. “What did you two talk about?”
Minho tilts his head, exhaling sharply before leaning toward you. “Good news,” he says with a wry smile.
You perk up slightly. “What is it?”
“There’s a guy who likes you,” he teases, watching your reaction carefully.
Your brows furrow. “Why are you telling me this?”
“To give you confidence,” he replies smoothly. “Who knows? Maybe he’s a better person than me.”
You chuckle, leaning closer. “I have good news for you too.”
“Yeah?” Minho asks, playing along.
You lean in close to whisper it to him. “There’s a girl who likes you.”
Minho takes it with a coy smile. “Is she pretty?”
You nod with a grin. “Very.”
“Good to know,” he quips, smirking.
“What about the guy who likes me?” you ask, feigning curiosity. “Is he rich?”
“Very,” Minho deadpans.
Your delighted gasp turns into laughter, and Minho finds himself laughing too, though a bitter ache lingers beneath his amusement.
How is it fair? he wonders as the laughter fades. Chris will have the freedom to treat you well, to show his feelings openly. And Minho? He’s trapped, forced to keep scolding you in the kitchen while his own feelings remain locked away.
-
The kitchen is quiet, filled only with the soft hum of the refrigerators and the faint echo of your footsteps. Determined to make a better impression in antipasto today, you arrived earlier than usual. After slipping into your chef’s coat, you head straight to your station, mentally rehearsing the steps for today’s dishes.
As you’re about to inspect your prep list, the sound of footsteps echoes behind you. Turning, you see Chris walking in, his navy suit perfectly tailored, his silk tie catching the faint glow of the overhead lights. His dimpled grin greets you warmly, and you can’t help but smile back.
“You’re early,” he remarks, leaning casually against the counter.
“You’re always early,” you counter with a teasing smile.
Chris comes up at you and crosses his arms, pretending to pout as he says, “I’m hungry.”
You raise a brow. “What? No personal chef to whip up breakfast for you?”
Chris dramatically places a hand over his heart. “Ouch. That hurt.”
You chuckle. “Alright, alright. Sit down. I’ll make you something.”
Chris waves a hand dismissively. “But you’ll be cooking all day so let’s go out and grab something instead.”
You shake your head. “I insist. Besides, I miss cooking pasta.”
He relents with a small shrug and a grin. “Alright, then.”
You grab a gas lighter for the stove. “I'll be a moment. You should wait in the chef’s table.”
“I want to watch you cook,” Chris says with a teasing smile as he leans against the counter.
You take a wooden spatula and point it at him. “Don’t blame me if your fancy suit get splattered!”
Rolling your eyes, you grab a pan and start prepping. As you move around the kitchen, you occasionally glance at Chris, noticing how his eyes linger on you instead of the ingredients. His attention is flattering, but you try not to let it distract you.
Once the dish is ready, you bring the plate to the chef’s table, setting down a fork and napkin. You hop onto the counter, watching as he examines the dish with a look of admiration.
“It’s pretty,” he comments, his fork hovering above the plate.
With a sly smile, you tell him, “Instead of spaghetti, I used farfalle—for the owner of Farfalle.”
Chris grins at the pun but still hesitates. “It’s too pretty to eat.”
“Nothing tastes good when you eat alone,” you say, crossing your arms with a playful smirk. “And I’m not sitting here because of you. I’m sitting here because I want my pasta to taste good.”
Chris laughs at that, finally digging in. As he eats, you can’t help but lean forward. “So? Does it taste good?”
Chris nods earnestly. “It's the best.”
You narrow your eyes, unconvinced and sigh. “Your taste buds are a bit dull because Chef would've thrown a fit right now.”
“I mean it, it's good,” he insists, his tone softening as he meets your gaze. “Anything tastes good with you next to me.”
You quickly laugh, brushing off the flutter in your chest. “You’re just trying to flatter me now.”
He chuckles, taking another bite before you teasingly ask, “Still better than sex?”
Chris pauses, chewing thoughtfully. When he swallows, he shakes his head. “I’ve had sex now, so...”
You feign nonchalance and give him a playful side eyes, “Good for you,” you reply lightly.
Chris offers you a forkful of pasta. You lean in to accept, only for him to pull it back last second and shove it into his own mouth with a mischievous grin.
“Really?” you ask, putting on an annoyed expression.
He grins triumphantly. “Got you.”
Despite your mock irritation, you feel your mood lift. Chris always has this way of making everything lighter, brighter without him even realizing it and you’re grateful for it, even if you’d never admit it out loud.
-
You’re on your way to the kitchen, mentally going over the preparations needed for tonight’s dinner service. Your nerves are steady—though antipasto demands precision, you’ve prepared yourself for the challenge.
“Hey!” Hyunwoo’s cheerful voice stops you mid-step.
He’s standing beside Seungwan, his usual wide grin plastered across his face. “Ready for today?”
You nod simply. “Yes.”
Seungwan, ever the commentator, chimes in, “You know, antipasto requires meticulousness. A delicate hand. Mindfulness. You get it. Women are naturally better at these things.”
You feel the heat of irritation flare up but push it down, offering a curt nod instead of engaging. It’s not worth the energy.
Hyunwoo claps a hand on Seungwan’s shoulder, as if to diffuse the awkwardness. “Well, you’ve got experience, so I know you’ll do well. But if you need anything, I’m here.”
You muster a polite smile. “Thanks.”
Before you can move on, Seungwan interrupts, smirking. “You have nothing to worry about, though. We know Chef will take good care of you.”
Hyunwoo chuckles, catching the implication, and soon both of them are laughing, their voices carrying through the hallway.
You open your mouth to respond—to shut down their insinuations about Minho—when a familiar voice cuts through the noise.
“What are you three doing standing around?”
Minho appears behind you, his sharp gaze flicking between the three of you. His tone is cold, commanding, and it instantly silences Hyunwoo and Seungwan’s laughter.
“Hurry up and get to the kitchen,” he orders, his eyes narrowing slightly in warning.
The two men mumble quick apologies and scurry off, leaving you alone with Minho. For a brief moment, his gaze lands on you, unreadable. Then, without a word, he strides past you, heading straight for the kitchen.
You can't tell if he heard everything or maybe he heard but he just doesn't care. You release a quiet breath and follow after him, steeling yourself for the long night ahead.
The kitchen is chaos. Orders are flying in, pans are clanging, and the sharp aroma of cooking fills the air. You stay at your station, hyper-focused, determined to do your best and avoid Minho’s wrath.
The ticket machine whirs, spitting out another order. Minho’s voice booms across the kitchen. “Table number six. One panchetta, one carbonara, one celeriac puree with grilled scallops.”
He looks around the kitchen and his eyes land on you. “You take the scallops. Make one extra for a taste test.”
“Yes, Chef!” you reply firmly, moving to grab a pan.
Taesoo rushes over with fresh scallops, and you thank him before carefully checking the temperature of your pan. You add the scallops, and the satisfying sizzle confirms the heat is just right. Every move is calculated—no room for mistakes.
When the scallops are done, you plate the dish for service with meticulous attention to detail, making sure it looks perfect. On a smaller plate, you arrange the extra portion for Minho to taste. You carry both plates to the chef’s table, setting them down with a quiet but confident, “Chef.”
Minho doesn’t hesitate. He takes a bite of the extra plate.
The reaction is immediate. He spits the scallop into a napkin and, with a sharp movement, hurls the plate to the floor. The crash echoes, silencing part of the kitchen.
“Are you trying to break the customer’s jaw? Is this a gum or a rubber? What is this?” His voice is cutting, laced with venom.
Your heart sinks as you see the dish you made splattered across the kitchen floor and Taesoo quickly sweeps it away before anyone can step on it.
“Didn't you hear what I told you earlier? I said it has to be brown on the outside but tender on the inside. If you overcook a scallop like this, it’s tougher than the soles of your shoes!” His eyes are blazing, and for a moment, it feels like his anger isn’t just about the dish but aimed directly at you. It’s hard not to take it personally.
“What are you doing? Do it again!” The tone of his voice rains down on you like a bucket of cold water.
“Yes, Chef,” you manage, your voice tight as a lump forms in your throat.
Before you can move back to your station, Minho’s sharp voice cuts through the kitchen again. “Seungwan, you take the scallops.”
The humiliation burns as Seungwan takes over, muttering under his breath, loud enough for you to hear, “But I still have a lot to do...”
As you return to your station, Seungwan glances at you, his tone dripping with mockery. “You still like Chef after he tore you apart like that?”
You don’t answer. Your lips press into a thin line, and your chest feels heavy. The truth is, you’re not sure anymore. It’s harder and harder not to let his words cut deep, harder to pretend his disdain doesn’t feel personal.
You focus on the task in front of you, trying to push the doubt and hurt away. But no matter how much you tell yourself it’s just work, his anger lingers like a bruise.
-
Dinner service is brutal, even by Minho’s standards. The tension in the kitchen is suffocating, and he sees the weight of his harsh words pressing down on you. He hates it—every second of it.
Minho prides himself on keeping things professional, but with you, the lines blur dangerously every day. Tonight is no exception, and he can’t wait to leave the kitchen behind and find a way to make things right.
The locker room is dim and quiet when he walks in. His eyes immediately find you standing in front of your locker, your back to him. You’re tying your hair into a messy ponytail, your movements deliberate and tense. You look exhausted, but more than that, you look angry.
Minho hesitates, unsure how to approach you. He moves to his locker, giving you space and hoping you’ll warm up to him. As he opens the metal door, his eyes catch the corner of something tucked into the back of the shelf. He pulls it out—the Valentine’s card you gave him, still pristine despite its creased edges.
"I'm happy that you're always around me, Chef. You make me feel like I’m cooking the best pasta in the world."
He reads it again, the words a bittersweet reminder of how much you mean to him and how much he’s risking with his behavior. Slipping the card back into the locker, he turns to face you and softly calls your name.
“Yes, chef?” you reply, your voice distant and clipped.
“Are the other cooks still bothering you? Like earlier?” he asks, watching you carefully.
You wave him off, your tone sharp. “It’s nothing. It’s not their fault anyway—it’s ours. We’re the ones lying to them.”
The bitterness in your voice stings, and Minho realizes this isn’t like the other times you’ve been upset. This is deeper, rawer. You grab your bag from your locker, slamming it shut with more force than necessary before turning to leave.
Minho steps in your way, blocking the door. “Tell me what you want me to do,” he says, his voice low but firm. “Just... tell me and I’ll do it.”
Your eyes lock with his, hard and unyielding. “Then tomorrow. During lunch service. Tell everyone that you like me and that we’re dating. And you want everyone to treat me nicely and to be patient with me.”
He knows you don’t mean it—not really. It’s not a serious demand but a product of your anger and frustration. Still, he stays quiet, letting you speak because he knows you need to.
“I didn’t know it was going to be this difficult,” you continue, your voice softening but no less sharp. “If I had, I wouldn’t have started it.”
Your words strike him like a blow, but he stays rooted, listening as your eyes turn glassy.
“I know you’re scolding me as a cook for making mistakes,” you say, your voice trembling, “but it doesn’t feel like that. It feels like I’m being yelled at by someone I like. A lot.”
A tear slips down your cheek, and you wipe it away hastily, as if embarrassed by the show of emotion. Your eyes meet his again, red and glistening.
“I can't separate those two feelings like a fool,” you say wistfully, fighting the tears pooling in your eyes. “But you seem to be good at it so why can’t I? Tell me how.”
Minho opens his mouth to speak, to tell you how hard it’s been for him too, how every harsh word in the kitchen feels like a knife twisting in his own chest. But the words won’t come. He can’t explain without risking you misunderstanding everything.
When his silence stretches too long, you bite your lip, swallowing down more tears. “Forget it,” you mutter, pushing past him.
He lets you go, standing there alone in the quiet locker room. The anger that swirls inside him isn’t directed at you—it’s at himself. At the way things have spiraled between you. At how his own fear of jeopardizing your career and his has made everything worse.
And most of all, at the way he’s made you sad.
Leaning against the wall, Minho clenches his fists, vowing to himself that he’ll find a way to make things right. He has to—because losing you isn’t an option.
-
Minho sits at his desk, his head bowed over his well-worn recipe book. The pages are filled with scribbles, corrections, and crossed-out ideas—remnants of every failure that taught him something valuable. He flips through them slowly, the memories tied to each one tugging at him.
He’s come so far, but the thought of how easily it could all crumble gnaws at him. His shoulders feel heavy with the weight of his choices, both in the kitchen and outside of it.
The creak of the office door pulls him from his thoughts. He glances up to see Sara stepping in, her expression hesitant but determined. The sight surprises him—he thought everyone had already left the restaurant.
Sara doesn’t say anything at first, but her eyes are locked on him, her presence carrying an air of purpose. Minho leans back in his chair, waiting for her to speak.
“Chef,” she starts, her voice carefully measured. “Can I ask you something?”
He doesn’t reply verbally, just nods slightly, signaling her to go on.
“It’s about... what people are saying in the kitchen,” she says, her voice faltering.
Minho smirks, the corner of his mouth lifting in a humorless smile. Of course, the gossip finally reached her. He expected as much—it was only a matter of time.
“Is it true?” Sara asks, her tone laced with hesitation.
Without hesitation, Minho answers, “It’s true.”
The confirmation hangs in the air, heavy and unavoidable.
Sara presses on, her voice trembling slightly. “How do you feel about it?”
Maybe this is his chance to stop running, to stop pretending he can keep everything under wraps. He exhales deeply, letting the tension leave his body, and answers her with full conviction.
“I like her more than she likes me,” he says, his voice steady and unwavering.
Sara’s lips tremble, and Minho can’t tell if she’s holding back tears or fighting the urge to speak further. But he doesn’t feel guilt. He’s told her before, countless times, that he only sees her as a chef—a colleague. Nothing more.
Standing, Minho grabs his bag, slinging it over his shoulder. He pauses for a moment, looking at Sara one last time, before stepping toward the door.
“I hope this clears things up for you,” he says quietly, his tone firm but not unkind.
As he leaves the office, Minho feels a small weight lift off his chest. He’s not hiding the truth anymore—not from Sara, at least. And while the path ahead still feels uncertain, he’s relieved to have taken this first step.
-
You don’t know how long you’ve been sitting there at the bus stop, letting bus after bus pass without getting on. Your head is a whirlwind of thoughts, yet somehow, it also feels completely blank. You sigh, hugging yourself tightly against the biting cold of the night air.
The sound of footsteps draws your attention, and you glance sideways. Minho is walking toward you. Without a word, he sits down on the bench and slides closer until he’s right next to you. You keep your gaze fixed straight ahead, refusing to meet his eyes. You can feel his presence, the warmth of him radiating against the chill, but you say nothing. If you open your mouth now, everything you’re feeling will come spilling out, and you’re not ready for him to see how deeply he’s affected you.
In a calm, steady tone, Minho breaks the silence. “You can go back to the pasta line.”
You bite your lip, still not looking at him. That’s not what this is about—not why you exploded at him earlier. When you don’t respond, he leans in a little closer, his voice soft but firm. “I said I'm letting you go back to the pasta line.”
Your frustration boils over. “I don’t want to,” you snap, finally turning to glare at him.
Minho looks genuinely confused. “Weren’t you just complaining about it a while ago?”
You meet his gaze, your voice unwavering. “I don’t want to go back because of you. I’m going back to the pasta line on my own merits—not because of whatever this is.”
The intensity of your words seems to take him by surprise. He stares at you for a moment, stunned into silence. Then, slowly, his lips curl into a sly smile.
“You’re quite something, do you know that?” he says, his tone laced with admiration.
You roll your eyes, dismissing his attempt at flattery. You dismiss it, thinking he’s just trying to sweet-talk you.
Minho sighs, his expression softening as he leans in even closer. “What should I do? I’m in big trouble now,” he says quietly.
Your brows furrow. “Why?”
He tilts his head, his warm breath brushing against your cheek. “Because I like you even more now.”
The words catch you off guard, and despite yourself, a smile tugs at the corners of your lips. You quickly suppress it, trying to keep your composure.
Minho notices, of course, and his own smile deepens. “I’ve never met a woman like you,” he says earnestly.
You jab back, trying to deflect. “Just how many women have you known?”
He doesn’t rise to the bait, surprising you. Instead, he gestures toward the sky. “Look at the moon.”
You scoff, skeptical. “Why?”
“Just look at it,” he insists, his tone leaving no room for argument.
With a huff, you tilt your head up, your eyes landing on the full moon glowing brightly against the dark sky. The sight is breathtaking, but before you can comment, you feel the soft press of Minho’s lips against your cheek.
Startled, you whip your head around to face him. He meets your gaze, his eyes steady and sincere. “Your cooking is missing something. You need to improve,” he says quietly. “That’s why I scolded you—not because of rumors, not because of us, but because I know you’re better than that.”
His words sink in, and you nod slowly. “Yes, Chef,” you reply sincerely.
Minho smiles, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “That’s what I love to hear the most. When you say, 'Yes, chef!'” he says with a teasing lilt.
Despite yourself, you giggle softly, repeating, “Yes, Chef.”
This time, Minho doesn’t hold back. He cups your jaw gently, leaning in to press his lips to yours. The kiss is soft, tender—completely different from the sharp, demanding presence he exudes in the kitchen. It’s as if he’s trying to show you the difference between Minho the Chef and Minho the man.
When he pulls back, his hand remains on your jaw, his thumb brushing your cheek. “What do you think, mmh?” he murmurs. “Should we let all hell break loose tomorrow?”
You blink at him, startled. “You’re serious?”
Minho chuckles, nodding. “Let’s stop hiding. It’s better than getting caught and fired.”
You stare at him, trying to gauge if he really means it. His lips quirk into a grin, and he adds, “I feel like I’m about to explode from frustration if we keep this up.”
Finally, you find your voice. “So... you want us to just say to hell with it?”
“Exactly,” he says, cupping your face with both hands now. His gaze is intense, but there’s a warmth there that steadies you. “Let’s just tell everyone. To hell with it.”
Before you can respond, he leans in again, his lips capturing yours in a long, lingering kiss that erases any doubts you might have had.
As he pulls away, leaving you breathless, you find yourself staring at him, your heart hammering against your ribcage. The truth is, you’ve felt it growing stronger every day—the way he’s slowly become impossible to ignore. It’s more than just admiration, more than just the thrill of secrecy. It’s something real, something that scares you just as much as it excites you.
You don’t say any of that aloud, but the way you lean back into his touch, the way your lips curve into a small, shy smile, tells Minho everything he needs to know. For once, you feel like you’re both on the same page.
-
The space between you feels heavy, charged, but neither of you says a word. His gaze locks on yours, dark and intent, and it makes your heart race. Slowly, Minho steps closer, the faint scent of his cologne mingling with the warmth of his bedroom room. His fingers graze your cheek, his touch feather-light, as if he’s memorizing the moment.
Your breath hitches as he leans in, his lips brushing against yours with a gentleness that sends a shiver down your spine. The kiss is slow, deliberate, as if he’s savoring every second. You respond in kind, your hands finding their way to his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your palms.
Minho deepens the kiss, his lips moving with a tenderness that leaves you dizzy. His hands slide down your arms, warm and steady, before resting on your waist. He pulls you closer, your bodies barely a breath apart.
As the kiss grows more fervent, his fingers find the hem of your shirt, toying with the fabric. He pauses for a moment, his eyes meeting yours as if asking for permission. You nod, your own hands slipping to the buttons of his shirt. Slowly, carefully, you undo them one by one, your fingers brushing against his skin with each movement.
Minho mirrors your actions, his hands lifting your shirt over your head in one fluid motion. The cool air kisses your skin, but it’s quickly replaced by the warmth of his touch. His fingers trace along your collarbone, his lips following suit, leaving a trail of soft kisses that make your knees weak.
You push his shirt off his shoulders, letting it fall to the floor. Your hands explore the smooth planes of his chest, the taut muscle beneath your fingertips. He exhales sharply, his breath hot against your neck as he presses closer, his lips finding the sensitive spot just below your ear.
Your hands move to his belt, fumbling slightly, but Minho stops you with a soft chuckle. “Hey, what's the rush?” he whispers, his lips curving into a small smile against your skin.
The rest of your clothes fall away piece by piece, each moment lingering, each touch filled with an unspoken reverence. Minho’s hands are steady as they glide along your body, his touch igniting a warmth that spreads through you like wildfire.
When there’s nothing left between you, he pauses, his gaze sweeping over you with an intensity that makes your cheeks flush. “You’re perfect,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper.
You reach up to cradle his face in your hands, your thumb brushing along his jawline. “You’re perfect,” you mutter back, your voice soft but certain.
Minho leans in once more, his lips capturing yours in a kiss that’s equal parts passion and tenderness. As you fall back onto the bed together, the world outside fades away, leaving only the two of you, wrapped in each other’s warmth, every touch and kiss a silent declaration of the feelings neither of you can deny any longer.
-
Minho hovers over you, his weight braced on one arm as his free hand moves to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing over your flushed skin. He looks down at you, his eyes filled with a mix of mischief and adoration that sends a thrill through your entire body.
“You’re beautiful like this,” he murmurs, his voice low and husky, his gaze never leaving yours.
His lips capture yours again, the kiss deep and unhurried, as if he wants to taste every sound you make. His hand trails down, fingertips ghosting over your skin, leaving a trail of heat in their wake. The anticipation coils tight in your stomach as his touch ventures lower, slow and deliberate.
When his fingers finally slide between your thighs, a soft gasp escapes your lips, but Minho swallows it with another kiss, his smirk pressing against your mouth. He pauses for a moment, teasing, his touch feather-light on your bundle of nerves, just enough to drive you wild.
“Eager, are we?” he asks, his tone playful, his lips brushing against the corner of your mouth.
You nod slightly, breathless, and he rewards you with a low chuckle that sends shivers down your spine. His fingers move with precision, exploring and learning what makes you react, what makes you tremble beneath him.
The tension builds as he curls his fingers inside you, finding the perfect rhythm that leaves you gasping and clinging to him. He watches you intently, his eyes flicking over your face, taking in every reaction. The smirk on his lips deepens as he notices the way your body arches toward him, completely at his mercy.
“You’re so sensitive,” he whispers, his voice filled with both awe and amusement. He leans down to capture your lips again, muffling the soft moans spilling from your mouth. His kiss is as skillful as his touch, his tongue teasing yours as if he’s trying to coax every bit of sound out of you.
Your hands grip his shoulders, desperate for some anchor as the pleasure intensifies. Minho’s lips leave yours for a moment, moving to press kisses along your jawline, then down to the hollow of your throat. His voice is a low murmur against your skin. “I could watch you like this forever.”
Each movement of his fingers feels like a symphony, building you higher and higher. Your breaths come in shallow gasps, your body trembling beneath him, and Minho seems to revel in every second of it.
When your moans grow louder, your head tilting back against the pillow, Minho leans down to kiss you again, catching the sound in his mouth. His lips curve into a smile against yours, and the vibration of his low chuckle only heightens your pleasure.
“Let go for me,” he murmurs, his voice soft and coaxing. “I’ve got you.”
His words, his touch, the way he’s watching you with so much intent—it’s overwhelming in the best way. You fall over the edge, your body trembling as waves of pleasure wash over you. Minho doesn’t stop, guiding you through it, his lips never straying far from yours, his fingers slowing only once he’s sure you’re coming down gently.
When you finally open your eyes, Minho’s gaze is still fixed on you, his smirk replaced by a softer, more affectionate smile. He leans in, pressing a tender kiss to your forehead, as if to ground you.
As you come down from the high he’s led you to, Minho’s hand slides up, his fingers brushing over your flushed skin with care. He watches you intently, his lips curving into that signature smirk of his, as though he’s proud of the effect he has on you.
Without breaking eye contact, he brings his hand up, his slick fingers hovering near your lips. “Open,” he murmurs, his voice low and coaxing, yet laced with dominance.
Your breath catches, but you obey, parting your lips for him. He slides his fingers into your mouth slowly, his touch deliberate, and you close your lips around them, tasting the remnants of yourself on him.
Minho’s eyes darken as he watches you, his thumb tracing along your jaw as you lick his fingers clean. The way you meet his gaze, unflinching and bold, sends a shiver through him, his smirk deepening with every deliberate movement of your tongue.
“That’s it,” he murmurs, his voice soft but dripping with heat. “Such a good girl for me.”
Your cheeks flush at his praise, but it only makes him lean in closer, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “You have no idea how perfect you are,” he whispers, his tone dripping with seduction.
He pulls his fingers from your mouth, his hand now cradling your jaw, tilting your face toward him. His thumb brushes over your bottom lip, as though he can’t get enough of you. “You make it so easy to lose control,” he adds, his gaze intense.
Minho leans in, capturing your lips in a kiss that’s both possessive and tender, as if to seal his words. When he finally pulls away, his forehead rests against yours, and the corners of his lips lift into a soft smile.
“You’re going to be the death of me,” he says with a chuckle, his voice light but filled with genuine affection.
You can’t help but smile back at him, your heart pounding as his thumb strokes your cheek. Whatever walls he’s kept up before, they seem to have crumbled completely in this moment, leaving nothing but raw honesty between the two of you.
-
“Please,” You whimper as Minho is burying his head in between your soft mounds. His mouth immediately latches onto your hardening bud while the other is being teased by his fingers, both assaults make your eyes fluttering shut.
A moment after hearing your plead, Minho lets go of his mouth, leaving your nipple wet and swollen. “Please what?” he asks, landing a kitten lick on your other nipple.
“Fill me,” you breathlessly beg.
Minho sucks on your flesh before answering to your request. “Fill you with my cock or...?”
Your hand reaches down to his hardening member, you pinch the end of the condom he's already putting on and pulling at it until it snaps away. “Both,” you simply answer and opening your legs wider for him.
The thought of being filled by his cock is enough to send you into overdrive but you want more, you want to feel every inch of him, to be filled with his cum, to feel it filling you and leaking out of you and ultimately, you want to be soaked in both of your releases.
Minho is more than eager to comply to your request, he gives his cock a few strokes before aligning it with your entrace. Once the tip has entered you, he uses his hips to push the rest of his length.
The two of you collectively moan at the feeling of being inside each other, raw, without a layer of protection. While you delightfully sigh, Minho groans into the crook of your neck as he's fully sheathed inside you. The slightest of movement and you can feel him, the length, the heat, the hardness... oh, he fills you perfectly.
The way Minho moves against you is slow yet deliberate, every motion pulling soft gasps from your lips. His hands grip your waist like he’s afraid to let you go, his forehead pressed against yours as he lets out low groans, completely lost in the sensation of you.
“God, you feel so good,” he murmurs, his voice shaky and raw. His head tilts down, lips ghosting over the curve of your shoulder as if trying to ground himself, but you can feel him faltering, overwhelmed by the intensity between you.
You’re caught between the pleasure coursing through you and the sight of him unraveling—his lips parted, his brows furrowed, his breaths heavy. It’s mesmerizing, yet you know he’s losing himself too much in the moment.
Reaching up, you grab his chin gently but firmly, tilting his face so he’s looking directly at you. His eyes flutter open, hazy and dark with desire, and you feel his breath catch as you lock your gaze with his.
“Hey,” you whisper, your voice steady despite the heat pooling in your core. “Look at me.”
Minho’s lips part as if he’s going to say something, but no words come out. Instead, he nods slightly, his hands tightening on your hips as he adjusts his rhythm, his movements more controlled now, more intentional.
You hold his gaze, your eyes searching his as your fingers caress his jaw. “That’s it,” you murmur, your voice soft but commanding. “Stay with me.”
His breaths grow heavier, his lips brushing yours briefly as he finds his rhythm again, pouring everything into every movement. He seems transfixed by you, his eyes never leaving yours, even as his body trembles with the effort to keep it together.
“You feel so, so good,” he whispers, his voice filled with awe and something deeper, something that makes your chest tighten in the best way. His gaze softens as he takes you in, his movements slower but no less intense, like he’s savoring every second with you.
Your hand moves from his jaw to his hair, fingers tangling in the dark strands as you pull him closer. “Minho,” you breathe, the sound of his name on your lips pulling a low groan from his throat.
He leans in, capturing your lips in a kiss that’s searing, his focus entirely on you now, every motion, every touch, every sound meant for you alone. The intimacy of it all makes your heart race, the connection between you deepening with every moment.
And as he continues, his body pressed firmly against yours, you see it in his eyes—the way he’s completely and utterly yours in this moment, and how much it terrifies and excites him all at once.
-
Minho leans back against the headboard, his chest bare and warm against your back as you sit between his legs. His arm wraps securely around you, holding you close in the quiet intimacy of afterglow. In one hand, you're holding a wine glass steady as Minho carefully pours, his fingers brushing yours for just a moment.
You take the first sip, savoring the sweetness on your tongue before passing the glass to him. The silence that follows is comfortable, but you know it can’t last.
“You know your plan to say ‘hell with it’ tomorrow isn’t going to work, right?” you say, breaking the quiet.
Minho pauses mid-sip, raising an eyebrow at you. “Why not?”
You shift slightly to look up at him, your head leaning back against his shoulder. “Because I want to stay in the kitchen with you for a long time,” you admit, your voice soft but firm. “You still have so much to teach me, and that can’t happen if we get fired.”
Minho takes another slow sip of wine before handing the glass back to you. He exhales, his lips curving into a slight smile. “I can’t work in that kitchen without you in it anyway.”
The sincerity in his voice makes your chest tighten in the best way, and you can’t help but giggle, the wine glass hovering close to your lips. Resting your head comfortably on his shoulder, you turn your face slightly to meet his gaze. “I want to learn to be as good as you someday,” you confess, your tone playful but tinged with genuine admiration.
Minho scoffs, his usual cockiness coming through. “As good as me? You’re being greedy. I’m the best, you know.”
His arrogance annoys you, but it’s so quintessentially Minho that you can’t even be mad. Rolling your eyes, you counter, “Exactly. That’s why you’re the best teacher I could ever have.”
Minho’s hand slides to the nape of your neck, his touch gentle but firm as he tilts your face toward his. “So, what you’re saying is... you want to be my student?”
You smile sweetly, meeting his gaze. “Yes, chef,” you reply with a soft laugh.
He shakes his head slightly, his lips curving into a sly grin. “That’s not good enough. You have to be my favorite student.”
The playfulness in his tone makes your heart flutter, and when he leans in to kiss you, it’s like he’s trying to capture your smile with his lips. The kiss is slow and tender, leaving you breathless when he finally pulls away.
Lightly holding his chin, you gaze into his eyes, the words spilling from your lips before you can stop them. “I wonder if there’ll ever be a day when I can be as good as you. Maybe even better.”
Minho snorts, clearly amused by your boldness. He wraps his arm tighter around you, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your skin. “I don’t want you to be better than me,” he says, his tone half-joking, half-serious. “Being as good as me is enough—and even that’s highly unlikely.”
You groan, rolling your eyes again, which only makes him smirk. He tugs gently at the hair at the back of your head, making you turn to face him fully.
“Why? You think I’m arrogant?” he asks, his tone daring you to challenge him.
Without missing a beat, you reply, “Yes, chef.”
His smirk deepens as he pulls you closer, your head resting in the crook of his neck. “Even if I am, just grin and bear it,” he says, his voice low and teasing.
You chuckle softly, nuzzling into him as you reply, “Yes, chef.”
Minho shifts slightly, his fingers trailing along your jawline as he tilts your face up to meet his gaze again. His eyes darken with something unspoken as he murmurs, “Say it one more time.”
Your heart skips, but you don’t hesitate. “Yes, chef,” you whisper, putting every ounce of feeling into the words.
He nods in satisfaction, his lips crashing into yours in a kiss that’s hard, deep, and utterly consuming. The taste of wine lingers on his tongue resembles this shared moment between the two of you: sweet with just a hint of bitterness and highly intoxicating.
-
The key to a perfect crispy hashbrown lies in the details, and Minho thrives in them. He presses the shredded potatoes between layers of paper towels, extracting every last drop of moisture with precise, firm motions. The sizzle of oil heating in the pan is his cue to move, his fingers instinctively testing the temperature by letting a few stray potato shreds dance in the heat. When the oil crackles just right, he spreads the potatoes into an even, golden canvas, pressing them lightly with his spatula to ensure uniformity.
The smell of starch meeting hot oil fills the kitchen as the edges of the hashbrown crisp and curl slightly, the underside transforming into a golden-brown crust. With a deft flick of his wrist, he flips it, revealing the perfection he aimed for—deep, golden brown, with a promise of crunch.
He’s just plating the first hashbrown when you appear, stepping out of the bedroom in his oversized sweater, the hem brushing your thighs, the sleeves swallowing your hands. Your hair is a mess of bedhead, and your sleepy smile feels like sunlight breaking through the quiet morning.
“Good morning,” you mumble, leaning against the counter, your chin resting in your hand as you watch him work.
Minho allows himself a brief glance at you, his lips twitching into a smirk, before returning his focus to the pan. “Why are you just standing there? Make yourself useful. Coffee,” he says, his tone a mix of teasing and instruction.
You chuckle softly, the sound still drowsy, but you comply, moving to the coffee machine with a sense of purpose that warms him more than the steam rising from the pan.
Together, the two of you work in quiet harmony. By the time breakfast is ready, the table is set with golden hashbrowns, fluffy scrambled eggs, and two steaming mugs of coffee. Minho takes a seat across from you, picking up his fork as you do the same.
He notices it immediately: the way you keep stealing glances at him between bites, your eyes lingering like you’re savoring more than just the food. The third time he catches you, Minho sets his fork down and narrows his eyes at you.
“Stop staring,” he says flatly, though the corner of his mouth betrays him with a slight twitch.
You pout, your lips curving into a playful frown. “It’s the first time I’m staying over for breakfast,” you point out, your voice soft but teasing.
Minho scoffs, his hand pausing mid-reach for his coffee. “That’s because you always sneak out before I even wake up,” he counters, giving you a look that’s equal parts reprimand and amusement.
You giggle, tucking your knees up onto the chair and cradling your mug close to your chest. Instead of looking away, you stare openly, the mischief in your eyes making his chest tighten in ways he’s not ready to admit.
Rolling his eyes, Minho leans back in his chair, reaching for his backpack slung over the sofa. He pulls out his notebook, flipping it open briefly before sliding it across the table to you.
You blink in surprise. “What’s this?”
“The notes I took in Italy,” Minho explains, crossing his arms as he leans back. “From when I was wrestling over pasta. If you look carefully, you'll see all my failed attempts.”
You pick it up hesitantly, flipping through the pages. Your brows furrow as you scan the scribbled notes, some smudged with flour, oil, and sweat from long nights in the kitchen. “Not the ones you've succeeded?”
Minho nods, a satisfied smirk tugging at his lips. “Deliberately noted every single one of them.” He taps his temple. “If you only write down what you got right, you’ll keep going back to it and stop thinking it over. But if you document your mistakes, you’ll challenge yourself to do better every time.”
Your eyes widen as you flip through more pages. “You made this many mistakes?” you ask in disbelief.
Minho is slightly offended, his expression darkening playfully. In one swift motion, he flicks your forehead, the sound sharp but the gesture light enough to make you laugh.
“Don’t focus on replicating someone else’s great recipe,” he warns, his tone firm but not unkind. “Find your own dish through your mistakes. That’s how you get better.”
You clutch the notebook to your chest, nodding solemnly before breaking into a smile so warm it feels like the morning sunlight flooding the kitchen. “Yes, chef,” you say softly, the sincerity in your voice settling into him like a perfectly balanced dish.
Minho watches you for a moment, his arms crossed as his sharp eyes scan your face. There’s something about the way you’re holding his notebook—as if it’s the most valuable thing in the world—that stirs something deep within him.
Before he can stop himself, he reaches across the table and gently pats your head, his fingers ruffling your messy bedhead with deliberate care. His lips curve into a faint smirk, but there’s a softness in his eyes that he doesn’t try to hide.
“I gave you that because you're my favorite student,” he murmurs, his voice low but undeniably affectionate.
Your cheeks flush at the unexpected praise, and you duck your head slightly, pretending to focus on flipping through the pages again. But Minho sees the smile tugging at the corners of your mouth, and it makes his chest feel inexplicably full.
Yeah, you’re his favorite, and for reasons that go far beyond the kitchen.
-
The clinking of utensils and hum of conversation from the staff having lunch downstairs fades as Minho walks toward the second floor of the dining hall. His footsteps slow when he spots Felix and Taesoo sitting at one of the tables, heads bent close in conversation. Their voices are low, but not low enough to escape his ears.
Minho lingers just out of sight, leaning against the wall, arms crossed, listening in with mild curiosity.
“So, what do you think’s going on between chef and her?” Taesoo asks, his voice carrying a teasing lilt.
Felix hums thoughtfully. “Honestly? I’d prefer it if they did fall in love.”
Minho’s eyebrows shoot up. That’s not the answer he was expecting, and judging by Taesoo’s laugh, neither was he.
“Why?” Taesoo presses, his tone disbelieving.
Felix shrugs. “I mean, if it’s between her and Sara, I’d rather see chef with her, you know? It’d be… nicer.”
Minho’s lips twitch, both annoyed and amused. His jaw clenches when Felix adds after a moment, “But, even if they did, it’d be risky. If they got caught dating while working in the kitchen… It’d be dangerous.”
That’s enough. With a sharp inhale, Minho steps forward and delivers a firm slap to the back of both their heads, startling them.
Felix yelps, clutching his head as Taesoo hisses in pain, whipping around to see their chef towering behind them.
“Yes, I’m having an affair in the kitchen. So what?” Minho deadpans, his gaze locking onto Felix with a daring intensity.
Felix stiffens, his face a mixture of shock and embarrassment. “I—I’m sorry, chef!” he stammers, bowing his head.
Minho walks around to the front of the table and leans against it, crossing his arms. His sharp eyes stay trained on Felix, who fidgets nervously under the weight of his stare.
“What you said is right,” Minho says, his tone deceptively calm, almost challenging.
Felix blinks in confusion. “I didn’t mean with what I said, Chef. I'm sorry.”
Minho smirks as he calmly asks Felix’s opinion. “What do you think? Don't we look good together?”
Felix gapes at him, dazed and unsure if this is a trap. “I—I don’t know! Are you asking for real or just messing with me?”
Minho tilts his head, his smirk deepening. “Well, since there are already rumors, maybe I should make them true.”
Taesoo lets out a snort of laughter, but Felix pales. “Chef! You’d get fired!”
“I know,” Minho replies nonchalantly, his voice laced with mischief.
Felix groans, slumping back in his chair. “There are so many beautiful women out there. Why her?!”
Without missing a beat, Minho leans forward and flicks the back of Felix’s head again. “Do you want to die? What's wrong with her?”
Felix winces, rubbing his head. “Are you lonely, chef?” he mutters weakly.
“Yes,” Minho replies immediately, the corner of his mouth twitching upward.
Felix groans louder, throwing his hands up in frustration. “Chef, you need to control yourself! You can’t date her!”
Minho smirks, reaching out to grab Felix’s ponytail and giving it a playful tug. “Never,” he says with a sly grin, watching as Felix frantically fixes his hair, a look of disbelief etched across his face.
Taesoo snickers behind his hand, and Minho straightens up, looking utterly satisfied with himself. Taesoo makes another zipping his mouth gesture to him to avoid Minho’s wrath.
As Minho walks away, he feels a small but undeniable sense of relief. Now that more people knew about you and him—albeit through gossip—it felt a little less like he was hiding something. And while he’d never admit it out loud, he liked the idea of others knowing that you were his.
For once, the thought didn’t feel like a risk. It felt like a win.
-
The hum of the coffee machine fills the air as you sit at the counter, a steaming cup of coffee in one hand and Minho’s notebook in the other. You flip through the pages, tracing his meticulous notes with your finger, trying to absorb every word. His handwriting is sharp and precise, almost as if it mirrors his personality—strict, methodical, yet undeniably passionate.
The faint sound of footsteps makes you glance up, and you catch Chris approaching. He doesn’t say anything as he pulls up the stool next to you, sitting with his arms stacked on the counter. His presence is calm but unwavering, his gaze fixed on you as you study the notebook.
You try to ignore him, focusing back on the notebook, but his silent watching becomes too distracting. After a few moments, you sigh, closing the notebook and turning to him with a questioning look.
Chris flashes his trademark dimpled smile, the kind that always seems to disarm everyone around him. But this time, there’s a hint of something else behind it—something pensive. He lets out a low sigh.
“It’s unfair,” he says softly.
Your eyebrows shoot up in confusion. “What’s unfair?”
Propping his chin on his hand, Chris starts listing, his tone lighthearted but deliberate. “Well, for starters, I think I’m a good person. I’ve got a decent amount of money. I’m considerate. And—” he pauses for dramatic effect, “I’m very reasonable.”
You nod at each point he makes, humoring him. “I acknowledge all of that,” you reply with a small smile.
Chris leans back slightly, grinning as he clasps his hands together. “And I also think you’re the best chef in the world.”
You chuckle at his exaggerated sincerity. “Fully noted and acknowledged.”
Chris’s grin widens, but his tone softens. “All things considered, I think I’m a pretty decent catch. So why don’t you even consider me in the running?”
You pout at his question, feigning offense. “Who told you I didn’t?”
His eyes narrow slightly, and he leans closer, a playful glint in his eyes. “Do you really mean that?”
You shrug, maintaining your playful tone. “I love wealthy men. And I do love that you have lots of money.”
Chris nods in mock seriousness, playing along. “So… no dislikes?”
“Of course not,” you reply easily, taking a sip of your coffee.
There’s a brief moment of silence before Chris leans in closer, his tone dropping just enough to make the conversation feel private. His eyes lock onto yours, and the teasing air between you shifts.
“You know I like you,” he says, his voice quiet but firm.
You chuckle, brushing it off with a lighthearted smile. “And you know I like you too.”
But the smile on Chris’s face fades, replaced by an earnest, almost vulnerable expression. “No,” he says softly, his gaze unwavering. “I said I like you.”
It takes you a moment to process his words fully. The weight of his confession settles in, and your playful demeanor falters. You open your mouth to respond, but nothing comes out.
Chris doesn’t press you for an answer. He simply smiles—soft and understanding—and stands from his stool. As he walks away, his words hang heavily in the air, leaving you sitting at the counter, staring after him with a knot of conflicted feelings in your chest.
-
The echo of your footsteps bounces off the corridor walls as you head toward the locker room, your mind swirling with thoughts. Chris’s confession keeps replaying in your head, leaving you feeling like your chest is tied in knots. You want to vent, to unload the mess of emotions building inside you, but there’s no one in here you can comfortably and openly share this with.
With a frustrated sigh, you dig your phone out of your pocket, scrolling through your contacts until you land on a name that feels safe. You press the call button.
The line rings three times before your dad picks up. “Hello?”
“Dad,” you say, your voice wistful and soft.
There’s a pause before he asks, “What’s wrong with your voice? Did you get into trouble again?”
You grumble, rolling your eyes even though he can’t see it. “Why do you always assume I’m in trouble?”
“Because you call me like this, all dramatic,” he replies. “What is it, then?”
You hesitate, chewing your lip. Then you take a deep breath and let it out in one go. “A guy told me he likes me.”
Your dad gasps, audibly enough that you can’t help but pull the phone away from your ear. “A guy?”
“Why are you so surprised?” you ask, annoyed.
“Which guy?” he presses, his tone suspicious and borderline protective.
“I’m not telling you that,” you reply firmly. “But now I’m confused.”
Your dad doesn’t let it go. “Does this guy have a job?”
You blink at the unexpected question. “Yes. He’s got loads of money.”
“Is he bad-tempered?”
You sigh. “No, he’s actually very considerate and reasonable.”
“Does he mind that you’re a chef?”
You pause before answering, “He always says whatever I make is delicious.”
Your dad sighs deeply, his voice softening. “Then what’s the problem?”
You hesitate again, your heart caught in your throat. Finally, you admit, “I… I like someone else.”
There’s silence on the other end, and then your dad asks, “What’s better about the other guy?”
You instinctively clam up. The thought of describing Minho to your dad feels impossible. He’s the exact opposite of Chris in every way. “I… I can’t talk about him,” you say vaguely, your voice barely above a whisper.
Your dad’s tone sharpens. “Does the other guy have more money?”
“Probably not.”
“Is he nicer?”
You snort, the answer bubbling up before you can stop it. “No way. He yells a lot, is stubborn, and gets into fights with people all the time.”
“Does he like your cooking?”
You groan, already knowing what’s coming. “No, he nitpicks my cooking. All. The. Time.”
Your dad lets out another heavy sigh. “And you like this guy more?”
You lower your voice, almost ashamed. “It just… happened.”
There’s a long pause before your dad speaks again, this time with firm finality. “Go with the first one. No matter what.”
“What?!” you shriek, your frustration boiling over. “Why?”
“Because I’m your dad,” he replies without hesitation, as if that explains everything.
You gasp, completely exasperated. “You can’t just pick for me!”
“I just did.”
Groaning in disbelief, you snap, “I shouldn’t have told you anything!” Without waiting for a response, you hang up, shoving your phone aggressively back into your pocket.
“God! Why did I even bother?” You mumble to yourself.
Standing in the quiet locker room, you lean against the cold metal doors, groaning under your breath. Calling your dad was supposed to help clear your head, but now you feel more conflicted than ever.
-
The heat in the kitchen feels heavier today, the air thick with tension as the orders flood in relentlessly. Minho scans the ticket machine as it spits out another slip. His eyes flicker to table eight’s order, extra cautious as he calculates what needs to be done. His gaze darts to your station.
“Have you started on table eight?” he asks sharply.
“Yes, Chef,” you reply immediately, already halfway into prepping the vongole.
“Then hurry up,” Minho snaps, turning back to the endless stream of orders.
Before he can move on, a service staff member steps into the kitchen, looking hesitant. “Chef, table eight wants to change their order—they’re asking for the Chef’s special.”
Minho clenches his jaw, spinning back toward you. You glance up at him, your hands frozen mid-motion. “Chef, I already put the clams in. Should I stop cooking the vongole?”
For a moment, Minho hesitates, the decision flickering in his mind. Table eight wants a Chef’s special, but you’re already halfway through the vongole. Quickly, he makes the call.
“Keep going with the vongole,” he instructs, then pivots to the entrée line. “Seungwan, swap the tuna salad for grilled vegetable salad. You’ve got five minutes to prep it.”
Seungwan looks up from his station, irritation flickering in his eyes. “I don't think that’s possible, Chef. If you only give me five minutes, we should go with the special we already prepared.”
Minho turns toward him slowly, his stare icy. Before he can respond, you interrupt with another question. “Should I keep going with the vongole, or—”
“Finish it,” Minho barks, his patience thinning, then swivels back to Seungwan. “Are you trying to teach me a lesson here? Did you guys set the specials?”
Seungwan stiffens, but Minho doesn’t give him a chance to retort. He steps closer, his voice slicing through the air like a blade. “Let me remind you, I created this menu. If I decide to make changes, it’s because I know what works. Since the pasta is changing, the grilled vegetable salad will enhance the flavors of the clams better than tuna. Do you get that?”
Hyunwoo chimes in from the side, his tone laced with skepticism. “Why change the pasta in the first place? If you’d just stuck with the seafood linguine, none of this would be necessary.”
Seungwan adds, his tone sharper, “Or is it because she made the vongole?” He throws a glare your way.
You hiss back at them, your voice tight with frustration. “Hey, this has nothing to do with me!”
Minho draws in a deep breath, trying to contain the mounting irritation. He strides toward the entrée line, his sharp tone commanding the room. “A customer requested the Chef’s recommendation. Are you saying I can’t make that recommendation?” He raises his voice, his authority cutting through the tension. “Whether I tell you to make pasta, lasagna, or even a bowl of ramyeon, if I say it, you make it. Got it?”
Turning on his heel, he stalks back to the chef’s table, his voice dropping to a cold calm. “If anyone here has a problem with how I run this kitchen, feel free to find another chef and another kitchen. I don’t need anyone here who won’t listen to orders.”
The room goes silent, save for the faint sizzle of pans. Then Seojun, the sous-chef, speaks up, his tone measured but firm. “Chef, how can you say that so easily?”
Before Minho can respond, Hyunwoo mutters under his breath, but loud enough for everyone to hear, “Unlike some people, we don’t have chefs who’ll cover for us if we leave.” His eyes flick briefly toward you and Felix.
Minho hears you hiss under your breath as you tend to the vongole about to get overcooked from staying on the pan for too long. “Chef, what should I—”
Before you can finish the sentence, Minho snaps, “I told you to make it! Are you rebelling against me too?” His voice rises as he glares at you. “I gave you an order then you should make it. Where did you pick up a habit of questioning me over and over again? Is that how these guys taught you to do? Just finish the dish!”
The tension is palpable, the air crackling as Sara steps in, her voice cutting through the chaos. “Enough!” she barks, her tone sharp as a blade. She glares at the entrée line. “Are you going to keep these up? Can't you see the orders are piling up?”
Minho grips the edge of the table so hard his knuckle turns white, he turns to Taesoo who's been watching the fiery exchange from the corner of the kitchen. “Hey, Taesoo! What are you doing? You still don't know what you should bring out for a chef’s recommended course? Hurry and bring them out. Right now!”
Now that Minho knows they won't obey him, he only needs to work with the people who wants to work with him. He turns to Felix and says, “Felix, you and I are going to make the chef’s recommended course. Switch places! Now!”
“Yes, chef!” Felix eagerly respond, throwing a sharp glance at Hyunwoo as he walks past his station.
Felix walks to the other side of the kitchen, taking Seungwan’s station from him while Minho takes Souschef Seojun’s station, pushing Seojun and Seungwan to the back of the kitchen.
Sara temporarily takes the chef table and scold both Seojun and Seungwan who refuse to obey Minho. “If you're all just going to stand there and do nothing, get out. You're just interfering.” Her voice is firm yet authoritative as she remarks, “Whoever doesn't want to cook in this kitchen, I want you to get out.”
Seungwan and Seojun exchange glances, resentment burning in their eyes. Seojun steps forward, his voice tight with anger. “Chef Sara, why are you doing this? At least one of us should find out why this is happening—why the kitchen’s a mess!”
Sara doesn’t flinch under his fiery stare. “Anyone who doesn't obey the orders of the chef isn't needed in the kitchen. You should've at least followed the basic rules of the kitchen before you protested,” she retorts coldly.
Meanwhile, the ticket machine continues to spew out orders. Minho knows the kitchen won’t survive with half the staff refusing to work. His pride grates against his decision, but he knows what he has to do.
He turns to Seojun, his voice softer but no less commanding. “Hey, Souschef! Grab a frying pan. Please!”
Seojun’s jaw clenches, his hands balling into fists. For a moment, it looks like he might refuse, but then he sighs heavily and steps toward the pasta line. Slowly, the others follow, the kitchen sputtering back into chaotic motion as the orders pile up.
Minho exhales deeply, the weight of the moment pressing down on him. The fight isn’t over, but for now, the kitchen runs.
-
Minho descends the staircase slowly, his steps measured, the sounds of distant chatter from the dining hall growing clearer with each step. As he enters the hall, he spots Taesoo sprawled on his back atop one of the tables, groaning dramatically as he vents to you. You sit beside him, listening patiently, though Minho can tell from the way you rest your head on stacked hands, you're too exhausted to listening to it.
“I can’t do it,” Taesoo whines, stretching his arms above his head. “If there’s another day like today, I swear my heart will either burst or shrivel up into nothing.”
Minho, unimpressed by Taesoo's theatrics, crosses the room in quick strides and delivers a swift slap to the back of Taesoo’s head. The loud smack startles him, making him yelp and sit upright, rubbing the spot with a pout.
“Cut the drama, Taesoo,” Minho says curtly as he pulls out the chair next to yours and sits down. “It’s embarrassing.”
Taesoo grumbles but doesn’t argue further. Meanwhile, you turn to Minho, offering a polite smile. “Thank you for your hard work today, Chef,” you say, your tone professional, if not a little tired.
Minho’s gaze softens as he places a hand on your shoulder. “Are you alright?” he asks, his voice quieter than usual.
Your smile doesn’t falter, though it seems rehearsed. “I’m alright, Chef,” you reply simply.
The interaction doesn’t escape Taesoo, who sits upright, his eyes darting between the two of you with exaggerated suspicion. “Do you know how many people are talking about the two of you?” he blurts, leaning forward conspiratorially. “Or how many can’t wait to catch you two together? They're sharpening their knives as we speak!”
Minho shoots him a smirk, entirely unbothered. “Should I care?”
Taesoo doesn’t back down, lowering his voice as he leans closer. “I’m more anxious about it than either of you, and I’m not even involved!” He clasps his hands together in mock pleading. “Please, for all our sakes, rein in your temper a little, Chef. You’re making it worse.”
Instead of acknowledging Taesoo’s concerns, Minho flicks his forehead, eliciting a sharp hiss from you as you watch the scene unfold. Taesoo’s expression twists in exaggerated pain and frustration.
“Chef! How long do you think we can keep going like this?” Taesoo asks, panic lacing his voice.
Minho considers it for a moment, leaning back in his chair. “Not more than a month,” he answers nonchalantly. Then, with a small sigh, he corrects himself, “Probably a week. Three days if we’re lucky.”
Taesoo lets out a defeated groan, slumping back against the chair as if Minho’s prediction seals his fate.
Their conversation seems to summon trouble as Seungwan, Hyunwoo, and sous chef Seojun appear near the entrance. Their gazes immediately zero in on you and Minho, and Seungwan wastes no time making his disdain clear.
“If I catch the two of you dating, I’m not going to stand for it. Keep that in mind!” Seungwan says, his tone sharp and accusatory. His glare lingers on you, but Minho stands up, his chair scraping loudly against the floor.
“Are you threatening me right now?” Minho asks, his voice dangerously calm. His sharp gaze locks onto Seungwan’s, daring him to escalate the situation further.
Seungwan hesitates, faltering under the weight of Minho’s icy stare, but whatever response he might make is interrupted by the sudden arrival of Chris.
Chris smiles warmly as his eyes land on you, his soft voice cutting through the tension like a knife. “Hey, aren't you going home?” he says, directing his attention to you. “I’ll give you a ride home. Let’s go.”
You glance between Chris and Minho, sensing that leaving now is the smartest move. With a quick nod, you grab your bag and rise to your feet, walking toward Chris. Minho’s gaze follows you, sharp and unreadable, as you reach for Chris’s arm in a small gesture of familiarity. Minho feels something pinged his chest, jealousy.
Chris turns back to the room before leaving with you, his smile unshaken. “Good job today, everyone. I'll see you all tomorrow,” he says cheerfully.
The room falls silent in their absence until Felix appears a moment later, his presence lighter but no less significant. He approaches Minho, hands casually tucked into his pockets. “It’s been a long day. How about we grab some drinks, Chef?” he offers simply, his tone a mix of suggestion and insistence.
Minho exhales, running a hand through his hair. Drinking feels like the only way to end the day, and he figures he can deal with the mess brewing around him tomorrow. Without a word, he gives Felix a nod, and the two leave the dining hall together with Taesoo insists on joining as he trails behind them like a puppy.
-
It’s been a hard day, and drinking feels like the perfect solution. Minho sits at a small table in a dimly lit bar, with Felix to his right and Taesoo to his left. The three of them have already drained two bottles of soju, and as Taesoo refills their glasses, it looks like they’re well on their way to finishing a third.
The alcohol has softened the edges of Minho’s usual restraint, his words slightly slurred as he leans back in his chair. He glances between Felix and Taesoo, raising his glass. “If either of you has any complaints about me, just say them now,” he says, his tone both a challenge and an invitation. “Everything. I want to hear it today.”
Felix perks up instantly, his face lighting with exaggerated enthusiasm. “Oh, I’ve got a ton of complaints,” he says, setting his glass down with a grin.
Minho arches a brow and turns to him, feigning seriousness. “Go on, then. Say it to my face.”
Felix stacks his hands together on the table, leaning forward as if preparing for a serious interrogation. “Alright, tell me the truth,” he begins dramatically.
“The truth about what?” Minho asks, narrowing his eyes.
“Do you like sharing the office with Chef Sara?” Felix asks, his voice laced with mock curiosity.
Minho doesn’t bother answering. Instead, he gently slaps the back of Felix’s head. Felix hisses in pain, rubbing the spot as he mumbles something under his breath about Minho being too rough.
Minho doesn’t linger on Felix, shifting his attention to Taesoo next. “What about you?” he asks. “Got anything to complain about?”
Taesoo shrugs, nonchalant. “Nope. No complaints.”
Without hesitation, Minho slaps the back of Taesoo’s head too, earning a startled yelp. “You’re too agreeable,” Minho mutters, shaking his head.
Felix chuckles, taking another sip of his soju before wincing at the sharp aftertaste. He exhales deeply and rests his chin on his hand. “You know,” he says, looking at Minho with a hint of earnestness. “The problem is that you have a funny way of showing affection. That’s why the other cooks don’t get your good intentions.”
Minho rolls his eyes but doesn’t bother denying it. Instead, he firmly hits Felix on the chest, causing Felix to wheeze dramatically.
“Let’s just drink tonight,” Minho orders, waving for another bottle of soju.
He doesn’t want to talk, not about anything that actually matters. Tonight, he just wants to drown his frustrations in alcohol and forget the tension that’s been weighing on him all day. Especially the part of the day where he got to watch you being whisked away by that annoying manager, Chris.
The waiter brings the fresh bottle, and Taesoo eagerly pops it open. He pours into all their glasses, careful not to spill a drop, and they raise their drinks together.
“To surviving another day,” Taesoo says with a grin.
Minho clinks his glass against theirs, the faint chime ringing in the air. “Cheers,” he mutters before downing his glass in one shot.
The warmth of the soju burns his throat, momentarily dulling the sharp edges of his thoughts. He places the empty glass on the table and exhales, already reaching for a refill.
-
Chris drives with one hand on the steering wheel, the other resting casually on the center console. The car glides smoothly along the road, his pace steady and unhurried. As the car slows to a stop at a red light, he glances over at you.
“So,” he says, his tone light but knowing, “did you come with me on purpose to avoid the other chefs?”
You chuckle softly, amused by how quickly he figures things out. “See? This is why I like you,” you reply with a grin. “You’ve got a great sense for things, Chris. And honestly, I’m glad it’s not awkward between us.”
His forehead wrinkles slightly in question. “What do you mean?”
You tilt your head, choosing your words carefully. “I mean, it’s just the two of us here, in the car, and it doesn’t feel weird or uncomfortable. Especially after what you told me earlier.”
At that, Chris’s lips curl into a wide grin, his dimples sinking deep into his cheeks. “I’ll take that as a good thing,” he says, his voice warm.
The light turns green, and Chris shifts his attention back to the road. After a moment, he speaks up again. “I need to stop at the grocery store. You wanna come along?”
You glance at him and smile. “Sure,” you say, feeling like it’s the least you can do after he swooped in to save you earlier.
When you get to the supermarket, Chris grabs a trolley and starts pushing it through the aisles while you wander toward the fruit section. Your attention is caught by a bag of grapes sitting in the chiller. You grab it and examine the label before turning to him.
“These are cotton candy grapes,” you announce.
Chris raises a brow, pushing the trolley closer. “What’s the difference?”
“They’re sweeter than regular grapes,” you explain. To prove it, you open the bag, pull out a grape, and without hesitation, shove it into his mouth.
Chris blinks at you, startled, but obediently chews. You pop one into your own mouth, savoring the burst of sweetness as you watch his reaction.
He chews thoughtfully, his expression neutral. “Tastes like regular grapes to me,” he finally says, shrugging.
You groan dramatically. “Your taste buds really are dull, Chris.” Then, with a teasing smile, you shove another grape into his mouth before he can protest.
Ignoring his glare, you toss the bag into the trolley. Chris immediately objects, his voice mock-stern. “Hey, you opened that! You should pay for it.”
You shake your head, grinning. “Nope. You ate more grapes than me so you’re paying for it.” And just to tease him further, you shove yet another grape into his mouth.
Chris pouts as he chews, his lips sticking out just slightly, and you can’t help but laugh softly at the sight. There’s something so easy about being around him. There are no games, no tricks, no sharp words to dodge or tension to navigate. It’s nice, comfortable, safe.
And yet…
As you watch him push the trolley forward, chatting easily about what else he needs to buy, your thoughts drift to someone else. Your heart, stubborn as it is, doesn’t want this safety or ease. It wants the man who flicks your forehead and scolds you, who keeps you guessing and makes your heart race for all the wrong reasons.
But for now, you follow Chris down the aisle, telling yourself it’s enough to enjoy this moment, even if your heart is elsewhere.
-
Minho’s head is buzzing, a dull throb behind his temples as he stumbles out of the elevator. His steps are heavy, his balance slightly off, but he manages to make it to your apartment without tripping. He pushes the doorbell, leaning against the wall for support as his impatience bubbles over.
“Hey!” he calls, his voice slurred. “Open up! I know you’re in there!”
After what feels like forever, the door finally opens. But it’s not you.
Sara stands in the doorway, her expression unreadable as she takes in his disheveled state. Minho squints at her, as though he can’t quite believe what he’s seeing. “Where’s she?” he asks, his voice thick with alcohol.
Sara hesitates, her hand still on the doorknob. “She’s not home yet,” she says simply.
Minho scratches his head, a frustrated groan escaping his lips. He needs to talk to you, to see you. His gaze flickers back to Sara. “Can I get some water?” he asks, his voice softening.
Sara nods after a moment, stepping aside to let him in. He makes his way to the living room, collapsing onto the single sofa with a tired sigh. The room is quiet except for the faint clinking of a glass from the kitchen. When Sara returns, she hands him the water without a word.
Minho takes a long gulp, the cool liquid soothing his dry throat. He gasps for air after finishing half the glass, setting it down on the armrest as he leans back into the cushions. His gaze shifts to Sara, who’s taken a seat on the long sofa across from him, sipping what looks like tea.
“Thanks,” he mutters, breaking the silence. “For today. In the kitchen.”
“Don’t mention it,” Sara says with a small smile and then takes a careful sip of her tea before asking, “You've been drinking, huh?”
Minho nods bht his mind feels slightly clearer now, though still hazy enough to loosen his tongue. He glances down at the glass in his hand, his voice dropping to a steady, almost contemplative tone.
“You know,” he starts, “I thought about it once. Just once.” He pauses, gathering his thoughts. “If you’d beaten me fair and square—if you’d used honest means and taken first place—would I have stayed in second just because I loved you? Would I have applauded you in the background?”
Sara’s brow furrows slightly, but she stays quiet, letting him continue.
“I think… even if you had been honest and won, I still would’ve left you,” he admits, his voice tinged with bitterness. “Because I would’ve gotten jealous. Envious. You’d have made me feel small.”
He lets out a dry laugh, shaking his head. “My pride as a man… it would’ve screamed that I had to be number one. And because of that, I would’ve left you anyway.”
He takes another sip of water, his words hanging heavy in the air. When he sets the empty glass down, he looks at Sara directly. “So maybe… maybe I didn’t leave because you backstabbed me. Maybe I would’ve left regardless.”
The room falls silent. Sara holds his gaze, her expression conflicted. Minho can see the appreciation in her eyes for his honesty, but also the uncertainty about how to respond.
That’s his cue to leave.
Minho pushes himself up from the sofa, his legs unsteady but determined. “Thanks for the water,” he mutters, heading toward the door.
Sara stays seated, watching as he leaves. As he steps out into the hallway, Minho lets out a breath, leaving her to grapple with the weight of his words and eventually makes peace with herself with it.
-
Chris pulls the car to a stop right in front of your apartment building, the streetlights casting a soft glow over the vehicle. You unbuckle your seatbelt, reaching back to grab your bag from the backseat. Your heart pounds as you sit there, debating whether now is the right time to say it.
Taking a deep breath, you turn to him with a smile, calling his name softly. His dimpled smile greets you instantly, warm and familiar. “Yeah?” he says, his voice gentle.
You don’t hesitate any longer. “I like Chef more.”
The words tumble out so quickly that you barely register the slight shift in his expression. For a second, he looks caught off guard, but then his lips curl into a soft smile. “Wow,” he says, feigning playfulness. “You’re quick to reject a guy, huh?”
You let out a nervous laugh, shaking your head. “It’s not exactly a rejection,” you explain. “I like you, Chris. I do. But I just… like Chef more.”
Chris leans back in his seat, his hand resting on the steering wheel. He nods slowly, as if processing your words, before looking back at you with a knowing grin. “I kind of already knew.”
You gasp, your eyes widening. “Wait, you knew I’d reject you?”
He gives a small, coy nod.
Without thinking, you reach over and gently slap his chest, making him chuckle. “Then why confess in the first place?” you demand, half annoyed, half amused.
His chuckle deepens, his dimples flashing again. “Because I wanted to try anyway. Maybe I’ll just keep trying until you say yes.”
You groan, slumping back against the seat. “Don’t do that, Chris. Seriously.”
He laughs at your reaction, but there’s something in his tone that hints at a deeper feeling—one he’s clearly trying to mask. You glance at him, feeling a pang of guilt. “You don’t know how hard this is,” you mutter, glaring at him. “I’ve never had to do this before. Rejecting someone… especially a guy who’s wealthy, good-looking, and actually likes me?!”
Chris laughs again, the sound warm and disarming, but you can see the faint sadness in his eyes. You reach out and squeeze his arm gently, offering him a small, reassuring smile. “I really hate being the one to do this, you know. I’d rather be the one getting rejected.”
Your hand slides down to his, holding it briefly as you meet his gaze. “Just… promise me you won’t say this again. Don’t tell me you like me or anything like that ever again.”
Chris holds your gaze for a moment longer, a glimmer of mischief returning to his eyes. “I’ll do what I want,” he says, his voice teasing.
You groan in defeat, leaning your head back against the headrest. Your frustration only lasts a second before the two of you burst out laughing at the same time, the tension melting away.
Eventually, you know it’s time to go. You reach for your bag and unbuckle, but before you leave, you lean in and wrap your arms around him. “Good night, Chris,” you whisper softly, giving him a squeeze before letting go.
As you pull back, you give him a smile—one that you hope conveys how sorry you truly are for not being able to feel the same way. “Bye,” you say gently, opening the car door.
Chris watches you as you step out, his gaze lingering until you close the door. You wave briefly before heading toward the building, his car idling in place for just a moment longer before driving away.
-
Minho leans against the cool marble column of the lobby, his eyes fixed on the car parked outside. Through the windshield, he sees you and Chris talking, your expressions shifting between seriousness and familiarity. His stomach twists uncomfortably when he sees Chris’s smile soften and how you return it before leaning in to hug him—a hug that lingers just long enough to stir unease in Minho.
He doesn’t know what you’re saying to each other, but his gut tells him Chris must have confessed his feelings. It doesn’t scare him—Minho knows who he is, knows his worth—but it makes him nervous. He knows how sly that Australian guy, Chris, can be, how easily he could sway you if you let him.
When you step out of the car and head toward the building, you don’t notice Minho watching until you’re almost at the door. Your startled expression turns to one of exasperation as you catch his glare.
“You really are a professional two-timer,” Minho sneers, his words sharper than he intended.
You scoff, crossing your arms as you step closer. “And you’re drunk,” you point out, wrinkling your nose at the alcohol on his breath.
Minho grabs your hand firmly, cutting off any further argument. “Come with me,” he mutters, dragging you toward the elevator.
The ride up is silent, except for the faint hum of the elevator motor. Minho leans against the wall, his gaze locked on you. He wants to ask about Chris, wants to confirm if his suspicion is right, but his thoughts are muddled by the alcohol and his own insecurity. The ding of the elevator interrupts his thoughts, and he stumbles slightly as he steps out.
“I need your help to get inside,” he grumbles, draping an arm over your shoulder for support.
Once inside his apartment, Minho kicks his shoes off haphazardly, his bag and coat ending up in a careless pile on the floor. He pulls you along toward the bedroom, his grip on your hand tightening. “Take me to bed,” he demands, his voice heavy with fatigue and alcohol.
“Just a second,” you chide, slipping out of your shoes as fast as you can before he tugs you toward the bed.
Minho collapses onto the mattress, pulling you with him. You prop yourself up on one elbow, offering to get him some water, but he grabs your wrist and pulls you down beside him. “Stay,” he murmurs, his tone softening.
You obey, lying on your stomach and facing him. The room is quiet except for the faint sound of the city outside. After a while, Minho turns his head to look at you, his brow furrowed. “Chris told you he likes you, didn't he?” he finally asks.
You nod, confirming his suspicion.
“What did you say?” he presses, his voice low.
Instead of answering directly, you prop your hand under your chin and smirk. “My dad says Chris is a nicer man than you.”
Minho lifts his head slightly, narrowing his eyes at you. “Does that make me the bad guy?”
You grin, nodding without hesitation.
“You told your dad about me and Chris already?” Minho asks in disbelief, his brows shooting up.
You nod again, your grin widening.
He groans, reaching out to pull you closer. You shut your eyes, bracing yourself for the finger flick you’re certain is coming, but instead, Minho wraps his arm around your neck and tugs you close until your head rests against his shoulder.
“What did your dad say?” he asks, his voice quieter now.
You let out a soft sigh. “He’s rooting for the nice man.”
Minho frowns, his lips pressing into a thin line. “What about you?”
Your sly smile returns as you rest your hand on his chest. “Well... I’ve always been the disobedient daughter who never listens to her dad.”
Minho smirks at that, nodding in approval. “Good,” he murmurs. He presses his forehead to yours and closes his eyes. “Don’t listen to your dad, okay?”
You chuckle softly. “Yes, Chef.”
He nods again, shifting to get more comfortable. “Let’s sleep.”
“Yes, Chef,” You snuggle closer to his side, his arm draped around you as he exhales deeply, finally relaxing.
Just as you’re about to drift off, Minho turns his head toward you. “Aren’t you going to kiss me goodnight?”
You roll your eyes and shake your head firmly. “No. You reek of alcohol.”
“Come on, just a peck,” he pleads, his voice almost whining.
With a sigh, you relent, leaning in to press a quick peck to his lips.
“That was too quick,” he protests immediately.
You groan, rolling your eyes again before leaning in for a longer, lingering kiss. Minho lets out a small gasp when you finally pull away, his cheeks flushed and his lips curling into a contented smile. “Perfect,” he murmurs, his voice soft and drowsy.
He cups your face gently, holding your gaze as he whispers, “Goodnight.”
You smile back at him, your heart warming at the tenderness in his voice. “Goodnight.”
As the room falls into peaceful silence, Minho pulls you closer, your warmth grounding him. For the first time in a while, the doubt and jealousy that had been weighing on him begin to lift. With you lying beside him, he feels at ease—secure in the knowledge that no matter who tries to sway your feelings, you aren’t going anywhere but his side. A soft smile lingers on his lips as sleep finally claims him.
-
Minho’s eyes scan the tickets clipped to the rail as Felix approaches with a dish in hand. Minho inspects the plating carefully, wiping a smudge from the edge of the plate with a practiced motion. “Go,” he instructs, handing it off to the waiting server. Felix nods and heads back to his station, and Minho’s focus shifts to the tickets again.
His brows furrow. Something’s off.
“Felix!” Minho barks, his voice cutting through the clatter of the kitchen. Felix looks up from the garnish he’s carefully arranging.
“Yes, Chef?”
Minho holds up the ticket. “Table three’s order hasn’t even gone out yet, but table eight’s is already served. Care to explain?”
Felix glances at the tickets, then smirks and jerks his head toward Hyunwoo, who’s furiously tossing pasta in a pan at the next station. “It’s not me, Chef. It’s Hyunwoo. He’s taking too long on the linguine.”
Hyunwoo stiffens, glaring at Felix. “Linguine takes longer to cook! Maybe if you timed your dishes better, this wouldn’t happen.”
Felix doesn’t miss a beat. “Maybe if you didn’t act like you’re boiling pasta for a buffet line, this wouldn’t happen either.”
Their voices escalate, bickering like children, as Minho’s patience wears thin. Slamming his palm against the counter, he growls, “Both of you, shut up!”
The kitchen falls into tense silence, save for the sizzle of pans. Minho steps around the counter, moving to stand between Felix and Hyunwoo, his sharp gaze flicking between the two.
“I’ve told you both a hundred times,” Minho starts, his voice low but seething with authority. “Cooking for a course meal isn’t the same as cooking a single dish. Timing. Coordination. Communication. If you two can’t figure out how to work together, you’ll take this entire kitchen down with you.”
Felix nods quickly, contrite. “Yes, Chef.”
Minho looks at Hyunwoo, waiting. But Hyunwoo’s jaw is tight, resentment clear in his eyes as he hesitates.
Minho narrows his gaze at Hyunwoo. “Are you not going to answer me?”
The tension thickens as Hyunwoo glares back at Minho but says nothing. Before Minho can press further, the kitchen door bursts open.
“Where is he?!” Yura’s voice echoes like a thunderclap.
Chris rushes in behind her, his face flushed as he tries to hold her back. “Please, don’t. Let’s talk in my office—”
Yura yanks her arm away, storming past Chris with fire in her eyes. She marches straight toward Minho, her voice trembling with rage. “I know what you’ve been doing. With who. And when.”
Minho doesn’t flinch, his expression stony as he locks eyes with her, daring her to continue.
“I know your little secret,” Yura spits, her gaze sweeping the kitchen before landing back on Minho. “I saw it with my own eyes. You and her.” Her eyes flick to you, standing frozen by the corner of the kitchen.
Minho’s chest tightens, but his face remains impassive.
Yura takes a deep breath, as if savoring the moment. Then she announces, loud enough for everyone to hear, “I saw you two at the bus stop. Kissing.”
The kitchen plunges into suffocating silence. Every clatter of knives and pans halts. All eyes turn to Minho, then to you, then back to him.
Despite his calm exterior, Minho’s heart pounds in his chest. Yura presses on, her voice dripping with venom.
“You are a hypocrite. You fired my sister—innocent Minji—because you said you wouldn’t allow romantic relationships in the kitchen. But now you’re doing the exact same thing.” Her lips curl into a bitter smile. “How does it feel to be the one breaking your own rules? How does it feel to be the one causing this situation?”
Felix steps forward suddenly, his voice firm. “That’s a complete lie! Chef wouldn’t do something like that.”
Hyunwoo hisses in response, turning to Felix with a sneer. “How do you know? Minji saw them at the café, remember? And now this? Are you seriously defending him?”
Hyunwoo turns his glare on you. “And you—didn’t you say you were just close with Chef? What a joke.”
Seungwan steps in, his voice sharp. “So, it's true, Chef? That the two of you are dating?”
You cut in, your voice trembling but steady enough to say, “We— We’re close because we went to the same culinary school in Italy. That’s all.”
But Sous Chef Seojun isn’t satisfied. “Chef, just tell us the truth. Are you dating her or not?”
Minho’s gaze falls on you, and for a moment, the world narrows to just the two of you. Your eyes plead with him, a silent “don’t do it” written in every tearful glance. But Minho knows this has gone on long enough.
Minho straightens, resting his hands flat on the chef’s table as he looks out at his team.
“It’s true,” Minho says, his voice clear and unwavering. “We’re close.”
He pauses, looking back at you, silently apologizing for what he’s about to do.
“However, I’m in love with her.”
A collective gasp ripples through the room.
You close your eyes as if you can't stand seeing it happens and when you open them, tears pooling in your eyes as you stare at him in disbelief.
Minho keeps his gaze on you, knowing that as long as he looks at you, he can weather anything.
The silence is deafening, broken only by Yura stepping forward with a mocking laugh. “And what did you say would happen if someone was caught dating in this kitchen, Chef?” She grabs Minho by his chef’s tie, pulling him closer. “You’re fired!”
Minho calmly untangles her grip from his tie, fixing his coat with precision. He stands tall, facing everyone once more.
“I acknowledge that I’ve behaved in a way that could lose your trust in me as your chef,” he says, his voice steady despite the turmoil inside him. “But I won’t apologize for loving her. And because of that, I have no right to continue leading this kitchen.”
Minho unties his chef’s necktie, pulling it off and holding it in his hand.
“With this, I'll leave this kitchen on my own cognizance.”
The room remains eerily quiet as Minho steps back, turning his attention to you one last time. A triumphant smile plays on his lips, even as tears stream down yours.
Despite the chaos he left behind, despite the stunned expressions and inevitable fallout, Minho feels an unexpected lightness—a sense of victory. For the first time, he didn’t hide. He didn’t lie. He stood before everyone and declared his love for you without hesitation, without shame.
He glances down at the crumpled chef’s tie in his hand, a symbol of all the rules and walls he’d built around himself. He knows he’s walking away from the life he built with his blood, sweat, and tears, but strangely, there’s no regret.
If loving you meant losing the kitchen, then so be it.
-
Support my writings by kindly reblog, comment or consider tipping me on my ko-fi!
@svintsandghosts @abiaswreck @ppiri-bahng @drhsthl @idkluvutellme @biribarabiribbaem @skz-streamer @biancaness @hanjisunginc @elizalabs3 @laylasbunbunny @kpopformylife @caitlyn98s @hann1bee @mamieishere @is2cb97 @marvelous-llama @bluenights1899 @sherryblossom @toplinehyunjin @hanjisbeloved @sunnyseungup @skz4lifer @stellasays45 @severeanxietyissues @avyskai @imseungminsgf @silentreadersthings @army-stay-noel @rylea08 @simeonswhore @yubinism @devilsmatches @septicrebel @rairacha @ven-fic-recs @hyunjiinnnn @lostgirlinthewoodss @schniti-is-in-the-house @jisunglyricist @minh0scat @simplymoo @inlovewithstraykids @eastjonowhere @seochangbinnnnnnnnnnn @whosanaanyway @skzswife @nightmarenyxx @vixensss @angstraykids
217 notes · View notes
zephyrchama · 2 days ago
Note
Make barbatos fanfics pls
Tumblr media
The memory of your recent mishap kept playing in your mind. It was a complete mistake - you hadn't intended to drench Barbatos in tea. Despite him being more than capable of protecting himself, you foolishly attempted to shield him from whatever toxic concoction Solomon was cooking up. One thing led to another, a massive pot fell over, there was an ear-deafening clang, and Barbatos was on the ground. Sopping wet.
He wasted no time in excusing himself to clean off, leaving you to bear the weight of your sins. Anyone could have easily cleaned the mess with magic, but Barbatos instead opted for a shower for some peace and quiet to calm down. Solomon was left to scrub the floor by hand since he started this issue in the first place.
As all of the castle's linens had been conveniently gathered in the laundry room to be inventoried, you took it upon yourself to grab a clean towel and deliver it to Barbatos.
You could hear the water running from down the hall. It was so loud, you weren't sure Barbatos could hear you. Wisps of steam escaped from the cracks around the bathroom door. You knocked. There was no answer.
"Barbatos?" you called, knocking again. There was no answer. Only the running of water. He was probably already in the shower. You could take this opportunity to grab his soiled uniform and clean it before the stains permanently set in.
With that plan of action, you opened the door. Barbatos was not in the shower, despite the running faucet. In fact, Barbatos was stark naked in the middle of the room. A washcloth in his hand indicated he had already obtained his own towels. He had his back to the door, as if he was just about to enter the tub. He made eye contact with you over his shoulder, eyes wide.
That one second felt like an hour.
His posture was superb. A mix of tea and condensation from the muggy bathroom air trailed down the curve of his spine, fine enough to be in a medical textbook. Your eyes followed, down to the base of his tail and the derriere behind it. Two fabulous, firm full moons. A sight rarer than anything else in all the three realms.
"Did you need something?"
Barbatos' usual polite tone was punctuated with umbrage. He placed a hand on his chest, as though shielding his visage.
"I'm sorry!" were the first words you spat out, on reflex. Coherent thinking failed you in the face of such art. Sentences started falling out of your mouth and you hoped they made sense. "I thought you might need a towel, so I got one from the laundry and came to give it to you. I knocked! I did, I knocked, but you didn't answer so I came in to leave this."
You held the towel forward with both hands as an offering. "And I was gonna collect your clothes so I could wash them. As an apology for, ah, that other thing I did. Sorry."
You stared at the ground. Even Barbatos' ankles were pristine. A little bony, tapering down at the sides that led to his slender feet. You watched his weight shift as his tail curled closer to his body.
"How thoughtful. I'd appreciate if you could hang it on the towel bar. I will handle my clothes myself, later."
"Right, of course." You swiveled and diligently hung the towel up. The dirty clothes in question were on the ground, still soaking wet, neatly folded in a square. You looked from them back to Barbatos. He was rooted in place, not budging in the slightest. One wrong move, and who knew how much you'd see?
More than the current eyeful, that's for sure. More than the slope of his shoulders. More than the rise and fall of his upper body with each fresh breath. More than the sight of his wet hair clinging to the curve of his jawbone and the tenseness in his arm when his painted fingernails wrapped around the tiny washcloth.
"Do you need anything else?" he asked. An obvious cue for you to leave.
"I'm good," you said. It was hard not to ogle at the size of his waist fully unobscured by clothing, and its ratio to his hips. "Do you... need any help?"
"I am fine. I will be taking my shower now." His voice echoed around the bathroom as you finally left. It echoed around your head, too, when he said, "be good and wait for me."
213 notes · View notes
sosasturns · 1 day ago
Text
knock em out - c. sturniolo
blurb, in which reader puts mma!chris to sleep… based on by this ask from bat anon.
Tumblr media
your face was pressed deep into the hotel suite's plush pillows, hands flat against the sheets, your feet barely touching the floor as chris let his frustrations out on you. he was going hard-each sharp thrust knocking the literal sonic coins out of you, leaving you breathless, gripping onto the bedding like it could somehow ground you.
"take this shit," he murmured, voice dark and clipped, still riled up from the shit-talking that went down earlier. his grip was unforgiving, big hands spreading you wider, pressing down on the small of your back to get that perfect fucking angle. "take my dick, just like that. mhm. doin' so well takin' this dick."
he was pissed. furious. this fight had him on edge, the opponent running his fucking mouth, and chris was dealing with it the only way he knew how-channeling all that pent-up aggression into you, fucking you deep, sharp, rough, his breath heavy against the back of your neck as his fingers slid up to grasp your throat, tilting your head up slightly so he could murmur into your ear.
"gon' knock his ass the fuck out," he gritted, each word punctuated by a harsh thrust that had your toes curling.
you couldn't even speak-just gasping, moaning into the pillow, your body damn near limp as he took full control.
then, suddenly, it stopped.
a deep inhale from behind you, followed by chris flipping you over in one smooth motion, your back meeting the mattress before his hand slid to your jaw, guiding your gaze to meet his. his eyes were dark, heavy-lidded, jaw clenched tight.
"get on top," he muttered, voice low, demanding.
"not letting you come yet. you want it? you work for it."
you didn't hesitate, already straddling his lap, rolling your hips as you slid down onto him with a moan, feeling every inch. chris' head tilted back against the pillows, lips parted, a sharp inhale leaving him as you started to move. slow at first, teasing, rolling your hips just the way he liked, before shifting into a steady bounce.
his hands gripped your hips, fingers digging into your skin. he was struggling-you could tell. the way his brows furrowed, his teeth sunk into his bottom lip, his chest rising and falling heavily.
"slow," he rasped, trying to steady your movements.
"slow, baby. fuck."
but you weren't listening. you leaned forward, your palm grasping his chin, forcing his head up to meet your gaze.
"you're gonna knock the fuck out of him tomorrow," you whispered, your lips grazing his as you continued to ride him, keeping him deep, squeezing around him.
his lips twitched into a lazy, hooded smirk, a breathy huff leaving him. "this pussy 'bouta knock me out next," he muttered.
you laughed softly, pressing a lingering kiss to his lips, feeling the way he shuddered beneath you. it didn't take long after that-his grip tightening, hips stuttering up into yours, a string of curses and your name leaving his lips as he came, head tilting back, body relaxing completely beneath you.
you took a moment to catch your breath before slipping off of him, settling beside him, your cheek resting against his chest. a comfortable silence filled the room, the only sounds being his steady breathing.
when you lifted your head to glance at him, his eyes were already shut, mouth parted slightly, knocked out.
you shook your head with a small smile, pressing a soft kiss to his jaw before whispering,
"good luck tomorrow, baby."
but he was already deep in sleep.
@ sosasturns
Tumblr media
sosas 💬’s : WWWHO GOT THE BADDEST PUSSY ON THE PLANETTT. like this blurb? want more? sound off in my inbox! requests r open
“sosa mafia” taglist: @submattenthusiast @sophand4n4 @secretlocket @mrsdillonx @ch6rm @sweetrelieef @gabri3la-sturns @inspiredangel @sturn777 @et6rnalsun @faiyaz555 @whore4mattsturniolo @courta13 @katie-tibo @ifwdominicfike @raesturns @adoremattsturns @conspiracy-ash
282 notes · View notes
ice-man-goes-bwoah · 2 days ago
Note
Helloooo!!! I would like to make a request of Charles x autistic reader in where yn mom and dad are always criticizing her and making her feel less, she sometimes acts like a little girl specially when she's with Charles and when her parents critiques become overwhelming for her, he just snapped and defend her. Pls I would love to read that <3
Safe in his arms||Charles Leclerc x fem!reader
Word count- 648?
The dining room was stifling, not from the warmth of home-cooked food but from the weight of judgment pressing against your chest. The overhead lights were too bright, the clinking of silverware against porcelain too sharp, the scent of roasted meat too thick in the air. You swallowed hard, your fingers tangling in the hem of your sweater as you tried to ground yourself.
Charles sat beside you, his presence the only anchor keeping you from drifting away. He was always patient, always understanding. He never made you feel like too much, never looked at you with disappointment the way your parents did.
Your mother let out a long, exaggerated sigh, setting down her fork. “Y/N, sit up properly. You look ridiculous hunched over like that.”
You straightened immediately, your muscles tensing.
our father hummed in agreement. “And stop fidgeting. God, you always have to be doing something with your hands. It’s like you’re five years old.”
Your lips parted, an apology on the tip of your tongue, but before you could say anything, your mother scoffed. “Honestly, Y/N, when are you going to grow up? You still act like a child. It’s embarrassing.”
Embarrassing. The word lodged itself deep in your chest like a shard of glass. You weren’t trying to be childish. You weren’t trying to be difficult. The world was just too loud, too fast, too much. Sometimes you rocked back and forth to soothe yourself, sometimes you held onto Charles’ sleeve when the noise became unbearable, sometimes you whispered little phrases under your breath to make things feel okay again. None of it was to get attention. It was survival. But your parents never understood that.
“You need to start acting like an adult,” your father continued, cutting his steak with unnecessary force. “The real world isn’t going to coddle you.” Your breathing grew shallow. The lights felt even harsher now, the sounds even louder, your sweater suddenly too scratchy against your skin. You reached for Charles’ sleeve instinctively, rubbing the fabric between your fingers, seeking comfort, something, anything to ground you—
Your mother’s eyes narrowed. “See? This is exactly what I mean.” She gestured at you like you were some kind of spectacle. “Still clinging to people like a scared little girl. It’s pathetic.”
Pathetic. The word struck like a slap. Charles tensed beside you. His grip on his fork tightened, his knuckles turning white. “She needs to stop depending on you so much, Charles,” your father added, shaking his head. “You’re just encouraging this behavior.”
This behavior. You swallowed hard, willing yourself to disappear, to shrink so small they wouldn’t see you anymore. Your breathing hitched, your vision blurring at the edges. It was too much. It was always too much.
And then— “Enough.” Charles’ voice rang out, sharp and unyielding. The room fell into stunned silence. Your parents blinked at him, shocked, but Charles wasn’t backing down. His jaw was clenched, his chest rising and falling with restrained fury. His hand found yours under the table, lacing your trembling fingers with his.
“She’s not pathetic,” he said, his voice dangerously calm. “She’s not childish. She’s autistic. And instead of trying to understand her, you belittle her. Do you even realize how hard she tries every single day just to exist in a world that doesn’t accommodate her?” His accent thickened, his words sharp as daggers. “You sit here and act like she’s a burden, like she’s failing to meet your expectations, but the truth is, you are failing her.”
Your mother opened her mouth to protest, but Charles wasn’t done. “She is one of the strongest people I know. Do you have any idea how much effort it takes for her to be here right now, to endure this, to hold herself together while you tear her down?” His voice wavered slightly, thick with emotion. “You should be proud of her. You should be supporting her. But instead, you make her feel like she’s broken.”
Your father scowled. “That’s not—”
“No,” Charles cut him off, his grip on your hand tightening. “You don’t get to do this anymore. You don’t get to treat her like she’s not enough.”
Tears blurred your vision. No one had ever defended you like this. No one had ever looked at your parents and told them—out loud—that they were wrong about you. Your mother’s lips pressed into a thin line, her expression unreadable. Your father looked away, shaking his head, muttering something under his breath. Maybe they would argue, maybe they wouldn’t. It didn’t matter. Because Charles had you.
The rest of the dinner was a blur, but the moment you stepped out of that house, Charles pulled you into his arms, holding you like you were something precious. Like you weren’t too much. Like you were just enough.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered against his chest.
His hold on you tightened. “You don’t have to be sorry, mon amour.” He kissed the top of your head, his voice raw with emotion. “I just wish they saw you the way I do.” You buried your face in his shirt, inhaling the scent of him, the safety of him.
“Me too,” you murmured. But even if they never did, at least Charles did. At least, with him, you were safe. You were enough.
184 notes · View notes
gojofile · 18 hours ago
Text
geto suguru’s guide on fraternising with the enemy
Tumblr media
summary: geto suguru has been your greatest rival since your first year at hogwarts, always outdoing you in class and always getting under your skin. when he’s picked as the hogwarts champion for the triwizard tournament instead of you, you think you couldn’t possibly hate him more—until he corners you one evening and asks for your help.
⇢ pairing: slytherin!geto suguru x gryffindor!fem!reader ⇢ contains: romance, angst, slowburn, academic rivals to lovers au, hogwarts au, profanity, dragons, injuries, fights about blood purity, mentions of underage drinking—please let me know if i’ve missed anything! ⇢ word count: 24.2k ⇢ playlist: the course of true love never did run smooth ⇢ note: big big thank you to @etherealyoungk for making this gorgeous banner! thank you for reading ♡
Tumblr media
The only thing worse than losing to Geto Suguru is being expected to smile about it.
When the Goblet of Fire coughs out the charred piece of parchment with his name written on it, it feels as though the entire Great Hall erupts around you. Hoots of excitement ricochet off the enchanted ceiling, mingling with groans of disapproval—chiefly from your housemates, who baulked at the audacity of a Slytherin representing Hogwarts. You, however, couldn’t join in either chorus. No, you sit frozen at the Gryffindor table, lips pressed tightly together in an attempt to keep your tears at bay.
Geto Suguru stands from his place among the Slytherins, shrugging off his best friend’s arm from around his shoulders. His head turns, and somehow, through the sea of cheering faces, his gaze locks onto yours. There is something almost incendiary in his look—smugness molded into a smile, something defiant in the tilt of his jaw. You grind your teeth, irritated.
Suguru is now the Hogwarts Champion, elevated above the rest of you. You are nothing more than the runner-up—a title no one cares enough about to utter aloud. 
“Hard luck,” Utahime, your friend and the Head Girl, murmurs beside you, her hand light as a feather on your shoulder. Her voice is low and kind, yet utterly ineffective against the disappointment you feel. You give her a tight, forced smile, though your silence only seems to amplify her sympathy.
This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. Not after years of outpouring your soul into every spell and hex you learnt, every essay you wrote, every late night spent at the library. You had scraped, clawed, and bled for this chance, and somehow, despite all your efforts, Suguru had stepped in and robbed you blind. The betting pool Shoko and Mei Mei had organised suddenly feels cruel in hindsight. Everyone had bet on either you or Suguru—no one else had even come close to being a contender. 
Your hands tremble slightly as you push back from the bench. You barely register the names of the foreign champions—Aleksandar Ivanov of Durmstrang, Amélie DuPont of Beauxbatons. You don’t care. The Great Hall feels stifling, so you stand up abruptly and begin weaving your way towards the exit. 
The cool air of the corridor hits you like a balm, soothing the heat rising in your chest. You walk with no real destination, footsteps echoing faintly against the stone walls, until you reach one of the tall windows overlooking the grounds. Moonlight spills across the landscape, painting the Forbidden Forest with silver. You lean against the cold stone ledge, and inhale deeply.
The bitterness simmering in your chest refuses to ebb. You had wanted this so badly, had poured every ounce of effort into proving you were the best, not just to Hogwarts but to yourself. But, as always, Geto Suguru had swooped in and stolen it from you.
“Running away so soon?”
You don’t turn immediately. Instead, you close your eyes and inhale slowly once more. When you finally turn, Geto Suguru stands a few feet away, leaning against the wall. His black hair is tied back neatly, save for a loose strand that falls against his cheek. 
“I didn’t realise I needed your permission to leave,” you say coolly, crossing your arms over your chest.
“It’s not as much fun winning,” Suguru says, “if my competition isn’t around to see it.”
“Competition?” You scoff. “That implies we were on equal footing to begin with.”
His smile widens, and he takes a step closer. “You’re not giving up that easily, are you? I thought Gryffindors were supposed to be brave.”
You want to snap at him, say something cutting enough to wipe that stupid self-satisfied grin off his face, but the words stick in your throat. He’s insufferable, yes, but you know that’s exactly what he wants—to pull a reaction from you. And Merlin help you, he’s good at it.
“What do you want, Suguru?” you ask, exhaustion finally seeping into your tone. “Shouldn’t you be celebrating with the rest of your house?”
“Of course, but like I said, it’s no fun if my favourite rival isn’t around to see it.”
You bristle at his words. “Favourite rival? You were desperate to beat me, Suguru.”
“So were you,” he points out, and it takes all your self-restraint not to do something horrifically stupid like punch him in the face. “If I’m desperate, it only means you’re worth the effort.”
“Congratulations, Suguru,” you say hollowly. “You’ve won the Goblet’s favour. What do you want, a parade?”
“I want your help.” Suguru steps forward, his movements unhurried, his expression calculated.
You blink. “What?”
“You should be proud,” he says. “You were a close second.”
The words sting more than you would like to admit. You narrow your eyes at him. “Spare me your pity.”
“It’s not pity,” he replies. “It’s acknowledgment. You’re good. Maybe even better than me in some ways.”
You suck in a breath sharply, thrown off balance. This is not what you expected—not from Geto Suguru, at least. You ask warily, “Is this some sort of tactic to get me to like you?”
Your rival chuckles wryly. “No, but it’d be stupid to ignore the fact that you’re good. You wouldn’t have been the biggest threat to my name being called otherwise.”
His admission leaves you momentarily speechless, a rare occurrence when it comes to Geto Suguru. You can’t decide whether to feel insulted or flattered, so you settle for glaring at him instead. The torch light softens the planes of his face, casting a warm glow on his cheekbones and the edges of his smile. He infuriates you so much.
“Help me,” Suguru says again.
“Are you out of your mind?”
“I’m serious,” he says, folding his arms. “You’re as competitive as I am, and you hate losing. If anyone understands what’s at stake in this tournament, it’s you.”
“That’s a very pretty way of saying you want me to do your work for you,” you shoot back.
“I’m asking because I know you’re capable,” he presses on, ignoring your jab. “You think I haven’t noticed how good you are at strategising? Or how quick you are to spot weaknesses, whether it’s in a spell or a person?”
You stare at him, suspicious. It’s not the first time someone has acknowledged your abilities, but it’s the first time he’s done it. As much as you loathe to admit it, Suguru isn’t the type to hand out compliments lightly.
“You’re insane,” you say finally, shaking your head. “You want me to help you win the tournament I should have been chosen for?”
Suguru’s expression hardens. “I want you to push me,” he says. “To challenge me the way only you can. And when I win—because I will win—it’ll be as much your victory as it will be mine.”
You consider his words. A small, reckless part of you—the part that thrives on competition, on proving yourself—begins to wonder what it would be like to be a part of this, even from the sidelines. To have your brilliance tied to the triumph of something bigger than either of you.
“Fine,” you say, voice clipped. “But don’t think for a second that this makes us friends.”
“Of course not.” Suguru’s easy grin slips back in place. “Let’s meet at the library tomorrow after dinner. Don’t be late.” 
You don’t reply, merely walking past him and heading back into the Great Hall. Utahime is probably wondering where you vanished off to, and as much as you hate her sympathy, you don’t want to worry her, Shoko and Mei Mei just because you were a sore loser.
Tumblr media
The fireplace in the Gryffindor common room crackles with a sort of joyousness you can’t be bothered to feel. Its warm glow dances across the walls, a merry flicker that feels utterly inappropriate given your current mood. The plush armchair you’ve claimed for the evening—one that’s usually a source of comfort—is perfect for brooding. You curl into yourself like a grumpy gargoyle, letting your misery seep into the cushions.
Laughter echoes off the walls—the other students are busy gossiping about the Triwizard Tournament. Discussions about the champions and the potential tasks all merge into one unintelligible blur. The Triwizard Tournament is a magical contest held between the three largest wizarding schools of Europe: Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Durmstrang Institute, and Beauxbatons Academy of Magic, with each school being represented by one champion, chosen by the infamous Goblet of Fire. The selected champions compete in three tasks—each designed to test the student’s magical ability, intelligence, and courage—and the winner gets to take home the Triwizard Cup.
The Durmstrang champion’s brute strength, the Beauxbatons champion’s unnatural grace—it all seems so irrelevant compared to the singular thought lodged in your mind like an annoying splinter: Geto Suguru is Hogwarts’ champion.
You’re still seething about it. Not only has he outdone you in classes year after year, he’s now claimed the one thing you truly wanted. And then, as if that wasn’t enough, the boy had the gall to corner you after dinner with a request that still makes your head spin.
You groan and bury your face in a pillow, muffling your frustration. The universe, it seems, has a cruel sense of humour.
“Still sulking, I see.”
You don’t have to look up to know it’s Shoko. She has an unnatural knack for finding you at your most pitiful moments. When you peek over the pillow, you see her leaning against the back of a sofa, her robes askew and her hair half-tied.
“Sulking is putting it lightly,” Mei Mei comments, her pale hair shimmering in the firelight. She takes a seat on the armrest of your chair. “I’d say this borders on full-fledged wallowing.”
You glare at both of them, hugging the pillow tighter. “Go away.”
“No,” says Shoko, simply.
Mei Mei leans in conspiratorially, resting her chin on her hand as she observes you. “Honestly, it’s not the end of the world. So you didn’t get selected—big fucking deal. There’s always next—oh.”
“Next time?” you snap, sitting up straight. “There isn’t a next time, Mei Mei. This was the last chance.”
“Exactly,” she quips with mock cheerfulness. “All the more reason for you to savour your second-place status. It’s a rare opportunity for someone as annoyingly competent as you.”
Before you can retort, Utahime appears, carrying a steaming cup of tea. She sets it down on the small table beside you and gives Mei Mei a pointed look. “Stop tormenting her,” she says, shooing the girl off the armrest.
Mei Mei sighs dramatically but moves to the nearby sofa, lounging on it with her legs hanging off the arm. “Sorry for trying to motivate her.”
“More like antagonising her,” Utahime mutters, taking Mei Mei’s vacated spot. She turns to you, her expression softening. “Are you okay?”
“No,” you admit. “But I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Oh, for Merlin’s sake.” Shoko rolls her eyes. “It’s not like you lost to someone undeserving. Suguru is very competent. In fact, I’d say he’s as good as you.”
“Is that supposed to be helpful, Shoko?” Utahime hisses. She pats your hand comfortingly. “Ignore them. They’re just jealous that they weren’t even in the running.”
“Jealous? Hardly,” Shoko says. “Can you imagine studying for our N.E.W.T.s while having to worry about whether we’re going to survive these godforsaken tasks?” She shudders, the thought of the end-of-year exams enough to make her lips turn downwards.
You shake your head, exasperated, but her words bring a small smile to your face. Utahime—ever the observant one—notices, and squeezes your hand gently. “You’ll be alright. This doesn’t define you. You’re still brilliant, still one of the best witches Hogwarts has ever seen. And if Suguru doesn’t see that, then—”
“He does,” Shoko cuts in unexpectedly. She crosses her arms, her gaze flickering over to the fireplace. “Trust me, he knows exactly how good you are. Why do you think he asked for your help?”
You gape at her. “How did—”
“Satoru told me. He said Suguru left the Great Hall and didn’t celebrate with the rest because he was busy searching for you.”
You blink. You’d known Satoru, Suguru and Shoko had known each other since they were children—they all belonged to three of the most prominent Pureblood families in the Wizarding World—but you didn’t think they were that close. Evidently, you were wrong. 
But that’s one of the main reasons you’re so desperate to prove yourself. You’re a mere Muggleborn, a witch born to non-magical parents, and getting thrust into the magical world so quickly felt overwhelming. All of a sudden, you had an explanation for all the oddities that occurred when you were a child—teacups breaking even though you never touched them, books floating straight out of the bookshelf and into your hands—but it was clear that in the world of witches and wizards and strange creatures you’d only ever read about, you still had to claw your way to the top.
Geto Suguru, because of his privilege as a Pureblood, having grown up witnessing magic firsthand, was already one step ahead of you.
You despise him for it.
Shoko’s reminder of Suguru’s request makes irritation bubble up inside you all over again. “It’s not fair,” you say, fingers curling into the soft material of the cushion. “He doesn’t get to—he has no right to ask me for help after I worked so hard to get here.”
Utahime and Mei Mei stay silent, not willing to come to any conclusions, but Shoko’s gaze snaps to you, her eyes narrowing. “Are you saying Suguru doesn’t work hard either?”
“No, I’m—” You falter, the words getting lodged in your throat under Shoko’s unwavering stare. “I needed this. I needed to prove myself.”
Utahime squeezes your hand again. “If you really don’t want to, you could always say no.”
“Can I, though?” you ask, more to yourself than anyone else. “If I refuse, and he loses, I’ll think it’s my fault for not helping him. And if I help him, and he wins, I’ll have to live knowing I contributed to his victory.”
“Is that really so bad?” Mei Mei chimes in. “I’m not sure what exactly is going on here, but from what I can gather, it feels like Suguru is genuinely asking for your help because he thinks you’re the best person for the job.”
“Listen,” Utahime says, “whatever you decide, it doesn’t change anything about how smart you are, or how strong of a competition you were to him. You’re still one of the top students Hogwarts has ever seen, and one silly competition isn’t going to change that.”
You want to rebuke her words. The Triwizard Tournament isn’t just some silly competition; it’s the one way you thought you could prove that you belong in the magical world just like Suguru and Satoru and Shoko, and the rest of the Purebloods do. But Utahime’s gaze turns imploring, and you know Mei Mei and Shoko’s patience is running thin, so you muster up a smile.
“Thanks, Utahime,” you say gratefully. “I’ll think about it tomorrow.”
Shoko rolls her eyes, though not unkindly, and Mei Mei flashes you a grin. “Well, if we’re all done rescuing this one from her lonely little pity party, I’m ready to go to bed,” she says, stretching her arms above her head.
Utahime glances at you questioningly, so you tell her to go ahead and that you’ll come up to the dormitory in a few minutes. Shoko stays behind. When you meet her gaze, she’s already looking at you, brows furrowed in a small frown.
“I’m sorry you didn’t get in,” she says finally, “but don’t—don’t do something reckless or hurtful, okay?”
She turns around and strides up the staircase to the girls’ dormitory before you can ask her what she means by that. The common room is quieter now, the excitement of the champion selection having died down. You stare at the fire still crackling, and push down the sting of rejection that still hasn’t gone away completely.
Tomorrow, you’ll decide. Tomorrow you’ll see what exactly Geto Suguru, the newly-proclaimed Hogwarts champion, wants from you.
Tumblr media
Geto Suguru is late. 
Are you surprised? Of course not. If there’s one thing he can be relied upon for, it’s his remarkable ability to waste your time. Still, knowing all this doesn’t make it any less irritating, especially when he was the one who sought you out in the first place.
The library is colder than usual, the stone walls and high ceilings doing little to trap the day’s residual warmth. You wrap your cloak tighter around yourself. At this rate, you’re starting to feel like a fool for agreeing to this. The library is otherwise deserted, as it usually is at this hour. It’s just you and the librarian, Madam Pince, as well as a trio of Durmstrang students who have no business being here. They stare at you every now and then, huddled together. Your cheeks burn; if Suguru doesn’t show up soon, you’ll have wasted the evening for nothing—and you’ll have the added humiliation of curious foreign students studying you like they’ve never seen another human being before.
The table before you is cluttered with blank parchment and unopened books, all untouched. The light from the sconces creates shadows that flicker and dance over them. Normally, the library is where you find peace. You can drown yourself in tomes about advanced charms or obscure potions, tuning out the noise of the castle. Tonight, however, the quietness grates on your nerves as you tap your quill against the tabletop impatiently.
The clock on the wall ticks. You glance at it for the fifth time in as many minutes, annoyed.
The doors creak open at last, and Geto Suguru finally strides in. His dark robes billow slightly as he walks. There’s a faint flush on his cheeks, and a stray lock of hair clings to his temple. He doesn’t look the least bit apologetic.
“You’re late,” you say, when he finally stops opposite you. You don’t bother keeping the accusation out of your tone.
Suguru slides into the seat opposite you, entirely unbothered. “I had things to do.”
“Like what? Admiring your own reflection?”
“That’s not a very nice thing to say, little lioness.” Before you can snap at him for the nickname, the Slytherin continues, “If you must know, I was hunting for something important.”
“More important than the meeting you asked for?” you retort, narrowing your eyes at him.
“I’d argue they’re related,” Suguru says, and before you can press him further, he pulls out a crumpled piece of parchment from his pocket and spreads it out on the table.
You lean forward, your annoyance eclipsed by curiosity. The parchment is covered in messy, scrawled notes, and the handwriting is illegible in some places, but certain words stand out: fire, movement, creature.
Frowning, you ask, “What is this?”
“Information.”
“About?” you prompt, though you have a sinking suspicion on what it is.
“The first task.”
You blink. It hasn’t even been twenty-four hours since the champions were chosen. Geto Suguru works quickly, you must begrudgingly admit. “Where did you get this?”
“Snuck into the Headmaster’s office and nicked it from there,” he explains. “The Durmstrang and Beauxbatons champions already know, I’m sure.”
You nod. He’s right. The Triwizard Tournament is more than just a friendly competition between schools—it’s a way for each institution to gain power and prestige. It’s a matter of honour and pride, and a way to showcase each school’s magical prowess. There’s no doubt that the other champions are being helped by their respective school heads. 
“Won’t they notice it’s missing?” you ask, scanning the parchment once more.
Suguru scoffs. “Do you think I’m an amateur? I duplicated the original parchment and brought it.”
You clench your jaw, fingers tightening around your quill. The words swim before your eyes, forming a picture you don’t want to see. Fire, movement, a creature—there’s only one possible scenario, and your stomach churns at the thought.
“Dragons?” you ask, voice quieter now, tinged with unease.
“Possibly,” Suguru says. “But it could be something else. They might want to mix things up.”
“Like what?” you press. Different creatures run through your head, each more terrifying than the last. “Manticores? Chimaeras?”
“Too wild,” he muses. “They’d want something dangerous but controllable. Something they can contain.”
You frown, thoughts racing. “A griffin?”
“Unlikely,” your rival says, tapping his fingers on the table, “but not impossible.”
You sit back, arms crossed. Despite all these possibilities, Suguru doesn’t seem fazed. He leans back as well, mirroring your position, eyes flickering to the parchment he stole from the Headmaster’s office. How is he not afraid? Your heart rabbits at the thought. There’s less than a month for the first task to take place; you and Suguru will have to map out all the possible outcomes and prepare for the worst. In a way, you’re grateful—making a to-do list and crossing things off it one by one is one thing you can handle. The rest is up to Suguru, now.
“If it is dragons—or something similar—you’ll need to prepare for fire,” you begin. “A lot of it.”
“Go on.”
“You’ll need protective charms,” you say, scribbling it down on the blank piece of parchment in front of you. “And something to help with visibility. Smoke can be just as dangerous as fire if you can’t see what you’re doing.”
Suguru nods slowly, his expression thoughtful. “Good points. What else?”
You hesitate, studying him. For once, he seems genuinely interested in your input, not just humouring you. It’s disconcerting, seeing him so serious, so focused. “If it’s not dragons, or any other big creature,” you say cautiously, “then it could be something smaller but equally dangerous. Fire crabs, maybe. Or Blast-Ended Skrewts.”
“Creatures with coordinated attacks,” he murmurs, brows furrowing slightly. “That would be challenging.”
“And if it’s not a creature at all?” you add, mind spinning with possibilities. “What if it’s something more abstract, like a puzzle or an obstacle course involving fire?”
He considers this, shifting in his seat. “Then I’d need to think on my feet,” he says finally.
“You mean you’d need to rely on luck.” You scoff.
Suguru’s placid smirk returns, and you immediately regret opening your mouth. He glances at you, and says lightly, “Luck has served me well so far.”
“Overconfidence isn’t a strategy, Suguru.”
“Neither is pessimism,” he counters sharply.
You bristle at the remark but bite back the retort on your tongue. Arguing with him isn’t going get you anywhere, and despite your frustration, you know he needs your help. If he goes into the first task unprepared, it won’t be just his pride on the line—it’ll be Hogwarts’, too.
You sigh, dropping your quill into your inkpot. “Fine. If we’re doing this, then we’re doing it properly.”
He spreads his arms out, palms facing upwards. “Then there’s only one thing left to do. We have to find a place to practice.”
Tumblr media
The Room of Requirement is something of a Hogwarts myth, the kind of thing that people will bring up in conversation only to sound far more interesting than they really are. It’s a concept shrouded in mystery, its existence neither confirmed nor denied, referenced only briefly in Hogwarts: A History as “a chamber of peculiar use, appearing only to those in great need”. 
For most students, the idea of a room that appears when one is in great need is nothing more than a charming story—like the rumours about the Bloody Baron’s long-lost treasure, or Peeves the poltergeist’s supposed alliance with the Slytherin Quidditch team.
Pacing up and down the seventh-floor corridor, opposite the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy attempting to teach trolls ballet, you find yourself hoping—reluctantly—that this particular myth holds a grain of truth.
Mei Mei had mentioned it once, offhandedly, when discussing the lengths she’d go to for privacy. “The Room of Requirement,” she’d said. “It’s the kind of place that knows what you need before you do. A bit unnerving, if you ask me.” At the time, you’d rolled your eyes and dismissed it as Mei Mei being her usual cryptic self. But now, with Suguru expecting a place where you can practice in secret—away from prying eyes and endless questions—you find yourself clinging to the possibility of its existence.
You pause mid-step, glancing at the blank expanse of the stone wall. It looks as unremarkable as every other corridor in the castle. “Great need,” you mutter to yourself, feeling a bit foolish. “Right.”
You begin pacing again, focusing on what you need. Your footsteps echo faintly in the empty hall. I need a place to practice, you think. A place where no one will interrupt. A place with enough room to practice spellwork, with everything I need.
On your third pass, something shifts. The air around you seems to hum faintly, and the smooth stone wall ripples like water stirred by some invisible hand. A door begins to materialise, the brass handle gleaming slightly in the torch light. For a moment, you just stare, half-expecting it to vanish as suddenly as it appeared. But it doesn’t. It stands there, solid and tangible, as if it had been there all along and you’d just failed to notice.
Taking a deep breath, you grasp the handle and push the door open. The room that greets you is nothing short of extraordinary. 
It’s cavernous, the ceiling arching high above you like the vaulted nave of a cathedral. The walls are lined with shelves stocked with spellbooks, potions ingredients, and various magical artifacts. At the centre of the room, there’s an open space with a dueling platform. You take a tentative step inside. To the side, there is a row of practice dummies, some made of rusty metal and some made of scuffed wood. The door closes softly behind you, sealing you into this impossibly perfect place.
“Sweet Merlin,” you breathe out, marvelling.
You walk slowly around the room, taking it all in. The books on the shelves seem to shimmer faintly, their spines marked with titles like Defensive Charms for Advanced Duelists and The Art of Magical Adaptation. Some of the titles are ones you’ve come across on your rare trips to the Restricted Section of the library, while others are entirely unfamiliar.
Still, a part of you can’t shake the feeling that you’re trespassing. The room feels alive in a way the rest of the castle doesn’t, as though it’s watching you, waiting to see what you’ll do next.
You turn your attention to the dueling platform, running a hand over the smooth, polished wood. If Suguru has any hope of surviving the first task—and you’re still not entirely sure why you care if he does—this is where you’ll need to start.
The thought of working with him here, in this quiet, secretive space, stirs a complicated mix of emotions. Annoyance, of course—he’s insufferable—but also a grudging respect. Suguru may be arrogant, but he’s also skilled, and you can’t deny the challenge of matching wits with him.
You sigh, glancing towards the door. You’ll have to tell him about the Room of Requirement soon, but for now, you allow yourself a moment of quiet triumph.
The Room of Requirement is real, and you found it.
Tumblr media
Geto Suguru is understandably skeptical about the Room of Requirement’s existence, but words fail him when you take him to the seventh-floor corridor and show him. His incredulity crumbles into quiet awe when the door takes shape in front of you both, and you can’t resist the smug grin that forms on your lips.
You push open the door, and, theatrically sweeping your arm out wide, say, “Ladies first.”
“How mature.” Suguru rolls his eyes but steps inside tentatively. His eyes widen when he scans the room, sees the bookshelves and the practice dummies and the dueling platform. A small scoff escapes his lips. “Wow. I can’t believe you found the Room of Requirement before me.”
“I’m sure being the Hogwarts champion means you’re always busy,” you comment, sarcasm dripping from your tone. 
The champions aren’t busy—not yet, at least—and a lull in the excitement about the tournament was brought about chiefly by the professors assigning copious amounts of homework and essays. You have an essay on the influence of tea leaf clumping on upcoming Quidditch matches for your Divination class due tomorrow, but you can’t bring yourself to care.
Suguru scowls. “Forgive me for not wanting to waste my time on a wild goose chase.”
“I found the Room of Requirement, Geto. It’s hardly a goose chase if it exists, is it?”
“Tch. This was a fluke.”
“Are you going to continue debating about this room’s existence while we’re in the damn room, or are you going to actually practice?” You sniff disdainfully, crossing your arms over your chest.
“You want me to hex a practice dummy?” His smile returns, faint but just as mocking as ever. “How riveting.”
“No, actually,” you retort, your own lips curving upwards. You step onto the dueling platform and hold out your wand. “I want you to hex me.”
He falters, blinking at you owlishly. “You want me to—”
“Don’t get all worked up,” you interrupt. “It’s a practice duel, not a declaration of war.”
Suguru grins, teeth flashing in the dim light. He shrugs off his robes and leaves it in a heap on the floor. His tie is loose, and his shirt untucked, but he quickly ties his long hair up and clambers onto the platform, gripping his wand tightly. He steps back, adjusting his stance, and gestures for you to begin.
You don’t hesitate. “Expelliarmus!”
He deflects the spell easily, wand slicing through the air. “Protego.”
The red flash of your spell rebounds harmlessly off the invisible shield he conjured, and before you can regain your footing, he counters with a quick Stupefy. You barely dodge it. The jet of light whizzes past your shoulder and strikes the wall behind you.
Gritting your teeth, you flick your wand and say, “Incarcerous!”
The ropes that shoot from your wand nearly catch him, but Suguru is quicker. He steps aside neatly, his wand a blur as he attacks with a Disarming Charm. “Expelliarmus!”
Your wand flies out of your grip and straight into Suguru’s waiting hand. You huff, cheeks flushed with heat and sweat beading on your forehead. Glaring at him, you gesture for him to toss it back to you. He obliges, maddeningly proud, and not a single hair out of place.
“I didn’t realise I’d be dueling someone so… unprepared,” he taunts.
“You were just lucky,” you retort. You step back into position, determination to best him burning in your chest. “Again.”
For the second round, you’re more prepared. Spells fly back and forth, crackling through the air. Suguru is fast, but you’re clever, weaving around his attacks and shooting back with different sorts of jinxes.
“Confundo!” you shout, aiming directly at his chest. Suguru deflects it with a flourish, but his stance falters for a split second. You don’t waste the opportunity. “Rictusempra!” The Tickling Charm hits him squarely, and he lets out an undignified yelp, doubling over with laughter.
“Y-you—” He’s laughing too hard to finish the sentence, face red and eyes watering. Clutching his side, he tries to regain control.
You lower your wand, a victorious grin spreading across your face. “What’s the matter, Suguru? Ticklish?”
He glares at you through his laughter. With a flick of his wand, he casts Finite incantatem, the general counter-spell for any minor jinxes or hexes, straightening up and smoothing out his shirt. “Unnecessary.”
Your smile widens. “Oh, I don’t know about you, but I found this particularly amusing.”
“Resorting to petty jokes now, are we?” Still, you can sense the grudging respect in his tone. “Not bad, little lioness.”
“High praise, coming from a conniving snake,” you say, though the words lack their usual bite.
You enjoyed it, you realise. You enjoyed dueling with Geto Suguru, the one person who you’ve had it out for ever since you joined Hogwarts. Flopping onto the floor and catching your breath, the thrill of the duel doesn’t seem to wear off. Even Suguru fidgets with his wand, mouth set in a grim line. You tear your gaze away and stare at your own wand instead. There is something about being evenly matched with him, the way both of you anticipate each other’s next moves, the way you dodge and attack with equal strength.
“Same time tomorrow?” Suguru breaks the silence.
You hesitate, then nod. “Yeah. Same time tomorrow.”
Tumblr media
Geto Suguru’s face is on the front page of the Daily Prophet—Wizarding Britain’s newspaper— alongside Amélie DuPont of Beauxbatons and Aleksandar Ivanov of Durmstrang. The picture moves, as all photographs in the magical world do, with Amélie in the middle, tucking a strand of her silver-blond hair behind her ear while her light blue skirt billows slightly in the wind. Aleksandar is more serious, thick eyebrows set in a frown with his burly arms crossed over his chest.
In the centre is the bane of your existence himself. His long hair is half-down and pinned back. His robes are neat and pristine, the Slytherin crest and his Prefect badge gleaming. He twirls his wand between his fingers, lips curled upwards in a lazy smirk, though his eyes are as sharp as ever. The headline underneath the picture reads:
CHAMPIONS PREPARE FOR GLORY: INSIGHT FROM THE TRIWIZARD FRONTLINES
The Great Hall is noisy during breakfast, the smell of food and the cacophony of students eliminating all other senses. Your hand tightens around your fork and you stab at your eggs aggressively. Utahime takes the newspaper and flicks it open to the page with the Champions’ interviews.
“‘Hogwarts Champion, Geto Suguru’,” she begins to read aloud, “‘impresses everyone with his unparalleled spellwork and ability to stay calm under pressure.’”
Shoko, halfway through her toast, snorts. “Sounds like he wrote it himself.”
“‘When asked about his preparation for the first task’,” Utahime continues, “‘he credited his regimen to ‘careful planning and focused practice’.’” She pauses, raising an eyebrow at you. “Does that sound familiar?”
You refuse to rise to the bait, though your cheeks warm despite yourself. Two weeks of training in the Room of Requirement—of dodging his spells, practicing wandwork, and biting back your own irritation—have left their mark. 
Mei Mei, peering over Utahime’s shoulder, comments, “Oh, look. He also mentioned something about collaboration. About how it elevates one’s abilities.”
“How diplomatic of him,” you mutter. “He really loves the sound of his own voice, doesn’t he?”
“Talking about me again?”
You freeze, the unmistakable drawl sending a shiver of annoyance down your spine. Looking up slowly, you find Suguru himself standing opposite you, flanked by Gojo Satoru. “Morning, Gryffindors,” the latter greets cheerfully, blue eyes twinkling. Suguru, however, merely slides into the seat across from you, his dark eyes not leaving yours. You grab your goblet and take a sip of your pumpkin juice just to have something to do with your hands.
Satoru drops unceremoniously on the bench next to Shoko without invitation, snatching a piece of toast from her plate. “Merlin, it’s lively here.”
“Go away, Satoru,” his female friend replies. “Get your own toast.”
“Sharing is caring.” Satoru bites into the toast with gusto.
“I hope you choke on it,” Shoko says flatly.
Utahime mumbles an apology and leaves when the Head Boy, Nanami Kento, calls her over. They have to discuss something about the first Triwizard Tournament task that will be taking place the next day. Mei Mei escapes to the bathroom, leaving the four of you sitting by the Gryffindor table. It’s a sight in itself, really, because it’s rare for Slytherins to be mingling with Gryffindors so amicably. Yet, Shoko and Satoru remain oblivious to the stares as they continue to bicker over breakfast, while you shift uncomfortably.
Suguru’s eyes flick briefly to the half-folded Daily Prophet near your hand. “Enjoying the article?”
Your stomach twists. “I haven’t read it,” you lie, glaring down at your mutilated eggs.
“Shame. I was curious about what you thought.”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” you snap, though the heat crawling up the back of your neck betrays you. “Why would I waste my time reading about you?”
“You’re awfully defensive for someone who doesn’t care,” Suguru says.
“I don’t care.”
Satoru leans over. “Do you think they’ll hex each other before the first task? I’ve got ten Galleons on it.”
“Make it fifteen,” Shoko says, “and I’ll lend you my wand for the counter-curse.”
You glare at both of them, but Suguru’s voice draws your attention back. “Since you’re clearly not invested,” he says, tone light but eyes determined, “any advice for tomorrow?”
You blink. Of all the things you’d expected him to ask, it hadn’t been this. “Don’t get yourself killed,” you say bluntly.
He huffs out a soft laugh, shoulders shaking slightly. “Noted.”
“Well, this has been fun,” says Satoru, standing up and stretching his arms over his head. “But I think I’ve exhausted our dear Shoko’s hospitality.” He swipes her goblet and downs her pumpkin juice.
“Touch my plate again, and I’ll set your robes on fire,” Shoko warns.
With a laugh, Satoru ruffles her hair and saunters off, leaving you and Suguru alone in this tense, uncomfortable silence. “Good luck tomorrow,” you say finally, not meeting his gaze.
“Thanks,” he says, quieter than usual.
When he stands up to leave, you can’t help but feel a pang of unease. The first task is tomorrow, and while you would never admit it, you hope he comes out of it unscathed.
Tumblr media
Dragons. Your hunch about the first task was right.
The cold November air is sharp as knives, cutting through the layers of your robes as you grip the railing of the stands surrounding the makeshift arena. Excitement and dread churns together in your stomach, though you’d die before admitting the latter. The stands are packed, students and professors bundled in thick scarves and gloves, all leaning forward eagerly to catch a glimpse of the champions. Amidst the black of the Hogwarts robes, there is also the pale blue of Beauxbatons and the dark red of Durmstrang. The excitement is palpable, everyone buzzing with anticipation for the first task. You find yourself crammed in between Utahime and Shoko.
You swallow hard, keeping your eyes fixed on the arena below. The dragons are corralled in an enclosure just beyond the champions’ tent, their massive silhouettes casting long shadows on the frosted ground. Even from this distance, you can hear the occasional growl and the rustle of leathery wings.
“Dragons,” Utahime mutters, rubbing her gloved palms together worriedly. “How can they call this a school competition and then throw dragons at the students?”
“They’ve done it before,” Shoko drawls lazily, though her sharp eyes betray her worry. Satoru stands next to her, arms crossed over his chest and lips pressed into a grim line. You shiver; it’s bad enough that Shoko is worried, but seeing the normally cheerful Satoru so serious makes you anxious. “At least they’re not asking them to fight them barehanded,” she continues. “That would be more fun.”
“Shoko,” Utahime hisses, chiding. “Please stop.”
You don’t contribute to their conversation. Your gaze moves to the champions’ tent, barely visible through the enchanted mist that swirls over the field. Suguru is in there. You wonder how he’s preparing himself—he’s facing one of the most dangerous magical creatures alive, after all. The thought makes worry pool in your stomach.
From somewhere below, a voice booms across the field, magically amplified to reach every corner of the grounds. “Witches and wizards, welcome to the first task of the Triwizard Tournament!”
The crowd erupts into cheers. Utahime wrings her hands beside you, and the most you can manage is a weak clap.
“The task,” the announcer continues, “is as daring as it is dangerous. Each champion must retrieve a ring from the heart of the arena. But guarding the rings are some of the fiercest magical creatures alive—dragons!”
A collective gasp ripples through the crowd, followed by excited whispers. Utahime lets out a low groan. “They can’t be serious. This isn’t a tournament—it’s a death wish.”
Shoko shrugs. “They’ll be fine. Mostly. The Ministry of Magic wouldn’t let them die. Probably. They could get horribly maimed or injured, though.”
“Reassuring,” you mutter. You’ve been pretending to be indifferent for ages, but the truth is, you’re terrified for Suguru.
The announcer’s voice booms again. “Our champions will face their dragons one by one, drawn randomly to determine the order. The task is not merely about bravery, but also ingenuity, strategy, and magical skill. The ring holds a crucial clue to the next task—so it is imperative that they succeed!”
Your hands are numb against the railing, but you’re not sure if it’s because of the cold or because of something else entirely. The first task is madness—complete and utter madness. And yet, as the announcer’s voice booms again, calling out Suguru’s name, something in your chest curdles with a chill far worse than the cold.
“First, Geto Suguru, representing Hogwarts, will face the Hungarian Horntail!”
The sound is deafening. Cheers erupt from every corner of the stands, the Hogwarts students roaring loudest of all. Even the Slytherins, with their restrained, cold demeanour—the exception being Satoru, of course—cannot contain their pride. 
Geto Suguru steps into the arena, holding his wand loosely in one hand with the other tucked into the folds of his robes. His long hair is swept up into a tight knot. You can’t hear him over the noise, but you swear you see him mutter something under his breath.
The Hungarian Horntail is enormous. Even from a distance, its obsidian scales glint ominously, and its massive, bat-like wings shift restlessly as its amber eyes lock onto Suguru. The ring lies just beyond the dragon, perched atop a precarious pile of boulders. It gleams like a star, a tiny thing that’s almost not worth the effort, you think. But of course, Suguru is just like you, and pride comes before anything else. You’re sure he’s already thought of a dozen different ways to get past the beast—because it’s something you would do, as well.
The Horntail snorts, sending a plume of smoke spiraling into the air. The arena is silent now. Suguru takes his first step towards the dragon.
“Is he insane?” Utahime whispers, voice trembling. “Does he not see the size of that thing?”
“He does.” It’s Satoru’s first proper sentence this morning, and the assurance with which he says it alleviates some of your worry—though not by much. “He’s Suguru. He always knows exactly what he’s doing.”
You remain silent, not taking your eyes off him. He moves slowly, with the kind of deliberacy that makes it clear he’s prepared. No step is wasted, no motion is hurried. He’s in control—or at least, that’s what he wants everyone to think.
“Confringo!” The spell erupts from his wand, creating a fiery blast that hits the ground near the dragon’s massive claws. The Horntail snarls, tail lashing out and gouging deep scars into the earth. The Blasting Curse he used isn’t meant to hurt—it’s meant to provoke.
Suguru casts another spell, this time to conjure a dazzling array of shifting, flickering lights. The dragon’s attention is drawn to the display; it tilts his head and looks up, mesmerised. You clench your jaw. It’s a bold move, because dragons are intelligent, but their curiosity is a double-edged sword.
“He’s trying to confuse it,” Utahime murmurs, clutching the ends of her scarf. “That’s risky.”
Risky is an understatement, you think. Suguru doesn’t stop. He moves his wand, pointing it low, and you see him mouth a spell—Glacius. The ground beneath the dragon becomes a slick sheet of ice. The Horntail’s claws scrape against the surface, wings flaring out as it tries to balance itself.
But it recovers quickly—too quickly. With a guttural roar, the beast lunges towards him, jaws snapping. Your heart thuds in your chest, but Suguru dives out of the way and smacks hard into a large rock. He slumps against it, chest heaving with heavy breaths. You hear Utahime and Shoko gasp beside you, but it’s drowned out by the sound of your own blood rushing in your ears.
Get up, you want to say. Get up and get that bloody ring, Geto. It’s silly—of course he can’t hear you—but there’s a gash on his arm, and his robes have darkened with blood, and it feels like if you somehow think it, Suguru will make it happen. It’s a flimsy mindset, but you’ll take whatever shreds of comfort you can get.
The dragon charges towards him, nostrils flaring and eyes gleaming. Suguru scrambles to his feet, the ends of his robes frayed and face streaked with dirt. He lifts his wand and casts a Protego maxima, a shimmering shield that briefly halts the dragon’s fiery breath. The shield holds for just a moment, but it’s enough time for Suguru to reposition himself, his eyes darting towards the ring. 
“Come on,” you say under your breath, fingers tightening around the railing. 
“Lumos maxima!”
A burst of brilliant, blinding light shoots out of his wand, illuminating the arena. You let loose an exhale; he’s clearly learnt from the dragon’s reaction to light earlier. It’s a good strategy, you will admit. The Horntail lets out a snarl, massive eyes narrowing against the glare. It thrashes, swinging its tail wildly, but Suguru has already limped away. 
The dragon’s claws gouge into the earth once more, its bat-like wings flapping violently as it tries to shake off the distraction. Suguru uses the brief opening to dart closer, his focus entirely on the ring. His wand moves in a tight arc, and the light shifts into a pulsating sphere, hovering just beyond the Hungarian Horntail’s reach. It works. The orb of light draws the dragon’s attention away from Suguru.
“He’s using it as a decoy,” Shoko says, leaning forward.
“Smart move,” Satoru chimes in, hushed. 
His blue eyes glitter knowingly at you, though, and you turn away, feeling your cheeks heat up. Suguru must have told him about all the research you did about dragons and their different breeds, and how they’re not so different from cats—if you take out the fire-breath and the wings and the long tail, or the fact that they could eat a human alive in a heartbeat.
Suguru raises his wand again, muttering an incantation. A shimmering net of magical energy bursts forth, wrapping around the dragon’s front claws. The Horntail roars—but its movements are hindered enough to give him the opening he needs.
The ring glints in the faint sunlight, and with a quick Summoning Charm—Accio—it soars straight through the air to him.
The Horntail senses it immediately. With a furious roar, it pounces, its massive jaws snapping shut mere inches from Suguru’s outstretched hand. But Suguru is faster. With a final, desperate leap, he snatches the ring out of the air, landing hard on the frost-dusted ground. He rolls to his feet, the ring clutched tightly in his fist, and sprints towards the edge of the arena.
The Horntail thrashes behind him, but it’s too late. The magical barrier seals shut just as Suguru crosses the threshold. The dragon lets out a frustrated roar that echoes through the stands. The crowd erupts into cheers, the noise ringing in your ears. Hogwarts banners wave wildly in the air, and Satoru and Shoko let out a series of loud hoots, while you simply sigh, relieved.
“He did it,” Utahime breathes out.
“Of course he did.” Shoko beams proudly.
You don’t say anything. Your heart is still racing, your chest still tight. He did it. He passed the first Triwizard task.
Suguru hobbles past the stands, dark eyes scanning the crowd, one hand pressed to where the gash on his arm is. You curse yourself for feeling irrational—for wanting him to look at you. He does. His gaze lands on you, and he pauses for the shortest of moments. The corner of his mouth curls upwards in a small half-smile, and then he’s gone, disappearing into the tent where the champions will be tended to.
“He could’ve died,” Utahime mutters, shaking her head as the next champion is announced.
You glance back toward the arena, frosted fingers loosening their grip on the railing. The first task is over, but the dread in your stomach doesn’t subside. The dragons may be gone, but the Triwizard Tournament is far from over. 
Tumblr media
The Room of Requirement glows faintly in the dim light of the lanterns it conjured up, their golden halos casting long, flickering shadows over the stacks of books and piles of scrolls you and Suguru pulled out of the bookshelves lining the walls. You sit cross-legged on a soft, velvet cushion on the floor. Suguru paces in front of you, the soles of his boots soft against the tile.
The ring, when Suguru gives it to you, is warm to the touch and made out of the same gold the wizarding world uses to shape Galleons out of. A part of the ring is flattened into a signet, engraved onto which are a collection of dots. They look like pockmarks on an otherwise smooth surface. You rub your thumb over them curiously.
“Look inside,” Suguru says. He picks at the ends of the bandage wrapped around his arm, restless and jittery. “There’s something written on the inside of the ring.”
Turning the ring over in your palm, you bring it close to your eyes and squint. The words are tiny, and, for all intents and purposes, make no sense to you whatsoever. The ring’s golden surface glints, the engraving on the signet catching the shifting light. You roll it between your fingers, the faint warmth oddly soothing, though Suguru’s squirrely pacing sets your nerves on edge.
“Would you stop fidgeting?” you snap, squinting at the letters once again. “It’s hard enough to focus without you stomping around like a restless Hippogriff.”
“I’m thinking,” Suguru retorts, though he halts mid-step and folds his arms across his chest. “Unlike you, who’s just staring at the thing as if it’ll start talking.”
“It might!” you fire back. “It’s magical, isn’t it? Who knows what sort of enchantments it’s got?”
“It’s a ring, not a bloody Howler. Let me see it again.”
Reluctantly, you pass it over, careful not to touch his injured hand. His fingers brush against yours anyway, and the warmth lingers annoyingly on your skin. Suguru holds the ring up to the lantern light, tilting it to study the dots engraved on the signet. 
“These dots look like they’re arranged deliberately,” he murmurs, tracing the marks. “They’re not random.”
“Well, obviously.” You roll your eyes. “The question is, what do they mean?”
He ignores you, dark eyes narrowing as he turns the ring over and studies the inscription. “‘Ego sum principium mundi et finis saeculorum’,” he reads aloud, the Latin rolling maddeningly smoothly off his tongue. “It sounds ominous.”
“It means something,” you say, leaning forward to snatch a book off the pile in front of you. It’s a dusty tome with Enigmatic Latin Phrases emblazoned on the cover, though you have a sinking suspicion it’s going to be less helpful than you hoped. “It has to. Why else would it be engraved on a magical artifact?”
Suguru plops down onto the cushion opposite you, sweeping away a bunch of scrolls. He places the ring on the ground in between you both. “If it’s a clue for the next task, then it has to be related to the Triwizard Tournament somehow. Something symbolic, maybe?”
“Brilliant deduction,” you deadpan, flipping through the pages of the book. “Didn’t realise you were such a scholar.”
“And I didn’t realise you were such a comedian,” he drawls. “Let’s focus. What do you think it means? The phrase—’I am the beginning of the world and the end of ages’. What does that sound like to you?”
You blink at him. “How did you translate that?”
“Studied Latin and French when I was kid,” he says smugly, in a manner that makes you want to deck him. Wonderful. Another aspect in which Suguru is already one step ahead of you, you think bitterly. “But that’s not the point,” he continues. “What do you think it could refer to?”
You look down, tapping your quill against the edge of the book. “It could be a reference to time,” you muse aloud. “The beginning and end… It's cyclical. Like a clock, or a calendar, maybe?”
“Or a journey,” Suguru adds, tilting his head. “Something that starts and ends with the same person. The champions?”
“Possibly. But it could also be something more abstract—like fear. Everyone’s afraid of something; it’s universal. The start and end of every challenge.”
Suguru picks up the ring again, running his thumb over the dots. “And this?” he says, gesturing to the engraving. “What if it’s pointing us somewhere? A location, maybe? Or a specific kind of task?”
You frown and lean closer. “The arrangement of the dots,” you say slowly, “looks… familiar. Like a pattern.”
“Like a constellation,” Suguru supplies. “You’re right. It’s got to be one.”
The conclusion settles over you both, but it doesn’t offer much clarity. You chew on the inside of your cheek, considering. “If it’s a constellation, then it’s symbolic, right? They all have stories tied to them—myths, legends.”
“Yeah, but which one?” Frustration creeps into his voice. “These dots could be anything. There’s no clear shape.”
“It could be something obscure,” you suggest. “Maybe even something specific to the wizarding world. I think we’ll have to make a trip to the Astronomy Tower some time soon, though.”
“Great,” says Suguru flatly. “So we’re supposed to decipher a constellation in a shape I’ve never seen and an inscription that sounds like it was prophesied by a second-rate Seer.”
“Better than wandering blindly into the second task. Though, knowing you, you’d probably manage to make it out alive. Cockroaches always do.”
He scowls, but his lips twitch upwards by the slightest. “And here I thought we were having a moment.”
“We weren’t,” you say immediately. The back of your neck prickles with heat.
Suguru rolls his eyes, though not with malice. He stretches his arms over his head. The action causes his shirt to ride up slightly; you avert your gaze quickly. “I’m starving.”
“What?”
“I’m hungry,” he repeats, standing up. “All this thinking has drained me. Fancy a trip to the kitchens?”
“It’s nearly midnight,” you point out—but your stomach growls faintly in agreement. “And I’m not sneaking around the castle because you can’t stop eating.”
“Suit yourself,” he says with a shrug, heading towards the door. “I bet the house-elves have made éclairs for tomorrow’s dinner.”
Well. You’ve always been weak to chocolate. Muttering a curse under your breath, you scramble to your feet and find yourself following him, the ring warm inside your pocket.
Tumblr media
The Hogwarts kitchens are a marvel, a hidden oasis of warmth nestled beneath the castle’s chilly stone walls. Suguru finds the painting of a fruit bowl by the Hufflepuff common room, and tickles the pear. It lets out a loud giggle—you cringe, hoping Filch, the caretaker, and his evil pet cat, Mrs. Norris, are nowhere around. The pear transforms into a shiny brass door handle, and the moment the painting swings open, you’re met with a rush of buttery heat and the mingling aromas of chocolate, caramel, and freshly baked bread.
The kitchens are bustling with movement. House-elves dart about with a speed and efficiency that puts magic itself to shame. Pots clatter, ovens hum, and enchanted trays of golden pastries glide through the air. 
A small, wiry house-elf with parchment-like skin and eyes like twin garnets appears in a puff of flour and indignation, his thin arms folded over his chest. A neatly pressed tea towel with the Hogwarts crest embroidered on it covers his tiny body.
“Young master should not be here!” the elf scolds. “It is forbidden to disturb the kitchens so late at night!”
“Good evening to you too, Sukuna,” Suguru says smoothly, brushing past the house-elf and into the kitchen. He inspects a nearby tray of éclairs, plucking one up and sniffing it appreciatively.
Sukuna’s bat-like ears quiver, his expression contorting between outrage and resignation. “Master Geto always does this. Always sneaking in like a naughty student. Not even a little bit nice and polite like the young Hufflepuff miss who always comes to say hello.”
“That’s because I am a naughty student,” Suguru says cheerfully, winking raunchily at you; you huff and roll your eyes. He sinks his teeth into the éclair with a pleased hum. “And you, Sukuna, are a saint for indulging me.”
The elf huffs, though his cheeks flush slightly at the praise. His gaze shifts to you, eyes narrowing slightly. “And this one? Is this young miss also here to pilfer desserts?”
“I— what? No!” you sputter, though your stomach growls traitorously at the scent of chocolate and cream wafting from the éclairs. 
Suguru leans against the counter, lips tugged up in a smirk as he regards you. “Don’t be shy,” he says, gesturing towards the tray. “Sukuna won’t bite. Probably.”
“Only if asked nicely,” Sukuna mutters darkly, but he waves a hand, and another tray of éclairs floats down onto the counter as though by invitation.
Despite yourself, you reach for one. The pastry is warm, its golden shell yielding easily beneath your fingers. When you bite into it, the rich, velvety chocolate spills over your tongue deliciously.
“Good, isn’t it?” asks Suguru.
You hate that he’s right. “It’s passable,” you say, lifting your chin imperiously.
He barks out a laugh, brushing crumbs off his trousers. “Sure it is. That’s why you’re reaching for another one already.”
You glance down and curse under your breath. Grumbling, you take another bite of your éclair, determined to ignore the victorious glint in his eyes. Sukuna, meanwhile, seems torn between chastising you both and taking pride in your obvious enjoyment. In the end, he settles for clicking his tongue and vanishing to attend to an overflowing cauldron of treacle in the corner. The kitchen falls into companionable quiet, broken only by the distant clatter of utensils and the murmur of house-elves bustling about.
“So,” you say finally, licking a smear of chocolate off your thumb, “are éclairs your usual midnight snack, or is this just an excuse to avoid figuring out the second task?”
Suguru raises an eyebrow, feigning offense. “I’ll have you know I’m perfectly capable of eating and thinking at the same time.”
“You’re more a connoisseur of distractions. Very good at distracting yourself,” you say, without any real bite in your voice.
“Distractions are necessary,” he says lightly, gaze steady on your face. “Sometimes, stepping back helps you see things more clearly.”
You chew on that for a moment. “Fine. I’ll admit you have a point there. But the second task does seem to be rather interesting, don’t you think?”
He grins, teeth flashing in the light. “I’d be disappointed if you didn’t think so.”
You roll your eyes, but a small part of you warms at the compliment. Across the room, Sukuna reappears with a teapot and two mismatched cups. He sets them down with a flourish.
“If young master and young miss insist on loitering, at least have tea,” the elf says, somehow managing to sound both fond and exasperated at the same time.
Suguru raises his half-eaten dessert in a mock toast. “To Sukuna, the real hero of the Triwizard Tournament.”
The house-elf grumbles something unintelligible, though you catch the faintest beginnings of a smile before he disappears again. 
“Are you always this insufferable?” you ask.
Suguru smirks, taking a small sip of tea. “Only with people who make it fun.”
You shake your head, biting back a smile of your own. For all his arrogance and sharp edges, there is something oddly disarming about Suguru like this—unguarded, his cutting wit tempered by the soft glow of the kitchen lights. The two of you sit in silence for a while, finishing off the tea and éclairs. The warmth of the kitchen seeps into your bones, making you feel drowsy and comfortable. Your eyelids feel heavy, and you wrap your arms around yourself.
“Alright,” Suguru says finally, setting his cup down with a clink. “Don’t fall asleep on me, little lioness.”
“‘m not falling asleep,” you mutter sleepily.
“I think we’re done for the day,” he says. “I’ll walk you back to the Gryffindor Tower.”
“I can walk back on my own.”
Suguru sighs, not unkindly. “I know.”
Tumblr media
The Yule Ball is one of the highlights of the Triwizard Tournament—a night where students get the opportunity to dress up and dance, and indulge in the sort of revelries Hogwarts is usually so strict about. Utahime is convinced that some students will find a way to smuggle in Firewhiskey—wizarding alcohol—and is currently stressing out over how to regulate the intake of beverages of the students over a plate of hash browns and scrambled eggs. 
Nanami Kento, the Head Boy, is trying to diffuse a Situation that’s taking place at the Slytherin table. Some poor Hufflepuff girl (the captain of the Hufflepuff Quidditch team, you later recognise) had the balls to ask out Fushiguro Toji, notorious womaniser and blood purity freak, as her date for the Yule Ball. You nearly drop your cutlery when he calls her a Mudblood—a slur meant for people like you, born to Muggle parents. Gritting your teeth angrily, you glare at the back of Fushiguro Toji’s head. What a nasty, vile excuse for a man.
The Situation is diffused when the girl passes out, a ball of yellow fabric clutched tightly in her hands. You have to give it to her; it takes serious guts to publicly ask out someone, though you wonder what sort of curse possessed her to ask Fushiguro, of all people.
“Absolute menace,” you mutter under your breath, stabbing your scrambled eggs with unnecessary force.
Mei Mei turns a page of Witch Weekly with a sigh. “Honestly, these pureblood types are so predictable. Such flair for cruelty, yet so unoriginal.”
“You’d think he’d at least come up with a creative insult,” Shoko adds dryly, her teacup balancing precariously on her saucer.
“Missed me, ladies?” Satoru, perpetually grinning like a Cheshire cat, plops himself onto the bench opposite you. His white-blond hair gleams under the enchanted ceiling of the Great Hall, and his tinted glasses perch at the end of his nose in a way that makes him look both ridiculous and infuriatingly charming.
Shoko’s reply is swift. “Not particularly.”
Mei Mei grunts out a greeting, and you merely smile politely at him. Utahime, still fretting over the logistics of conducting the Yule Ball, slides out of her seat in a hurry and mumbles something about finding Nanami so they can discuss things properly. 
“You wound me, Shoko,” Satoru says, clutching his chest theatrically. “Anyway, I’ve got a pressing matter to discuss.”
“Does it involve you somehow setting fire to the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom again?” Mei Mei asks, not looking up from her magazine.
“That was one time,” Gojo replies, feigning outrage. “No, this is much more important. The Yule Ball. Who’s asking who? Gossip is flying around faster than a Nimbus 2000.”
Of course, wherever Gojo Satoru goes, Geto Suguru is bound to follow. He approaches your little group, dark hair tied back neatly, expression as composed as ever. He slides onto the bench beside you with a nod of thanks to Mei Mei, who moved her plate of toast to accommodate him.
“Talking about the Yule Ball, I presume?” Suguru asks, reaching for a slice of buttered bread.
“Of course we are,” Satoru says, leaning forward conspiratorially. “It’s the event of the year, Suguru. Surely someone’s asked you by now.”
Your fork pauses in mid-air. For some reason, you find yourself wanting to know the answer.
Suguru’s lips quirk upwards, the ghost of a smirk. “As a matter of fact, someone has.”
The table collectively turns to him. Shoko raises a curious brow. Even Mei Mei closes her magazine in favour of staring at Geto Suguru like he’s just sprouted a pair of antlers on his head.
“Details,” Satoru demands, grinning wide.
“She’s from Beauxbatons,” Suguru says. “Asked me yesterday afternoon. I said yes.”
A sharp pang blooms in your chest, prickly and unwelcome. You drop your gaze to your plate, pressing your lips together and willing yourself not to react. It doesn’t matter. You don’t care. Suguru could go with whoever he wanted. He isn’t your friend, and he certainly isn’t—no. Absolutely not.
“Leave it to you to snag a Beauxbatons girl,” Mei Mei comments. “They always go for the broody ones.”
Gojo snorts. “Broody? Suguru’s about as broody as a cauldron full of kittens.”
“Are we done analysing my date?” Suguru asks.
“Not even close,” Satoru says, but his attention soon shifts to Shoko attempting to balance her goblet of water on her saucer as well. Mei Mei picks up her copy of Witch Weekly once more and flips through the glossy pages.
You pick at your food, your knife scraping against your plate. The thought of Suguru dancing with some elegant Beauxbatons girl—someone undoubtedly beautiful and graceful and more poised than you could ever be—makes your stomach churn unpleasantly. The image of them laughing together, her delicate hand resting on his shoulder while his wraps around her waist, is as vivid as if it had been etched into your mind.
“You’re quiet,” Suguru murmurs, soft enough that the others can’t catch it.
“Just tired,” you lie, not meeting his gaze.
He doesn’t push further, but you feel his eyes linger on you for a moment longer before he returns to nibbling at his toast.
Shoving aside the annoying ache of jealousy, you straighten in your seat and force a pleasant expression on your face. Fine. If Suguru had a date, then so would you. Someone handsome. Someone confident. Someone who would make him think twice before flashing his perfectly polite little smile at you and your date.
“You know,” you begin, loud enough to draw the attention of your friends, “I think I’ll ask one of the Durmstrang boys.”
“Oh?” Shoko says, interest clearly piqued. “Got anyone in mind?”
“Not yet,” you admit, grabbing your goblet and swirling your pumpkin juice absentmindedly. “But there’s bound to be someone suitable. They’ve got that rugged, intimidating thing going on.”
Satoru bursts into laughter, nearly knocking over a plate of sausages. “Merlin help whatever poor bloke you’ve set your eyes on.”
You scowl. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Only that you’re not exactly the type of person to swoon over a man that’s—what did you say it was?—rugged and intimidating.”
“Well, we’ll see,” you say, lifting your chin defiantly. “Maybe I’ll surprise you all.”
With that, you turn back to your half-finished breakfast, and Satoru launches into a dramatic recounting of his supposed rejection by a Ravenclaw—”Her loss, really”—and you don’t look at Suguru at all. Still, as the meal ends the Great Hall empties, your resolve falters. You can’t help but glance at Suguru one last time. He’s listening to something Satoru is saying, lips curving upwards in a smile.
The pang returns, sharp and insistent—but you ignore it. After all, there are plenty of Durmstrang boys to choose from. Surely one of them would do just fine.
Tumblr media
There are many ways to get yourself a date for the Yule Ball. You’ve watched it happen over the last week: dramatic declarations of affection in the Great Hall, quiet notes slipped between textbooks, bashful confessions in various corners of the castle. But this? This is different. 
This is not the ideal method of asking someone out. Borderline stalking the Durmstrang champion because you saw him trudge through the snow towards the Black Lake—where the Durmstrang ship is docked—from the window of the Gryffindor common room is hardly what anybody would call dignified. Yet, here you are, braving the sharp, icy wind, and the crunch of snow underfoot, determined to follow through with your ill-conceived plan.
Your goal is straightforward, or so you tell yourself. Aleksandar Ivanov is a handsome man, someone impossible to ignore. His broad shoulders are draped in a thick, fur-lined coat that seems to defy the chill of Scottish winters, and his sleek, dark hair catches the fading light of the afternoon. He looks like something out of an old wizarding tale, that sort of unrealistic hero who was carved out of marble and brought to life.
Aleksandar Ivanov is not your type at all. 
No, this has nothing to do with the hulking Bulgarian himself, and everything to do with Geto Suguru.
You hate the way you felt when Suguru mentioned his date. You hate that the image of him dancing with someone else—that faceless girl draped in blue satin—feels like a thorn lodged deep in your chest. Most of all, you hate that you care. So, you’ve decided on a solution: The bold, handsome Durmstrang champion on your arm at the Yule Ball. That’ll show him.
Aleksandar’s strides are long, the dark fur of his coat fluttering slightly in the breeze. He’s alone, his hands tucked into his pockets. You can see the faint outline of the Durmstrang ship in the distance, its masts swaying gently as the lake ripples against the hull. The sight fills you with a sudden sense of urgency. If you don’t catch him now, you’ll lose your chance.
“Excuse me!” you call out, your voice carrying over the air. Aleksandar slows, then turns, his piercing green eyes locking onto yours. For a moment, you feel rooted to the spot, your carefully rehearsed words scattering like leaves to the wind.
“Yes?” he says. There’s a faint accent to his voice.
You force yourself to take a step closer, and then another, until you’re standing just a few feet away. “Good evening,” you say, forcing a smile. “Aleksandar, isn’t it?”
“It is,” he says, the corner of his mouth twitching, though it doesn’t become a full smile. “And you are?”
You hesitate. Your name feels oddly small when you say it. The cold nips at your cheeks, and you resist the urge to shove your mittened hands into the pockets of your jacket.
“Well, then,” Aleksandar says, tilting his head slightly. “What can I do for you?”
“I…” You clear your throat, cursing the way your voice wavers. “I was wondering if you’d like to go to the Yule Ball with me.”
Aleksandar’s expression doesn’t change, but something flickers in his eyes—amusement, maybe, or curiosity. He takes a step closer, and you resist the urge to back away. “Interesting,” he says at last, drawing the word out. “You do know you’re not the first person to ask me to the Yule Ball, yes? You’re very beautiful, but why, exactly, would you want to go with me?”
Your cheeks flush with the heat at the sudden compliment, but your prepared responses—something about his reputation, his charm, his skill in the Tournament—suddenly feel hollow. You can’t tell him the truth, either, that this is about someone else. So you scramble for a suitable response.
“Well, you’re the Durmstrang champion,” you say, aiming for nonchalance but landing somewhere closer to desperation. “It seemed fitting.”
Aleksandar raises an eyebrow. “Fitting? Is that all?”
“Yes,” you lie, though your voice lacks conviction.
For a moment, he says nothing. The silence stretches, broken only by the distant lapping of the lake’s waves against the shore. Then, to your surprise, Aleksandar smiles—not the cool, detached smirk you were expecting while he brutally rejects you, but something warmer, almost amused.
“Very well,” he agrees, his voice carrying a hint of humour. “I’ll be your date.”
“Really?” The word escapes before you can stop it, and you cringe at how eager you sound.
Aleksandar’s smile widens. “Yes, really. Though I must admit, I am curious about your true intentions.”
“My intentions?” you repeat, trying your best not to sound sheepish. “What do you mean?”
“You see,” he says, “my intentions with you are rather simple. Word travels fast around the castle, and I know you were the closest person to best the Hogwarts champion in claiming the title. Besides the fact that you are very pretty, I think it will also make my competitor waver a little, no?”
You bite your tongue. He’s right. Aleksandar Ivanov is more than just a pretty face and brute strength. He’s also cunning and intelligent. You’re certain he would be a Slytherin if he attended Hogwarts instead of Durmstrang Institute.
“And you,” he continues. “You don’t strike me as the type of person to make bold declarations for the sake of tradition. There is something else, isn’t there?”
The same thing as you, Ivanov. I want to see the Hogwarts champion waver, you think. Instead, you stiffen, and say, “There’s nothing.”
“Hm.” Aleksandar doesn’t look convinced, but he doesn’t press the issue. “Well, whatever your reasons, I look forward to the Ball. I trust you’ll make for an… interesting evening.”
You nod, too flustered to do anything else. “Of course.”
“Let’s match,” he says. “What are the colours of your… house, as they call it?”
“Scarlet and gold.”
“Wear a red dress. Until then, dovizhdane.” Aleksandar turns back towards the ship.
You blink, but manage a stiff nod before walking away. You’ve done it. You’ve secured a date for the Yule Ball. But why, despite everything, do you still wish it was Suguru you’d be meeting on the dance floor?
Tumblr media
“Lupus,” you read aloud, from the book Celestial Phenomena And Their Meanings placed on your lap, “is a constellation that is associated with wolves in Greek and Roman mythology. The stars that now form the constellation Lupus used to be part of the Centaurus constellation. They represented a sacrificed animal impaled by the centaur, which was holding it toward the constellation Ara, or the altar.”
Suguru rolls the ring around in his palm, chin propped on his other hand, sitting cross-legged across from you. “Interesting,” he muses. “Anything else?”
The signet catches the light of the Room of Requirement, glinting golden. It wasn’t hard to map out the dots to pictures of constellations and figure out which of the star-clusters was engraved on the ring. The harder part, now, is trying to piece together what it could possibly mean, and how it is related to the Latin inscription on the inside of the ring.
You clear your throat and say, “It says it’s also connected to the founding of Rome and the story of Orpheus.”
He straightens up at that, dragging a hand through his hair. He’s left it loose for the evening, and it spills over his shoulders, long and soft. Your hand itches to smoothen out the top of his scalp, but you bite back the urge and internally scold yourself for being an irrational mess around him. 
“Can I have the book?” 
You wordlessly pass it to him, leaning back on your arms and stretching your legs out in front of you. The velvet cushion is downy to the touch, and warm under your fingertips. An enchanted fire crackles in the corner, preventing the chill from outside from creeping in.
“It could also represent King Lycaon of Arcadia, who was turned into a wolf by Zeus,” he reads, eyes roaming over the page curiously.
“The question is,” you press, “what does all this mean? Lupus—wolves in general, really—have always been associated with survival, but the myth says it was a sacrificial animal caught by the Centaur. What does that mean? How does this connect to the inscription inside the ring?”
Ego sum principium mundi et finis saeculorum. I am the beginning of the world and the end of ages.
“Some great sacrifice, perhaps?” Suguru’s brows furrow in that way they always do, pinched together when he’s thinking hard about something. “But what would we sacrifice?”
“The answer to the riddle?” you suggest.
“Which is, what, exactly?”
You grimace. “I’ve no clue. It could be anything.”
He hums, fingers tracing the signet of the ring. “I wonder,” he murmurs, “if this is a test of more than just knowledge. The Headmaster’s riddles are rarely based on facts alone. He likes to see what’s in people, not just what they know.”
“A moral riddle, then?” You raise your eyebrows, shifting slightly on the cushion. Leaning forward, you peer at the ring once more. The Latin inscription glints faintly, almost as if it’s daring you to unravel its secret. “It could be literal. A physical sacrifice. Or—” You pause, chewing your lip. “Or it could be metaphorical. Something symbolic. The myths about wolves and sacrifices aren’t just about death. They’re about transformation. Survival. Endings and beginnings.”
“Hm.” Suguru tilts his head, his dark hair shifting with the movement. His gaze shifts from the ring to you. “Transformation. That ties neatly with the inscription, doesn’t it? The beginning of the world and the end of ages… sounds rather apocalyptic, don’t you think?”
“Don’t start spinning doomsday theories. We have enough to worry about without you prophesying the end of the world.”
“Not the world. Something about the world.”
“Or… Maybe it does have something to do with sacrifice. An emotion attached to it, maybe?” The question is rhetoric, simply you tossing out whatever unrealistic theories you can come up with, but Suguru leans forward, interested.
“You mentioned fear last time,” he says. “I think that makes sense, but what would the second task be? Dementors? Do they expect us to know how to cast a Patronus Charm?”
“I don’t know, Suguru,” you say. Your shoulders slump, defeated. Your head spins with various possibilities, each more far fetched than the last. “This is annoying me.”
Suguru huffs out a soft laugh, shoulders shaking. “Tired already, little lioness?”
“Don’t call me that,” you grouse. 
“Noted.” He grins, all teeth and lips. You look away and ignore the way your pulse quickens. The sight of him like this—long limbs sprawled about, hair framing his face, his shirt creased and tie undone—makes your stomach flip in ways you don’t want to comprehend. “By the way, have you found yourself a date to the Yule Ball yet?”
You blink, disoriented by the sudden question. “Actually, I have,” you admit, face flushing with heat for no apparent reason. “Aleksandar Ivanov.”
“Ivanov?” Suguru’s voice trembles with something that sounds suspiciously close to disbelief. You want to crow with victory—this is what you had wanted, after all—but instead, all you feel is a strange sense of dread growing in your abdomen. “The Durmstrang champion?”
“Yes,” you say, lifting your chin slightly. “He’s… nice.”
“Nice?” Suguru scoffs. “That’s the best you could come up with?”
You glare at him. “What’s wrong with nice?”
“Nothing, if you’re describing a cup of tea or a particularly fluffy cat. But a date to the Yule Ball?” He shakes his head, exhaling sharply. “Ivanov is—”
“What?” you interrupt, your irritation rising. “Handsome? Intelligent? Charismatic?”
“—a pompous peacock with an accent that makes people swoon for no good reason,” he finishes, his voice dripping with disdain.
You bristle, crossing your arms. “You already have a date to the Ball. I don’t see how it matters to you who I go with.”
“It doesn’t,” he says quickly. “I just didn’t take you for someone who falls for shiny boys from other schools.”
You bite back a retort, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of riling you up further. Instead, you turn your attention back to figuring out the constellation, rifling through the pages of another book you pick up from the stack in front of you. The silence stretches, and Suguru is the first to break it, tentatively.
“Did you hear about Nanami docking points from Slytherin? Twenty this time. All because of Toji and that Hufflepuff girl.”
Your stomach twists at the mention of Fushiguro. “He called her a Mudblood,” you say bluntly. “She fainted because of it.”
Suguru’s fingers curl into fists, his expression clouding. “Fushiguro’s an idiot, but docking points for something he said? That’s unfair.”
“It’s completely fair,” you say, anger rising in your chest. “He used a slur, Suguru. Against her. Against people like me—Mudbloods, as Fushiguro would say. So yes, I think Nanami was right to take points away.”
The words hang in the air, heavy and cold. Suguru says nothing, his expression unreadable. Then, finally, he sighs, shoulders slumping. “I didn’t mean—”
“Didn’t mean what?” you bite back, voice rising. “Didn’t mean to defend him? Didn’t mean to make excuses for someone who thinks people like me are lesser than him?”
“I’m not defending him,” Suguru snaps. “I just think punishing the whole house for someone else’s stupidity is unfair.”
“Unfair?” You laugh bitterly. “You want to talk about unfairness? Try walking around this castle knowing there are people who look at you and see something dirty. Try hearing that word every time you walk past a group of pureblooded Slytherins. Try knowing that despite everything you do, you will always, always be ousted by someone simply because they were born into the fucking wizarding world while you weren’t. But, of course, you wouldn’t know what that feels like, would you, you privileged ponce.”
Suguru flinches. You pick up your wand and cloak from the discarded heap on the floor and, anger still simmering in your chest, stride out of the Room of Requirement without a glance back.
Tumblr media
As per custom, the selected champions must always enter the Yule Ball after everyone else. After days of gruelling ballroom dancing practice brought upon you and your housemates by your head of house, who did not want you to besmirch the Hogwarts name by acting like a “babbling, bumbling, band of baboons,” you like to think you’re quite the connoisseur of waltzing.
Aleksandar offers his arm to you, the dark red of his dress robes accentuating his cheekbones and eyes. Your own gown ripples with every movement, the deep crimson satin soft against your skin. 
You descend the staircase carefully—tripping because of your heels would be an embarrassment you don’t want to experience—and don’t look at Geto Suguru. You’re still furious at him, and you want absolutely nothing to do with him at all tonight.
“You look very beautiful,” the Durmstrang champion murmurs under his breath. “It is an honour to be with you.”
You laugh shakily. “Thank you. And likewise.”
He smiles without teeth. “I believe your champion is glaring at us.”
“Is that so?” You glance sideways at your date. “He should be paying attention to the pretty girl on his arm instead, don’t you think?”
Aleksandar opens his mouth to say something, but before he can reply, the doors to the Great Hall open, and a professor hurriedly begins ushering in the couples. 
Amélie, tall and graceful, with her long hair pinned into an elegant French braid, is the first to enter to a smattering of applause from the gathered students. Her peony-blue dress shimmers under the lights of the enchanted chandelier, and she walks with her head held high and her hand tucked into the crook of her date’s arm. Her date is a flustered Hufflepuff boy, someone you’ve seen around the corridors occasionally; he looks like he’s been struck by a Confundus Charm, what with the dazed look in his eyes. (You can’t blame him. The Beauxbatons champion is gorgeous.) 
Next, is Suguru. You stare at the back of his head while he leads his date into the Great Hall. His long, dark hair is tied back in a loose ponytail, held in place by an emerald green ribbon. His dress robes are the same colour, swishing around his knees with every step he takes. And, of course, there’s his date—the nameless, faceless Beauxbatons girl who matches his elegance and grace in every manner possible. You’ve heard her name being tossed around, but you refuse to acknowledge it. Jealousy is a fickle thing, and you are petty enough to succumb to it. They are the epitome of a perfect wizarding couple, you think; something in your mouth sours. The fact that you are still angry at Suguru does nothing to ease your mind.
You snap your gaze away as soon as they enter the Great Hall. Aleksandar nudges you gently, a faint smile playing on his lips. “Shall we?”
You nod, and he leads you forward. The Great Hall is breathtaking, even though you’d seen it earlier when helping Utahime with the decorations. The enchanted ceiling reflects a clear winter night sky, complete with gently falling snowflakes that vanish just before reaching the floor. The tables along the edges of the wall are laden with sweets and drinks. The floating candles that are normally present above your heads are nowhere to be seen, instead replaced with glittering chandeliers. A large space in the centre has been cleared for dancing, and a live wizarding orchestra has set up their instruments in the far corner.
The applause, as Aleksandar leads you out, feels distant, like a dull roar in the back of your head and you force a smile to your face. You can still see Suguru out of the corner of your eye, his emerald robes catching the light while he and his date glide further into the hall. He doesn’t look back, which is somehow worse than if he had.
You’re startled out of your thoughts when Aleksandar leans close to murmur, “You’ve gone quiet. Thinking about something?”
“Nothing important,” you reply quickly, flashing him a grin that doesn’t quite reach your eyes.
“Good,” he says with a wry chuckle, “because I’d hate to think I made you lose interest already.”
The comment earns him a genuine laugh this time, albeit a small one. The Bulgarian seems pleased, though, and gently steers you towards the centre of the hall, where the champions are to open the first dance. The room is full of expectant eyes, students from all three schools whispering and staring. You spot a few familiar faces in the crowd—Shoko with Haibara, looking like they’ve been dragged into something way out of their depth; Nanami with the Hufflepuff girl he’d rescued from Fushiguro, a rare, happy smile on his face; Mei Mei and Utahime laughing at something by the dance floor. 
And, of course, there’s Satoru, leaning against the refreshments table with a goblet of pumpkin juice in his hand and a knowing smirk plastered on his face. He doesn’t look the least bit disgruntled about not having a date—a rare feat, considering how much of a drama queen he is. He catches your eye and wiggles his eyebrows at you, mouthing something indecipherable that you’re certain isn’t polite.
“Eyes up,” the Durmstrang champion says, low but not unkind. “You’re with me tonight.”
That’s right, you suppose. You are, so you shake your head and smile, turning to face him and resting your left hand on his shoulder. The orchestra strikes up a slow, elegant waltz, and Aleksandar’s hands find your waist.
The music swells, filling the enchanted hall with a lilting melody. Aleksandar guides you across the polished floor with a confidence that matches the proud poise of his bearing. For all your nerves, you fall into step easily, your waltzing practice smoothing out any initial awkwardness.
“You are good at this,” he murmurs, soft.
“I think I’m just very good at faking it,” you reply, glancing at the other couples. Suguru and his Beauxbatons date are near the centre of the hall, their movements seamless as if they’ve been dancing together for years. It’s a sight that would have been mesmerising—if it wasn’t so maddening in your eyes.
Aleksandar notices the flicker in your gaze but doesn’t comment on it. Instead, he shifts closer, his hold steadying you as he turns you in a spin. The room blurs briefly, the crowd fading into a swirl of colours before you’re pulled back into his orbit.
“You’re distracted,” he says lightly, though there’s an edge of knowingness in his voice. “Is it the crowd? Or is it something else?”
You open your mouth to deny it but catch the quirk of his brow, the faint amusement in his expression. He knows. Of course, he knows. “I—”
“It seems your true intentions were not so different from mine, after all.” Aleksandar smiles, a quick flash of teeth. “I suppose I must try harder to ensure I have your full attention.”
Aleksandar’s green eyes hold a hint of mischief in them. You smile, despite yourself. The waltz continues, each musical note cascading into the next. Around you, students start filling up the empty spaces on the dance floor, twirling and gliding, some with excellent prowess, others with two left feet. Still, your mind lingers on Suguru. It’s infuriating, how he fills up the crevices in your head, his absence from your line of sight louder than the applause once the dance ends. 
The song draws to a close with a flourish. Aleksandar bows low to you; you return the gesture with a curtsey, your gown sweeping the floor. When you straighten up, he leans close to you, his voice low enough only for you to hear. “If you need an escape, just say the word. I’d be happy to whisk you away from… whatever it is that is troubling you. Consider it a favour.”
You laugh softly, his offer half-serious and wholly tempting. “Thank you, Aleksandar.”
Before you can say more, you catch Suguru moving from the corner of your eye. You glance up—and there he is. Geto Suguru, standing a few paces away with his date, his dark eyes locked on you in a way that sends a shiver down your spine. He doesn’t smile, doesn’t nod, doesn’t do anything except look, and it’s enough to make your breath hitch.
Aleksandar shifts, stepping just slightly closer, his hand brushing against yours. “Shall we get drinks?”
“Yes,” you say, far too quickly. “Let’s.”
You let Aleksandar lead you away, but you can’t shake the feeling of being watched, his gaze burning into your back long after you’ve disappeared into the crowd. Despite yourself, a small smile graces your lips when you spot Satoru, still lounging against the snacks table. He grins and waves when you catch his eye, and sets his goblet down when you and Aleksandar approach.
“Well, well,” Satoru drawls, ocean eyes roaming over your figure. “Impressive. I didn’t think you’d clean up this well.”
“At least I’m not a lone stag at a couple’s event,” you retort, smile widening despite yourself. Satoru does look rather dashing, however, clad in navy blue dress robes with golden curlicues embroidered all over. “Satoru, this is Aleksandar, as I’m sure you know. Aleksandar, this is my friend, Satoru.”
Aleksandar offers him a polite nod. “A pleasure to meet you. I’ve heard… Well, not much, actually. Though I imagine your reputation precedes you.”
Satoru snorts, unfazed. “Not much? Oh, I’m wounded. Surely the great Aleksandar Ivanov, Durmstrang’s star champion, has at least heard of my devastating good looks.” He flashes his most charming grin, but it only seems to amuse Aleksandar further.
“I’m afraid that hasn’t reached Durmstrang’s halls. Perhaps you should consider advertising.”
You stifle a laugh, glancing between them. “Don’t encourage him,” you say lightly, earning yourself an exaggerated pout from Satoru. “He already has a big enough head as it is.”
“That, I can believe.” The Bulgarian casts a sidelong glance at you.
“Smart guy,” Satoru muses. “I like him.”
“Anyway,” you cut in, cheeks warming. “We were just getting drinks.”
Satoru gestures dramatically to the table laden with butterbeer, pumpkin juice, and other sparkling drinks contained within golden goblets. “Help yourselves. And I would greatly appreciate it if neither of you told Utahime that all these drinks have been spiked with Firewhiskey by yours truly.” He points with his chin behind your shoulders to where Utahime is clumsily attempting to teach Mei Mei how to do the two-step.
Aleksandar grabs a goblet of something orange and fizzy, passing one to you before taking one for himself. It tastes sweet, and slightly sour, and it bubbles deliciously on your tongue before you swallow. The two of you bid farewell to Satoru and venture towards a quieter, more secluded spot. “This is nice, no?” he asks, and you hum in agreement.
“You’re quite popular tonight.”
You freeze, recognising the tone before you even begin to turn. Slowly, you glance over your shoulder to find Suguru standing a few feet away, his date nowhere to be seen. You hate how seeing him alone fills you with a twisted sense of triumph. His expression is carefully blank, unreadable, and for a moment the noise of the Great Hall fades away.
“I didn’t realise you were keeping track,” you reply evenly.
His lips curve slightly, not enough to be a smirk but enough to make your skin prickle. “Of course not. Just observing.”
You tilt your head, offering him a smile that borders on a grimace. “That’s very thoughtful of you. Maybe you should focus on your own date instead of mine, though.”
Aleksandar shifts beside you, but he remains silent. Suguru’s gaze flicks briefly to him before settling back on you. “She’s more than capable of taking care of herself. Besides, you seem to enjoy the attention.”
“I’m sorry—are you implying something?”
“Not at all.” Suguru steps closer, and, voice low, continues, “Just that you seem to be… compensating.”
The jab cuts deeper than you want to admit. “Compensating for what?”
He doesn’t answer immediately, letting the silence drag on long enough to make your stomach twist. “You tell me.”
Before you can respond, Aleksandar clears his throat, his green eyes darting in between you both. “I think I’ll grab another drink. Excuse me,” he says, and slips away with a polite nod.
“Great,” you mutter, glaring at Suguru. “Now you’ve scared off my date.”
“Oh, please. He’ll come back. He’s too invested in playing the perfect gentleman to leave you alone for too long.”
“And what about you? Where’s your date, Suguru? Or did she finally realise what an insufferable prat you are?”
His eyes narrow. “She’s fine. Unlike you, I don’t need to flaunt her to get a reaction.”
“What, in Merlin’s name, is your problem?” you hiss. Your heart pounds against your ribcage, a mix of anger and something else you don’t want to name.
“My problem?” he repeats, a dry laugh escaping his throat. “You, apparently. Always finding a way to needle at me.”
“You’re the one who came over here,” you shoot back. “If you have such an issue with me, why not stay on your side of the Great Hall?”
The Hogwarts champion’s gaze flickers briefly, something shuttering in his expression. “Don’t get ahead of yourself. I just wanted to see how long you’d keep up the act.”
Your brows furrow; your patience is wearing thin. Placing your half-empty goblet on a nearby floating tray, you cross your arms over your chest. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
“That guy,” he says, gesturing at Aleksandar’s retreating figure. “Pretending like you’re actually interested in him.”
You stare at him, your chest tightening at the implication. “Stop it,” you say quietly, steadily.
“Stop what?”
“Stop acting like you care,” you snap. “You made it perfectly clear earlier whose side you were on. Don’t act like you suddenly care about who I spend my time with.”
The mention of your earlier argument over Toji hangs heavy between you, and for a moment, Suguru looks away, jaw tightening. Really, you’re thankful Fushiguro isn’t anywhere near you both. Knowing him, you think he’s the sort of person who thrives off of attention, no matter whether it’s good or bad. He’d be elated to know that Hogwarts’ beloved champion and the school’s runner-up are locked in an argument over him—but it’s not really about Fushiguro Toji, is it?
“I don’t care,” he says finally, though his words lack conviction. “Maybe I just don’t like seeing you waste your time.”
“Funny,” you reply. “I could say the same about you.”
The words linger in the air, stubborn as static. Suguru’s eyebrows knit together, and he reaches out and grabs your wrist—not roughly, but firmly enough to send your pulse racing. “We’re not doing this here,” he says, through gritted teeth, pulling you towards the door.
“What are you—” you start, but he cuts you off with a brisk, “Just come with me.”
You inhale sharply, but follow him down the hallways and up the staircases. You know where he’s taking you before the door to the Room of Requirement even appears. Once inside, the door shuts with a soft click, leaving the two of you alone in the dimly-lit space. You pull your hand free, glaring at him.
“What the Hell is this about, Suguru?”
“You infuriate me,” he says, voice cutting and low and breathless. “You drive me fucking insane, did you know? I dislike you so much.”
You blink at him like he’s just sprouted another head. “What the fuck? How much did Satoru let you drink?”
“I’m not drunk,” he says, eyes narrowing. “I’m just angry—and jealous. I’m so envious, Merlin help me.”
“What’s wrong with you?”
A wry, sardonic chuckle escapes his throat. He lowers his head, strands of hair that spill out of the ribbon framing his face. “I don’t know.”
“You’re such a hypocrite.” You swallow around the lump that forms in your throat. Goosebumps erupt across your shoulders when a sudden cold draft of wind makes you shiver. “I hate you.”
He lifts his face, then, gaze resting on your lips. His mouth parts slightly, as though to say something, but no words come out. Instead, he takes a step closer, and it feels like the room shrinks around you with each inch of space he eliminates. “You hate me?” 
Your heart pounds as you glare up at him, refusing to yield. “I do,” you snap, though your voice wavers just slightly.
Suguru lets out a bitter laugh. “Liar,” he says, so quietly, it almost doesn’t register. His hand moves before you can think to react, cupping your jaw, fingers brushing along the sensitive skin behind your ear. His thumb skims your cheek. “You hate me so much, but you’re still here. You can walk away. I won’t stop you.”
Your breath catches in your throat. You stay rooted in the spot, and your nails dig into your palms. “Shut up,” you whisper, though it sounds more like a plea than a command.
He doesn’t. Instead, his thumb moves lower, brushing along the corner of your mouth, lips turning up in a half-smirk when he sees the way your eyes flutter shut for the briefest of moments. “You’re flustered,” he notes, soft, “but you hate me, right?”
Something inside you snaps. With every ounce of venom you can muster, you repeat, “I do.”
And then you’re grabbing him by the front of his emerald green dress robes, yanking him down until your lips crash against his. It’s uncoordinated, a clashing of teeth and anger and frustration. Suguru freezes for half a second before he groans against your mouth, his hands sliding to your waist as he pulls you flush against him. 
It’s not gentle. His lips are rough, demanding, teeth scraping your bottom lip as if to punish you for every word you’ve ever said to rile him up. But you’re just as relentless, fingers tangling in his hair while you blindly undo the ribbon holding it in place, pulling sharply enough to draw a hiss from his throat. 
“You’re impossible,” you mutter against his mouth, breath coming out in short gasps.
“So are you,” he fires back. His lips trail down to your jaw, teeth grazing the skin there. “You drive me mad.”
You don’t bother replying, instead tugging his hair harder, forcing his mouth back to yours. His hands tighten on your waist, fingers digging into the silk of your dress as if he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go. You’re barely aware of the way Suguru backs you up against the nearest wall, his body pressing against yours while his mouth moves hungrily against your own.
“Say it,” he murmurs against your lips, low but somehow pleading.
“Say what?” you breathe out, though you know exactly what he means.
“Say you don’t hate me,” he demands, the words said into your neck, teeth skating over your skin and making you shudder.
Your fingers tighten in his hair, and you bite back a gasp. “No,” you whisper defiantly.
He pulls back just enough to meet your gaze, eyes dark and wild, chest rising and falling heavily. “Liar,” he mutters again, before crashing his lips against yours and swallowing any further protests.
(Later, when you stir from sleep, your dress barely doing anything to shield you from the chill, the first thing you notice is Suguru beside you. His head rests against the stone floor, hair unbound and spilling like ink over the cold surface. You don’t know when you fell asleep, but you do know how you ended up so close, your hands almost touching.
When his eyes flutter open, heavy with sleep, neither of you speaks. He exhales softly, gaze dipping to where your fingers nearly meet, and though his lips don’t form the words, the apology is there. You know this because he hooks his little finger with yours, and squeezes.)
Tumblr media
For the next month, you do the logical thing: You avoid Geto Suguru at all costs.
This, you’ve decided, is a perfectly reasonable course of action. A brilliant one, even. It takes careful planning—adjusting your usual routes between classes, lingering longer than necessary in the library, arriving at meals either too early, or too late—but you are nothing if not meticulous, and you refuse to let him and your feelings for him become an inconvenience. 
You do feel guilty, however, about not helping him out with the second task, but the way you see it, Suguru is more than intelligent enough to figure it out on his own. (You refuse to acknowledge the fact that you spend time trying to piece it out when you can’t sleep at night, staring up at the canopy of your four-poster bed.)
You’re doing quite well, really. Or, you would be, if not for your insufferable friends.
The courtyard is unusually lively today. The air hums with the lingering remnants of winter, crisp but pleasant beneath the afternoon sun. Students—both Hogwarts and not—lounge in clusters across the stone benches and patches of grass, basking in the rare moment of warmth. Laughter carries through the open space like birdsong.
You sit with your friends at one of the broader stone benches, a small pile of books and a stray Golden Snitch hovering in the air beside you (pilfered from the Quidditch supply closet by Slytherin’s star seeker, Gojo Satoru himself). It should be peaceful. It should be, but—
“You’re objectively wrong, and I refuse to entertain this nonsense any further.” Utahime crosses her arms, looking positively scandalised.
Satoru scoffs. “Utahime, be serious.”
“I am serious! You’re the one who sounds like an idiot.”
“I am an idiot,” he says, as if it’s obvious. “But at least I’m right.”
Shoko exhales slowly, pressing her fingers against her temples. “Merlin’s beard, what are you two even arguing about?”
“More importantly,” Mei Mei pipes up, swiping the Snitch from the air, “are we supposed to care?”
“Yes,” you say dryly, “if only to prevent them from tearing each other apart in the middle of the courtyard.”
Utahime turns to you, looking deeply affronted. “You agree with me, don’t you?”
“I don’t even know what the argument is about.”
Satoru gestures broadly with both palms. “I’m simply saying that if a Thestral and a Hippogriff were to fight, the Thestral would obviously win.”
Silence. You blink. “That’s what you’re arguing about?”
“First of all,” Utahime says, ignoring your incredulity, “that is completely wrong.”
“Oh, this will be good,” Satoru says, only a tad bit sarcastic. He sprawls onto a patch of dewy grass and leans back on his hands. “Do explain.”
“Hippogriffs are way more aggressive than Thestrals,” Utahime says. “And they have stronger beaks and claws. They’d win in a fight easily.”
“Thestrals literally eat meat,” Satoru argues. “They’re meant to take things down.”
“So do Hippogriffs!” Utahime points out. “Thestrals eat meat, but that doesn’t mean they’re fighters. They hunt only when necessary. They won’t even attack unless provoked.”
“Alright, but let’s say they were provoked—”
“By what, your stupidity?”
Satoru grins. “At least Thestrals don’t try to smite your face off because you bowed down to greet them at the wrong angle. Plus, they have the advantage of being invisible to everyone except those who’ve come face-to-face with death.”
Utahime makes a noise of frustration, and before you know it, the conversation has devolved into a full-blown debate. Mei Mei, ever the neutral one, watches with amusement, and Shoko starts taking sides. She and Utahime argue passionately in favour of Hippogriffs, citing their sheer power and aggression, while Satoru insists that Thestrals are stronger due to their skeletal structure and ability to take down large prey. You are promptly dragged into the discussion, despite having absolutely no opinion on the matter.
“It’s obviously a Hippogriff,” Utahime exclaims, gesturing wildly.
“You would think that, wouldn’t you?” the only Slytherin in the group shoots back.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“I don’t know, but I’m sure it’s insulting.”
You pinch the bridge of your nose. “Honestly, this is the dumbest thing I’ve ever—”
“You agree with me, don’t you?” Satoru rounds on you, eyes gleaming. 
You exhale, immediately regretting being within earshot of this conversation. “What?”
“You agree that a Thestral would win.”
You narrow your eyes. “I never said that.”
“Yeah, but you will.”
You sigh defeatedly, looking to the others for support, but Utahime merely juts her chin out. “Suguru wouldn’t agree with you,” she says pointedly.
Satoru snorts. “Suguru would agree with whatever she—” he points to you— “says.”
And just like that, your world tilts. The conversation continues around you—more bickering, more laughter—but it all fades into a dull hum, a sort of background noise to the sudden rushing in your ears. Suguru would agree with whatever you say.
It’s absurd. It’s just Gojo Satoru being Gojo Satoru, throwing out careless words without stopping to think about them. But the worst part—the part that unsettles you the most—is that he might be right.
You think of the way Suguru used to argue with you, sharp-tongued and obstinate, yet never truly cruel. How he always listened, even when he pretended not to. How, more often than not, he did end up on your side, whether by reason or sheer inevitability.
You inhale sharply, hands curling into fists on your lap. You make no move to join back in on the conversation—because, really, what is there to say?
That you can still feel the ghost of his hands on your skin? That you can still taste the Butterbeer he’d had on the eve of the Yule Ball when he slotted his lips against yours? That his name has lodged itself between your ribs, stubborn as a curse? That your heart stutters at the mere thought of him; that you cannot—will not—let yourself dwell on what could be if you let go of your pride, and he relinquished his arrogance?
No, there’s nothing to say at all.
Tumblr media
When you agreed to help Utahime rearrange the awards and plaques in the Trophy Room after classes, you certainly were not expecting her to lock you up in said room with one Geto Suguru. If it was any of your other friends—Shoko, Satoru—you would not have been very inclined to help out, but it was Utahime who asked, which is why you acquiesced. At least you can say, with utmost certainty, that sweet, loving Utahime Iori is not sweet or loving at all.
There’s a brief moment of silence as the heavy door slams shut behind you; you reach for your pocket instinctively to pull out your wand and cast Alohomora—the Unlocking Charm—and make your escape. Then, you belatedly realise that you’d left your wand in your dormitory after classes. Your fingers curl around nothing, and you feel rather stupid. 
Dust motes dance in the golden afternoon light, settling over gleaming plaques and silver trophies, their engravings telling stories of menial victories long past. The air smells like polish, but you hardly notice. Your pulse roars in your ears, loud enough to drown out all other sound but the one voice you had hoped to avoid indefinitely.
“Utahime,” you call through the door, voice strained but not yet desperate. “This isn’t funny.”
There’s no answer, save for the sound of retreating footsteps. You spin on your heel, fully prepared to ignore Suguru entirely until Utahime returns, but then he shifts—just the slightest movement, a tilt of his head, a shift of his weight from one foot to the other—and it’s as if some sort of invisible thread yanks you to him.
“I didn’t expect the Head Girl to actually agree to bring you here,” he says, voice low.
He looks tired. You hate that you notice.
His hair is loose, strands slipping over his shoulders, dark against the pale slope of his throat. His uniform is slightly disheveled—tie loosened, shirt rolled up to his elbows—but it’s his face that makes something in you twist uncomfortably. There are shadows beneath his eyes, bruised with exhaustion, and though his usual easy arrogance lingers in the set of his jaw, his shoulders are rigid, as though he’s bracing for impact.
You force yourself to turn away, to focus on the nearest plaque. The etched names are a blur as you try and fail to appear unaffected. Draconius Falmoy: Head Boy, 1869, it reads.
“You’ve been avoiding me,” Suguru says. There is no accusation in his tone—just fact, cold and clear as glass.
You trace the name engraved on the plaque with a fingertip. “I’ve been busy.”
A humourless laugh. “Right. Too busy to even look at me?”
You clench your teeth. “Don’t be dramatic.”
“Dramatic?” His voice sharpens, something brittle underlying it. “You haven’t spoken to me in a month. I don’t even know if you’d still acknowledge my existence if we weren’t locked in her together.”
You suck in a breath sharply, counting backward from ten in your head. You’ve spent weeks perfecting the art of pretending Suguru doesn’t exist; you’re not about to let him unravel it now. “I don’t know what you want me to say,” you manage to say, turning around to face him properly at last. “That I’m sorry? That I feel guilty?”
Suguru watches you, unreadable, dark eyes wrought with something you can’t name. “I didn’t ask for an apology.”
“No,” you say, crossing your arms over your chest, “but you clearly want one.”
Something in his expression flickers—hurt, maybe, or something close to it—but it vanishes so quickly, you think you might have imagined it. He sighs, running a hand through his hair, pushing it back from his face.
“I don’t understand you,” he says finally. “You kissed me, and then you disappeared.”
Your stomach lurches. “It wasn’t—”
“What?” He steps forward, gaze locked on yours. “It wasn’t supposed to happen? It didn’t mean anything?”
You hesitate, because you know that’s what you should say. You should roll your eyes, scoff, tell him he’s being ridiculous and move on like the Yule Ball never happened. He takes another step forward, and he’s close, now—close enough that you catch the faint scent of parchment and cedarwood, familiar enough after all the weeks you’ve spent in the Room of Requirement with him. You should say, Of course it didn’t mean anything, Suguru, don’t be stupid, but the words stick in your throat, prickly and unyielding.
“Tell me it meant nothing, and I won’t bother you ever again,” he promises, soft, and somehow that’s worse.
You swallow hard. “Suguru—”
He shakes his head, a bitter smile curling at his lips. “Nevermind.” He turns away, shoving his hands into his pockets. “You’re good at that, aren’t you? Pretending.”
 The words cut deeper than they should. You don’t respond, because what could you possibly say? That he’s right? That every morning, you tell yourself it was a mistake, that it didn’t matter, that you can keep pretending it never happened—only to feel his touch lingering on your skin like a phantom’s fingers?
No. You can’t say any of that. Instead, you press your lips together and say nothing.
The silence that follows is thick and heavy and suffocating. You don’t move. Neither does he. You count the seconds in your head, waiting for something—anything—to break this unbearable tension.
Then, at long last, a knock raps against the door. “Alright,” Utahime calls out, sounding far too smug for your liking. “I think you’ve suffered enough.”
The lock clicks. The door swings open. Suguru doesn’t spare you a glance as he strides past, his shoulder just barely brushing yours as he leaves. The Trophy Room suddenly feels too big, too quiet, and you’re left standing alone amidst the gleaming remnants of past victories, your heartbeat echoing loud in your ears. (You have the gnawing feeling that Draconius Falmoy, Head Boy of Hogwarts in 1869 would laugh at your predicament.)
“I’m sorry,” Utahime tells you, as you fall in step with her. “He kept asking me to help him find a way to talk to you—he even promised he would donate the thousand Galleons he gets as prize money for the Triwizard Tournament to St. Mungo’s Hospital of Magical Maladies and Injuries, if he wins.”
You don’t say anything, only look down at the stone floor of the corridor as you walk back to Gryffindor Tower. You can’t fault Utahime; she has always been extremely kind-hearted and gentle, and you know the idea of a donation to the wizarding hospital would sway her completely—especially considering the fact that it’s been her dream to become a Healer after she graduates Hogwarts.
“Are you mad at me?” she asks, after a beat.
“No,” you say, flashing her a small smile that you hope is convincing. Truthfully, you’re just mad at yourself.
Tumblr media
The plan is simple: Bribe Geto Suguru with sweets and pray he doesn’t hex you on sight.
It’s not your most sophisticated scheme, nor your most dignified, but after an entire month of avoidance, and the disaster that was the Trophy Room incident, you’ve resigned yourself to desperate measures. You are doing this, not because you feel guilty, but because you had agreed to help him out with the Tournament, and you don’t want to feel like a shitty person for going back on your word. Regrettably, it is incredibly difficult to help someone when you can’t look them in the eye.
Aforementioned desperate measures include grilling Shoko for every last detail about Suguru’s favourite things. She doesn’t make it easy.
“You’re acting like you’re about to woo him,” she’d remarked, flipping idly through the pages of her Potions textbook and entirely uninterested in your plight.
“I’m not trying to woo him.”
“You’re learning all of his favourite things, buying him chocolates, agonising over the best way to give them to him—all on Valentine’s day, too. I’m certain that that’s called wooing.”
Your face had burned; it wasn’t your fault the organisers decided to conduct the second task only ten days before the holiday of love. “I’m apologising,” you’d insisted.
Shoko had hummed, but despite her incredulousness, she’d humoured you and rattled off a list of trivial details about Suguru’s preferences—his favourite tea (jasmine), his favourite book (something tedious and philosophical), the subjects he likes best (Charms and Transfiguration, though you knew this already). Most importantly, of course, the only Honeydukes chocolates he actually cares for: dark chocolate-covered honeycomb. (“But only from Honeydukes,” Shoko had warned. “He says the other ones taste like burnt sugar.”)
Which is how you find yourself in Hogsmeade, the wizarding village closest to Hogwarts, the morning air crisp and cold, clutching a small, carefully-wrapped box of sweets like your life depends on it. Hogsmeade is lively, bustling with students eager to escape the castle for the day. The scent of butterbeer and freshly-baked pastries wafts through the air. All around you, couples wander hand-in-hand, jumpers pulled tight around their bodies to ward off the early spring chill, and their laughter bright against the grey sky. Shopfronts are decorated in ridiculous shades of pink and red, hearts and flowers strung across windows in celebration of Valentine’s Day.
The sight makes you feel vaguely ill, because this is not a romantic gesture. (Then why does it feel like your heart is about to leap out of your throat every time you think of him?)
You don’t linger in Honeydukes—Hogsmeade’s best chocolatier—for longer than necessary, as much as the toasty warmth and aroma of cocoa makes you want to stay. Making quick work of purchasing the chocolates, you step back out onto the cobbled streets, heart hammering at the thought of what you’re about to do. 
It’s not that you’re nervous. Not really. It’s just that approaching Suguru after everything feels a bit like facing a sleeping dragon—you don’t know if he’ll tolerate your presence or scorch you on sight. Still, you have to try.
You find him standing outside The Three Broomsticks, a pub and restaurant owned by the friendly Madam Rosmerta. He is not alone; Satoru and a few Durmstrang students surround him. He looks relaxed, hands tucked into his pockets, but there’s something in his expression that wasn’t there before. The tiredness clings to him still, there in the worn-out slump of his shoulders. Guilt gnaws at your ribs.
You hesitate, watching him laugh at something Satoru says. Maybe this is stupid. Maybe he doesn’t care anymore. Maybe—
Suguru turns and sees you. You don’t think you’ve ever stood so still in your life.
For a long moment, neither of you moves. The noise of Hogsmeade fades into the background, muffled and distant, like the world has shrunk down to just the space between you. His expression is shuttered, brows knitted together in a frown.
Your fingers tighten around the box. You should leave. You should turn around, pretend you never saw him, and—
His gaze flickers to your hands. Oh, Merlin’s beard.
With a sharp inhale, you straighten your spine and march forward before you can change your mind. Satoru notices you first, perking up like a dog catching sight of a squirrel. “Hey, look who it is! Fancy seeing you over here.”
You ignore him and stop directly in front of Suguru. His eyes widen slightly, like he hadn’t expected you to actually approach him. You shove the box into his hands.
Suguru blinks, catching it before it can fall. “What—?”
“It’s an apology,” you mutter, staring at the ground. “Take it or leave it.”
He doesn’t say anything immediately. You wonder, vaguely, if you’ve made a horrible mistake. If he’ll laugh, or hand it back, or— “...Honeycomb?” he asks quietly.
“...Yeah.”
Something shifts in his eyes, something subtle and indecipherable. He stares at the box, fingers tightening around the edges. When he finally looks back at you, there’s something in his gaze that makes your breath hitch. 
You don’t wait to see what he does next. Instead, you turn on your heel and walk away, determined to ignore the pounding of your heart. 
You don’t look back. You don’t see the way he watches you go, either.
(That night, when you tentatively enter the Room of Requirement for the first time in what feels like forever, you find Suguru already there, sitting cross-legged on one of the cushions. The box of Honeydukes chocolates lies open on the ground in front of him. You drop down onto the cushion opposite him, and wordlessly, he pushes the box closer to you.)
Tumblr media
The sky is pale, streaked with the last wisps of winter clouds, the sun still struggling to bring warmth to the February chill. It is not quite cold, not quite warm, that strange in-between where the air nips at exposed skin but doesn’t truly bite. The Quidditch pitch has been transformed. The stands are packed with students, banners waving in the light breeze, and an expectant hush hangs over the crowds, despite the murmur of conversation. 
The Black Lake gleams darkly in the distance, but the task does not take place in its depths. Instead, the champions stand in a row on the dewy grass of the Quidditch pitch, preparing for whatever horrors the second task of the Triwizard Tournament entails.
You already know what those horrors are. 
The riddle had taken a frustratingly long time to decode, to come up with a proper answer instead of a mere hunch. Ego sum prinicipium mundi et finis saeculorum; once the answer had clicked into place, it had seemed almost too simple. I am the beginning of the world and the end of ages. What was the first thing humans ever knew? What was the last thing they felt before death? 
Fear.
And so, the second task would force the champions to face their deepest fears, drawn from the constellations carved into the rings they had procured from the first task. It is an elegant, cruel bit of magic—one that ensures their struggles are uniquely personal.
From your place in the stands, you’re offered a clear view of the champions standing in the centre of the field, their expressions barely concealing their tension. Their rings glint in the light, the engraved constellations gleaming like ancient runes. Anticipation coats each of the champions like a second skin, shoulders stiff, hands clenched, magic thrumming in the air. You’d arrived earlier than your friends, so you sit alone, fingers curling into the hem of your robes.
In front of the champions is a large, dome-like structure that shimmers faintly with spells and charms. That is where the task will take place, hidden from the eyes of the over-eager audience to grant the champions some semblance of privacy while they complete the second task. 
You spot Suguru immediately. He stands with his back straight, arms crossed over his chest, face completely blank. His long hair is tied back loosely, a few strands slipping free and brushing against his cheeks. He does not fidget, does not shift from foot to foot like the other two, but there is a tightness to his stance, a rigidity in the way his shoulders refuse to relax.
A hush falls over the crowd as the first champion is announced to enter the dueling arena. Aleksandar Ivanov tries to hide his nervousness, but you can see the slight hesitation in his step and the way he grips his wand so tightly, his knuckles turn white. His ring bears the constellation Hydra, the many-headed serpent—a symbol of resilience, of something that cannot be easily destroyed. You wonder what he fears.
A glittering door begins to take shape, starting from the base of the dome. It creaks open, revealing a dark, yawning abyss beyond. Shadows slither across the ground, shifting and twisting, while the Boggart inside, enhanced by Tournament magic, begins to take form. 
Boggarts, as you’ve studied in your Defence Against the Dark Arts class, are amortal, shape-shifting non-beings that take on the form of its observer’s worst fear. Because of their shape-shifting ability, no one knows what a Boggart’s true shape is, as it changes form instantly upon encountering someone. The incantation used to banish a Boggart is simple—dispel the fear with amusement while casting Riddikulus. However, seeing as the Boggarts the champions must face are magically enhanced, you suspect a simple Boggart-Banishing Spell will not be enough. The thought alone is enough to fill your mind with worry.
Aleksandar steps into the darkness, the door vanishing behind him. The rules are simple: Each champion must navigate a maze of illusions, battle their own fears, and rescue the person chosen for them. The champion who succeeds in the shortest amount of time will earn the most points. An enchanted hourglass hovers in the air, grains of sand slipping through its neck to mark the passage of time.
You barely breathe as the minutes tick by, until Aleksandar finally emerges. His friend—the person he had to rescue—jogs out behind him, looking ashen but otherwise alright. It’s the Durmstrang champion whose face is drawn, whose hands are trembling. He is victorious—but shaken.
The Beauxbatons champion is next. Amélie takes longer than expected. She stumbles as she exits, her breath ragged, and her face streaked with something that might be tears. Her hands shake so violently that she can barely accept the glass of water being handed to her.
It is grueling. It is cruel.
And Suguru is yet to go.
You swallow hard as he steps forward, the light catching the gold of his ring, the constellation Lupus etched onto its surface. The wolf—strength, transformation. But strength does not mean the absence of fear.
He does not hesitate, moving towards the dome’s entrance. You can hear people whispering around you—students murmuring their predictions, placing their bets, trying to guess what exactly a boy like Geto Suguru could possibly fear. You grip the edge of your robes tightly.
The door shimmers into existence before him, tall and forbidding. It creaks open slowly, revealing the same thing it has for the previous two champions—an abyss of darkness, shifting and coiling like smoke. He steps inside. The door disappears. The enchanted hourglass flips, grains of sand slipping through its narrow neck. You exhale, only then realising that you had held your breath.
The stands are still buzzing with conversation, but it is nothing more than a distant hum in your ears. Your entire focus is on the closed dome, on the way your heart beats faster than it should, as if your body already knows something your mind is yet to understand.
What is he afraid of? 
Suguru is not fearless—no one is—but he has always carried himself in a way that makes him seem like he is. Unshaken, unbothered, his composure held so effortlessly that it has always frustrated you in ways you dare not name. He stands with an arrogance that makes it hard to imagine him afraid of anything at all.
Still, you know that arrogance is a performance. A shield. Suguru hates appearing weak, more than anything else, so he deludes everyone else into thinking he is not. You had thought that the riddle that you had agonised over for weeks was cruel in itself, but this is worse. The waiting. The not-knowing.
Your stomach twists into impossible knots as the minutes drag on. Five minutes. Six. Eight. You count each grain of sand slipping down the hourglass. Ten minutes pass.
Twelve minutes, and then—
The door bursts open. Suguru steps into the light, and he is not alone. Your breath catches in your throat.
Gojo Satoru stumbles behind him, blinking against the sudden brightness. His white hair is disheveled, his expression more one of confusion than relief. He shakes Suguru off with a scowl, tugging his sleeve free from where Suguru’s fingers still grip the fabric.
“You didn’t have to drag me—” Satoru starts, but he stops as soon as he catches sight of Suguru’s face. His expression shifts; wariness replaces irritation, amusement slips away like a mask crumbling at the edges.
Suguru stands rigid, shoulders taut with unnatural tension. His face is stony, unreadable, perfectly blank in the way that only means he’s holding something back.
The hourglass stops. It has only been slightly less than thirteen minutes.
Geto Suguru is the fastest champion to finish the second task of the Triwizard Tournament.
The cheers begin, slow at first—someone in the stands starts shouting his name, then another, and another, until the entire pitch is filled with applause and hoots. You barely hear it.
Suguru is not okay.
He doesn’t acknowledge the cheering, doesn’t even react to it. His jaw is clenched so tightly that you can see the strain in his muscles. He isn’t even looking at Satoru anymore—his gaze is fixed somewhere beyond him, unfocused and distant.
Then, as if pulled by some invisible force, his eyes lift—and he sees you.
For a fleeting moment, something breaks in his expression. A flicker of something raw and fractured, a crack in the mask. He huffs quietly, tiredly, and he walks away without a word.
Your stomach sinks. Something is wrong.
You barely notice the way the crowd is still celebrating his victory, the way students are excitedly chatting about how he finished faster than anyone else, because of course he did—Geto Suguru is the strongest, after all.
(But strength does not mean the absence of fear.)
Your fingers tremble slightly as you watch his retreating figure. His posture is stiff, and his steps are too controlled. You should look away, should let him leave. You should accept that whatever happened inside that dome is his burden to carry.
But you can’t, because suddenly, all you can think of is the way he looked at you just now. Like he needed to see you; like you needed to see him.
And, well, it’s quite silly in retrospect, but it’s a realisation that settles over you quietly, as if it’s been there all along and you’ve just stupidly buried it underneath your own pride and arrogance: You don’t hate Geto Suguru at all.
Tumblr media
“Go away,” Suguru says, stubborn as ever. He is propped up against a pillow on one of the beds in the Hospital Wing. An empty vial of Calming Draught is placed on the stand next to him, though you don’t mention it. Beside it, a half-empty box of Honeydukes chocolates.
“No,” you tell him, just as obstinate.
Suguru scowls. “I don’t want company.”
You ignore him, dragging a nearby chair closer to his bedside with an obnoxious scrape against the floor before sitting down. He doesn’t look at you, his gaze fixed somewhere beyond the tall windows of the Hospital Wing, where the afternoon light spills golden over the Hogwarts grounds. His hair is slightly damp—most likely due to sweat—and the dark strands cling to his forehead.
“Are you hurt?” you ask, eyes flicking to the empty vial of Calming Draught.
He scoffs. “Wouldn’t be here if I was.”
“You are here.”
He sighs, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes, as if trying to rub away whatever still lingers in his mind. “It’s just protocol. The Healers made me take a Calming Draught after the task, and apparently, that warrants a few hours of observation.”
You glance at him. He might not be physically injured, but there is something wrong, something unsettling in the way he carries himself. 
“You were in there only for thirteen minutes,” you say carefully. “That’s— That’s insane, actually.”
“I won, didn’t I?” he mutters.
“That’s not what I asked.”
He barks out a short laugh. “No. It isn’t.”
Silence, again. Suguru isn’t like this—not normally. He thrives in competition, in the thrill of battle, in the excitement of a challenge. He doesn’t dwell. He doesn’t let things linger like ghosts at the edges of his thoughts. But right now, it feels like he is being haunted.
“I saw your face when you came out,” you say, quieter this time. “You weren’t okay.”
His fingers curl into the sheets, gripping tightly. “It was just a Boggart.”
“A magically enhanced Boggart,” you remind him. “We don’t know how they worked, what they—”
“It’s over,” he snaps, cutting you off. “I’m done talking about it.”
You stare at him, waiting for him to meet your gaze, but he doesn’t. His shoulders are rigid—drawn tighter than they were before the task commenced—and his body is tense, as if he’s holding something in so tightly, it might crack him apart.
“...Was it Satoru?” you ask gently. “Is that what you—”
Suguru flinches, and somehow, that tells you enough. Your stomach twists. What did he see? Suguru and Satoru had come out of the dome together—Satoru unharmed, though clearly confused. The task had required him to rescue someone, and he’d done just that by saving his best friend. But what had he seen in there?
Suguru finally exhales, turning his head to you. “It was just a task,” he says. “And I won. That’s all that matters.”
“Stop pretending,” you say, voice sharper now. “I saw you after the task, and you weren’t fine. You still aren’t.”
Suguru narrows his eyes at you, but doesn’t respond. Instead, he looks away again, staring out the window like it might offer him some escape. You wait for some kind of acknowledgement, some crack in his carefully constructed walls. 
“I’m fine,” he says, but it’s too strained to be convincing. “It was just a stupid Boggart. It’s over.”
“No, it’s not,” you argue. “It’s obviously still bothering you, so just—just admit it. Tell me what happened, Suguru. I can try to help.”
He whips his head back toward you, eyebrows furrowed, patience wearing thin. “I don’t need to explain myself to you,” he snaps. “It’s over. I’m fine. End of story.”
You refuse to back down. “Don’t shut me out. I’m not going to just sit here and pretend I didn’t see the way you almost cracked when you came out of the dome!”
Suguru’s eyes flash with anger, his fingers curling into fists on his thighs. “I don’t need your pity, alright? So just drop it.”
“No, I can’t just drop it.” Your voice trembles with frustration. Why won’t he just listen? “I fucking care about you, and I can see it’s bothering you. What the Hell are you so afraid of?”
His entire body stiffens at your words. His gaze darts away again, and you know—you know—he’s trying to hold something back. He opens his mouth like he’s about to say something, but then he shuts it again.
“I’m not afraid,” he mutters, but there’s a brittleness to his voice that betrays him. “I told you, I’m fine. It’s over. Stop pushing.”
“You’re lying. What is it? What did you see in there?”
Suguru glares at you, his chest rising and falling with short, shallow breaths. Then, in a sudden burst of frustration, he spits out the words that he’s been holding back for far too long. “It was you, alright?!”
You freeze. “...What?”
“It was you,” Suguru repeats harshly. “I saw you in there—but you weren’t you.” he falters, but the words keep coming. “You—your eyes—they were empty, like something had taken you and left nothing behind. I couldn’t reach you. You were just standing there. Gone.” He stops, swallowing hard, trying to reign in his emotions, but it’s too late.
Your mouth runs dry, your pulse racing as his words echo in your head.
Suguru turns away from you, but you can see the rigidness in his back. “I couldn’t—couldn’t bring you back. I tried, but you were just gone, and there was nothing I could do.” He inhales wearily. “Like a Dementor had sucked the soul out of you, and I couldn’t do anything about it because my Patronus Charm wouldn’t fucking work, and—”
Your mind whirls. You know his fear now. It’s not some grand disaster, some monstrous threat—it’s losing you. Losing you in some way that he can’t fix.
“I’m sorry,” he mutters. “I shouldn’t have said that.”
For a long moment, you don’t speak. The only sound between you is the faint rustling of the Hospital Wing curtains shifting in the late afternoon breeze. Suguru’s chest rises and falls unsteadily. He refuses to look at you now, as if saying it out loud was already enough, as if giving his fear a form has made it real.
Of all the things you could have imagined, you’d never expected this. Suguru, who meets every challenge with an infuriating smirk, who stands unshaken even in the face of the impossible—he had been terrified. And it had been because of you.
You open your mouth, then close it. What do you even say to something like that?
Your heart aches at the way he’s withdrawn, curling in on himself as though he’s trying to make himself smaller. As though, now his secret has slipped, he’s bracing himself for whatever comes next.
So, instead of speaking, you move. Slowly, cautiously, you reach forward and wrap your arms around him.
Suguru stiffens immediately. His whole body goes tense under your touch, like he’s caught between the instinct to pull away and the desperate need to hold on. But then, after a beat of hesitation, he exhales shakily—and lets himself collapse into you.
It almost knocks the breath out of your lungs. His arms lock around you, tight—so impossibly tight that it almost hurts. He buries his face against your shoulder, and he grips onto you like he’s afraid that if he lets go, you’ll disappear; like he’s trying to convince himself that you’re real, that you’re here.
You don’t say anything. You just hold him.
His breathing is uneven, shallow at first, but gradually, as you rub slow circles into his back, it steadies. One of his hands curls into the fabric of your robes at your waist, clutching you like you’re a lifeline.
You feel him take a shuddering breath. “I know it wasn’t real,” he murmurs into your shoulder. “I know that. But it—fuck, it felt real.”
You nod, letting him press himself closer. “I know,” you whisper.
“I couldn’t do anything,” he admits. “I couldn’t do anything. I was right there, and you—you were just standing there, and I kept calling your name, but you didn’t even blink. And my Patronus—it wouldn’t work.” His grip on you tightens. “It wouldn’t fucking work.”
You don’t need him to explain why that matters. A Patronus is a partially-tangible positive energy force created from the caster’s happiest memories, either incorporeal as a burst of white mist, or corporeal—stronger than the incorporeal one—where it takes the form of an animal. It’s used to ward off Dark Magic—most commonly, creatures known as Dementors, which thrive off of negative emotions. The image of you, hollow, is what happens if a Dementor gets close enough to a person to perform the Dementor’s Kiss: Sucking the soul out of a person, leaving them a shell of their former selves. The Patronus Charm is complicated and difficult, so much so that most experienced wizards themselves struggle with casting it. 
You know how powerful Suguru’s magic is. The fact that, in his fear, he hadn’t managed to cast it—not even an incorporeal one— 
You swallow past the lump in your throat. “You would’ve saved me.”
He makes a sound at the back of his throat, something like a scoff. “You don’t know that.”
“Yes, I do,” you say fiercely, protectively. “If that had been real, you would’ve found a way.”
Something in him seems to rupture in him at your words. His arms tighten just a fraction more before he finally—finally—relaxes against you. The tautness in his muscles begins to ease, his breathing growing softer, deeper. He still doesn’t let go, but it isn’t out of desperation. It’s something else now.
“I hate this,” he says, after a pause.
“Hate what?”
“That I had to see that.” He exhales against your skin. “That you had to hear all of this.”
You shake your head, pulling back just enough to look at him. “Suguru.”
He finally lifts his head. His face is guarded but tired—so tired. His eyes, dark as ink, roam over your face. You meet his gaze and let your hands move up, threading gently into his hair. “I don’t care that you’re afraid,” you say, softly. “I’m afraid, too.”
Suguru looks at you for a long time, unreadable. You wonder if he’s going to argue, if he’s going to brush you off, or deflect with sarcasm, the way both of you have been doing all this time. But he doesn’t.
Instead, his hand moves to your face. The touch is hesitant at first; his fingers ghost over your cheek, like he’s still trying to convince himself that you’re real. Then, his thumb brushes over your skin, slow and soft. You don’t dare to breathe.
His gaze flickers down to your lips, then back up. “You’re still here,” he murmurs, so quietly that you almost miss it.
And then he kisses you.
It isn’t rushed. It isn’t desperate. It’s slow, reverent—like he’s memorising you, like he’s savouring the fact that you’re here, that you’re warm and breathing and safe in his arms.
Your fingers tighten in his hair as you press closer, melting into him while his lips move against yours. It’s gentle, but when you sigh softly into his mouth, he lets out a quiet groan and deepens the kiss. His hand cups the back of your head, his other arm winding around your waist to pull you closer.
(The door to the Hospital Wing swings open. 
“Oi, Geto, you decent— Oh, Merlin’s saggy balls—”
A loud, scandalised gasp echoes through the room, followed by Gojo Satoru’s unmistakable cackle. You barely have time to react, to get off Suguru’s lap, before he stiffens, head snapping towards the entrance. Standing in the doorway are Shoko and Satoru, both with varying expressions of shock and amusement.
“Oh, don’t stop on our account,” Satoru drawls, sporting a shit-eating grin. “This is way better than what we came here for.”
Shoko hums. “Yeah, I was expecting to find Suguru all sulky and brooding—not getting snogged to within an inch of his life.”
Suguru groans, dropping his forehead to your shoulder. “Kill me.”
You, on the other hand, are trying very hard not to combust. “Oh, sweet Merlin.”
Satoru dramatically clutches his chest. “My best friend, growing up so fast. Next thing I know, you’ll be writing poetry about her eyes, or something.”
Suguru, who absolutely has thought about writing poetry about your eyes (though he would rather die than admit it), scowls. “Shut up, Satoru.”
“Can’t. This is the highlight of my week.”
You groan, hiding your burning face in your hands. “I hate both of you.”
“Aw, don’t be like that,” Shoko coos. “Should we give them some privacy? Maybe light some candles to help them set the mood?”
Wordlessly, Suguru raises a hand and lifts up his middle finger.)
Tumblr media
June brings summer hand-in-hand to the castle, and along with it, the third and final task of the Triwizard Tournament. The days leading up to the third task are restless. The maze looms at the edges of the Quidditch Pitch, its towering hedges charmed to shift and writhe, concealing whatever dangers the tournament has yet to unveil. It is a final trial of wit and endurance, a labyrinth where victory lies at the centre.
You hate it.
“You’re scowling,” Suguru observes, watching you from his spot on the grass. He’s leaning back on his elbows, legs stretched out in front of him.
“You should be worried too,” you counter, plopping down next to him. “That thing is practically breathing.”
“And what would you have me do? Duel the shrubbery?”
You huff, glaring at the maze once more before turning back to him. “You’re taking this too lightly.”
He grins. “Because you’re worrying enough for the both of us.”
You reach over and flick his forehead. He lets out a dramatic groan, falling onto his back as though you’ve mortally wounded him. 
“Unbelievable,” you mutter, shaking your head, though you’re biting back a smile of your own. “How am I supposed to be stressed when you’re like this?”
“That’s the idea,” he muses, folding his arms behind his head. His dark hair spills over the grass, strands catching the sunlight. “I can’t have my little lioness fretting herself to an early grave.”
You smack his shoulder without hesitation. “Call me that again, and I’ll start rooting for the maze.”
Suguru barks out a laugh, turning his head to look at you properly. He’s smiling, eyes crinkling at the corners. “I’ll be fine.”
You reach for his hand, threading your fingers through his. He squeezes once, gently, before tugging you closer. You let out a small oomph before sprawling onto the grass next to him. 
The sun dawdles in the horizon, stretching out the day for as long as it will go. You turn your head and brush your lips against his, content and happy. The third task waits, unseen and uncertain, but at least there is this.
Whether Geto Suguru emerges victorious or not—well. That’s insignificant, you think.
Tumblr media
⇢ a/n: if you read this entire thing, i’m giving you a big hug. this fic is so many things, but it is mainly a labour of love towards the fandom that first got me into writing and reading fanfiction at the wee age of eleven, and the fandom that currently occupies most of my tiny little brain. it is also the longest fic i have written till date, and i am proud of myself for it. this fic would not be possible were it not for my two best friends, @mahowaga & @admiringlove helping me out, letting me bounce ideas off of them, wracking our brains together to come up with the second task, and lurking on my google doc while i was writing, leaving comments that make me giggle even now. thank you for reading, and i hope you have a wonderful day!
189 notes · View notes
revelboo · 1 day ago
Note
man dude u are an absolute GOD with how much writing you keep pumping out THANK YOU FOR FEEDING USSSSSSSSSSS
I’m just having fun
Tumblr media
Everything Is Alright Pt 122
IDW Starscream x Reader, Soundwave x Reader, Megatron x Reader
• Optics on the ceiling overhead, on anything but you and your two mates fussing over you, Megatron swallows a growl. That all too familiar feeling of alienation that he remembers from the mines lifting through him. Thought that he'd gotten past this. That it could no longer hurt him, but it's as bitter now as it was back then. Being right there and ignored. Not belonging. And he hates it with a passion. "You two realize this changes everything," he says to Soundwave and Starscream and the Seeker's optics immediately narrow.
• "What exactly does this change?" Starscream growls, hand cupping the back of your head when you finally lay your cheek on his chassis. “I can tend to my mate. I don’t need either of you.” And you stiffen against him. Because as much as he despises the pair of them, you’d chosen them. Wants so much to resent you for that. For forcing him into this mess. They’re not his trine. Not brothers. They’re enemies. Wings drooping slightly then flaring when Soundwave immediately tries to comfort you, he growls. “But my mate does. For some reason.”
• Fighting a smile because that’s probably as civil as Starscream can be given the circumstances, you reach back a hand and Soundwave laces his servos with your fingers. And you’re painfully aware of how messed up whatever this is between the four of you is. That none of them are exactly happy. “Can we just try to start over?” Know you’re asking a lot of them. That this is all your fault anyway. “But you’re so tired of the fighting and scheming.
• “I’m not going to suddenly forget how many times your traitorous little Seeker has stabbed me in the back,” Megatron growls, but he sounds more tired than truly angry. That alone helps Soundwave relax some. Wants to pull you away from Starscream, separate you from him so he can just focus on your emotions. Wanting to try and figure out why you’d fully bonded Megatron after shunning him. It’s what he’d been working towards, but it still hurts that you’d chosen the warlord over him. How many times had he put Megatron ahead of himself, though? Should be used to it. Doing the hard things for the greater good. Even if it hurts. Always loyal. Obedient. Not allowed to want anything for himself, but he does want you even if you don’t want him.
• “Because you’re running the cause into the ground,” Starscream snarls wings lifting and the warlord’s head turns to stare at him. And he’s never been free to speak his mind without fear of pain or retribution, but he can say whatever the pit he wants right now and he’s untouchable because they’re both fully bonded to you. It’s like a dam falling in his processor. All the frustration, hate, and anger pouring out. “Do you have any idea how many stupid decisions you make? How many actions are driven by your desire to kill Optimus, not actual strategy? But what the frag do you know about strategy anyway? A miner and a gladiator. You have so many advisors and you don’t listen to any of us, too busy acting out your little vendetta while the cause suffers. I believed in you.”
• “You only believe in power,” Megatron counters, rolling and propping himself up on an arm. And your skin prickles, not really liking being so small and between them while they argue. Feel Soundwave hook an arm around your middle and pull you to him and away from Starscream like he’s concerned too. “You lie and scheme and paint yourself as a worthy leader, but you’re a coward scrabbling for any power or control you can get your servos on.” Yeah, you don’t want to be anywhere near them if they’re about to brawl. Both tensed like they’re seconds from launching at each other and then slowly relaxing to make you realize you were holding your breath. And Megatron glances at you, vents noisily and resumes staring at the ceiling. “You’re brave with our little pet to protect you.”
Previous
Next
Tumblr media Tumblr media
Slowly remembering how to do this/accidentally stabbing myself with the needle so many times. I’m much rustier at this than I thought, though 🫠 looks more like Wheeljack’s illegitimate love child than Starscream at this point. Just a few more pins to finish my bag now
160 notes · View notes
mayanneaa · 2 days ago
Text
always and (not) forever - ʀᴀꜰᴇ ᴄᴀᴍᴇʀᴏɴ.
Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media
PAIRING : rafe cameron x reader
SUMMARY : rafe breaks up with you right after you get accepted to stanford university.
WARNING(S) : angst, swearing, not really proofread
A/N : can you tell i just watched to all the boys: always and forever? (divider by @roseraris )
WC : 0.7k
masterlist.
Tumblr media
Your heart’s pounding more and more as you click on the email you just got.
It’s late at night, only the crickets outside accompanying your growing emancipation. You squeeze the hem of your pajama shirt, biting your lip almost to blood.
This is the moment you’ve been waiting for forever— the week of acceptance letters from Stanford.
You can’t really remember when exactly you decided that a university across the whole country was good for you. It just… happened.
Your boyfriend, Rafe, wasn’t particularly excited for you to study so far away since he wanted to go to the one in-state. You managed to convince him that you’ll be well.
The email is long, but after the first words, you don’t even bother reading more. You got in.
A scream escapes your lips, quickly muffled by your hands. You sit there wide-eyed, the faint light of your laptop’s screen falling on your face.
“Oh my God.”
You immediately grab your phone, trembling fingers dialing Rafe’s number. He answers faster than the first ding.
“What’s up, baby?” His voice’s a little raspy and low as if he was falling asleep.
“I got into Stanford,” you whisper, the words feeling unreal once they leave your mouth. “Can you believe it, Rafe?”
There’s a silence, followed by a hum. “That’s… great. I mean, you’re happy, right?”
“Yeah, of course!”
There’s a silence— a moment where you can let your emotions cool off a bit, followed by Rafe clearing his throat.
“Actually… Can we meet?”
You knit your eyebrows. His voice is steady but distant. Something you haven’t heard in a while. “Like, right now?”
Rafe hums in response, and you feel the confusion bubbling up. “Well, if you want to you can come over, but be quiet. My parents are asleep.”
“I’ll be there in five.”
You hang up the phone, your hand lingering as you glance at the laptop screen.
Was Rafe overthinking this whole ‘distance’ thing once again?
You’ve already told him a million times that it will work out. So why the sudden change of mind?
You slip your feet into your slippers and grab a hoodie you throw on on the stairs.
The light from Rafe’s motorcycle flashes through the windows, a quiet buzz filling the natural silence. You quickly open the door and get outside, a chilly breeze hitting your bare legs.
“What’s wrong?” You ask, crossing your arms on your chest.
Rafe takes off his helmet and looks at the ground. “I think we should break up before you go to Stanford.”
You grimace, scrunching your nose. “What are you talking about? Rafe, we’ve been through this. I know it’s hard to be this long distance, but we can do it—”
“No.” The word comes out of his mouth so quickly, you gasp under your breath. “Honestly, how do you see that? Going from what we are now, from me getting to your door in five fucking minutes to seeing each other once God knows how much time?”
“But… you agreed to that earlier…”
“I was wrong,” Rafe says as quietly as a whisper, his voice cracking. “I’m not going to watch it all fall apart in two, four, or even six months. It’s better if we just end it now.”
You squeeze your arms and clench your jaw so tight it almost hurts.
How dare he just stand there, not even looking at you, as your life seems to split in two?
“Don’t say that, Rafe. You don’t mean it…” You say, your voice is small, but you know better than this. Rafe doesn’t just say things.
“I do.”
Two words. Those two words were enough to let the tears pushing onto your eyelids fall.
“Are you serious? After all we’ve been through, you leave me because of some stupid belief that we will not make it?” You sigh, anger spilling out with each breath you take.
“Go, Rafe. I don’t want to see your face.”
He inhales sharply as if you just slapped him. Maybe you should’ve done that. Instead, you turn on your heels and storm into the house, not giving Rafe another glance.
All you hear is the engine running, and the quiet sound of your heart breaking.
taglist :
@amterasuu
149 notes · View notes
idkshithead · 2 days ago
Text
having a bad day .ೃ࿐
Tumblr media
┗━━━✦❘༻༺❘✦━━━┛
╰┈➤ ❝ seong gi-hun x fem!reader ❞
ʚɞ ๋࣭⭑ — tws: age gap (reader is 25, gi-hun is 47) mention of murder, mention of self-harm, pts.
ೀ ⋆.˚ — genre: fluff!
⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪ — summary: you've had a really shitty day so when u get home from university your bf is there to comfort you and cheer you up.
・❥・ — a/n: hii! i’m new here and this is my first time publishing a ff🥹 i wrote this out of boredom so idk if it’s good. also my first language isn’t english so i’m sorry for eventual mistakes, i appreciate every kind and constructive advice on how to be better(no insults or hate tho!)<3 if i think your comment is hateful or disrespectful or anything like that, i’ll delete it! so be nice pls🫶🏻
❕ — warnings: timeline is season 2 but i changed his age. if you don’t like age gaps/have problems with them GET OUT👉🏻
enjoy! ❤︎
It was 9 PM in Ssangmun-dong and you were walking down the empty, rain-soaked street you travel every day. You were carrying a heavy backpack, the straps digging into the skin of your left shoulder, a sign that it was full of notebooks. The dim streetlights flicker, casting a dull glow across the wet floor and your footsteps were covered by the constant "pats" of the rain drops falling to the ground. The downpour was rentless and it was drenching your clothes and your nice hair but you barely seemed to notice cause your mind was wrapped up in something else. It had been a very tough day and you wanted nothing more but to be in your boyfriend's comforting arms.
His name was Seong Gi-hun. You weren't korean but you thanked God you moved there when you were 18 cause if you didn't, you probably wouldn't have met him. The day you two crossed paths was almost 4 years ago and you remember it like it was yesterday: he used to have a gambling addiction and thanks to your friend, who brought you with her to gamble, you found him. Or even better, he found you cause the very first time he bumped onto you as he was getting chased by some men; meanwhile the other times, you went to talk to him cause you found him pretty cute and...pathetic.
At the time you were 21 and he was 43 but you really didn't care about the age gap. Plus, he looked younger than he actually was. The first weeks you two started to date as close friends and soon you learned he’s got a 10 years old daughter and an ex-wife. They divorced because of his addiction which led to him having several debts that he couldn't pay. His daughter's name was Ga-yeong and she was very sweet, just like her father. She liked you even and you, of course, liked her back. As the days went by, Ga-yeong revealed you her father's secret: he liked you and every time he knew he was going to see you, he would put up nice clothes and adjust his hair; and she hoped you would like him back but God, how could you not like him? He was such a gentleman, so sweet, so respectful, so caring; this headed to both of you starting a relationship (a serious one too), and at first it was hard due to his addiction. Firstly because every time he didn't pay his debt in time, he would get beaten up and threatened to be killed. So many times you would yell at him cause he spent all his money, and the one you gave him, to gamble but you understood that yelling and getting mad wasn't the right solution of solving this, thus you got used to it and you were determined to help him go through that shit. Later you met his mom and his childhood friend whose name was Sang-woo and you were actually surprised they didn't think less of you just because you were younger. If you were in your native country, everybody would look at you as a person of no value and would think he was a pedophile, even tho you were a grown ass adult. Before him, you've been in a toxic relationship for 2 years; between cheating, threats and punches, you managed to leave that guy.
Gi-hun, on the other hand, treated you so good it was overwhelming, to the point that you didn't even think you deserved to be treated like this, to be loved and you were glad he proved you wrong so damn sure you weren't gonna let go of him just because he was older. He helped you going through your self-harm addiction, he helped you with your traumas and insecurities. Basically, he was a mix of the perfect yet worse man to date.
Not even a year later tho, he disappeared for a whole week without any news or informations. You were so fucking worried about him and you never stopped calling him and searching for him. You even talked to his mother every day but she always said she had no clue of where he was and the police, of course, didn’t give a shit. Often times you thought that he got himself killed due to his non-paid debts but you really didn't want to think about it so you liked to think that maybe he was out of town and didn't call you. Or maybe he just decided to cut off contact with everybody and left. In that time, your own self-harm addiction got worse due to the stress and the fact that he had left. Everything went down once more. Your life was falling apart and you didn’t know what to think at this point. Was it your fault? Was it his fault? You didn’t know.
Yet he eventually came back to you, all injured as if he had been in a rough fight and apologized to you so many times as you cried and punched his chest due to the all the overwhelming emotions you didn’t manage to let out. He told you he found his mom dead in his house. In some ways, you felt guilty that you didn't help him with the medicines for her cause you had some money but most of it would go to the men he had to repay. He talked about the games he’s done, about all the murdered people.
You couldn't believe him, of course and thought he was just very drunk but the day after you realized it wasn't like that.
A year later he wanted to move in America to go to his daughter but soon changed his mind when he knew that the recruiter of those games was still out there so you both moved to a motel as he searched for him all day, every day.
He barely slept and he started to smoke more, which broke your heart to see him like this. So tired, so traumatized and you realized that the old Gi-hun would never come back, even tho a part of him was still the same when he was with you. When he finished to pay his debts, thanks to the money he earned from those sick games, he called Mr. Kim, the boss of loan sharks, to help him find this recruiter.
The only times you saw each other, tho, was in the evening cause in the morning you went to university while he kept searching for that man among the city. He always apologized to you for never spending much time together but you always reassured him that it was completely okay and that it was nobody's fault. You knew how insecure he got after that traumatic event tho you tried your best to comfort him. After he lost Sang-woo, Sae-byeok and Ali; after he saw so many innocent people die because of the God called money. They all died in front of him and sometimes he could still see their blood on his face, on his hands, on his body. Everywhere.
He became even more possessive and protective over you to the point that he made you install a gps on your phone or any other device you owned, in case you’d be in trouble or something and he eventually taught you how to shoot cause you asked him.
So here you were, 2 years later, having a shitty, rough day, soaked wet due to the rain, heading back home and already feeling guilty cause Gi-hun had to comfort you from your stupid, dumb and idiotic problems. You didn't even know if he was home by that time and if he wasn't, you would go take a shower and eventually fall asleep on the couch while miserably trying to wait awake for him. As always.
When you approached the motel you both lived in, you grabbed your keys from your pocket and opened the principal door. You entered and closed it before taking your way up the stairs. Once you reached the door of your shared apartment you opened that one too, slowly closing it behind you. You weren't expecting Gi-hun to be home but when you heard his voice, you felt kinda relieved.
"Y/n? Is that you?" you heard him say. You didn't answer and you didn't know why. Maybe cause you were so tired you didn't even have the strength to breathe, to say the least.
You took off your shoes and walked through the small corridor before reaching the living room and put the keys on the round table at the center of the room. You quite ignored your boyfriend who was very worried when he saw you completely drenched.
"Hey..why didn't you bring an umbrella with you this morning?" he asked softly as he approached you and rubbed both of your shoulders. You were glad to hear his loving voice after a long day.
You let your backpack fall on the ground, causing it to make a loud noise and grabbed a small, broken umbrella which was in a side pocket of the backpack, before placing it on the table, too.
"I did." you managed to say. Your voice was barely audible and you were on the verge of breaking down, thing that he immediately noticed but before he could talk, you threw yourself onto him to hug him. Your arms wrapped around his body tightly as you cried quietly. His nice yet smokey smell invaded your nose and you took all in. You didn't pay attention to his outfit but you were so sure he was wearing his usual baggy pants and large jacket.
He didn't think twice before holding you tight against him and his right hand found its way to rub your hair while the other rubbed your back. He had this way of hugging you, of comforting you as a way to shield and protect you from the world that you didn't even know how it was possible but that's how his hugs, his touch made you feel. It has been a long time since you last cried and let go of everything in front of him but that night you really needed it.
"It's okay baby, I've got you. I'm here." he mumbled softly to your ear. He slowly started to rock himself back and forth, as if you were his little child afraid of monsters hiding under the bed.
He didn't ask you what had happened cause he knew it wasn't useful in that moment. He knew that all you wanted was comfort and reassurance. He didn't care that you were all wet and soaked, he cared about trying to make you stop crying and he managed to do so since you calmed down after some minutes. He pulled back slightly, enough for him to be able to see the sad look on your face.
He cupped your cheeks and wiped your last tears away.
"It's okay. You let it all out?" he kindly asked you and you slowly nodded. He wanted to make sure your chest didn't feel as heavy. Then he leaned in and placed a soft, tender kiss on your forehead.
"How about you go take off these wet clothes and take a shower while i prepare the couch for some cuddles to cheer that sad pretty little face up, hm?" he asked while moving a strand of hair out of your face.
"And then maybe, if you feel like doing so, you tell me what's gotten you so upset." he then added.
His voice was so soft, sweet and full of love it made you want to cry again out of happiness but you fought the urge. He somehow always knew what were the right words to say and in which tone he had to pronounce them. It was incredible. That man was incredible.
You slowly nodded and he escorted you to the bathroom as he told you to call him for anything you needed. He didn't hurry anything, he told you to take your slow and nice time, he would be there waiting for you.
You softly thanked him and closed the bathroom door, opening the water in the shower. You really didn't know what good things you did in life to have someone as loving as him as your partner but you preferred to not question anything and to just appreciate everything he gave you, everything that life (or God) gave you.
You knew he told you to take your time and to wash yourself slowly and stuff but you were so happy and enthusiastic to cuddle with him, that your shower lasted 10 minutes. When you got out, you could hear him doing stuff on the other side of the wall and you called out his name.
"Yes, my love?" said he while opening the door. He had a small yet genuine smile on his face and you knew he was doing all of that just to make you feel better.
"Can you...bring me one of your shirts..?" you mumbled.
"I know they're much larger than my size but-" you were cut off by the door closing. You didn't know exactly why he shut the door on you talking but you really hoped he didn't mean to do so. Later, he returned in the room, holding a stuffed clothed in between his hands, turning out it was one of his large shirts.
He walked towards you and handed you the cloth, before cupping your cheeks again and kissing your temple.
"You know you don't owe me any explanation. Whatever you want, i'll give it to you. You could ask me to wear my underwear and i wouldn't question it." he explained gently.
"Even tho that would be weird." he continued and chuckled slightly and you did so. You felt a warm feeling in your chest. A feeling that only he was able to bring you and you will forever be grateful to him.
"Thank you.." you murmured and smiled.
"There it is that pretty smile." he said and pinched your cheeks gently, causing you to widen your smile.
He then told you he would wait for you as you got dressed and later he dried your wet hair cause he didn't want his girl to make such efforts when she was so tired already.
A few more minutes passed by and after you got all showered, dried and dressed, you were both laying in each other's arms on the couch. Your head resting on his chest and his arms wrapped around your body while one hand stroked your soft hair.
"You feel like telling me what's wrong?" he asked softly, in which you answered with a nod.
You began by explaining that you hadn't slept much the night before, which was the main reason you woke up already feeling upset and exhausted. You were so tired that you really didn't feel like going to university, but you had a test and knew you had no choice, so you forced yourself to get up. Just when you stepped out of the apartment, it started raining heavily, and you got all wet because your umbrella wouldn't open properly. Once you finally made it to the university, you sat down to take the test, but you were so distracted by your exhaustion that you were sure you had messed up every single question. Your mind wasn't in the right place, your eyes felt heavy, and you couldn't focus. Everything felt like a disaster. After the test and the rest of your lessons, the wind picked up on your way home and your umbrella finally broke so you had nothing to protect yourself, leaving you even more soaked. And as if your day hadn't already been terrible enough, a car sped through a puddle and splashed you completely. You felt overwhelmed, defeated by the anger and stress that had built up throughout the day.
As you were telling all of this you still felt kinda upset but when he spoke again, you really forgot the reason of why your day went bad.
"I'm so sorry to hear that, my love. You should’ve called me, i would've picked you up with the car." he said with disappointment. Not towards you, but towards all the factors that made you so sad and also at himself. He could’ve gave you a call instead of focusing on finding that son of a bitch.
"I didn't want to bother you..." you mumbled, as your fingers traced comforting circles on his clothed chest.
"You know you never bother me, y/n." he said firmly. He didn't like the fact that you could even think you were a bother or a burden to him.
"Yeah but what if right when i call you, you find the guy you've been searching for years?" you asked and got your head up slightly to look at him. You could feel his hesitation before answering but when he did, you knew he was sincere.
"I'd still pick you up. As much as i wanna find that man, you come first. I didn't put so much effort in us for nothing, you know." he smiled slightly at his last sentence and placed his large hand on your face, brushing your cheek with his thumb.
"Hmm.." you murmured and sighed. You gently rested your chin on his chest, feeling the rise and fall of his breath beneath you and the warmth of his body comforting against your skin, while your head remained slightly turned to face him, allowing you to study his face closely. Your gaze lingered on each feature—his relaxed yet tired expression, the curve of his jaw, the corners of his lips slightly turned upward—capturing every detail that made him, him, as if you were memorizing them.
You didn't know how he managed to look that handsome for his age. Not that he was that old, but still.
"Have you been sleeping these days?" you kindly asked him. You knew, deep down, that he would always look after you, putting your needs before his own, but at the same time, you saw how little care he took of himself. It was as if he neglected his own well-being in favor of focusing on everyone else; you, above everyone. Every time you noticed him pushing himself too hard or ignoring his own health, you'd find yourself gently scolding him, urging him to take a moment for himself, though you knew he'd brush it off. In the end, this was just who he was.
"Yes, a bit." he answered and you could feel he was being honest but still decided to make sure.
"Are you sure?" your tone was low and comforting, yet full of worry. You noticed the small bags under his eyes, you noticed his tired expression and often times you would feel guilty that he had to reassure you while he was feeling so defeated.
"Yes, i'm sure." he said sweetly and pinched the tip of your nose softly.
You subtly pushed yourself up, enough to lean your face closer to his, and pecked his lips. Your chest was now in contact with his and your hands were placed one between his hair and the other on the soft mattress of the couch, surrounding yourself.
"You look so tired..." you whispered while caressing his scalp. Your faces only inches away. He moved his hand to grasp your waist while the other was still on your cheek.
"Yeah but you always bring all my energies back.." he whispered back, causing you to smile a bit.
Your eyes wavered all over his face, admiring everything about him as your pupils dilated some more, as if turning into a heart shape. You didn't know exactly what did u see in him, but you saw something. Maybe that's how real love feels like: inexplicable. Almost as if it's no sense.
Then, you sighed and looked away from him.
"I'm sorry." said you while resting your head next to his. He looked at you confused.
"For what?" he asked and adjusted himself so that he could look at you but also be in a comfortable position. He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear.
You swallowed hard.
"I don't know..that you gotta take care of my shit while you're already feeling defeated and stuff.." you explained, almost whimpering.
"I notice how tired you are every day..we barely see or talk to each other before the evening and when i see you like this i feel like a burden or like i'm not doing enough for you...i don't know, i just miss you.." you added. You didn't want to add more pressure and stress on his shoulders but you needed to tell him.
You saw his expression on his face, focused on listening to you and all your rantling and he looked sad.
"Y/n..." he started.
"Honey, don't say that again. Yes i am tired but that doesn't mean i don't gotta take care of you when you feel down as well. Just because we're both not having the best of the days, it doesn't mean we gotta ignore each other or something like that. I take care of you cause i want to. Cause it makes me feel better when i manage to bring your smile back." he gently explained while playing with some strands of your hair, in a desperate attempt to soothe you.
"I'm sorry we barely see or talk to each other during the day, i wish we both had more time one for the other even tho at night i try to stay up as much time as possible, even if you are asleep cause i wanna make up for lost time." he continued, hoping you'd understand his words. You lowkey wished things went different. Wished that he never went to play those sick games.
"Yeah but...i don't know, i just wish i could do more for us, for you. You always take care of me but i never do enough to take care of you.." she said. Your tone of voice hid a hint of sadness in it.
"No, y/n. You do more than enough and that's what matters. I will always appreciate the little things you do cause i know how much effort you put into them. I know you love me, i know you care about me. I don't have to worry about anything else." he said. He knew you wouldn't believe him but he hoped that he managed to reassure you even if it was just for the moment.
You nodded slowly at his words and accepted them. You hid your face into the crock of his neck and snuggled against him, holding him as tight as you could, wanting to enjoy his company, his warmth for the night. His fingers found their ways in between your thin hair and caressed your scalp while the other hand was busy holding you against him. He wanted to protect you from everything and everyone. He wanted you to feel safe and he'd do anything to not let you get hurt.
He started to whisper reassuring words in your ear to facilitate your sleep.
“Please don’t ever leave me, Gi-hun.” you mumbled.
"I won’t, I'm here, love. I'm not going anywhere. I've got you." those were the last words you heard from him before you sweetly murmured: "I love you.." and drifted off to sleep.
He kissed your head tenderly and whispered an "I love you, too" muffled before closing his eyes and fully relaxing his body under yours, feeling his thoughts drifting away into dreams.
So there you were, both laying in each other arms after days full of stress and pressure, you allowed yourself to be vulnerable and to rest for the night.
111 notes · View notes
covenofagatha · 3 days ago
Note
i... wow. sorry if this is too vulgar; i was at the gym when you posted, and like you've psychologically conditioned me, my underwear became.. awfully sticky.. and remained that way the whole day (which i would send a picture if i fear it'd be too far) because i decided to save the read for when i reached home. I'm grateful i did, because despite being shorter than the rest of your works, it was, as always, a masterpiece :)
i hope your exam went well (not sure what timezone you're in, but here friday is basically over... so you've completed it in my book) and as a little prize, here's another tiny brainworm loosely inspired by my experience with your notification today:
desperate! perv! agatha who gets off to your voice, ft. masturbation, pillow humping and fucking, sheet (?) sniffing, daddy kink, praise, voyeurism and dubcon depending on what you want i guess
maybe you're unaware of how your voice affects agatha, innocently obeying when she asks you to "do as many pushups as you can, saying my name each time, baby", and because you love your girlfriend, you'll heed her and her little quirks. you just presume she wants to properly know how many pushups you can do, since it's easy for you to cheat by just saying numbers, right?
or, maybe you're a little more aware then you let on. maybe you exaggerate your noises a little, grunting "agatha" in the husky tone you know she adores, voice gradually dwindling into a whimper of her name.
hopefully unbeknownst to you, agatha is imagining your voice calling "daddy" over and over. you haven't discussed it yet, and she's too embarrassed to bring it up, because what if it's too much for you? the sheets are still gently stained with your juices from your shenanigans with her from last night, and she was supposed to change them (and, well she technically was) -- but she saw the darkened part of the sheets and got all riled up again.
agatha groans as she hears you, and hastily fumbles for the mute button, not wanting you to hear her (maybe she instead presses the video button, and you see flashes of her rigid cock, her head thrown back, and you cant help but buck your hips each time you lower yourself to the ground).
"baby, darling, you've ruined me," agatha mumbles, moving to position a pillow between her legs because she doesn't want to touch herself, rather have your hands, your mouth, your cunt. fuck, she's starting to drip precum just thinking about you.
pushing her nose against the stain you left on the sheet, she inhales sharply, desperately, taking in the lingering scent of you as she humps the pillow like a dog in heat.
it's not enough, she realises, and she tugs the sheet up, inadvertently giving her the brilliant idea as your pillow falls; if she folds it in half, it forms a nice gap that envelopes her throbbing dick nicely, and she can't bother to think about the logistics of it when she's hearing your voice on the other end, already done with pushups, just rambling on about your day like you don't know what you do to her.
she brings the soiled sheet up to sniff, groaning as she jolts into the pillow, babbling "daddy's good little girl" and "my favourite cocksleeve" and "please, baby, you're so good for daddy". (if you can hear her, perhaps you pause your talking just to question what she's doing, but she's too far gone into her pleasure to even notice).
"daddy needs you so bad, pretty girl, ngh-" and she pulls out of the (now sticky) pillow to cum all over the sheets, and the idea that your leftover juices on the fabric are now covered in *her* cum sends another load out of her, splattering audibly as she bucks her hips into nothing.
(if she's muted the whole time, she delights darkly in the fact that you don't know a thing, her naive little pet. but perhaps she realises only after, that her mic and camera is on, when you pipe up with a "enjoy yourself, daddy?" and she grows humiliatingly hard all over again.)
I'll stop here because my head is pounding lol, but i hope you like it (and i hope the start doesn't make you uncomfortable). thank you for gracing us with your incredible writing miss covenofagatha, looking forward to your next piece, whatever it is 😉
sorry i keep bothering you in your asks, let me know if you want me to stop! also, please don't feel obligated to write this in full as a request or anything, it truly is just a wriggly brainworm thought I have that i thought you might like 💜
-lots of love, worm anon
Every time you send an ask it has me on the fucking floor jesus christ how do you keep coming up with hotter ideas
I don't even know how I would be able to write more about this because every single word is so perfect and so detailed and fuck so hot oh my god
97 notes · View notes
froppy-butterflyfan2000 · 2 days ago
Text
A hooded man, whose hood is covering up his entire face came into the café. The atmosphere suddenly change as people are feelings suspicious. Even the cashier of the front desk is suspicious of him.
“Are potions real here?” He asked the cashier, Holly.
“What?” She answered. “Could you repeat that again?”
“You know, brewing potions that have effects on drinkers?”
“Medicine?” Holly asked. “Are you referring to medicines? Sir, you can goes to the pharmacy store to buy one.”
“Holly, I thinks he is referring to alcohol because he sounds high on drugs.” Said Beppi. “Either that a video game junkie whose lost touch of reality.”
The mysterious customer leave the café, they wait for a a minute and feels that the coast is cleared. They sigh in relief. It not like they are not aware of magic, they pretend that they have no idea what the mysterious visiter is talking about to protect themselves and possibly the supernatural community if this person ever found out. Holly goes left her post to send a text message to The Roundtable of the shady person. However… a large knight armor lift up the roof of the café, causing the customers to scream and panic. Beppi and Holly are in shock and prepares to take action. Beppi activates their web shooter and fire webbing, they pull the webbing to keep the roof intact. Only for Beppi to lift up into the air. Beppi let go.
“Where is he?!” The knight, A Solarian Warrior demanded. “That wizard and the symbiote host!?”
Holly and Beppi looks at each others and realize this could be one of an old enemy of Janaya’s. Despite preparing to fight, they don’t have any ideas how to stop this knight. They scream internally. They put their best effort to protect their workplace and prevent casualties. However their luck came when reinforcement arrive.
“Hey you!”
The Solarian Warrior is distracted by the loud voice, got punched out of nowhere. Falling and tumbling down, destroying buildings.
“Up here you dingus!”
The Solarian Warrior glares and try to get his armor to get back up to destroy that floating superheroine. But the armor won’t budge. The superheroine fly forward, and pulling up the visor.
The Solarian Warrior’s face turns pale to look at Niko, whose shouted at him. Could she be a hybrid of a Mewnian monster whose manage to controls her soul to dampen magic? But then again…. He sense his magic core and mana flowing through his body. His magic is not contaminated and dying by the corroding magic nature from a monster soul. Niko kick the Solarian Warrior hard, the wheels on Niko’s skate roller shoes take impact, causing them to fall off, but leaving marking and a bloody nose. Niko see a poster taped inside the helmet next to him. Her eyes widen and gnash her teeth. She recognizes who is on the poster. It was her big brother.
“You bastard!” She screamed.
She punches the Solarian Warrior hard and swing her tail, slashing him on the chest, leaving an X-Shaped scar.
“Not only you destroyed Townsville’s under-appreciative coffeeshop and attacked its people. But tears it apart to find my big brother!” She screamed. She pull him by the neck, to face her. “Denounce your loyalty to Solaria Butterfly, The Queen of Mewnian Black Magic! And I will spare your life!” Said Niko.
The Solarian Warrior glares at Niko. His blood is boiling that the fact she mentioned Queen Solarian Butterfly. As if she knows her. Black Magic she says? Solaria would never do that. Slandering her name. Only her traitorous daughter who’s created dark spells.
“I would never betrays her. Neither Mina Loveberry and her cause filthy demon!” He said.
Niko laughs coldly. Then stares at him with emotionless eyes.
“Oh you dipshit. I am way worst than a Mewnian Demon.” She said.
600 strikes on the Solarian Warrior with her fists. The Solarian Warrior begs Solaria Butterfly to saves him, stretching his hands out, but to no avail she did not came to her rescue. He lays down on the ground, soak in his own blood. Niko put down her fists, dripping with his blood. He is probably alive thanks to being magically enhanced since the nullification wears off.
Woo-Woo-Woooooooooooooooooooooo-Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah
Niko hear the sirens and made a portal to hop inside the portal, disappearing to Chillaxation.
1945
"Are potions real here?"
"What?"
"You know, brewing potions that have effects on the drinker?"
"...Medicine?"
178 notes · View notes
radioactiverats · 3 days ago
Text
Mentor Starscream x seeker!reader (7.5/?)
Starscream drags your drunk aft home from Swerve's.
Kind of a bonus off the last installment, because I'm not done with drunk confessions lol. Part of this is channeling the idea that with someone to be responsible for, someone to keep him grounded, Starscream doesn't just fall into delusions of power, but has to retain some sense for the sake of protecting someone else.
Also inspired by jetlings. <3
Thank you for your patience! Behold, me delaying the next part with soft feelings because I'm not ready for angst:
---
Only when you're on your pedes do you realise the engex has affected you way more than you thought. You thank your lucky stars that Starscream had only made a sound of disgust at the entire situation before allowing you to more or less use him as a crutch to stay upright.
Even after leaving Swerve's, it was some time before you were actually on the road, given that it had taken some trial and error to transform into your altmode.
Fuzzily, you tried to gain a sense of your transformation mechanisms.
Okay, cockpit, you knew where that went. Wings. Okay.
Hmm.
You still had legs.
And suddenly, the world tilted. Half-transformed and woefully off-balance, the nose of your altmode tipped slowly forwards to acquaint itself with the ground. The dull thunk reached your audials before the pain actually registered.
"...Ow."
You were distantly aware of Skywarp wheezing with raspy laughter in the background.
"Come on, Screamer, you have to admit that's hilarious - ow!"
A small part of you couldn't help but feel smug about that. Still, you were in no better position, legs awkwardly out, nose in the dirt and rudders in the air.
Starscream's voice, when he kneels next to your altmode, is a little too measured. You, slowly attempting to summon a modicum of outrage, suspect he's trying for irritated but is having a bit too hard of a time holding his laughter back.
"Fuselage and landing gears, cadet."
"Nnghh."
You sluggishly try to feel for the parts of your frame that he's talking about, and something must have worked, because your nose is lifted promptly out of the dirt, allowing you to take in the exasperated expression on Starscream's faceplate. "At last. Now, spoilers out..."
--
Being towed deftly through deep space allows you a very intimate experience of how Starscream flies. He's in perfect control of both space and speed; not once does your altmode jerk awkwardly to a stop or become upended on sharp turns. Controlling your own frame is hard enough, let alone two, and impulse control be damned - you spend most of the return journey dreamily admiring one of the greatest fliers that Cybertron has ever produced. Upon landing, Starscream does allow himself a self-satisfied smile when he sees you making no effort to hide your starry-eyed gaze at him - which warps instantly into panic as you take a step towards him and immediately pitch sideways.
A flare of his thrusters is enough to propel him to your side, just managing to catch you before you eat ground for the second time that night. He's viciously muttering something about peeling Skywarp plate by plate as he tries to right you, which is when you decide to help by wrapping your arms around his middle again and refusing to let go.
"Skywarp's nice," You slur. "Don't peel him, sir. Please?"
"I- You don't- argh, fine," Is all Starscream manages to spit out before static actually garbles his vocaliser. You blessedly decide to keep quiet before he busts a fuel line. As long as you don't speak, surely hugging him tighter would be okay, right?
A choked mess of static is your response - in addition, however, to a warm servo on your shoulder, more or less dragging your frame onward to his habsuite. Thankfully no other officers were around to see you both, but you were way past caring at that point.
Starscream finally manages to heave you bodily into a seated position on the berth.
"I have work to finish," He says, wearily. "Recharge. You still have training tomorrow."
To some extent, you do know that he'd abandoned his duties to collect you from Swerve's, and he has important things to do. However, it quickly becomes apparent that you have no plans to let him go - stubbornly clinging onto him even as he tries to leave.
"Let go, cadet."
"No."
Before the irritation hits, a ripple of panic from your EM field gives him pause.
"...And dare I ask why not?"
The pause that descends is heavy. Ashamed of losing control, you sullenly burrow further into his back, between his wings.
Starscream's ex-vent reverberates through his entire frame, but he gently rotates himself in your stubborn grip so he can cradle your helm to his chassis. Gentle strokes of his servo over your wings have you sagging against him as you shutter your optics against the dizziness that fogs your processor. You shiver as he traces lightly over your aileron, over what used to be a nasty rip in your wing plating - the one which he mended himself. "Well?"
"You'll get hurt if you leave," You eventually mumble, muffled into his frame. "You always come back hurt. It's not fair."
The gentle, sweeping strokes over your wings abruptly stop. A deep, weary ex-vent.
"Life isn't fair, cadet."
"So?" You mutter. "It shouldn't be unfair to you."
Childish, yes. But you don't care. The Starscream you know doesn't deserve this. At the very least, he chuckles at that, and you can take credit for the nanoklik where your childishness lightens his burden ever so slightly. The mood, however, quickly turns somber again as your emotions get the better of you.
"What if you don't come back?"
You're acutely aware of Starscream's hesitation before he answers. You know there's some things he can't promise you, but you stubbornly refuse to believe that... there will come a moment when you hear his voice for the last time.
For now, though, it seems that Starscream is equally reluctant to leave your little universe of two.
"Don't be silly," he admonishes gently. "You think you can be rid of me so easily?"
It fills you with more relief than you'd care to admit. He is indeed resilient - he's a lot more capable than Megatron makes him out to be, and as the leader of the ex-high guard, he's no stranger to fighting for survival. You're starting to understand the scary front he puts up, because it works to an extent to quell any potential rebellions or revenge plots among the troops.
It is a front, right?
Your fuzzy processor wrests with the thought for another nanoklik before your own survival mechanisms decide to abandon the thought. He's been nothing but gentle with you, in his own prickly way - and deep down, you know this thought will lead you to a conclusion you're not sure you're ready to confront.
"They're all so scared of you," You slur. "I dunno why."
Starscream stiffens, but slowly resumes stroking your wings, carefully tracing flaps and spoilers to the tune of your humming engines. You barely manage to catch his response - perhaps he thinks you've already slipped into recharge.
"If only you knew," Starscream says quietly, sadly.
You struggle to make sense of that - you get the feeling that he's saying more than he normally would, because you're drunk out of your processor and liable to forget all that has transpired. Still, you know what you're determined to do, anyway. "'m gonna protect you. From the bad guys," You mutter. It's near incoherent, but Starscream picks it up anyway. His chuckle is raspy and indulgent.
"So what are you going to do to protect me, hm?"
"I," you declare, woozily shooting upright - you would absolutely have tipped over, had Starscream not steadied you - "will kick your enemies in the faceplate. One by one. Then they'll know not to mess with you." Never mind that you're about half Megatron's height, but it's the thought that counts.
Starscream's optics are uncharacteristically soft. "Next time we have an opening in battle, I'll leave the grand finale to you, then."
"Mmhmm," you mumble. "It'll be good."
At some point, you'd been carefully laid down on the berth - good thing too, because warnings of an imminent shutdown keep flashing on your HUD, and you drowsily decide to be good because Starscream has seemingly abandoned his work in favour of lying down beside you.
"You can do that in the morning. For now, I think it's time for recharge, don't you?"
"Okay," you murmur, scooting closer to him. "Doing my job."
"And what would that be?"
"I'm a seeker. I seek warmth."
You bask in the laughter that rumbles through Starscream's chassis as he tucks you close, and you finally slip into a dreamless recharge.
Previous / Next
128 notes · View notes
daryltwdixon · 2 days ago
Text
Tumblr media
Summary: In the quiet of the night, wrapped in Joel’s warmth, you finally let yourself feel everything—the weight of the past, the love in his touch, the promise in his arms. 
The night air is cool against your skin, a sharp contrast to the warmth beneath the heavy quilt draped over the both of you. Joel is beside you, stretched out on his back, his body bare, loose and relaxed, the way it only ever is in these rare, stolen moments. His chest rises and falls in a steady rhythm, his arm resting lazily across your stomach, fingers tracing slow, absentminded circles over your skin.
You shift slightly, turning onto your side to press yourself closer to him, your fingers brushing along the rough edge of his jaw. He tilts his chin down to look at you, a small, satisfied hum vibrating low in his chest as you trace along his collarbone, feeling the warmth of him beneath your palm.
“Comfortable?” you murmur, voice soft, teasing.
His lips quirk up at the corners, eyes half-lidded as he pulls you in tighter, letting out a slow sigh. “Mm. Feels pretty damn close to perfect.”
You smile, fingers absentmindedly following the faint scar that runs along his shoulder. He lets you touch him now. Not just like this, not just when your bodies are tangled together in the dark, but in the daylight, too. When you pass him in the kitchen. When you brush your hand against his as you walk through town. When you sit on the couch after dinner, his hand finding its way to your thigh without a second thought.
These moments—this life you’ve built together—still feel fragile sometimes, like something you could wake up from.
But then he looks at you like this, like you are his world, and you remember that it’s real.
You shift slightly, pressing your forehead against his shoulder, your lips brushing his collarbone.
He hums, amused. “That an accident or you gettin’ greedy?”
You smile against his skin. “Mm. Maybe both.”
Joel chuckles, his fingers tightening on your hip for a moment before relaxing again. “Gotta say, you’re persistent.”
You tilt your head up, grinning. “Oh, I am?”
He smirks, eyes half-lidded, still looking contently wrecked from the last hour. “Yeah, sweetheart. Kinda relentless.”
You huff, shifting onto your side, resting a hand against his chest. “Must be a character flaw.”
Joel exhales a soft laugh, his hand trailing along your back, grounding. “That right?”
“Mhm.” You let your fingers drum idly against his chest, smirking. “Pretty sure I used to piss my dad off all the time with how much I pushed things.”
Joel hums, amused. “That don’t surprise me one bit.”
You laugh, the memory coming back clearer now. “One time, I convinced him to let me drive his truck.”
Joel lifts an eyebrow. “How old?”
You wince dramatically. “Thirteen.”
He lets out a low whistle, shaking his head. “Damn. You any good?”
“Oh, I was awful.” You grin, resting your chin on his chest as you continue. “I barely made it down the dirt road outside our place before I took a turn too fast and nearly sent both of us into a ditch.”
Joel chuckles, shaking his head. “Christ.”
“My dad slammed the brakes so hard I thought we both got whiplash. He wouldn’t let me near the driver’s seat again for another two years.”
Joel smirks, running a hand down your back. “Guess that explains why you still drive like you got somethin’ to prove.”
You gasp, shoving at his chest playfully. “I do not.”
You feel the laughter vibrate through his chest, the warmth of his skin still lingering from where he’d been pressed against you. It’s easy like this. The whole world fades away, leaving only the quiet, the weight of his arm around you, the safety of his body against yours.
Then—something stirs in the back of your mind. It’s the thought of your dad, stirring something deep from the depths of your memory. The letter.
You inhale softly, shifting against him. “Oh,” you murmur, pulling back slightly. “I almost forgot—”
Joel stills for half a second, then his brow lifts, something curious and cautious flickering across his expression.
“What is it?”
You hold up your finger as you push the blankets back just enough to slide out of bed, your body immediately protesting the loss of warmth. You cross the room to where your backpack still sits near the dresser, kneeling beside it as you dig through the contents.
Your fingers brush over fabric, the grit of the water it was plunged into still clinging to the edges of things, and you frown as you pull out crumpled, water-stained pages of Joel’s letter, carefully unfolding them.
Joel shifts behind you, leaning up onto his elbows, watching you with a lazy sort of interest.
“Stealin’ my mail now?” he teases, voice rough with sleep.
You glance at him over your shoulder, rolling your eyes. “I wasn’t stealing it. I just… forgot to give it back with everything that happened.”
He hums in response, but there’s something else in his expression—a quiet sort of hesitation. Like he’s wondering if you read it. If you know what Bill wrote.
Before you can reassure him, your fingers brush over something else.
Another letter.
Your breath catches.
It’s still unopened, still tucked neatly away. Your name is on the front.
Your chest tightens. Your hands feel unsteady as you pick it up, staring at the familiar handwriting that shouldn’t be here. That you shouldn’t have missed.
“Sweetheart?” Joel’s voice is lower now, softer.
You swallow hard, blinking down at the paper, your thumb running along the rough edges of it.
You don’t remember packing this. You don’t even remember finding it.
It must have been buried deep in your bag this whole time. Hidden beneath the weight of everything else, waiting.
Joel shifts in bed, moving to sit up fully, his expression shifting from teasing to something more serious. His gaze flickers to the letter in your hands, then back to your face.
His voice is quiet when he asks, “You never…?”
You shake your head, unable to say it out loud, and you move back to the bed, handing him his back and getting under the covers again.
Joel watches you for a long moment, then moves, about to get up, to give you space, but before he can, your arm presses lightly against his.
“Please stay,” you whisper. “Read it with me?”
His expression softens instantly, and without hesitation, he nods.
You crawl back into the bed beside him, settling into the warmth of his side as he pulls the covers over both of you. His hand finds yours, steady and sure, as you unfold the letter together, letting the words of a man who raised you finally reach you.
And as the inked lines blur slightly from where the water warped the page, you take a deep breath and begin to read.
Tumblr media Tumblr media
The letter trembles in your hands.
You read it again and again, but the words don’t settle, unsure of where to sit in your broken heart. They tangle together in your chest—grief, love, loss, longing.
Your father’s voice is so clear in your head, like he’s speaking from somewhere just out of reach. I was wrong about a lot of things. Especially about you. I’m proud of you. You don’t have to be alone.
Tears blur the ink on the page, warping the edges, but it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t change the fact that he’s gone. That he left. That all the things he’s saying now, all the things you needed to hear—he never said them when he was alive.
A sharp breath shudders through you, but it gets stuck halfway, trapped beneath the weight of everything.
He was proud of you. He loved you.
But he still left you.
A sound breaks from your chest before you can stop it—somewhere between a sob and a gasp. Your hands tighten around the letter, your shoulders curling inward.
Joel is there in an instant. He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t ask questions. He just pulls you in, arms wrapping around you, pressing you into the steady warmth of his body.
That’s when you break completely.
The sobs wrack through you, sudden and overwhelming, years of holding it in, of pushing forward, of pretending you were okay crashing down all at once. You clutch onto him, fisting your hands into his skin, like you need him to hold you together.
“He—he was proud of me,” you gasp against his chest, your breath uneven, broken. “He—he said—”
Joel hushes you gently, his hand smoothing over the back of your head. “I know, baby,” he murmurs, his voice thick, aching for you. “I know.”
You shake your head against him, your hands gripping at his back. “But—he still left. He still—they still made that choice.”
Joel exhales slowly, his hold on you tighter, firmer. “I know,” he says again, his lips brushing against your temple, his touch grounding, real. “But you weren’t a choice, baby. He loved you.”
Your breath catches in your throat, the truth of it too big, too much. You let out another broken sob, burying yourself into him, into the only solid thing you have left.
And he lets you. For what feels like forever, he just holds you—no rushing, no telling you to stop, just letting you fall apart inside the safety of his arms. His hands move up and down your back, his lips pressing against the side of your head, into your hair, whispering nothing but warmth.
Eventually, the sobs fade into slow, hiccuping breaths. Your body is still shaking, but you’re here. The weight is still there, but so is Joel.
You sniffle, rubbing your face against his chest, trying to pull yourself together.
Joel shifts, cupping your face in both hands, his thumbs wiping away the damp trails of tears on your cheeks. He tilts your head up, his eyes soft but so damn fierce, like he’s looking right through you, like he’s trying to make sure you feel every word before he says them.
“I got you,” he murmurs. “You hear me, sweetheart? I got you. You ain’t alone.”
A fresh wave of tears pricks at your eyes, but you nod, because you believe him.
And then he’s kissing you, not on the mouth, but instead, he kisses your forehead first, lingering there like he’s pressing the promise into your skin. Then your temple. Then your cheek. Your nose. Everywhere he can reach, slow and deliberate.
By the time he pulls back, you’re breathless. Shattered in a way that feels less like breaking, and more like being glued back together with every press of his lips.
"I got you," Joel murmurs, his hands cradling your face, his thumbs wiping away the damp trails of tears on your cheeks. He tilts your head up, forcing you to see him, to hear him.
"You hear me, sweetheart?" His voice is steady, unshakable. It’s a vow. "I got you. You ain’t alone. You ain’t ever gonna be alone again."
The weight of it slams into you, a fresh sob breaking loose from your throat. It’s too much. It’s everything you’ve ever needed to hear, everything you’ve spent your whole life pretending you didn’t want.
And it’s Joel. The only man you’ve ever known like this, the only man you’ve ever wanted and needed and craved with every fiber of your being.
Your fingers clutch at his arms, trying to ground yourself, but he’s already anchoring you. His lips continue to press into your skin, everywhere around your face until he places on gentle brush against your lips like he’s memorizing the shape of you, like he needs you to feel it.
When he pulls back, his hands still framing your face, his breath still warm against your lips, he whispers—so soft, so certain:
"I love you."
Tumblr media
The End.
Hey, you beautiful, amazing people.
I don’t even know where to start, but thank you. Seriously. From the bottom of my heart: to everyone who read, liked, reblogged, screamed in the tags, sent me messages, or just silently followed along—you made this story so much more than I ever imagined.
Every comment, every reaction, every little freak-out over a scene made my day (and honestly fueled me to keep going). The way you connected with this story, these characters—it means everything. Writing this was one thing, but experiencing it with all of you? That was the best part.
So, to everyone who stuck with me, whether from the beginning or just recently—thank you for being here. Thank you for caring. Thank you for making this so special.
I would love to hear your thoughts! Please comment or message me any of your thoughts— the good the bad the ugly ❤️
I love you all. Truly.
63 notes · View notes
jensthwa · 13 hours ago
Text
mountebank chem pt. four (JYH x reader).
Tumblr media Tumblr media
part of the love's an uncharted path universe ★.
SUMMARY:
* 𝐦𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐤: 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞𝐠𝐮𝐢𝐥𝐞 𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐬𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐦 𝐛𝐲 𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐫𝐲. The first time you met Yunho, you knew he was going to be part of the biggest tragedy of your life: the loss of your freedom, of your free will. You didn't know why back then but what you did figure out is that you and Jeong Yunho were going to, eventually and very publicly, date each other at some point. Is that reason enough to hate his guts? Well, of course! Now, when the time comes to fulfill the prophecy, how the hell are you going to pull it off? And, most importantly, what do you need to do to not fall in love with him in the process?
PAIRING: rich!yunho x afab!rich!reader.
GENRE: enemies to friends to lovers.
WORD COUNT: 24.1k.
WARNINGS & TAGS: SMUT ☽ (MINORS DNI) attempt !!! at comedy, dual pov (both yunho's and reader's), use of fem pronouns sometimes, angsty angst that angsts in the form a verbal fight, tears, unresolved feelings and denial, tension, a heartfelt conversations with bro and lots of yearning!, a time jump (three months or so), mingi and love being unhelpful but helpful at the same time, yeosang being a cutie pie and a little bit of his story gets mentioned!, the L word, confessions, apologies, mentions of body dysmorphia and body related insecurities, soft!dom yunho (he's a little bossy), switch!reader (oc hates to let him win i guess), reader has breasts and a vagina, mirror play, teasing, light choking, messy kisses and makeouts, masturbation (f), just the tiniest bit of voyeurism, praise kink if you squint oh my god, fingering, multiple orgasms, love making (who else cried), the post-sex convo and more feelings and dreams are discussed.
NOTES: hi everyone! WE MADE IT!!!!! here's part four of this mini series that is PART OF THE LOVE'S AN UNCHARTED PATH. after this, there's an epilogue/little part five to let everyone know sort of what happens after this + to set up the next story in the universe. i also just want to adress that one of you kindly suggested to change up some of the terminology i use in the warnings and for some other things in the fic itself and i thank that person a lot! but i also want to encourage you, if you feel something's missing or if i can do anything to be more inclusive in my stories, to let me know! i hope you all enjoy it part four of mbc, we've come a looong way and i'm happy on how this turned out. this is 100% self indulgent, as all fics should be, and i think i've re-read it so many times that if you find a typo or something that just doesn't make sense, you can blame it on english not being my first language i guess lmao. i hope you enjoy it and if you do feel free to send to my askbox/reblog/type in any feedback or thoughts! <3
POSTED: february 2nd 2025.
taglist: @kyunlov, @tinyelfperson, @0115degrees, @daniela-f-uwu, @ultrapinkvoidbouquet, @kyeomooniee, @fairylover68, @sushiinmidnight, @qveenbunni, @calmoistorm, @potatomountain, @svintsandghosts, @lemonkait00, @blue5ummer, @fancypeacepersona, @hyukssunflower, @i-love-ateez, @alsomimi, @e3ellie, @st3ft0n3s, @hotteokkay, @xylatox
masterlist - part one - part two. part three.
Tumblr media
You dream about him. Every night. 
His mouth on yours and his hands handling you with care fill the gray matter of your brain and rots it. It fits you. 
A rotten brain for a rotten person. 
The scenario repeats in a loop in your head even when you're awake, alone in your house office, accompanied by staff at the main office building. It doesn't really matter what you're doing, who you're with or if the task at hand requires your full attention, Yunho still invades your mind and makes you feel like you're leaping, flying through skies and then falling, falling, falling, before hitting the ground hard. 
Because at the end of the memory, it plays what you did. 
The way you pulled away, the way you left him there without a proper explanation. 
You didn't have dinner with your brother, it was over nine o'clock at night. You needed an escape goat, a plan, an excuse to flee from the happiness you grasped with your sticky, messy, disgusting fingers. 
Everything you touch seems to turn to shit. 
So you can't touch Jeong Yunho even if you want to. 
You shan't, you won’t, even when he’s so close to you it takes a lot for you to hold back. He’s a message away, a meeting away from you. And his messages on your phone kept piling up this week until they didn’t. 
And now, as you watch him enter the meeting in a suit and tie, you do your best to pretend nothing happened between you even though it's supposed to. To everyone else's eyes, you’re still a couple. 
You’re grateful for that. You don’t sit together, you can’t sit together. Of course you can't, that would be very unprofessional. You can't voice your opinion about any decisions made by his team (or rather, his brother's team) today because that would look like you're doing it to either spite him or to be on your boyfriend's side, it would look like corruption! 
God bless the stupid societal and corporate norms. You won't even have to speak to him today, if you're lucky. You know he's shadowing his brother today, learning his way through these meetings you've been attending for years or at least pretending to do so.
There's absolutely no reason to speak to him today. 
Yay. 
Soohyun sits at your left, at the head of the table, and Yunho sits with his brother at Soohyun’s left. Neither your father or his are here today so everyone’s shoulders are a little less tense and the meeting is a quarterly one, which means people are going to be explaining graphics and reading numbers you have to stay focused on. 
There's things you have to write down, there's statements you have to whisper in your brother's ear so he can say them out loud instead of you. 
But Yunho looks way too good in his suit and tie and it's a little distracting. 
And he's looking right at you, too. 
You can hear your co-workers immediately gossiping about it, you can see your brother turn to you, then to him, then to you and you can faintly see how he raises a brow. Faintly, because you're pretending to read over some papers in front of you by the time he bumps your leg to try and catch your attention. 
You step on his foot under the table, he mutters an offended ouch and pinches your arm in retaliation, which causes you to stop pretending to eye the documents and turn to him. 
“Stop it.” 
“You started it,” he says and then Soohyun gives you that look that lets you know he knows something you don't, although it can possibly be like that because he's a clueless little shit. “Did something happen between yo—” 
Well, maybe not as clueless. Good thing you wore great heels today, the face he makes as he's trying to pretend that the sharp end of your Louis Vuitton is not stabbing him in the leg feels like a victory. 
“Keep quiet, the meeting is starting.” 
Oh, how you love winning. 
The thing is, you can't even enjoy it now. Yunho’s face pops up on your mind again and it serves as a reminder of just how close he is. 
As someone from the sales team starts their presentation, your eyes drift to Yunho in a way that feels oddly familiar. 
There, trying to stay upright even though you know he's zoning everything out, there's this memory from your junior year in highschool that never tortured you the way it does now. 
Although he's always been very tall, Yunho used to sit near the window, in the second row of the classroom you both shared that year. Not his decision, certainly whoever made that decision was not the sharpest tool on the shed because all he did was look out of the window and close his eyes when the teachers were not paying enough attention to him. 
And you used to stare at him just like you're doing now. Through the corner of your eye, with your back straightened and ninety percent of your attention on the topic at hand. He held the other ten percent, tenderly, softly, without realizing what he was doing. 
Just like he held you that night. 
At the time, you wondered what went on in his head every time he drifted away from the class. New ways of making your life impossible? A new insult to your integrity, maybe? Highschool Yunho was everyone's dream but, for you, he meant nothing but nightmares and headaches. 
Nothing has changed much. 
But instead of wondering if he's thinking about new ways of pestering you with his presence, now your heart races at the possibility of him thinking about the kisses you two shared last week. 
You hope no one notices the sudden shift on the chair or the gulp you make to keep your emotions buried deep down inside of you, where no one can reach them. 
Trying to regain focus and ignore Yunho completely, you look at the projected graphics in front of you. The person doing the presentation turns to the next slide as soon as you're beginning to understand what the hell they're talking about. Surprisingly, your brother turns to whisper at you about it. 
“The new company sales are lower than expected.” 
When you turn fully to him, you can see he's biting his cheek in concerned concentration. You want to roll your eyes. 
“I told dad no one would care about this company and you were the one who approved for us to go forward with it.” 
“I know.” 
“Dumbass,” you whisper, scrunching your nose and turning to the presentation again but your brother nudges you slightly and you have to look at him again. 
Only for your eyes to completely bypass him and land in Yunho. 
God fucking damnit.
Is this what having a crush is like? Is tortuous and you hate this even more than when you couldn't stand seeing his face out of pure annoyance. 
This is why you probably never had a crush on anyone before. But it's strange, because it doesn't feel like something new. Yes, Yunho attending meetings is new but the feeling is familiar and grossly nostalgic of something you feel like you left behind.
And now has come back in full force. 
You never had a crush on Yunho, at least not that you know of. 
But this feeling is telling you otherwise and it's maddening and disgusting and— 
“Something definitely happened, hm?” 
Eyes flicking over your brother's sudden concerned expression, you push back on the seat and sink in it a little. This way, when you look up to him, Yunho is nowhere in sight. When you speak again, you make sure only Soohyun hears you. 
“We can save it, don't worry about it. I'll write up a proposal of how we can market the concept of the company in a way that it at least piques people's interest.” 
Your brother huffs, unsatisfied with your deflection and the way you visibly close up at the mere thought of telling him if something did happen between you and Yunho. 
But he says nothing. It stings that you know he's going to leave it at that, the support you're supposed to have slipping through your fingers as you do your best to keep your feelings to yourself. It's not his fault, not really. 
He doesn't know any better. 
You don't know any better, either. 
But your focus on the meeting comes back and you end it with thirteen pages of virtual notes and a list of things you need to do today to keep this shitshow of a company afloat. 
There's a split second when you get out of the room that you feel Yunho’s eyes on you. You're afraid he's going to take the opportunity to talk to you, so you look up and around trying to find something, someone you can use as a distraction, as a shield. 
But then there's like four pairs of hands dragging him away and you see that annoyed glint in his eye, usually reserved for you, as they turn him around and away from you. 
Yes, of course they wouldn't let him speak to you right now. He's shadowing his brother, he has important things to do! 
Yay. 
You ignore the beating of your heart as you move quickly through the halls. Soohyun and Gunho are already aiming for the elevator so you opt for the stairs, knowing you won't have to speak to anyone at all if you get to your office like this. 
Well, Soohyun's office. You have yours on a lower floor, not as unnecessary space-taking as his, but you usually work there because you enjoy the view. 
So when you finally close the door behind you and the view is blocked by thirty piled up boxes you start thinking that the universe is upset with you. Is this your karma? Everything and everyone against you just because you walked out of a kiss before making a mistake? 
Is not like Yunho cares that much about you anyway!
Huffing, you look around the room until your eyes land on that stupid tree you started painting when Soohyun told you he wanted to redecorate his office. Its branches extend just a little more than what you remember and there’s a part of it that was unfinished the last time you saw it. You can only assume either Seonghwa or your brother had something to do with it.
Which sucks. 
Because you’re so painting over the stupid tree one day. 
You stare at it while your mind wanders. Head slowly filling up with noise, you finally feel at ease when your thoughts are nothing but work: You need to write up a proposal to that stupid vintage-esque focused company to see if there’s some salvation for it. You need to speak with marketing, get one of them to go along the process with you. You need to sit down with your brother and kindly tell him to never allow something like this to ever happen again. 
Making a mental list to organize and prioritize everything you need to do, you barely register footsteps echoing in the long hall. You should’ve, because it’s lunchtime and there’s no one on the floor, but you don’t. 
And so when the person you least want to see comes through the door and lets out a heavy sigh, you turn to him like he grew a second nose over the course of the twenty minutes you last saw each other. 
“I hate it here, I truly do.” 
It almost makes you want to laugh, but you remain stoic as you move through the office. You take a few boxes and you put them down on the floor until there’s some light leaking through the window and illuminating the space enough for it not to give you a headache as you work. 
Sitting on your brother's chair, barely sparing him another glance before turning on the desk computer and pulling up an empty document. You click and tap a few meaningless things: You pick the font, you mess with the font size for a second before setting it back to its default. Anything to help you look busy and not like your heart is going a million miles per second. 
“Can I help you with anything, Yunho?” 
Blurry, in the background, you can see him look around the office, probably taking the mess in. He moves too, walks until his expensive shoes are tip to tip  with a literal mannequin resting against the wall. 
You stop paying attention as you write the date and the proposal title. Something simple, something that both your father and the CEO of the dumb not-approved-by-you company that has you in this predicament can understand. You hate to say that you assume they’re not very smart if they put out such a dated and non profitable idea for their company. 
Still, you try to address Yunho like nothing’s bothering you and like you’re not nervous you two are in a room alone after everything that went down. 
“You can ask Seonghwa what that means,” you start, sighing like his friend and your brother are hopeless. Because maybe that’s what they are. “They’re not running any ideas by me even though I’m the one that spends the most time in this office, so.” 
“Hm,” he starts and you can hear him walking around, but your focus is now on the first few words of the proposal. You realize there’s really nothing you can start before speaking with marketing and so you open the notes app, to have a list of ideas to run through them at least. “Thought you worked from home.” 
“I do. I have an office three floors down, too.” It’s easy sharing information with him now, especially if it means there’s something to talk about that’s not… Well, the kiss. “I hate it, it’s in a corner and people can see into it. It’s easier to work here.” 
“And Soohyun hyung doesn’t mind?”
“Considering he’s never here, I doubt it.” 
“Cool, cool.” 
There’s something in his tone that makes you want to look up, lump in your throat growing in size enough for you to cough it away. You don’t look up, you can’t look up even if you’ve misspelled the word rebrand like four times already. 
But then the light you managed to cast onto the space disappears completely. You feel something besides you, the soft material of an expensive suit blazer grazing your arm and cheek. You see veiny, masculine hands secure themselves around the arms of the chair before he’s turning you to face him. 
You gulp. 
He’s leaning down close, closer than he should be, closer than what he’s allowed to be considering anyone can walk in on you. You’re flushing, you can feel the redness creep up your neck and heating your ears and face before you gather the courage of raising a questioning brow. Yunho stays silent, his eyes scanning your face and briefly landing on your lips before returning your stare. 
“Can I help you with anything, Yunho?” You ask him again, quieter this time, voice trembling a little. 
“Princess,” he starts, the corner of his lip raising just a little, like it’s funny he has to say what he’s about to say, “are you ghosting me?” 
Shit. 
“Why would you— Why would I—,” a nervous chuckle abandons you and then you huff, trying to seem offended at his accusation, “W-what do you mean by that?” 
Leaning into your space a tiny bit more, he repeats “Are you ghosting me?” 
Creasing your brow, you straighten in the chair but do nothing to pull him away “No.”
“Then what about the ten messages I sent you and you left on delivered?” 
Faking a surprised gasp, you move to take your phone out of the pocket of your jacket and unlock it to swipe through your messages “You did? Oh, my God, I’ve been soooo busy.” 
“You’re shit at lying to me.” 
“I’m not lying to you—” 
“Are you okay?” 
Your eyes snap from the phone to his face, genuine annoyance creasing your eyebrows this time. 
“You don’t have to ask me that everytime you see me, Jeong.” 
“But are you?” He asks as you finally find his chat and open the messages you dreaded to see the entire time that passed. There’s a few of them practically begging you to speak to him, one apologizing for the kiss and the other ones you don’t even see because Yunho is taking the phone from your hand and placing it on the desk next to you. “I mean, what happened didn’t trigger anyth—” 
You hate he’s this considerate with you, even after you clearly walked out of the situation with a poorly formulated excuse.
“What happened was a mistake.” 
Yunho physically deflates and lets the chair go, the tension on your shoulders lifting a little now that he’s not as close. 
“What?” 
“It was a mistake, we shouldn’t have done that. We’re professionally obligated to work together, fake all of this together, so it shouldn’t…” You pause and consider for a bit before doing something you never do: take the blame “I shouldn’t have. I apologize.” 
Letting out a breath, you turn the chair and delete the misspelled rebrand to write it the correct way, heart too weak to even look at his reaction. It doesn’t matter anyway, you’re never doing anything like it again. 
You hear him shuffle with the boxes at both your feet and, from the corner of your eye, you see him turning away from you and then back, hands on his hips “I don't think it was a mistake.” 
“Well, it was.” 
“I liked it.” 
That brings out a genuine, short lived laugh out of you “Thank you, I’m a great kisser.” 
You open your brother’s email and pretend there’s an urgent matter inside the contents of one of them until Yunho’s hand closes over yours, over the mouse. 
“Y/N.” 
There’s a lot of things about Jeong Yunho you hate: The swoop of his hair when there’s no gel on it, the free aspect to his nature you’re never going to get even if you try to, that one time he called you an ugly giant after wearing platforms for the first time ever. 
And the sweetness of his voice when he says your name, the plea you hear on it and the shudder it brings to your spirit. It shakes you, it moves you to look at him again, to actually take his feelings into consideration. 
He’s staring at you with so much hurt, it makes your heart sink into an abyss of guilt. 
“Hm?” 
“I think I like you.” 
Oh. 
Oh, no. 
Your heart drowns deeper, your resentment towards the situation grows branches like the tree on the wall. They hug your pride and your ego, they poke you on your side for reciprocating Yunho’s feelings just a little. 
Well, a lot.
“You think?” You ask him and your voice sounds far away. He nods. You stand up from the chair, hand squeezing his before letting drop. “Stop thinking then.” 
His eyes closing shut and his jaw tensing is the last thing you see before you busy yourself with the boxes against the window. You pick up two at a time, heavy and the cardboard smelly as you walk to the other side of the office, away from him. 
“I’m being serious, Y/N.” 
You sigh “So am I, Yunho. You don’t like me, you liked that I kissed you.” 
“Oh, I forgot you know exactly what goes through my mind and my heart, thank you for the remainder!” 
Looking at him over your shoulder, you drop the boxes against the corner wall “Lower. Your. Voice.” 
“No, no. Because that’s not an appropriate response to what I just told you!” He walks towards you and you meet him halfway, heart beating with annoyance at the way he’s speaking to you. He towers over you again, jaw clenched and voice a mere murmur when he speaks again “You have no say in what I feel, how I feel it, when I feel it.” 
“I know I don’t, you idiot. I was just providing you with a bit of perspective.” 
“Perspective?”
“What do you like about me?” Chin up and nose scrunched in a way it only does when you’re really angry, you insist “Why now? Why do you suddenly care? Is it out of pity? Is it because it’s convenient, because we’re already pretending? Is it because you want to fuck me?!”
“Watch it, Y/N.” His tone is laced with clear offense at what you offered just a second ago. 
“You don’t like me,” you start, shaking your head, “you can’t like me.” 
“Why not?!” 
He’s breathing hard, walking backwards, offering up his palms to the sky and looking around the room like any of that is going to give him an answer to his questions. 
“Why not?” He repeats and there’s that hurt in his voice that, for some reason, makes your eyes water. Are you having a panic attack? A heart attack? Everything hurts. Liking Yunho hurts, wanting him hurts. He comes back, his eyes searching yours even though you can’t do anything but cast them down, to your shoes and his shoes and the boxes and the carpet “Why can’t I like you, princess? What’s not to like? What kind of self-deprecating ideas do 
you have in your head that makes you think I can’t care about you like that?”
Shaking your head again and closing your eyes, you are barely able to stifle a sob and force your tears back. You want to tell him that that’s not the reason but you would be lying to him if you did. 
That’s part of the reason. 
Behind the whole letting your mother’s win argument, there’s an undeniable amount of self hatred that can’t let you feel like there’s any truth behind his words. 
Why would he like you? Why would he care about you? 
Your hands are dirty and sticky and your being is way too clumsy, so everything you love drops and breaks and turns to dust before your eyes. The fact that there’s this whole fake relationship deal in the middle of it and you can place the blame on your mothers is a blessing in disguise. 
It’s a weapon you can use. 
Even if you don’t want to: His hands are cradling your face, his forehead dropping against yours and drawing a surprised gasp out of you because you didn’t even feel him get him close. 
“I like you, I care about you,” there’s certainty in his tone, like he made up his mind, like he’s confirming his feelings to both you and himself, “I… I—” He takes a breath when you open your eyes and beg him to not say what you think he’s about to say. He takes the hint. “Do you not like me back, Y/N? Are you trying to… Is that what’s happening?” 
You say nothing, but swallow back your feelings and brace yourself on his forearms, nose budging his as you move a little. 
He reads your silence wrong “Y-you do?” 
You think it matters if you do or not. Your heart is already breaking by the time the words are on the tip of your tongue. 
“We can’t,” you whisper to him, letting your tears wet your cheeks and squeezing his forearms when his thumbs start to move in trying to dry them, shaking your head to signal him to stop. As your eyes catch his, you prepare yourself for the gentleness you’re about to lose, with the care you’re about to push away for his own good. “Because if we do, they win.” 
You didn’t know your heart could break this way, as you watch his expression morph from confusion to pain to utter, genuine anger. It’s the same face he made last week, in your living room, as he yelled at his mother for even daring suggesting that you two should be together. 
There’s a time when hurting Yunho brought you some sense of vengeance, a time where you considered it payback for being that person literally planned and made for you. 
Now, you want to hit your head against the wall for even daring filling his eyes with tears, for being the reason frustration descends and wets his shoes as he looks down. 
“Oh.” 
He lets you go and you miss it. You immediately want to take your words back, push him closer to you, hug him, kiss him, whatever it may be to keep him next to you.
You start to mourn the loss of the bond you were able to form with him right away. 
And it hurts. 
He nods again. And it hurts. “Oh, that’s what this is about.” 
It fucking hurts. When he laughs, hands on his face as he wipes his tears away, you feel like you’re going to pass out. 
“And you don’t care about me enough to tell them to go fuck themselves.” He says, a resentful statement that leaves his lips before a breathy laugh does. 
Opening your mouth, you attempt to contradict his words. That’s not true at all, he has to understand, he understands you, he— He raises his hand to stop you from speaking, he shakes his head like he doesn’t want to hear it. 
Like your excuses, even if he hasn't listened to them at all, are not worth his time. 
“I get it.” No, you don’t. “I understand.” No, you really don’t. 
But you say nothing. As he’s slipping through your fingers like sand, at your own doing, you just stare at him with sorrowful eyes and an apology on your teeth. 
He looks at you like he’s expecting you to stop him as he reaches the door. You want to, you really do. 
You don’t. 
“Thanks for letting me know.”
When the door closes behind him and leaves you alone in an office that’s not really yours, feeling like you’re not yourself, you finally allow the reality of what you just did to hit you. 
Hand shaking, you cover your mouth and let out a sob as you let yourself cry what you just lost. But, as you do, you remind yourself that you don’t really deserve Yunho’s care. 
You don’t really deserve his love. 
Hurting him is probably the easiest way out he has of whatever he thinks he’s feeling for you. 
Walking slowly to the desk, you wipe your tears away and nod to yourself. Yes, this is exactly what needed to happen. Good. Yes. What were you doing before he came in? 
You grab the mouse. 
Ah, the proposal. Of course. 
The noise comes back, louder this time. Unbearable and ear-piercing, it forces you to close your eyes and listen to the beat of your heart before you push the sound away. You can’t afford to crash right now.
You skim through your tasks in your mind and, as you do, the reminder of a little notification you saw on your calendar this morning, with Yunho’s name on it, is what finally lets the panic break through your senses. 
“No.” 
And you spend the rest of the afternoon typing your escape plan away. 
By the time your brother remembers he has an office, it’s dark outside and the proposal is
printed and in a folder placed neatly in the middle of his desk. 
He closes the door, raising an eyebrow at the way you’re resting your shoulder against the window behind his chair, the boxes blocking them all piled up in the corner you initially started moving them to this afternoon. 
“You’re still here.” He muses and you turn to him, scoffing at the obvious. 
“Well, somebody has to work.” 
“I was working,” he sounds a little bit offended, but when he passes in front of you and pulls back his chair to sit on it, you faintly smell whisky and cigarettes. “I was at a meeting in the gentlemen's club with Gunho.” 
“That’s hardly working, Soohyun.” 
Looking over his shoulder, he’s face to face with your unimpressed expression. Of course he went to the stupid club with Gunho, of course he didn’t do shit today. 
“Let me remind you that I am, in fact, older than you.” 
“And?”
“I deserve respect and zero questioning.” 
You hum, slightly amused this time. You know he’s goofing around, you know he’s hardly mad at the implication that you do all the work he’s supposed to do plus yours but there’s this slight worry in his face that’s unusual.  
“Is Gunho oppa okay?” 
Your brother frowns “Of course he is.” 
“Are you okay?” 
“Yes, I’m— Why are you asking?” 
Shrugging, you turn away from him to look at the city through the window again. You can see the river and the buildings that encapsulate it perfectly and it brings you a strange sense of comfort everytime you zone out and just people watch those who feel free enough to walk along the bridge at this hour, with the cold and the rain and the mess that the leaves leave behind as they fall. 
“You look distraught.” 
“Well, you’ve been crying, of course I am.” 
Interesting. You didn’t think he could tell, which means your face is puffy and you look ugly. Great. 
“The mess in this office made me tear up when I got in this afternoon,” you say, swerving around the accusation with ease because there’s no way in hell you’re telling your brother what’s up with you. “I’m going to need your help when it comes to explaining that to dad.” And then you use your chin to point to the proposal sitting in front of him. 
“You didn’t have to do this today, I know sales are low but-” 
“Oh, that’s not it. That one is sitting on your email. This—” you take two steps, tap the front of the folder with your nails, “is a new thing. A thing he won’t understand nor approve unless you understand it and approve it.” 
And then you move back to your position by the window, staring at the lights and the buildings one more time without explaining anything else. When you hear the flick of the pages being turned, you know he understands how serious you’re about it. No space for debating, no time for complaining: you need him to get it done now, and so he will. 
Because your brother can be a lot of things but he’s not dumb. 
And he can read a room like no other except maybe you. 
Seconds turn into minutes and then the clock ticks and blends together as you wait, shoulder hurting by the time your brother lets out a heavy sigh. 
“No, I won’t approve this.” 
Definitely not what you wanted to hear. 
“Excuse me?” 
“You want to—” 
Defensiveness floats you, over-stimulates your senses and makes you see red at the rejection of your proposal “I want to expand our market, our clientele, our opportunities to keep this company on top. Can you relate?” 
“Y/N…” He scowls at your attack, at your tone “You’re running.” 
“I’m doing something for the company!” 
You think your roar is heard all the way to the first floor. Soohyun stares at you wide-eyed, mouth agape for a second before he closes it again. He has to fix his tie, his suit ironed for once as he takes the jacket off and discards it against the chair. 
Brat, princess, annoying little sister. You know that’s what he calls you, he has called you that ever since you were a child and in the most endearing way possible. You have yelled at him before, you have stomped your foot and cried and moaned until you got your way, until he agreed to let you do something. 
You have never screamed at him like this before, though. 
It shows in the way your chest rises and falls quickly, in the way he has to take a calming breath to not yell back at you. Your eyes are full with tears when he looks up and the crease of his brow disappears because, even though you both could be closer and understand each other better, he still is your brother. 
Your brother, who loves you and cares about you in his own way. 
It proves more difficult to let him see the real you, more difficult than what it felt with Yunho or with anyone else. 
So when the tears fall down your cheeks, you wipe them away quickly and pretend they were never there. 
“I don’t know what the hell happened,” he starts, calm, taking a step into your direction and raising his hand and you recoil a bit out of habit. He hesitates for a few seconds but then he’s squeezing your shoulder and pulling you into a tight hug that feels unfamiliar, unusual and weird until it doesn’t. You melt into the embrace because you need it, because it allows you to let go of your frustration and cry it out on your brother’s chest, “but you’re going to explain it to me whether you like it or not. And only then, I will consider saying yes to your proposal.” 
When you pull away to look at him, it’s with a pout and a scowl that draws a breathy laugh out of him. 
“Stupid.” He pushes you away a little before pulling you back in for a hug, “Always keeping things to yourself instead of letting me take the weight of it all. Stupid.” 
It takes a few minutes, but when the hug doesn’t seem necessary and your usual disgust for physical touch comes back into your system, he allows you to take two steps back and clean your face with the back of your hand. 
“Haven’t seen you cry since you were a child,” he whispers and you shrug, ignoring the fact that your heart stings at the comment. “What happened?” 
You tell him everything that night. 
Tumblr media
Yunho hasn’t seen you in three months. 
Which, at first, came as relief. He didn’t want to see your face ever again after the things you confirmed to him back in your brother's office. Who needed you, right? He told himself his mother loved enough to understand the sudden change of heart, although she doesn’t exactly know what happened between you in the first place. 
Maybe he should’ve been honest when he got the chance, back in your house, the afternoon they told you both about the pr relationship. 
He was so close to telling the truth, too, when he walked out of the living room and into the hallway to clear his head and not scream at his mother in front of yours. It was there, at the tip of his tongue, and then his mother appeared in front of him with that spark behind her eye that could only mean one thing: it didn’t matter what the truth was, he was going to do this even if it killed him inside. 
Her words the next second confirmed it and he wondered right then if his freedom was worth the suffering:
“Either you do this or I’ll make sure you’re never able to dance again, Jeong Yunho. No more public university, no more friends, no more staying at the dorm, just your father’s company,” and he was about to refuse, yet again, she raised her finger as a warning. “I mean it. Y/N is perfect to clear the company’s image but if we can’t use her then we’ll have to work twice as hard as we do now to clear it.” 
And Yunho would rather fake an entire life with you than work for the man who single handedly ruined his life the second he was born. He didn’t hate his father, he thought about him like a concept he would never understand even when he desperately tried to, but he would never become part of his company.
Not in the way his mom suggested, anyway. 
He just needed to get through college, pretend to be interested in the family business and then land a freelancer job elsewhere, in a foreign company maybe, one who didn’t seem a threat to his father’s and then move on his own when he had enough money saved. 
Independence. He needed independence. Strangely enough, he needed you to gain that independence even though you meant the exact opposite to him, in his head. 
So he doesn’t know why he yelled at you that afternoon. To take it all out, maybe? He thought he hated you back then, too.
He had already agreed to it in the hallway, to his mom. 
He had already agreed to it the second he was born. 
Which is crazy because that’s not a normal experience to have. And if you were born a boy or him a girl, none of this would’ve happened in the first place. You’d be friends, like Gunho and Soohyun, and maybe he’d be forced to be with someone that wasn’t shoved down his throat for so long. 
Imagine his surprise when he kissed you back that night in his dorm. No, scratch that, imagine his surprise when he started liking you the second you showed your true colors to him. 
You’re not perfect by any means, but neither is he and it only took you allowing him to enter a little bit into your mind, into your heart, into your soul, for him to fall for you hard. Or maybe he always liked you? His mind didn’t allow him to sleep at all when you left, but it didn’t allow him to go and follow you that same night either, so the conundrum continued to torture him until it didn’t. 
After the fight in the office, he went home and sat in his childhood bedroom for a while. He had dinner with his brother when he came home to look for some documents in his father’s home office and then he went back to his dorm and stared at the ceiling until Yeosang came back from wherever he’s been disappearing to these days. 
He pretended everything was fine under Yeosang’s scrutinizing gaze but his friend and roommate knew him so much it only took less than a week for his sudden mood to reach the ears of the rest of the friend group. 
Not so subtle messages started entering his phone. He answered all of them and then used the excuse of being on the app to check your chat in case you sent a message and it didn’t notify him for some reason. He told them everything was okay, that he was feeling a bit under the weather. 
And he managed to convince them until he checked his calendar one day (the one he shared with you) and realized all foreseeable events had been cancelled. You had another meeting where you two needed to coexist, a company dinner with both your team and Gunho’s team that he needed to go to as your plus one and, surprisingly enough, a paparazzi session scheduled by your mother that you needed to first prepare to and then do. 
All of this was explained to him by his PR assistant. It surprised him to see that many postponed and canceled the app. It angered him to assume you canceled everything just because you didn’t want to see him. 
He didn’t want to see you either, but he had to. Weren’t you the one who more than once scolded him for not being professional enough? 
Ha! 
It was his opportunity to tease you about it. And so, when he was told to go to your brother’s office the next day, he had this whole speech ready to go. He would tell you to stop being so dumb, that a kiss and his feelings is something that can be ignored. That he needed you both to forgive and forget. 
Yunho needs to continue his plan, even if his own heart breaks in the process. And as he got down the elevator and walked the hall to reach the office, his heart desperately asked him to reconsider. Because there, while pushing the door handle to enter the space he dreaded to be a week prior, Yunho realized he wanted to ask you to be his again. 
When he found nothing but Soohyun on his chair, his conviction deflated and his ego sank to the ground. 
“Yunho!” Your brother sprung out of his chair, excitingly rounding his desk until he reached for him. Arm around his shoulders, Yunho raised a brow at the sudden animosity. “Were you expecting someone else?” 
“N-no.”
“Right.” 
He knew Soohyun could call his bullshit from a mile away. But it didn’t matter, he was already sitting down in front of him in the new couches facing each other. He wanted to point it out, but Soohyun beat him to it. 
“Your friend Park Seonghwa has amazing taste.” 
“Ah,” he breathed out a laugh, a nervous chuckle that made him gasp for air a second after, “yeah. He, um, was top of his class before he graduated.”
“I can tell,” Soohyun nodded and looked around, scrunching his nose in a way that reminded Yunho of you. “Y/N is not going to be available for the next few months.”
What? 
“W-what?” 
“I know you came here looking for her and we’ve known each other since you were born, Yunho, I think we can skip the shitty formalities.” 
“Hyung…”
Soohyun shaked his head, laughing with a relaxed sincerity that is such a Soohyun thing to do “There’s never not been a moment in my life where my sister doesn’t surprise me. I know you know her and I know you two have grown… Closer since this whole PR thing started but I don’t think you can grasp the full Y/N effect until you live with her, you know?”
He didn’t. Not at all. 
“She crafted in four, maybe five hours a project that would’ve taken me at least a month to sit down and write,” he explained and Yunho swallowed thickly, the lump on his throat going down. “And she wanted to get it done as soon as she got the approval from dad. So, I hope you understand that she couldn’t exactly give you a notice before postponing and cancelling your shared schedule.” 
Ah. So you didn’t want to speak to him at all. He scoffed, annoyed. “So she asked you to tell me?” 
“Nope. In fact, I’m pretty sure she would kill me if she knew I’m meeting with you at all.” 
Yunho blinked, confused. 
“Oh.”
“But I love you like a brother, Yunho. You’re my family, you’re her family even though she hates it and I realized recently that the four of us need to stick together. If everything else goes to shit, we’ll still have us.” 
The four of you. Including him and Gunho. 
“And as a family, we owe each other honesty. We owe each other loyalty and forgiveness and understanding. You see where I’m going with this?” 
“No,” he admitted, frowning a bit. “What does any of that have to do with me and Y/N? We don’t like each other, I know you and Gunho noticed at some point. It’s the way things are supposed to be.” The words had a bitter taste, but he pushed through them. 
He sounded like you.
Soohyun let out a sigh and he got up from his seat to squeeze Yunho’s shoulder “She comes back in three months, Yunho. She’s doing something from the company but she has to come back, right?” 
Yunho shrugged, pretending the information didn’t spark something close to hope inside of him. 
“Understanding. That’s what we owe each other: Love and understanding… And lunch. Your brother actually owns me lunch, feel free to join us.” 
Your brother is the weirdest guy ever. However, he realized that as Soohyun walked out of the office and left him to consider his words, that he was already planning on telling you when you came back. 
He missed you already, too. 
And yet, he didn’t find the courage to tell you at all. It tormented him, greatly, vastly. It consumed him through his classes, his dance rehearsals, his performances. It tugged on his heart the days he had to go to the office and pretend he cared about the company, and through his hang outs with his friends. 
They asked about you all the time. He had to remind them you were on a business trip, he had to make up a story, he had to tell them the details were apparently confidential when he didn’t even know where you were.
He could’ve just called you. He could’ve just asked you. 
His finger over your contact on his phone while he sits in Wooyoung's room during a house party, in the dark. 
He could just ask you. 
He–
“Okay, what the fuck is going on with you?” 
He drops his phone, the light of the screen going out as it lands down on the bed. 
“Holy shit, Mingi!” 
 A light turns on and he squints his eyes at the sudden intrusion. 
“You scared the shit out of me!”
“I walked in here like five minutes ago,” his best friend deadpans and Yunho pouts like a child. “You know, I’m starting to feel like I don’t mean that much to you anymore.”
That offends him deeply and he scowls before tossing a pillow in his direction  “What the hell are you even saying?” 
“I’m a patient person, Yunho,” he catches the pillow and tosses it back, “and I’ve been waiting for you to tell me what's been going on for the last month and half but you keep saying everything’s fine.” 
“Because everything’s f—” 
“No, it’s not!” 
Mingi is tired, he can tell. He’s been holding his worries inside since the day he told everyone about his relationship with you and Yunho feels awful. This is that part of his life that’s hard to talk about. He only explained to Mingi about the dreadful desire that his father has of making him work for him around a year ago and he’s known Mingi for so long at this point that it does feel a little like he doesn’t trust him enough. 
But it’s hard and he has kept his feelings and desires buried for so long he thinks he might’ve accidentally dragged his feelings for you along with it and now they’re all mixed up and scratching the walls of their enclosure, begging to come out of him. 
“I’m not used to push people around to tell them about their feelings but you’re my best friend and—” 
“I kissed Y/N.” 
Mingi stops mid sentence, blinking a few times before moving to sit beside him on the bed. Yunho hopes, as he faintly hears the music outside of the room getting louder and Wooyoung screaming something that he can’t exactly make up, that Mingi doesn’t think he’s suddenly confessing his afflictions out of pressure. 
Instead, the words came out of his mouth like he couldn’t resist telling them in the first place. After keeping it to himself for weeks, nearly three months, it finally feels like breathing a little. 
“O… kay.” He says as a response and it’s Yunho’s turn to blink at him in disbelief, Mingi laughs a little. “So you kissed the girl you like. Isn’t that something to be happy about?” Yunho gapes at the insinuation of Mingi knowing he likes you, except, it doesn’t come as a surprise. His friends are very observant, to his absolute horror they can’t be fooled. “Did she reject you? Is that what’s going on?” 
“No! I mean, yes. We… She kissed me first!” He defends himself, taking a quick inhale before cursing softly under it. “And then I kissed her. And then we kissed and she left and she ghosted me for a little, actually. And then I saw her in her office, that's not actually her office but her brother’s, and I… I kind of confronted her? And then she rejected me.” 
By the time he finishes his rambles, Mingi looks amused and a little worried. 
“You have to be in this… Fake relationship with her and that’s tormenting you, then? Because she rejected you?” 
“No, that’s not… We’re not— I am, we are still in the fake relationship, it’s just that she’s gone.” 
“She died?!” 
“What? No! No, she’s,” Yunho closes his eyes, laughing at the assumption because he knows Mingi said it to get that exact response in return, “she’s not dead. She, um, she’s on that business trip.” 
“Oh, that’s right! You told us—”
“I lied.”
“What?” 
His poor best friend looks confused beyond belief and that guilt of not telling him everything creeps in once more, threatening to shut him up until he reminds himself Mingi is trustworthy and deserves some clarity. 
“She is on a business trip, I just don’t know why or how or where she is,” he finishes softly, his lips in a line and revealing just how uneasy that makes him feel. “I don’t know where she is and I think that she left because I— Well, when she rejected me we didn’t end up on the best of terms.”
“So you think it’s your fault.” Mingi finishes with a nod, letting out a sigh a second after. “Well, it’s not.” 
“It kind of is, though.” 
“Yunho, it’s not. She’s a grown up, if she decides to run away from her feelings instead of facing them she’s kind of a dumbass.” 
“Mingi!” Yunho’s pushing him a bit with his hand on his shoulder before he can help it. 
“She is!” Laughing, his best friend takes no offense at the push and instead pushes him back, teasingly. “Remember that one party you had at your place, when your parents were gone on that business trip with your brother?” 
“Oh, that party?” 
“Yeah, that party,” Mingi nods, looking away for a second, something shining in his face Yunho realizes he’s longing for. He wants that to shine on him, too: the security that being with the right person brings you. “Love tried to run away from an argument that night, too. I just didn’t let her.” 
“Are you calling your girlfriend a dumbass?” 
“Yeah,” and instead of saying it with a grudge, the confirmation comes out of a place filled with, well, love. “She was a dumbass back then, at least.” 
“Y/N is not like that at all,” Yunho says after a bit, “she’s not a dumbass for running away from this. Our thing… It’s kind of different. We’ve been put in this situation since we were kids and we hated, like actually hated each other for a while. We treated each other so badly, Mingi, you have no idea the way she gets under my goddamn skin sometimes,” and despite saying it like it’s a bad thing, he can’t help but smile. Mingi notices this, too. “You know I don’t have the best relationship with my parents, right? Well, hers is way worse.” 
“Wait, you told us that this relationship was something to clear your company’s image?” Mingi recalls and Yunho feels another pang of guilt against his ribcage. 
“It is! It totally is, it’s just… Well, she was born a girl and I was born a boy and our parents have a very, um, old-fashioned concept of love and what it’s supposed to look like. It was decided a long time ago that we were going to end up together.” 
There’s a few seconds of silence before Mingi bursts out laughing so hard it drowns the noise from outside the room. 
“That’s funny to you?” Yunho asks, light-hearted and smiling at the sound of his best friend's laugh. 
“No, no, it’s just… Your parents are forcing you two together for some weird legacy, bloodline reason and you fell for the girl you’re in a fake relationship with and you’re supposed to hate?” 
Now that he hears it like that…
“Basically, yeah.” 
“Oh, San’s girl is about to have a field trip with this information.”
“Dude!” 
“What? It’s dumb! Y/N is a dumbass, you’re dumber for not just calling her and telling her you miss her and you’re both really fucking dumb for not telling your parents to fuck off. You’re grown!” 
Yunho sighs, shaking his head. “She doesn’t like me like that, Mingi.”
“Yes, she does!” He laughs again, covering his mouth with his hand once he realizes Yunho is getting annoyed with it. “Yunho… Ugh, is this how you all felt those few months where I was crying over Love?” 
“I didn’t feel anything.” 
“Because you’re a puppy,” Mingi’s shoulder brushes against his in a not so subtle way of teasing him and his eyes blank in pretend annoyance. “You are. And you’re a pretty great guy, Yunho. If she doesn’t like you back it’s not the end of the world.” 
Yunho nods, but he’s suddenly not as convinced as he should be. 
“And you’re also one of the strongest people I know, in here.” Mingi’s finger taps over his heart on his chest. “But you don’t have to carry your burdens on your own. This is all… It all seems pretty dumb to me but it must be really hard on you, hm? Especially since you want to live a life separate from your family, right?” 
That, Mingi knows. “Mhm.”
“And so does Y/N?”
“No, I’m not so sure about that,” he murmurs back and his heart aches when he thinks about you and the way you’re treated home, in the way your mother has treated you in front of him. “I think she thinks she’s nothing without her family but I also think she was raised to believe that. They… Well, even her brother has a hard time seeing how fucking amazing she is.” 
“Is she?” Mingi drops his head to the side, doubt and a little prejudice on his expression. “Is she fucking amazing, Yun?” 
“She’s… She’s such a good person. Which is really crazy for me to say, because I thought she was a spoiled brat for a long time. And she is! But she’s also… She cares so deeply and she’s enjoys painting and she’s so great with kids and—” 
“And you have it bad,” Mingi laughs again, shoving him against the mattress with a push and standing up from the bed. Yunho laughs, recognizing the amount of pushing as tipsy Mingi behavior and nothing else. “So bad. Were you about to call her?” 
He feels called out and a little shy about it. He blushes and all. 
“Maybe.”
When his focus goes back to his phone, it’s when he hears it. 
And his heart drops to his ass. 
A distant curse and the sound of a call ending is enough to send his mind into a new, different spiral. 
“Was that…?” 
Yunho picks up the phone, checks the last call he made and your name appears next to the nine minutes and a half his conversation with Mingi lasted. 
His mouth runs dry, his throat closes as he turns to screen to show it to Mingi.
“Holy fuck.” 
“What do I do?” 
“That’s insane. San’s girl is going to have the best night of her life.” 
“Mingi!” He blocks the phone, tosses it on the bed and gets up to shake his best friend's shoulders. “What. Do. I. Do. Now.” 
Tumblr media
Your heart still beats like the day you not-so-accidentally listened to a conversion you shouldn’t have. 
There’s the distant memory of your phone vibrating under your pillow at the hotel you were staying at for the night. It happened only a few weeks ago, near the three month mark into your trip around the country, looking for businesses worth the investment in little towns. That far into your adventure, you had met at least a dozen small companies worth every penny inside your father’s pocket, more so than the one’s already signed. You had met wonderful people who didn’t exactly know who you were and you had been treated so kindly it made the ache in your chest go away. 
At least for a little bit. 
So when you sleepily read Yunho’s name on your screen at two am in the morning, the sting of the pain was unfamiliar and the first thing that crossed your mind was that something bad happened to your brother. Or his brother. Or him. 
What other reason did he have to call you when he left that office hating you all over again? 
“H-hello?” 
Nothing. Just silence and maybe a distant melody, the ruffling of the phone against something. 
“Yunho? If you called me to piss me off I swear to God—”
“Holy shit, Mingi! You scared the shit out of me!” 
Mingi? 
There’s a deeper voice you can hear on Yunho’s end and that’s when you realized he didn’t mean to call you in the first place.
And you should've hung up there. But you didn’t and so you listened to their entire conversation and realized one thing: 
Mingi was right. You are a dumbass. 
And Yunho is even dumber, but that’s something you would have to rub on his face when you gather the courage to see him again. That day is not today, you made sure of it. 
You see, you’ve changed just a tiny bit these past three months. It’s not like you went to a spiritual retreat but by crafting that proposal while fleeing your feelings and the mess that you made with just one kiss, you came around something you never experienced before. Not fully, at least: 
Freedom. 
You spent Christmas and New Years all alone, with no one dear to you around and you saw the fireworks from your hotel window and you felt and suddenly you understood what Yunho sees in in sleeping in that tiny dorm with a roommate and a pile of dirty clothes in a corner, with no pushing their way into the room to pick his messes up and no one making sure he eats at the correct time, the correct meals and the correct porcelain for the day.
No rules, no conditions, just a place where he can be free and himself. 
You did all of that while also making sure you didn’t abandon your priorities. You went to sleep late because you wanted to and then you went to bed early the next day because there were no rules, no events you needed to attend to, no photographers asking you to smile.
There was no one to tell you that you looked fat after eating one delicious, non dietetic meal. There was no devil (your mom) whispering in your ear how everyone would notice the carbs, the bloat and the tiny zits. 
There was no one there to stop you from cutting your hair. And so you did. What once was kept long and straight in order to keep a traditional, clean look, now rested in waves on your shoulders,
It makes it so much easier to walk out of the shower, in less time too! 
And although your heart yearned for Yunho everyday, especially after hearing his conversation with Mingi at two in the morning when you weren’t even supposed to, it was the first time in years you felt happy enough to drop the mask, the pretences, the good posture and even the makeup. 
Yup, you went out without makeup three times! That’s some information that would send your mother into cardiac arrest at the very least. 
So now, as you try to move fast through a college campus that’s not yours, with a box that contains something you call an apology and it might not even be, your heart is beating with the same amount of strength just at the thought of all this backfiring. 
Because you’re not ready to see Yunho, not yet. You want him to come and find you, to come and tell you if he wants to accept you back into his life, under his terms, after you so insistently kicked him out of yours. 
You sneakily checked his calendar. You bribed your assistant, who bribed his assistant, so now his schedule for the week is in a screenshot on your phone and you have checked it four times to confirm this is a good time to be here. 
He has dinner with his family and yours (who don’t even know you’re back yet) at his house, on the hill, which is forty minutes away from his campus. That’s exactly the window of opportunity you’ve been waiting for since coming back. 
And you came back a week ago. 
You may or may not have memorized the code for the door from that only time you came to his dorm and so it’s not really a surprise when you quickly enter it and hear a screech behind you when you are busy closing the door. 
When you turn around, Yeosang is shirtless and covering his chest with his hands “Y/N!”
“Yeosang.” You say with a small bow, struggling to not laugh and turning your face away, looking at the postered up wall. “So nice to see you here, in your room.” 
“W-what are you… I mean how do you… Should I call Yun—” 
“No!” When you turn to him again, eyes wide with worry, he has a shirt on and his phone in his hand. “Please don’t… Let me do something real quick and then you can speak to him, okay?” 
You start to fumble with the box, placing it at the end of the bed and opening it up fast. You throw the lid on top of Yeosang’s bed and then get to work, pulling everything out. 
“Oh, I don’t know. I hate lying to my friends, Y/N.”
“And you’re such a great friend for that but you won’t be lying to him because I’m not asking you to do that.” 
“I wouldn’t even if you did ask me to.” 
“Well, I don’t know about that…” 
Okay, so you changed a little bit. Not a lot. 
You sigh, struggling with the placement of your gift/apology because Yunho changed his sheets and so the color scheme it’s not perfect anymore. 
“What’s all of this?” 
“Yunho enjoys dancing,” you start and you see him nod from the corner of your eye, so you smile. “He told me he did it to have this dorm but I didn’t buy it at all, and so when I was on my trip I… Sort of thought of him a little bit, not a lot.” You clear your throat, a slight heat creeping up your cheeks. “But I didn’t want to wait another day without giving this to him. I just… I can’t exactly be here when he sees it.” 
You finish, turning back to Yeosang and you realize you’re out of breath, nervousness creasing your brows. 
“Would you please let me know how he reacts to it the next time we see each other?” You ask softly, almost shy and Yeosang visibly relaxes at the tone. It makes you feel understood somehow and so you relax a little bit, too. “If you’re here when he gets here I mean, um, you are all dressed up.” 
When you point to his outfit, he seems to remember that he was, in fact, getting ready to go out when you walked in. His hair is wet but styled and all. 
“Oh, I was… I was just going to the club.” He points to a camcorder on his beat and you raise a curious brow, but don’t really ask anything. “I’m making a dance documentary for one of my classes. Yunho is in it, too.” 
That peaks your interest and he laughs, possibly at the way you light up at the mention of your fake-boyfriend-possible-love-of-your-life name. “He is?” 
“Yes, he’s… A big part of it, actually, but I go to this club to get footage and… You should ask him to explain it to you.” 
Now, at that, your smile sure turns sour because there’s no actual way of knowing if he wants to see you again or not. 
After all, he didn’t attempt to contact you after that phone call. 
You don’t know if he noticed that he called you, either. 
It’s kind of killing you inside, all the space you need to fill with assumptions instead of facts. 
“Sure, um…” 
“I can stay until he comes back.” 
“Oh, I don’t want to ruin your plans for the night, Yeosang. You should go and—”
“I want to see it. I want to record it,” he explains, looking over your shoulder and into the gift in Yunho’s bed. “He says he’s not sure, but I think he wants to dedicate his life to it, you know?” 
“To dancing?” 
Yeosang nods. 
Your voice sounds very small when you ask him “Do you think he’s going to like it?” 
He smiles, softly, endeared almost.
“He’s going to love it,” he assures you, “And your haircut, too.” 
You chuckle at that, touching the ends of it that rest on your shoulder “You think?” 
“Yeah! It suits you, actually.”
“Thank you, Yeosang.” 
This time, and after making small talk with his roommate, you leave Yunho’s dorm with a smile on your face instead of tears running down your cheeks. 
Tumblr media
There’s exhaustion pouring out of Yunho by the time he reaches his dorm door. He closes his eyes, rests his forehead against the cool wood of it and lets out a sigh to collect himself. He needs to have the energy to take a shower, after all. 
It’s not as late as he expected it to be, the digital clock on the wall glows blue and neon and lets him know it’s around nine thirty. Good, that’s great. 
He misses you. 
And it’s hard not to think of you when he’s surrounded with people who know you, who bring you up when it’s time to talk about positive results for the company, or the time you organized an event for you mother because your brother had no taste to pick the venue or catering or whatever the fuck they were going on about tonight. 
It didn’t escape him that Soohyun glanced at him every time your parents brought you up and he wonders if it shows in his face just how much he longs to see you again.
He’s thinking about your face when the room unexpectedly lights up and Yeosang is standing on his own bed, in the corner, smiling like a creep. Yunho almost falls as a curse slips past his lips and he stares at his friend like something is deeply wrong with him. 
Because it is. 
It’s almost comical how breathless he is as he asks him: “What the hell is wrong with you?” 
“Hey!” 
“—Standing in the corner like a serial killer.”
“Turn around, Yunho.” 
“What?” 
“Turn,” he repeats, slowly, as he climbs out of the bed, the camera pointed in his direction still. “Around.” 
So he does. 
And what he sees… Confuses him. Until it doesn’t. 
There’s a few things on his bed: There’s some polaroid pictures lined up, different people he doesn’t know in them, all in different traditional attire and Yunho can see there’s inscription in them, the dates all read from early november to two weeks ago. 
There’s tickets to a competition that’s supposed to be sold out. He knows, he tried to get a ticket the second they announced it but couldn’t. The top dance teams are going to battle for some bucks but, most importantly, they’re going to battle to keep the dying scene alive. 
A book titled Why Dance Matters next to a golden retriever plushie with a suit that makes him giggle out of the pure weirdness of it. 
There’s a copy of grease with some signatures in the front. He can make out something that reads as Barry Pearl in it, he thinks. His mind reels at what that means. 
A cd in a clear case with a beautiful sunset and a building he recognizes immediately as the orphanage you took him to. Six silhouettes he can only imagine symbolizes him, Jaemi, Hyunjoon, his brother, Soyi and you. 
But what confirms it’s something you did, it’s the envelope that sits in the middle of it all. It's waxed and sealed with something that looks regal, elegant and, when he picks it up to see the seal up close, he smells your perfume. 
He turns to Yeosang, eyes watery, in request of an explanation. 
“Open it! I’ve been dying to read it but I’m a great friend,” Yeosang almost wiggles with excitement and Yunho’s eyes water a little. “Or so she said.” 
“She was here?” 
“Y/N?” His friend asks in return, weirded out. “Well, yes.” 
“When?” 
“An… hour and something ago.” 
“Where did she go?” 
“Are you okay?” 
He’s speechless, envelope shaking a bit in his hand as he pushes the need to run to you away. He doesn’t know what this means, he doesn’t know what the letter says either. His heartbeats are thumping on his ears and muffling Yeosang’s words a little bit. 
He needs to calm down. 
He needs to read the letter. He’s–
“You’re crying,” Yeosang turns off the camcorder, closing the screen and tossing it softly on his bed before taking a few steps in his direction. Concern is written all over his face, a little bit of guilt too. “I shouldn’t have let her in, right? I knew something was off with you but I had no idea that you two had fought or—” 
“You didn’t do anything wrong.” Yunho quickly dries off his tears, shaking his head at his friend’s anxious apology. “I just… I missed her so much, Yeo.” 
“Oh.” 
“So fucking much.” 
“Yunho…” He closes his eyes and jumps a little a Yeosang’s sudden embrace, but he’s grateful for it. Envelope trap between his chest and Yeosang’s rib, he takes a bated breath filled with things he can’t quite burden his friend with. 
He remembers Mingi’s words loud and clear, but the only thing Yunho wants to do right now is find where you are so he can see you again. Hug you again. Kiss you again. 
That night, after he realized he had dialed your number by mistake, he had a full on breakdown in Wooyoung’s room and it took Mingi and Mingi’s girlfriend to talk him out of fleeing the country out of embarrassment, out of guilt. He thought back then he had definitely lost you, because the consensus the three of them came to was a ‘let her reach you if she wants to clear things out’ instead of a ‘call her and explain it yourself before she has the chance to reach out to you first’. 
Mingi said you had to at least prove you had any interest in making things right, in fighting to at least keep your friendship with him. 
As he opens up the letter, he immediately knows he should’ve just called you. 
He even forgets Yeosang is right beside him, looking away to give him some privacy to read your words without actually letting go of the embrace, just in case he needs it. Yunho knows this, he’s thankful, his legs shaking with need to go after wherever you are. 
And he’s about to ask again but, as he turns his head to regard his friend and explains the letter a little, he’s one step ahead of him. 
“She’s staying in a hotel, not her house.” Yunho opens and closes his mouth, about to ask him the name of the hotel when he shakes his head. “The luxury one in Itaewon. What? Did you think I would let her go without getting the information first?” 
Yunho shrugs, Yeosang clicks his tongue in disappointment, letting go of him and putting, at least, ten steps between the both of them. 
“She’s very talkative when she’s not with a big crowd, Yun. Now move.” 
“I think I—” He starts to say but stops midway, looking down at the letter and then at his friend again. 
Yeosang gives him a soft smile, the one he curves on his lips when he’s endeared with something, with someone. Yunho went clubbing with him once, he knows the smile very well. 
“I know,” he says in a murmur and then sighs like it’s a task to be around him. “Now, let’s go. We’re going to the same area anyway and I could use the ride. There’s the box.” 
In the car (one he ordered from an app, not his family car), his leg moves up and down and his hands tremble with anticipation and, as the imposing structure of the hotel comes into view while he stares at the window, he swears he feels at ease. 
For the first time in months, he feels like he’s home. 
And it’s all because he’s about to see you again. 
Tumblr media
Yeosang is not a very discreet person. He’s soft spoken and he looks like he cares about his friend’s a great deal, but he has that clumsiness of a person who’s used to being transparent about things. 
He asked you if you just got home with a spark of hopefulness in his eye, like he couldn’t wait to clue in Yunho about it, like he knew what he was going to do when he read your letter and saw your gift. 
Yeosang asked you like Yunho had already forgiven you and that had filled you silly head with warmth and hope and expectations you shouldn’t have because, as far as you noticed, Yunho is not the most honest friend to have. 
So you asked yourself if Yeosang knew about the fight, if the rest of his friends knew. 
And you still told Yeosang where you are staying. 
There’s only one lamp helping with lighting up the bedroom, the city outside of it alive and busy like it always is. The amount of lights beyond the river bring you comfort, something familiar spreads on your chest when you take them in and you admit, for the first time in three months plus the week you’ve been staying here, that you love this stupid city even if it makes you feel trapped most of your days.
But here? In this space that you have made yours over the last seven days? You love it. 
Your hair is wet and your face is clean of any product. You told yourself to go about your night routine like you weren’t expecting something else to happen. That way, when it doesn’t because you feel that what you did is unforgivable as much as it is cruel, you won’t be as disappointed. 
So your face is moisturized and you have your nightgown underneath the silk bath this hotel provides and you’re totally not thinking about Yunho being in the same city as you, you are totally not freaking out over the reaction to your gift, you’re chill. 
You’re chilling, you’re cool. 
And the way your heart leaps when you hear a knock at the door means nothing, because you ordered room service like thirty minutes ago. It’s fine. 
He’s probably not showing up. 
So why the hell is he there when you open the door? And where’s your room service when you need it? 
“Yunho!” 
“Y/N…” 
The atmosphere turns weird and tense right away and you grab onto the frame of the door as he stares at you with indecipherable emotion in his eyes. Is he happy to see you? Is he here to curse you out? 
Is he mad? He’s totally upset at you. He is, he’s… Skinnier, just a little bit. His hair is lighter, too, like a brownish blond that suits him and his skin tone and he looks so good even if there’s dark circles under his eyes. 
You missed him so much. 
“Come in! Um…” You say after what feels like hours of silence, of you two just staring at each other with a little disbelief, opening up the room door wider and stepping aside so he can pass right by you. 
His cologne makes you a little dizzy, drives you a little crazier but there’s not enough time to focus on that because he has the box you left earlier in his dorm in one hand and your letter in the other. 
You close the door, taking in a little calming breath that does nothing to appease the erratic beat of your heart. 
The eighty two square meters of this room suddenly feel like ten and when he puts the box down on the coffee table of the immediate tiny living room space of this suite, you feel like it’s over. 
He turns around, a hand on his hip and the shade that the lamp casts on him doesn’t allow you to determine if he’s clenching his jaw or not, if he’s upset or not, if he’s—
Yunho raises his hand, the one holding your letter. 
“What’s this?” 
Oh, he’s so upset. Okay, good, you foresaw this the moment you decided to give him something. It’s okay, you tell yourself as you walk the steps separating you and take the letter from his hand, you can deal with this. 
And, although you have changed a little in the months you didn’t see him, there’s a long way to go before your defensiveness stops being the only way you know how to approach a situation targeting you and your ego. 
“If you didn’t like it, you could’ve just thrown it away or burned it, Yunho, you didn’t have to come all the way here—” 
“Read it to me.” 
You look up at him, blinking once and then twice at his request. 
“Didn’t you—” 
“Princess,” he says, letting out a tiny breath in between his words, “read it to me. Please.” 
Now that you’re physically closer to him, you can pick up this gentleness in his features that you know well. It’s the same expression he had back in the orphanage, when Jiwoo took Jaemi in her arms and he was left staring at you with his cheek pressed on his forearm while he rested on the table. You think about that exact moment a lot, late at night, when the only thing overwhelming your thoughts it’s him. 
You swallow the lump on your throat down as you take out the letter from the envelope. It’s a little dark but there’s really no need for you to read the words when you know them by heart. You wrote and rewrote them at least a hundred times before deciding the letter looked good and that it wasn’t too long, too obnoxious, too sweet, too cringy. Just the right amount of emotion in case it came to bite you in the ass, like now. 
“S-sure,” you let out a sigh, past caring if he sees you’re a little affected by the situation as a whole. “Yunho, I’m sure you’re reading this after seeing the gift layed out in front of you. Take it as an expression of gratitude for all the times the mere thought of you got me through a day, even in this time when we’re supposed to be upset at each other. I think about you a lot and I think about what I did, too. I’m— This all sounds to stupid and formal,” you criticize your own work without thinking it through, frowning and looking up at him. “This letter is supposed to be an apology and it reads like an email.” 
Yunho shakes his head, a tiny smile tugging on his lips. “Go on, please.” 
Sniffing because you feel uncomfy and vulnerable, you continue.  
“I’m sure you’re wondering why now and not three months ago. Well, it takes a lot for me to defy the expectations people put on my shoulders. As you know, my last name is laced with success I didn’t work on and letting go of things you’re used to is hard, but I did. I went away, I learned, I grew up a little bit and in my journey the only constant was you. Not the fight we had, not the way we have treated each other throughout the many years I’ve known you. I’ve always seen your life from the outside even if I was a part of it, I’ve seen your social media posts and wondered if I wasn’t deserving of the same kindness you display to your friends on them but, as you proved to me that I am deserving of it, I understood that it wasn’t your voice in my head telling me I didn’t, it was mine.
“Not my mother’s voice, not anyone else's, but mine. Accepting that was hard but I did it and I did it on my own but as a result of the impact you had on me the second you turned around and held me with the care I now think I deserve.” Something drops on the paper, wets it and blends the ink of the pen you used together and you realize there’s tears running down your cheeks. “I can’t ask you to forgive me for what I did. But just know that I kissed you because I wanted to, not because you were being kind to me. And I pushed you away because, out of everyone that has come and gone from my life, you’re the only person who has the possibility to break my heart and mend it the times you seem fit…” 
You look up and to the side to wipe your tears. You’d pat yourself on the back for how you read this to him, without any stutters or mistakes, but the truth it’s that melancholy swallows you as you reach the end of the letter. It’s more emotional than what you’d remembered, too, now that you’re reading it outloud and in front of the man you love. 
There’s no need for you to read what comes next because you want to say it looking at him. 
“And I’m sorry. I love you and I don’t love you just because we kissed or because we are forced to be together. I love you because you’re part of me, because you’ve always been. I love you and I can’t stand to lose you. Again, I’m sorry,” you repeat, looking down at the words again before finishing in a whisper: “Yours, Y/N.” 
There’s this pregnant silence that follows that makes you fidget on your feet. It takes a second for you to gather yourself together again, wipe your cheeks and look up at Yunho. There’s disbelief in his expression and you wince in preparation for what’s about to follow. 
“Like I said,” you start again, extending the letter to him so he can take it, “I don’t expect you to forgive me. I don’t expect you to do anything, really, a-and I understand if this is all too childish or too cringy for you to say something back. I don’t need you to say something back! Really, I don’t,” you laugh amidst the sudden verbal vomit and shrug, not even looking at him anymore. “I j-just wanted you to know. And I mean it: If you don’t want me that way, it’s completely fine, Jeong. I also settle for being your friend, i-if that’s easier for everyone— For you, if that’s easier for you,” you correct yourself, “because I don’t really care what anyone thinks anymore, including my mother, she can go fuck herself and she can win all she wants if that means keeping you in my life and—” 
He grabs the letter and in a second he uses the tight hold you have on it to push you closer, tearing the paper in the process. 
“Kim Y/N, you big dummy.” 
He lets go of the letter and you do too, hands resting on his chest as you stumble forward a little, the paper falling to your feet as his right hand settles on your cheek, the left one on the nape of your neck. 
“Excuse me?” 
Yunho laughs, breathy and pointed while his eyes scan your face. “You heard me.” 
“Are trying to piss me off, Jeong Yun—” 
This time, when Yunho kisses you, it doesn’t feel new. It doesn’t feel like defiance, it doesn’t feel like you’re breaking the rules or letting your mom win. 
It feels like coming come. 
The ache in your soul stops the second his lips move against yours, deliciously slow and firm while he holds you close. His hands shift, they move the satin robe as they descend and find their place on your back, on your hip. Your chest collides with his with a soft nudge forwards and you sigh against his mouth, welcoming the way his hands tighten on you, feeling finally at ease in his embrace. 
You thought, when preparing his gift, writing the apology letter and then earlier at his dorm, that your self control was something to be admired. Yeah, you love him deeply and all, but you had the restraint to give him the opportunity to decide what he wanted to do with all the things you told him. 
Now you think that there’s nothing in the world that could stop you from kissing his lips raw, from pulling his hair a bit when your fingers tangle in it, from drinking the sound you get in return. 
Fuck your self control. You want Yunho like you never wanted anyone or anything before. 
That’s why you’re grateful when he pumps the break, lips leaving yours and breath on your lips. When you open your eyes, he’s already staring at you. With the way he’s holding you, you barely have to get on your tippy toes to nuzzle his nose against yours with care and the action reminds you of that day at the office, before you fucked up, but the feeling is way different. 
This time, your gut tells you that whatever is about to happen with the two of you is something that’s going to linger, that he’s going to stay one way or another and your heart thumps loudly at the thought of having Yunho in your life forever. 
Four months ago, the thought would’ve given you a headache. 
Now, it heats up your cheeks as his hands return to your face. 
“I’m sorry, I had to kiss you. I also should’ve gone after you that night, in my dorm, I— I’m also sorry, Y/N,” he lets go of you softly, putting a step in between the two of you so he can take your hands in his. “I’m sorry I cornered you in the office and I’m sorry I expected you to just… Drop all of your beliefs and convictions for me. That’s the most delusional thing I’ve ever done.”
“It’s okay—”
“But I love you,” he breathes out and you feel like the air it’s been knocked out of your lungs. “I’m a big pretender, you know? I… I try to be as positive as someone can be, I try to be aloof and I ignore a bunch of things in order to let myself be distracted from what my family expects of me, so I couldn’t understand when you didn’t want to do the same. I do now.
“And I don’t let myself enjoy a bunch of things either, Y/N, but I do allow myself little moments of happiness. When I’m with my friends or when I dance, I tend to have those little moments and then I allowed myself to see you in a new light and I… If I thought those two things brought me some sort of respite from my sorrows, I had no idea you of all people could feel like… Like…”
“Home?” You offer, your voice a sweet whisper full of understanding. 
“Like home.”
He swallows tightly, averting his eyes to the floor for a second. 
“I’m sorry for not returning that call,” he says, his brows creasing a little bit, “I took advice from drunk people in love, so I thought I was doing the right thing by letting you come to me.” 
“I was doing the same,” you whisper back, shrugging his worries away. “Letting you come to me, that is. I couldn’t even— I mean, I should’ve given you all of this in person instead of dropping it off like a scaredy cat.” 
“You did hear the conversation though?” 
“Yeah. Mingi called me a dumbass and I’m not going to forgive him.” 
He laughs, shaking his head in disbelief. “He was right, a little bit.” 
“He called you dumber,” you return, frowning at his jab even though you know he didn’t intend any ill with it. “So yeah, you could say he was right.” 
There’s a few seconds where he just stares: at your hands, twined together with ease and familiarity. At your face, a loving smile lifts the corners of his mouth up before he steps closer again and lets his thumbs trace the curve of your mouth, your cheekbone, your nose. 
“I missed you so much, my love.” 
Oh.
Fuck. 
You warm to the pet name immediately, its significance running through you like a shudder and making you gasp softly, almost imperceptibly. You guess it shows on your expression, the smile on Yunho’s lips widening as his knuckle presses on your cheek gently. 
“You liked that I called you that?”
“Shut up.”
“My love,” he repeats, pecking your lips, “I love you. I’ve… I actually don’t know if I’ve loved you this way all this time, but I’m sure I loved you to some degree. I cared— I care about you.” 
You tear up again. 
That voice that tells you that you don’t deserve him comes back, a distant murmur of it this time, but it’s still there. 
For a good reason, too. 
“Forgive me for being so horrible to you all these years,” he makes a face, like he can’t believe you’re apologizing for that right now. “I wish I could say I did it because I was a vain, stupid child but it was all very much thought through.” 
“I know.”
“And I was horrible. I’ve been thinking about it for weeks now, I—”
His lips press softly against yours again. “Stop it. I was horrible to you too, we were both stupid and childish and we had our reasons.”
“Did we, though?” Your nose scrunches while you truly think about all the times you could’ve been nicer to each other and chose to be mean instead. 
His eyes water a little. You frown, fingers tightening around his wrists, you turn to kiss his palm. 
“What’s wrong?” 
“I just love you a lot,” he sniffs and you catch with your knuckle the tears that roll down his cheeks. He closes his eyes, letting out a breath and untensing his shoulders at the same time. “And it feels so good to be able to say it.” 
“When did you figure it out?” Curiosity takes over you for a second, you allow yourself to wonder about it without any guilt now. 
He hums, thinking about it with a pout on his lips “Like I said, I think I’ve always loved you to some degree. I just… Didn’t know it. I’ve never loved anyone like this before but I think that when I saw you with Jaemi and my heart felt like it was about to come out of my mouth, I kind of knew.” 
“So when I kissed you…”
“I knew,” he nods, “and I should’ve been more insistent when I was trying to talk to you. Go to your house, do something, but I’m… A little inexperienced in this type of stuff.” 
“Because you have no bitc—”
You’re already giggling before he interrupts. “And you love me like I am, so now what?” 
The smile on your lips is so wide you have to look to the side, focus on the shadow of the chair in the tiny living room space for a second to compose yourself. 
It doesn’t really work, because he’s smiling as hard when you turn back to him. 
And then, for the first time since he got here, he seems to notice the length of your hair. He brushes it back with his fingers, the strands barely damp now, and gasps when he reaches the tips at your shoulders. “You cut it!”
With a nod, you laugh at his sudden surprise. “I did, I’m about to get disowned.” 
“Oh, your mom is going to pass out at the very least.” He agrees right away and you laugh again before he joins, his teeth nipping at his lower lip for a second. “She’ll forgive you, though.”
“You think so?”
“You look too beautiful to stay mad at you for long.” 
Oh, your poor heart. You shake your head, diverting the attention from you by brushing the strands of his hair that rest on his forehead back. 
“Blond?” 
“Kind of, yeah. It’s this… Honey something that my hairdresser suggested.” 
Humming, you let your fingernails scratch his scalp gently as they go down, hands resting on his shoulder when you’re done. “They did a great job,” you say before you click your tongue, cocking your head to the side. “Are you sure they weren’t just calling you honey and you misunderstood?” 
His brow lifts, the corner of his lips does as well and he’s ducking his head so he can speak in that cocky tone of his you’re so used to. Only this time, there’s an edge to it that sends a shiver down your spine. 
“And If they did?” 
You know what he’s asking, you know why he’s asking. You find yourself curious about this type of teasing on his behalf, so you allow it to happen.
In your own terms.
“Did it happen?” You return, leaning even closer, hands grasping the lapel of his suit jacket and tugging on it, pretending to smooth it out with your palms afterwards. 
“Princess…” 
When you look at him, there’s this fiery energy that crosses his expression and it makes your imagination run wild with possibilities. 
Now that you both got through the emotional part of your reunion with tears, with overdue confessions and very necessary apologies, what’s left to resolve is this pent up tension that’s always been something more. With the way Yunho behaves sometimes, so proud and tough, you have a vague idea of what it could be like. 
And it makes you giddy with anticipation. 
You would like to turn your assumptions into facts. So you play dumb, fakely perking up when he calls you, blinking with pretend innocence a few times to sell the act. “Hm?” 
Catching the way his jaw ticks at your behavior, you realize that the rush that went through your body every time you got under his skin was not out of the pleasure of winning. 
It was because you liked it. 
Very much so, that the way his eyes scan over your body like he's deciding what to do with you and your attitude make you let out a tiny puff of air that he drinks right up when he crowds you again, hands on your hips and lips on yours once more. 
His mouth doesn't move with any trace of carefulness anymore. Before, you were able to tell he needed to kiss you, longingly, with all the things he couldn't say before on his lips against yours. Now, his tongue makes its way past your teeth and swipes against yours in a way that makes you stumble backwards, almost leaving the tight squeeze of his hands behind. 
Yunho catches you, walks with you until you feel the arm of the tiny couch supporting your weight as well. 
He leans in a little bit to help you up on it, his body immediately in between your legs, his palms making their way downwards. One is on your lower back, thumb absentmindedly caressing the area, and the other one is pressing right next to your leg on the couch so he can bite your lower lip and give both your lungs a bit of a break before diving into your mouth again. You wrap your arms around his neck and keep him close. 
Closer, closer, closer. You need his body pressing against yours as you try to keep up with the intensity of his kisses. You've never been kissed like this before, never with so much love and passion and want and need. 
You've been kissed while drunk and touched while high in the past, you've been fucked by people you don't remember the names of and you had dropped the sleeping around once you graduated college. 
There's so much of your youth you wish you've done sober. Because now, when his tongue catches a soft moan and his hand moves from your lower back to your leg, under your robe, you don't know why you freak out. 
No, you know exactly why. 
Breaking the kiss, you take two seconds to look at the plush of Yunho’s lips after being deliciously smothered with yours. You're both breathing hard, chests rising and falling in tandem and gasps for air filling the room. 
His hand moves higher, measuring your reaction and you know he's about to ask if it's okay to touch you when you grab his wrist and stop his movements. 
“We don't have to—” 
“Is not that,” you say right away but you're both speaking over each other. 
“I mean, there's a lot we need to talk about. I want you to tell me about your trip and—” 
“Sure, we can do that later,” you nod. “Right now, I'm— I mean, let me turn off the light and you can touch me all you want.” 
He frowns. 
“What?” 
Heart picking up for a different reason now, you clear your throat and try to cough the anxiety away. You can talk to him about these things, it's okay. It doesn't really matter how embarrassed you feel once the words come out of your mouth. 
“Um, I went up a few pounds while on the trip and— And that's a good thing!” You say when he looks at you like he's about to tell you that it's okay. “I ate whatever I wanted, it was great, really. I just…” 
“You did?” He asks in a soft, excited whisper.
“I don't know if you'll, um, i-if you're going to like it.” You finish, blinking the shame away. 
Yunho’s expression softens and you take it as an agreement. You've only been touched in the dark, anyways, so you push into his chest a little bit and off his embrace (even if you don't really want to) and start moving towards the only light casting shadows on the room. 
Only to be tugged right back by a firm hand on your arm.
With his chest against you and his lips grazing your ear, you can barely help the way you shudder. There's something hard poking your ass and the apparent size of it has you gulping, salivating even. 
But you have to turn off the light. 
“Come here,” he murmurs and softly moves the both of you to stand in front of the mirror that's next to the entrance. 
Even if you tried not to, it's something you've been avoiding the whole time you've stayed here. The mirror is huge, floor to ceiling and its position it's very elegant, very fitting for the purpose of this suit that's supposed to be reserved for people who need different outfits for different events. 
You haven't really used it other than quickly checking your clothes earlier today, before leaving to go to the dorm and, even then, it was only a quick ten seconds.
It stings a little that, although you've made progress, your body and the way you perceive it still have such a grip on you. When you add the man your heart desires to the mix? Well, there's little to nothing you can do to let go of your insecurities.
The heat of Yunho's body leaves you for a second and he's turning another light, the one closest to the entrance, adjusting its intensity so the ambiance is not broken by the bright glow of it. 
You gulp again when he returns, but melt into his chest when he presses his body against yours again. 
How can you feel so comfortable with him but so uncomfortable with yourself? It's weird, it's strangely very you but you can't even tell him that because the intensity of his gaze when you catch it in the mirror shuts you right up. 
You know he's telling you to listen to him, to notice how serious he is about this as his chin rests on your shoulder. 
“I've called you ugly before, right? I've have actively contributed to your insecurities in a way that I'm not going to forgive myself for, ever,” he starts and the direct approach to it makes you teary eyed all over again. He notices, lips finding your shoulder to comfort you. “The thing is, Y/N, that I never actually meant it. I think I was pissed off because you were— and are so fucking beautiful.” 
You close your eyes and let out a pleading sigh “Yunho…” 
“No,” he says and you feel how he shakes his head, his chin still on your shoulder. “Someone needs to tell you this. You live in your head way too much.” 
He understands. 
You love him so much. 
“Open your eyes, princess.” 
You do. 
“Look at yourself.” 
You don't. You look at him instead. 
He's staring at you through the mirror and he straightens his back to rest his cheek against your temple, the height difference at his advantage because, this way you have to look up at him and it will give away the pure rejection you have for your reflection. 
“I don't think I've ever found someone as beautiful as I found you. When I realized that, that was what pissed me off… Well, I think I somehow buried the thought away but you are so breathtakingly pretty, Y/N.” He takes in a breath and you lose yours, his hand resting on your hip going up and tracing the curve of your waist. “But it doesn't really matter what I think, it matters what you think, hm?” 
Turning his head, his nose presses against your skin now and he leans in, nuzzling softly, with care, until his lips peck your jaw. 
“I can assure you that you can go up a hundred pounds, go down, up again and I wouldn't care. It doesn't matter, I have found you beautiful in every version that you have presented yourself in and I will find you beautiful if you change your whole appearance everyday. I love you,” he reminds you, “and I love everything that you bring along with you. Insecurities, panic attacks and clever insults to my clothing included.” 
The chuckle that you let out makes him smile against your cheek and he gives you a little peck before putting some space between your face and his. He looks you up and down in the mirror again and you can see genuine want in the way his pupils dilate. You see it happening in real time but then you also see his self-restraint. 
You're at a loss for words, but manage to mumble out “Thank you, Yunho.” And then you turn your head, catching his lips in a soft closed mouth kiss that he returns right away. 
“Whenever you're ready to let me prove how beautiful I find you, I'll be here.” He says when you let his mouth move away from yours, your lips softly pecking his jaw instead and getting a sigh in return. “I can wait.” 
Then, the worst thing happens: His hands leave your body and he starts to step away. 
It's a little embarrassing how quickly your entire being protests and you realize that there's a clinginess to you that you're not so sure where it came from. You reach for him, barely turning, and tug him right where he was. 
Looking at him through the mirror again, you enjoy the genuine surprise on his expression and the way it turns into desire when you put his hands on you again: on your stomach, on your hip. 
When you turn your head to look at him directly, his eyes stay fixated on the reflection. His hand on your stomach turns, knuckles softly caressing you. You want to ask him what he likes about that but don't, instead, you tell him what goes on inside your head. 
“Yunho, I do want you. I want you… But I also want to make sure that you like me.” 
He looks at you then, mouth ready to reassure you again but you shake your head to shut him up. 
“I heard you,” you confirm, smiling a bit and then closing your eyes at the visage that accompanies the concept of your body in your mind. You know it's far from what it actually looks like but that also means that you don't know exactly what it looks like and that's terrifying. “I know you love me but would you like me?” 
“I do,” you hear the frown in his voice and take a deep breath before opening your eyes again. “Princess, do you trust me?” 
You nod without a second thought and he leans in, nose almost touching yours. 
“Would you let me show you how much I like you?”
It takes a second or two, but you nod again.
“And would you let me know if it's too much?” 
“Yes,” you breath out, too intoxicated by the closeness, by the way his lips softly trace yours without actually kissing them to think about the implication of his words. 
When he pulls away again, you let out a sound that gives away how much you want him. Yunho’s lips curve and when your eyes finally focus on his again, you can see the quick decision he makes as he looks at the mirror again, resolve and purpose in his expression as he takes off the jacket of his three piece, tossing it on the sofa. 
There's something magnetic in the way he rolls his sleeves up, securing them in his forearms and your eyes follow the motions and trace the veins that you're able to see before he turns away from you. 
He takes one of the chairs he's able to easily mov, placing it behind you both. You realize you've walked a few steps closer to the mirror, and so your back is pressed against it when his attention returns to you, when he takes your face with his hands and crushes his lips against yours without explaining what he just did. 
You brace himself on his forearms, nails pressing on his skin because somehow this kiss feels different. Its pace is not hard to keep up with but it feels like you are, the care he puts in his movements as his palms brush your hair back slowly and then go down, down until they're reaching the knot that keeps your robe closed. 
This time, instead of panic, you feel your stomach flutter. Butterflies all over, there's goosebumps on your skin when he tugs the robe open and feels the satin of your pajamas with his fingers. He makes a noise and, at first, you think it's out of protest because you're not already undressed for him.
But then his knuckles trace the hem of the nightgown and he makes the noise again, tongue flicking against yours harder, getting a moan out of you.
Yunho’s lips find your cheek, your jaw, nipping at the skin of your neck and over your pulse when he gets to it and you close your eyes, head falling against the mirror and head moving to the side so he can kiss every inch of skin if he wants. 
“You smell so fucking good.” 
That makes you smile, a droopy curve to your lips before you bite a sound back “I showered.” 
“You always do,” he whispers into your skin, lips finding your ear. “You always have. Do you know how many times I had to control myself around you?” 
“Hm,” you muse, pretending to think about it. “Do you know how many times you had to?” 
“Oh, trust me princess, I know.” 
He pulls back and you open your eyes. You wonder if yours are carrying the same intensity as his when they go down your body, taking your sleepwear in. 
It's a simple blue v-neck slip dress with some floral lace at the trim lines. It splits on the sides and falls mid-thigh. Something very basic in your opinion, but you don't miss the way his eyes are glued to the skin of your thigh. You're not wearing a bra and your nipples are painfully hard. 
“I didn't actually expect you to come to me tonight,” you lie a little, lips turning up into a shy smile. “So I didn't—” 
“Is this what you wear to sleep?” He interrupts and you watch him gulp. 
“Mhm.” 
“Every night?” 
“Something like this,” you tug at the fabric, softly, “yes.” 
“Fuck.” 
You giggle in return at how affected he seems, but the amusement dies when his eyes return to yours. Holding your hand, he takes a step back and then another and another until he's falling with a thump on the chair he brought close. 
He takes you in one more time before letting go of your hand and manspreading on the chair “Come here, princess.” 
The tone of his voice makes your entire being shake and you take in a breath before following his command. Which is crazy because you never, ever would've followed an order from him. 
But now you can't help yourself. 
Standing in between his legs, you can see when he holds the arms of it after attempting to touch you as soon as you get close enough for him to be able to reach you and, when you're about to straddle his lap, he shakes his head and clicks his tongue in response. 
You understand what he wants immediately and you turn around, watching your reflection in the mirror as you sit down on his legs that he managed to close again in the three seconds it took you to do so. 
You're breathing hard by the time he accommodates you both on the chair, his very clear erection pressing against your ass and lower back and making you dizzy at what you're looking at. 
The image on the mirror is clear, it allows you to see both your reaction and his reaction when you fidget without thinking about it on his lap and the friction it causes brings you a whisper of pleasure. 
“You're a dream, Y/N,” he says and you can tell it came out of his mouth without really thinking about it. Finally, he moves his hands and his nails press on the skin of your shoulders, goosebumps evident and tremor barely concealable when he drags them down the length of your arm and over your hands that rest on top of your knees. 
He covers them with his and you stop following his movements in the mirror to look at his face “Can I?” 
You swallow and then nod and he giggles, this hard facade he has on slipping as he presses a reassuring kiss to your shoulder “Can you say it, my love?” 
“Yes,” you say quickly, your voice betraying you “Please.” 
He closes his eyes, a curse under his breath. “Don't beg me, princess, I got you.” 
You can't help but be curious and, although this is something you can find out as the night goes on, you end up wondering out loud either way: “Why? You don't like it?” 
He shakes his head, that hardness in his expression returns when he opens his eyes to look at you and the curious glint of your expression through the mirror. 
“Do you enjoy it when I beg you, Yunho?” 
And then you slightly move on his lap, trying to pass it like an absentminded movement. 
He sees right through it and the realization shows on his face. 
“Ah,” he laughs, back falling against the chair and head lolling back, “are you going to be a brat, princess?” 
Your mouth quirks at the quick and accurate read he gives your attitude. 
“Of course you are.” 
Again, the bravery your amusement gives you is short lived. He uses his hands over yours to open your legs and his, fast, earning a surprised squeak out of you. Your first instinct is attempting to close them but he huffs and perches your legs on his. You loop your feet around them to avoid falling forward at the lack of things to hold on to. 
This way, your panties are on full display as well. They're simple cotton white panties and there's a wet patch in the middle of them that grows a little at the display, at the image you see in the mirror. 
Yunho curses under his breath again. 
“You're my dream,” he says, a little bit distracted again and then he remembers himself. “I don't like people begging me, I don't give them the time to.” 
Raising your eyebrows, you're about to protest because you don't want to hear about his encounters with anyone else, but he won't let you. 
“One time, I almost had a fight with a friend over teasing. You know her, Mingi's girlfriend,” he says and you don't know if he's smiling at the memory or at the way you squirm under his touch when his fingernails start dragging over the skin of your inner thighs slowly. “I told her the truth: I'm too impatient to tease. She said it's necessary, I said I never needed to tease anyone to get with them and it went on for almost an hour.” 
He reaches the plush that has formed on your inner thighs and you can physically feel your centre growing wetter. 
“I never got it,” he insists and, when he pretends that he's going to touch you where you need it the most only for his touch to go back down the expanse of your thighs, you let out dissatisfied huff. “Now I think I do.” 
“Yunho…”
“You wanted to beg?” He asks, mouth against your ear and hot breath on your cheek. “I can make you beg.” 
You give in almost immediately. 
“Please,” tongue wetting your lips, you attempt to move in order to get some sort of relief but he's quicker than you. Strong hands hold your hips steady and you puff out some air again. “Please touch me.” 
It's clear the whine on your voice affects him because he pants against your cheek, nudges your face with his nose and then dives with his lips to kiss your neck again. 
“Be still, princess.” He commands and you stop trying to wiggle against him, only to rest your back against his chest when he brings his hands down in a caress and holds you fully open for him again. “I got you, but do as I say.” 
He takes your nod as an answer this time and his lips travel down your neck, to the skin of your back and then your shoulder. You watch in the mirror as his teeth catch the strap of your nightgown and, when he speaks again, it's a little muffled because of it.
“Can I take this off you?” 
You take a breath before replying “Yes.” 
And then he slips the strap off your shoulder with his teeth and you swear you're ruined for everyone else entirely. 
There's no way anyone is going to make you tremble like he did just now.
He goes ahead and does the same to the other strap, hand quick in catching the gown from falling completely. 
“Should I?” 
“Yunho… Stop teasing me.” 
He chuckles and takes his time to redo what he just undone: he pulls the strap on your left shoulder up again, switches the hand that's holding your second to last piece of clothing up, and does the same to the other strap. 
“But you look so pretty in it.” 
Your skin heats up harder than ever before. 
“You look so pretty like this, all breathless and ready for me to touch you… Do you know how happy it makes me that I can touch you, princess? That you’re in my lap and not in my head?” 
You swallow back a whine “Y-you thought about me like this?” 
“I dreamed about you like this,” he kisses the nape of your neck and then focuses his attention on the shoulder he neglected before, “for months.” 
You hum in acknowledgement at his words, but your mind is elsewhere because his hands return to their ministrations on your inner thighs and it's hard to concentrate on anything else but the pad of his thumbs ghosting over your panties as they move. 
He finally concedes and lets his hands wander upwards until they get ahold of the hem of the nightgown and, in one swift movement, you're left in nothing but your underwear in front of him. 
Well, in front of the mirror. He's watching the reflection of your body carefully and you can barely spare a look at it, breath caught in your throat at his reaction. 
When he sees your naked torso, he fully lets out a moan. 
You feel slick rush out of you at the sound but don't turn to yourself to verify what exactly about you made him react that way, made him get even harder against your ass. 
“God, look at you.” 
Breathing hard, you turn your head slightly so that your nose touches his and you think he's about to drop it, give in and kiss you when you feel his thumb and index pressing against your cheek, turning your head to the reflection again. 
“Is this okay?” 
You know he's referring to the hold on your face and you mumble out a yes, still looking at him through the mirror. 
“I said, look at yourself.” 
You do. 
Legs open and still perched on top of his, white panties turning a little see through due to your arousement and nipples pebbled in full display, you allow yourself to enjoy the two seconds of clarity before your body starts to shape shift in your head, before your thoughts turn you undesirable and before you fall into your dysmorphia. 
Yunho is right there to catch you, though. 
“Do you know how lucky I am that you're even allowing me to see you like this, Y/N?” 
The hold on your face relaxes and you follow the movement of his hand, down until it settles on your throat, relaxed, not even putting any pressure. 
“Still okay?” 
You nod. 
He puts in slight pressure now and, when you moan, he chuckles but doesn't say anything to acknowledge what makes him laugh. Instead, his hand keeps descending until his fingers rests in between your breasts and then he softly cups one of them, thumb passing over your nipple and making you jump at the sudden contact before letting go. 
“So fucking pretty. You see this?” His fingers take hold of the skin of your tummy that connects with the curve of your waist and he pinches slightly, making you squirm and tickling you a bit. “Everything you are, everything you have makes my heart beat,” he kisses your shoulder again, “and my dick hard,” and again, “and makes me want to prove to you that there's no one in this world that can come close to you, not in my eyes, my love.” 
Oh, my God. 
He says it in a way that makes you want to believe him. And, deep down, you know you do. 
Even though it's complicated, even though it takes effort to make years and years of self-loathing disappear, you know you can try. 
Because you desperately yearn to see yourself from Yunho's point of view. 
This time, when you turn to kiss him, he doesn't put up any restraint. His dominant mask slips off of him for just a second when you grab his face, pliant mouth moving at the rhythm and pace yours is marking, a whine getting muffled with your tongue. 
He gives your legs rest, closing his legs (and, in consequence, yours as well) and, when you tug at his hair so you can mark his neck down at the weird position you're in, he groans and you want to smile but he's searching your lips before you can even leave a bruise on his skin. 
“I love you, I love the way you think about me, I love what you make me want to think about me,” you assure him when you pull back to look at him. His cheeks are red and his lips are swollen and you love the way they're parted as he recovers his breath. 
“Lesson learned?” 
“Mhm,” you kiss his lips again and take the hand resting your waist, bringing it down to your clothed sex so he can feel how wet you are “now please, would you touch me?” 
“Fuck, you really do love to beg, hm?” He says and it's breathy, like he can't actually believe, and he doesn't give you time to respond because he's already kissing you again. “Let's go to bed.” 
“W-wait.” 
“Yeah?” 
The way you glance at the mirror is a dead giveaway of what you truly want. It makes him take in a sharp breath and grab your face in between his hands, fascination written all over his expression. 
“Do you want to watch when I touch you?”
You breathe out a moan in response.
“You want to watch yourself while I make you come?” 
A little shy but with resolve, you nod. 
He curses. 
Next thing you know, your legs are perched over his again and they’re wide open. Your arms fly back to hold onto him, onto anything that helps you not fall on your face but then his perfect, veiny hand presses on your torso and you fall back comfortably into his embrace again. 
He wastes no time, lips marking a path from your shoulder to your neck and fingers ghosting your clit over your panties and you whimper, impatience making you move against his crotch and making him grunt at the friction. 
“I k-know you just s-said you just discovered the joy of t-teasing but can you please do somet— Fuck!” 
His thumb presses on your bundle of nerves over the cotton and you can’t help but shake. 
It has been a while since you’ve even touched yourself truly, with want and need behind. It’s been a while since someone else touched you there, period, so the sensation feels new and you kind of feel like an overly inexperienced woman with the way you can’t help the immediate build up when he starts moving his thumb.  
It’s electric and you notice that your eyes closed the second he touched you, so you remember yourself. You remember what you asked for, what you actually want to see. 
When you open them again and look at Yunho, you find him already looking at you. His parted lips turn into a proud smile when he catches your eye and he nods, kisses trailing up to your ear, teeth nipping at the skin. 
“Good girl.” 
Fuck. 
He stops his movements to let his index, middle and ring finger cup your sex entirely, press into the fabric and let it soak with your arousal. You see in the mirror and you watch, with fascination, how he manages to twist the cotton to the side and expose your pussy for you both to see with the same hand. 
“You’re so wet, princess, I bet you taste so good…” 
Your brain short circuits and malfunctions when he finally touches you without anything in between his skin and yours. His index reaches out and collects the evidence of how much 
you want him, of how much you want him and you moan when the fabric snaps against your pussy when he lets go of it. 
“Do you?”
He toys with the stickiness on with his fingers, rubs it in between them and then brings his hand up so you’re able to see it without the mirror’s help. 
“Look at me,” you do, obedient, “and open up.” 
You open your mouth and allow his fingers to get in and rest against your tongue. You suck out of instinct, eyes never leaving his, and he gulps as he watches you taste yourself until your arousal transfers from his fingers to your tongue. 
“Let me taste it now.” 
Licking into his mouth, the fingers that were previously on yours settle on your throat, not allowing you to fully lean in and kiss him like you want but, instead, letting him have control of it. 
You swear you see stars when he sucks his tongue into his mouth and he hums, pleased with the taste. 
“You taste so fucking good.” 
Letting you go, you’re breathing hard when he pushes you a bit to put some distance between the both of you. 
“Get up and take these off.” He snaps the elastic of your panties and the sting against your skin makes you whine. 
You can’t think, can’t speak, can’t do anything but wait for him to lead your actions and the consensual loss of control feels so freeing that it makes you dizzy. So you oblige, getting off his lap and allowing him to turn you around so that your ass faces the mirror. When you look at him, he’s looking at the reflection and not you, so you decide, with a boost of confidence because of the hunger in his eyes, to give him a little show. 
You bend over, forehead almost touching his chest and proceed to take off your underwear that way. You open your legs a little, giving him a clear view of it when the fabric falls from your legs and pools at your ankles and, when you twist your head to the side to look at his reaction, his tongue is out and licking his bottom lip like he’s starving for it. 
For the first time ever, you feel both sexy and desired at the same time. 
He reaches for your ass in a way you’re not so sure it’s calculated and you fall fully into his chest with a soft moan when he opens you up for him even more. 
“So hot,” he says, low, under his breath, like he’s not even thinking before he speaks and he lets his fingernails drag on your skin (something you’re learning he enjoys doing and that you also like, a lot) until his hands fall to his knees again. “Fuck.” 
He still hasn’t even touched you properly and you already feel drunk on his touch. You feel that way, at least, when you prop your hands against his chest and push yourself up. He turns you around quickly, sits you on his lap with your legs open again and sighs. 
“I’m not going to make you beg for it anymore when all I want to do is watch you come, princess.” 
Arm around your middle, he presses you flush against his chest and takes your right hand in his. It allows you to let go of the grasp you have on him a little and, when he guides your own fingers to your pussy, you get why. 
“Show me how you like it.”
You feel lewd, exposed and dirty in a way you never thought you would enjoy. But here you are, craving 
“Yunho…”
“Show me,” he insists, “so I can learn.” 
Isn’t it a little bit funny that he sounds like he’s the one begging you when he speaks? 
You show him. Starting with collecting a bit of your slick, you drag a finger upwards from your entrance to your clit and then, only when you can see it fully glistening in the mirror, is when you press down and caress it in circular motions that send electricity through you right away. 
As you do with everything, this is something that, although you don’t really have time to even think about doing most of the days, you have perfected. There’s a science to it, a method that you’ve discovered via need and lust and that has never been so thoroughly explored than right now. 
It’s like you have kept your needs like a nasty little secret inside of your heart, just like you did with your love for Yunho, and you’re letting it all out. 
You pick up the pace, alternating from circles to side to side motions and the pleasure quickly becomes overwhelming. Or have you been touching yourself for him for minutes now? Time disappears in every sound you unconsciously let out, it blends with the glint of passion in Yunho’s eyes and it dissolves in an orgasm that quickly takes over you and shakes you forward. 
“That’s it,” he mutters with his lips against your temple and his hands holding you steady. “Now’s my turn.” 
He replaces his hands with yours, bats your fingers away when you try to prolong your pleasure and takes over at a relentless pace, overstimulating you.
It goes on like that for a minute or so where you shake and you readjust in his lap and you shake again when he bucks your hips and you feel him firm against your ass. You desperately want to help him feel this way, too, but there’s only so much you can do when he teases your entrance with his index and finds you relaxed enough to put it in slowly. 
Slowly until it glides in and out smoothly and you hold onto your forearm, and whimper and his name spilling from your lips in bliss when his ring finger joins. You hope you don’t look too delirious, you wish you’re not making a fool of yourself for feeling the heat pool on your lower belly so quickly again. 
“Oh, yes, yes, I’m—” 
“Don’t look at me or what I’m doing, look at yourself.”
Huh?
“W-what?”
“Watch yourself come,” he reiterates, breathless and, when you disobey and look at him through the reflection, he’s already focused on your face, mouth hanging open and brows furrowed with determination. “I want you to see how beautiful you look coming all over my fingers, Y/N.” 
He curves them upwards and the sensation somehow intensifies “Shit.” 
“Come, Y/N.”
You’re not sure if you’re able to prove his words to be true. When you come undone, you’re looking at yourself and in the mirror is someone you don’t exactly recognize. Someone you don’t perceive as yourself because, yes, the person staring back at you is beautiful. And that person looks sexy and sensual and is glowing with pleasure written all over their face but they’re not someone you have categorized in your brain as you. 
And then you understand. This raw, pure, unfiltered state of you is something you hadn’t reached before. Naturally, you had never seen yourself come. And you hadn’t been handled with so much care through an orgasm before, so you lived it fully and then, only when you stop shaking and your legs fall from his and your feet are on the floor, holding your weight steady, is when you allow yourself to look away from your reflection and turn to the man responsible for the best orgasm of your life. 
His lips are quivering, his eyes are closed and his chest rises and falls against your shoulder as he holds you to him. 
“You… Jeong Yunho…” 
He smiles, probably at the way your voice trembles and gives away just how fucked out you already are, but he doesn’t open his eyes  “Yes?” 
“My turn.” 
When he opens his eyes, you’re already standing up in front of him, his hands shifting on your body, the fingers that just made you see stars leaving a wet trail on your skin before they settle on your stomach. 
And, although he seemed tough and dominant just a minute ago, he puts no resistance when you grab his arm and make him stand up as well. You get on your tippy toes to nuzzle his nose with yours and he holds onto you again as you stumble backwards, towards the bedroom. 
“You’re too dressed, Jeong.” 
“Don’t act like you didn’t enjoy me in a dress shirt,” he says, a smug smile in his lips when your back hits a wall and he presses his body to yours, “prepping you to take my coc— F-fuck, princess.”
Your hand teasing his erection over the fabric of his expensive pants is enough to shut him up. Good, you already let him have his fun (and yours, by consequence) and, even if you enjoyed the loss of control, there’s something equal parts rewarding and hot about winning it back with the simple press of your thumb where you believe his leaking tip is. 
“You’re too overconfident sometimes, Jeong,” you whisper against his lips and it may be your two amazing orgasms or the way you love to have something over him, a little bit of power at least, that make you overly confident right now as well. He puckers out to kiss you but you don’t budge. “Want to see if you prepped me right?” 
It’s a question for consent. You have to make sure he wants you this way, too. That this is fun for him, too. And when he pauses your heart feels like it stops for a second, just like time. 
But right after there’s this quiet agreement you both come to and his mouth devours yours as you move in tandem, in coordinated effort to undress him: You loosen his belt and work on the button of his pants while he unbuttons his shirt and both your feet move with synchronized steps until he’s falling on the bed and you’re getting on your knees in front of him. 
He, however, stops you with a hand caressing your face softly. 
“Later,” he mutters with a soft smile that’s laced with something passionate and lewd you feel you’re about to discover. He leans in, teeth catching your bottom lip and pulling until you’re whining and you taste a little blood on your mouth. “I need to fuck you right now.” 
He doesn’t need to tell you twice. You do however make sure to peel his underwear off him while you’re on your knees, the size of him making you wet and ready all over again.
When you stand up, he grabs your tired legs to pull you closer. It feels like a pause in the middle of passionate urgency, but when he takes his time to kiss under your belly button and the expanse of your hips, you feel like it only adds fuel to the fire. 
The fact that he’s even taking the time to explore you makes you want to combust.
“Oh.” He bites you right over your hip bone and you take his hair into your fingers, pulling him back. “Y-you said you needed to fuck me?” 
“I do,” he laughs against your skin and then leans back, taking him with you and you let him, falling on your side before he pushes you against the mattress, body covering yours and palms touching you all over. “I just enjoy taking my time with you.” 
“I can see that, Jeong.” 
He’s distracted again within the second, looking down your body and taking you in like it’s the first time he’s seeing you even though he had a clear view of you and your pussy in the mirror five minutes ago.
And there’s this urge that takes over you, you can’t even fight the words that come out your mouth next.
“Make love to me.” 
He pauses again and then your words register in his brain, you can see the exact moment they hit him and you think you see him tear up a little before he blinks the deep emotion away to focus on the moment. You have to do the same. 
“I will. Every day of my life, if you ask me to, if I’m so lucky to.”
The rest of the night, from the moment he says those words, kisses you and moves you so you’re in the middle of the bed, it all passes in slow motion. 
And it all passes really fast, too. 
Yunho makes love to you. He enters you while looking into your eyes and whispering how much he loves you against your lips and you say it back. He holds your hand as his hips move and his length drags deliciously inside of you. He marks your chest with his lips and your heart with his love and he closes his hands over yours when his pace picks up and he allows to lose himself in the moment too. 
You make love to him as you push him onto his back, his pretty face all flushed, the pink coloring his neck and his chest where you hand rest as you ride him and watch his control slip from him, as you memorize his moans and grunts and as your walls squeeze him in before coming again on his cock and it only takes to firm, hard strides for him to spill himself inside of you as well, the prove of your love making spilling out of you a little when he holds you to his chest and he pulls out of you, both of you sated, both of you in love. 
It feels like an hour has passed when someone speaks again, the silence in the room comfortable and accompanied by the beats of both your hearts. In reality, it’s only been around ten minutes where you’ve closed your eyes and breathed the remnants of Yunho’s cologne, cheek pressed against his chest and his fingers drawing random figures on your naked back. 
You decide to break the silence when you remember something. 
“I think they forgot my room service.” 
There’s a pause and then Yunho is laughing loudly and it makes you smile. His chest vibrates and you can see, on your peripheral, how he covers his eyes with his forearm. 
“I’m being serious, I ordered like three hours ago.” 
“Maybe they knocked and we didn’t hear them,” he mumbles tiredly and you finally look up, chin pressed where your cheek was a second ago. “We were pretty… Busy.” 
“That’s worse, Jeong!” 
“Why?” He asks, genuinely clueless and then it clicks for him. He brings down his arm and opens his eyes wide with shame. “Oh, my God.” 
“Mhm.” 
“How are you going to look the receptionist in the eye?” 
“She knows me, too. She asked me to take a picture with her  when I check out.”
Yunho sighs and says nothing. He looks at you, hand on your back moving until it reaches your face and he lets his knuckles trace your nose in a way that makes you scrunch it. 
“I forgot you were famous.” 
“We both are,” you w-hisper back, lips forming a thin line as you think. “I mean, if someone leaks that we’re both here, it won’t look weird because we’re supposed to be together.” 
“Supposed to?” He frowns. 
“Well, yes, to the public at least.” 
Yunho pouts. 
He pouts and your stomach twists and turns with nerves and butterflies. You’re joking, kind of. 
“Are you not my girlfriend, Y/N?” 
Oh, he’s adorable. It’s so easy to tease him when you’re both not at each other’s throat. 
You wonder if you’ll ever have a fight again, your heart weak for him even when you try to keep the joke going. 
“I haven’t been asked to be anyone’s girlfriend…” 
The deadpan expression that follows your quip breaks your resolve entirely and you laugh, hiding your face on his chest as he mumbles something you don’t catch. 
“What?” You look up at him again. 
“I said that you’re annoying and that you are my girlfriend.” 
“No, I think you said that you love me.”
There’s something so reassuring in the way the annoyance disappears from his expression and it’s replaced by something sweet and he looks like he can barely fight the words back when he replies with: “Yeah, I do.” 
You hum, happy with his response “I thought so.” 
Pressing your cheek against his skin again, there’s only two seconds of silence before his hand is on your shoulder and shaking your body. 
“Say it back, Y/N.” 
“So needy,” you tease and he shakes you again, groaning, so you sigh and pull away from his body to sit up a little. “I love you too.” 
He leans into your space, a blissful smile curving his lips before he pecks your mouth in a sweet, short kiss “Good,” he whispers, falling against the pillows and dragging your body with his so that you’re resting against the soft material as well. “When did you come back?” 
“A week ago.” 
“Hm,” his hands return to your body, fingernails dragging softly up and down your arm, “your family doesn’t know.” 
At the mention of them, you close your eyes and squeeze, reality washing over you. 
“I’m sure my mother does.” 
“She doesn’t,” he assures you, “she would’ve mentioned it by now and she only talks about the project you’re going to lead once you’re back.” 
You open your eyes “What project?” 
“I’m not sure,” he says softly, “I thought you were already leading one?” 
“Something like that,” you nod. “I, um… Was networking in a way, gathering new information on new companies to invest in and help their growth. Small business with original concepts that we can boost or help bring to the city and all of that.” 
“Did you have fun on the trip?” 
“Yeah,” you answer truthfully, “I did. I met a lot of people, I visited places I never even knew existed, I also learned a lot about myself and about what I want… And I got away from Satan for a while.” 
He knows you mean your mom, so he snorts out a laugh and shakes his head at the jab. 
“I missed you a lot, though.” 
His amusement dies slowly but happiness remains on his face. You’re sure yours is a reflection of his, as well. 
“I missed you too,” he answers in a murmur and you nuzzle the hand that reaches your cheek before giving it a kiss. “I’m glad you had fun and it sounds like being away helped but… Never do it again.” 
“Oh?” You try to tease but he insists. 
“Never leave without telling me again, please,” his whisper sounds like a plea and your heart beats louder. “I’ll miss you too much.” 
There’s an impulse, a need that soars through your blood. “I’m not sure when I’ll be able to get away again but, when I do, you can go with me.” 
“I will,” he answers right away and at the confirmation that you want him there with you, you see the tension slip away from his features, “my bags are already packed and all.” 
“I bet they are,” eyes rolling back in annoyance, you press a palm on his chest and push him a little. “Needy.” 
“Shut up.” 
There’s a lot of things to talk about. A lot of things you want to tell him, to mention, to bring up and discuss with him. Like what happens after you leave this bubble you’re floating in, if you tell your brother and his right away, if he’s going to tell his friends or wait until you’re a little far along in the friendship to do so. 
You have to ask him if he wants to tell your parents like… Ever. You’re not so sure you even want to. 
But he shuffles and moves until his naked chest is against yours and his hands are around your body, chin resting on the top of your head as he yawns. 
There’s this feeling of calmness that washes over you as you consider that, maybe, this can be the way you fall asleep from now on. No sleeping or sleepless nights, just Yunho’s embrace and his steady breathing above you, the beat of his heart, a lullaby that lulls you until your eyes are closing and tiredness takes over your senses. 
This time, you dream about a future together and nothing more. 
Tumblr media
If you read all the way down here: THANK YOU SO MUCH. Any feedback would be greatly appreciated and please remember the next part it's much shorter and would be the end of this mini series!
© jensthwa, 2025.
79 notes · View notes
shoukokus · 2 days ago
Note
Hello! Can you please write Vil with a crush on someone (preferably fem) who likes more “masculine” activities; like wrestling, rugby, weightlifting, etc (definitely not bc I do those sports). Thank you!!! 🩷🩷🩷
I love this! So cute
Vil Schoenheit
Vil doesn't know how this happened. He was high-end! Beauty oriented, grace above all else, and maintain an air of refinement. So how in the Great Seven did he fall for someone so rowdy?!
It defied all logic, but reason seemed to escape him when it came to you. He could be strictly instructing a dance course, the graceful art of ballet obviously, when he sees you. In the corner with Epel, wrestling him to the ground. It should make Vil outraged! But instead he's fixated on the way your muscles contract with each movement.
It must have taken time and discipline to get them like that... So taut and firm. Beautiful in its own way...
"Are you all right, dorm leader?" Someone asks him, pulling Vil out of his thoughts.
"Of course I'm fine," he snaps in response. "Another 30 minutes of practice for everyone."
Some time later, Epel is drowning in homework and extra assignments given by Vil. At one point during this, the younger boy timidly tells Vil that he had an alchemy project with none other than you. He had done his part, but now it needed to be delivered so it can be completed. His dorm leader doesn't want Epel to fail, right?
Vil snatches the papers and box up with feigned annoyance.
When he arrives at your door and knocks, you don't answer but he does hear loud music inside. You probably wouldn't have heard him, so he lightly pushes it open.
Down the end of the hallway in the living room, he sees you and freezes on the spot. Wearing loose workout clothing, you're lifting weights that looked... rather heavy, to say the least. It's infuriating how stunning you look, so perfectly in your element. Doing something that compliments you so well.
He clears his throat, determined not to let this fluster him, and approaches you. When you finally see him, you send him a wide smile that nearly sends him into panic mode.
A week or so later is the final straw.
Vil spots you from across the courtyard at lunchtime. It was a lovely day, and a lot of students were outside enjoying it. You're with most of the Spelldrive team, talking animatedly and laughing. Even Leona seems to be enjoying the conversation, although it was hard to tell while he lounged on a bench.
While it was unclear what was said to spark it, you and Ruggie were suddenly squaring off. It was playful and kind of... cute, but that does not diminish how easily you got him to the ground. Your technique had obviously been honed, and came from some kind of sport, but Vil couldn't pinpoint it.
After the two of you removed yourselves from each other, you went back to laughing and brushing grass off. Vil has had just about enough. He marched up to you and your little group.
"Come with me, now." Vil told you, eyes boring into yours.
The others looked at you with sympathy, assuming that you were about to be chewed out for starting a ruckus or some such. You followed, shoulders tight, worried about your fate.
When the two of you had reached a private spot, Vil turns to you. He has a slight flush on his face as he begins to speak. "You are rowdy. Your hobbies are reckless, and entirely ill-suited to my tastes." You open your mouth to protest, but he holds up a finger dangerously close to your lips. "Yet I still find myself enchanted by you. The way you are... the way you carry yourself. It is unbelievably mesmerizing. Allow me to take you on a date."
A smile had been slowly growing on your face as he spoke, while the blush on his also increased.
"I'd love that, Vil."
Requests are open!
109 notes · View notes