#pasta new rules | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

seospicybin · 18 days ago

Text

TASTE.

CHAPTER I: PIQUANT.

Lee Know x reader. (s,a)

TASTE MASTERLIST

Synopsis: When Minho is hired as the head chef of Farfalle, a prestigious Italian restaurant, expectations are high for him to elevate its reputation and bring it to new heights. However, no one anticipates the drastic changes he implements in the kitchen—including his strict rule that that there'll be no women and no romance in his kitchen. (15,3k words)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Enter Lee Minho.

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

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

Only time would tell.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Someone’s taken his seat.

You.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Minho follows, his interest piqued more than ever.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But you don’t.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I'll be working,” you simply answer.

“What time you get off work?”

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

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

“Around midnight.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Who is he?”

“Is that the new head chef?”

“He looks... intense.”

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

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

“This is Chef Lee Minho.”

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

One by one, the staff steps forward.

“Seo Jun, Sous Chef, Meat Station.”

“Ha Yura, Sous Chef, Pasta Line.”

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

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

“I'm in the pasta Line.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, chef!” Everyone responds in unison.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Seungwan swallows hard. “It was a mistake—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But Minho notices.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Morning,” she mutters, her voice hoarse.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thanks,” Minji murmurs, finally looking up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Vongole!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chef Choi Sara.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Recognize this?” he asks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sara looks away, her silence speaking volumes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You stay silent for a moment before nodding.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

#stray kids smut #skz smut #lee know smut #lee know x reader #stray kids imagines #skz imagines #stray kids scenarios #skz scenarios #skz fics #skz fanfics #kpop smut #kpop fics #kpop fanfics #seospicy smut #Taste series

553 notes · View notes

violetrainbow412-blog · 4 months ago

Text

Day 4: market day

Masterlist flufftober 🎃

Reblog if you liked it!

You've heard a lot of people say that the honeymoon period only lasts the first few weeks of marriage and that after that things can start to get complicated. But the rule didn’t seem to apply to you.

Maybe it was because you two were young and enthusiastic, because you were too busy missing him to think about arguing, or maybe it was just that you really were made for each other.

You often tried to steal as much time as possible from your husband’s demanding job because being an FBI agent often took him away from you, and sometimes having a few domestic moments was all you both desired.

Grocery shopping was one of those activities that really made you feel like a married couple, and it saved you many trips to the store for food.

“Which do you prefer? Soy or almond milk?”

“Soy has phytoestrogens and more health benefits in moderate amounts. Almond is for people looking to maintain weight, and although it’s healthy, it’s low in protein.”

“Soy, got it,” you said with a small smile at his intellectual response.

Every time it was grocery shopping day, your job was always to push the cart and grab an item or two within reach, but most of the time, Spencer was the one in charge of selecting your groceries. After all, he had a pretty extensive knowledge of the benefits of each food. He always wanted to take care of you, and since he was often away, one way he could do that was by ensuring you were well-nourished.

“Look, I found some tea,” he announced happily, making you look away from the yogurt section in the fridge to pay attention. “Lavender, passionflower, valerian…”

“For your insomnia?”

“Mhm,” he hummed, dropping the boxes into the cart “And some mint and lemon for you.”

“You know me so well,” you smiled sweetly, leaning on the plastic handle, letting him gently caress your cheek.

You two had known each other for so many years that there were details about each other you knew by instinct. You knew his favorite brand of coffee, how he liked it with a specific number of sugar spoons, that you needed to buy him two sets of socks because he always liked mismatched ones, and you knew the exact spot on his head to stroke to help him fall back asleep after a nightmare. He knew you hated wearing shoes indoors, that you had a specific way of sleeping, and that you hated the smell of cinnamon. There were so many things you did as if they were second nature that it seemed impossible to list them all.

The truth is, people at Spencer’s work were quite surprised to find out that not only did he have a girlfriend, but that you were getting married. The event was private, very intimate, and not at all pretentious because that wasn’t your style.

You both had no problem moving into a new, slightly more spacious apartment, now that everything was doubled. But you were managing it quite well, to be honest.

You continued strolling through the grocery store, staying close to your husband, and then remembered you needed some bread. You pushed the cart over and stood next to a woman who seemed to be in a dilemma, staring at two loaves of bread as if trying to analyze which was better.

“The best one is that one,” you said, hoping not to make her uncomfortable. She looked at you confused, so you decided to speak again. “It has less sugar and the necessary carbs for good nutrition. There’s a study about it; it’s true.”

“Oh, sweetie, I wasn’t looking for the healthiest, just the one with the best quantity and price. It’s for my kids. Those children could eat an entire loaf in a day, and I can’t afford that.”

You laughed honestly and gave her a look of understanding. She was a bit older than you but not old enough to be considered elderly.

“I think you’re right.”

“I love my kids, but I won’t lie… sometimes they drive me crazy,” she confessed, and you both laughed again.

“Darling, do you want me to make pasta for you this week? Rossi taught me a recipe that…”

He trailed off when he noticed you had company, and for some reason, he suddenly felt shy.

“That’s fine, love. We can eat whatever you want,” you replied kindly. “I already have something to go with it.”

You winked at him when he noticed the wine you had tossed into the cart, and then he smiled and went off in search of the necessary ingredients.

“Your boyfriend?”

“Husband,” you corrected her. There was a strange pride in saying that.

“Husband! Oh, that’s so sweet. How long have you been married?”

“We’ll be married for four months next week.”

“Young love, so beautiful,” she sighed, as if nostalgic for a time that now seemed too far away. “And he helps you with the shopping?”

“I help him, actually,” you laughed. “He’s the one who selects everything. Before we got married, I had the worst eating habits, and he hated that. So we try to eat better now.”

“Marriages are so different now,” she said, and upon hearing that, you expected to endure a conservative speech and internally dreaded it. “My husband never joins me for things like this; he’s not even interested. In this and in much more, to be honest. And it’s nice to see that girls nowadays can have these kinds of relationships. You know, where they’re supported.”

Somehow, that touched your heart, and suddenly you wished you could hug the woman, but you held back. Then, you looked over at Spencer. He was in the vegetable section, apparently comparing two bags of spinach. You could recognize him in a crowd without a doubt, with his slouched posture, his messy hair (freshly cut, by the way), and his peculiar formal attire.

You had always appreciated having the man in your life, even when you didn’t have a romantic relationship, but you had never stopped to think how lucky you were that he had decided to love you.

“I’m glad too,” you said in what was barely a whisper.

You didn’t say anything else. The woman said her goodbyes kindly, and you just smiled at her, too busy gazing at the man with loving eyes. You stood there watching him, and when he approached, he couldn’t help but notice your strange expression.

“What’s up?”

“Nothing. I just had a very revealing conversation with that woman.”

“Huh, yeah?” he hummed, dropping a collection of items into the shopping cart “And what was it about?”

“About you,” you answered casually, lifting your hands to place them on his chest and then sliding them to his cheeks “Talking to her reminded me that you’re the best husband in the world.”

Carefully and affectionately, you stood on your tiptoes and planted a loud kiss on him. Spencer laughed as his cheeks blushed, returning the favor with a gentle kiss on your forehead.

“I don’t know if I am, but I try.”

“And that’s why I love you,” you confessed sweetly.

And then, it was Spencer who felt lucky.

#spencer reid #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid x reader #criminal minds #criminal minds fanfic #dr spencer reid #matthew gray gubler #spencer reid x you #flufftober 2024 #prompt list #writing challenge #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid fanfiction #criminal minds fanfiction #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid drabble

738 notes · View notes

tinycoffeeroom · 7 months ago

Text

yes chef! | daniel ricciardo

face claim: laura harrier ♡

request: here !

pairing: daniel ricciardo x black!chef!reader

requested: hello ml !! 🫶 I stumbled upon one of your F1 smau’s and the way I swallowed your blog whole right after, I loved it all !!😭 I’d love to request a smau with Daniel Ricciardo x fem!chefreader, like maybe her studying to become a chef, or right up to her exams and graduation? It’s all good if you don’t wan’t to, have a wonderful week either way🫶 - 🍊🫒

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

📍 Marriott Hotels

👤 cheflingy/n liked by cheflingy/n, maxverstappen1 and 1,827,050 others

danielricciardo one last night away before exam season for my little chefling x

See 90,028 other comments

cheflingy/n thank you for taking me away my love ❤️ gonna miss seeing your stupid face 24/7 😭 ↳ danielricciardo gonna miss your stupid face too... after exams you're coming to every race with me no exceptions! ↳ cheflingy/n sure thing handsome x

fan it's not a danny ric post if he doesn't rub it in our faces that he's dating y/n and we're not ↳ fan ikr like can you share with the group please ↳ danielricciardo i don't share my food ↳ fan we were talking about y/n ↳ danielricciardo so was i ↳ cheflingy/n down boy!

fan y/n what do you rate the hotel pasta out of 10? ↳ cheflingy/n hmmm a 6? the sauce was nice but was lacking a little in the taste department... if we were at home i'd have added some chili flakes which would have bumped it to a 7! ↳ fan the hotel should be honoured to receive a 6 from chef y/n ↳ cheflingy/n chefling! not passed my exams yet!!

fan y/ns so pretty im gonna scream ♥️ danielricciardo

fan will we be getting a y/n recreates?? ↳ cheflingy/n yeppers! will work on it when i get home 🩷 ↳ fan thank u queen x

francisca.c.gomes barking at the top of my lungs ↳ cheflingy/n come give me a kiss xxx ↳ francisca.c.gomes running as fast as i can!!! ↳ danielricciardo pierregasly we should kiss too ↳ pierregasly come here big boy

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

👤 danielricciardo liked by bffstagram, danielricciardo and 609,817 others

cheflingy/n y/n recreates part 15! we visited the Marriott in New York and had their spaghetti alla vodka! you might have seen in danny's comments that i rated it a 6/10 due to the little flavour in the sauce but with a few chili flakes and a little balsamic vinegar, we have a strong 9/10 on our hands! link in my bio ❤️

also swipe for my favourite 10/10 meal x

danielricciardo omg stop objectifying me 🙄 ↳ cheflingy/n you literally called me food in your last post ↳ danielricciardo ... you got me there

fan y/n being the queen of the thattoo agenda ↳ cheflingy/n i rule that shit with an iron fist ↳ fan knowing y/n gets to see the thattoos in all their glory 😔 vs knowing she'll share with the group 😀

fan y/n recreates is back!!!! looks yummy, wish apple would create a way to smell through a screen ↳ cheflingy/n it was very good!! the recipe is in the description of my youtube, you should make it with me!! ↳ fan i will do it purely bc you suggested it 💞

lilymhe can i have some too 🥺 ↳ cheflingy/n ofc lils!! i'll make you some special pasta for the next gp x ↳ lilymhe i'm in love with you

maxverstappen1 funnily enough the 3rd slide is also my favourite meal ↳ cheflingy/n you take the outside i'll take the inside ↳ maxverstappen1 divide and conquer, i like your thinking 🫡 ↳ danielricciardo it's like i'm just a piece of meat to them

fan i live for the fact y/n joins in with maxiel ↳ fan essentially a throuple at this point ↳ cheflingy/n i would rather eat my own toes than enter a throuple with max and daniel ↳ maxverstappen1 rude? ↳ cheflingy/n mf you BURNT a salad, idek how you managed that... at least danny can cook a mean steak ↳ maxverstappen1 it was too close to the stove :(((( ↳ fan im sorry he burnt a salad???? new max lore unlocked

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

danielricciardo uploaded to their story

replies:

maxverstappen1 i am outside your door ↳ danielricciardo ominous? ↳ maxverstappen1 open up i want a y/n apple turnover ↳ danielricciardo sorry cant hear you over the sound of me chowing down ↳ maxverstappen1 i know how to pick locks. ↳ danielricciardo ... who taught you that? ↳ maxverstappen1 y/n :) ↳ danielricciardo she never showed me how to pick locks :( ↳ maxverstappen1 pretty privilege, sorry you wouldn't understand ↳ danielricciardo im gonna spit on your turnover ↳ maxverstappen1 kinky x

fan share with the group please ↳ danielricciardo nope!

cheflingy/n i'm glad you liked them handsome x ↳ danielricciardo when does your class end so i can give you a fat kiss? ↳ cheflingy/n i'll be home in an hour x ↳ danielricciardo yippee!! x

fan honey b 😭 she even made a cute nickname out of that whack ass nickname ↳ danielricciardo WHACK ASS??? now that's crazy, give me a reason why i shouldn't block you ↳ fan i bought enchanté merch ↳ danielricciardo you're safe for now.

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

liked by danielricciardo, landonorris and 798,014 others

cheflingy/n pastry week got me feeling like... can't wait for final exams next week so y'all can start calling me chef y/n for real

danielricciardo sneak one home pls xx ↳ cheflingy/n already put one in a container x ↳ danielricciardo no one snitch on me to my trainer

landonorris does that mean we have to say yes chef to anything you say? ↳ cheflingy/n yes x ↳ landonorris ok slay ↳ cheflingy/n that gave me the ick a lil bit ↳ fan same ↳ fan same ↳ danielricciardo same ↳ oscarpiastri same ↳ landonorris ?? disrespect???

fan y/n what dessert is that it looks yummers! ↳ cheflingy/n is just a really fancy carrot cake!! will post the recipe when im home 🩷 ↳ fan i love you.

kellypiquet p would like some carrot cake too! (and her mum) ↳ cheflingy/n tell p we can have a baking session soon! miss her little face x ↳ kellypiquet and me? ↳ cheflingy/n i miss your little face too x

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

chefling y/n has uploaded a new video

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

👤 danielricciardo liked by danielricciardo, maxverstappen1 and 907,286 others

cheflingy/n doints in the bank so my man gets a steak xx

danielricciardo im her man 🥰🥰 ↳ cheflingy/n damn right you are!

maxverstappen1 i won the race, where's my steak? ↳ cheflingy/n kellypiquet ↳ maxverstappen1 stole my man, won't even cook me steak... what's the point of being world champ if i don't get SHIT ↳ kellypiquet big baby, she texted to say she'd bring some over when they're back from the cabin ↳ maxverstappen1 yippee!!!

fan steak, chicken AND lamb??? oh she's in LOVE love ↳ cheflingy/n he deserves it x

oscarpiastri can i get some steak too? 🥺 ↳ cheflingy/n ofc ofc!! i'll bring some to the next race 🧡 ↳ landonorris me too! ↳ cheflingy/n you can have whatever oscar leaves. ↳ landonorris what the fuck

fan ratings? ↳ danielricciardo 11/10 she never misses ↳ fan wish that was me...

fan did you get chance to watch the race??!! ↳ cheflingy/n i may have skipped a practice session to go on sunday... ↳ fan you're the reason we have doints we love you ↳ cheflingy/n it was all down to danny's driving i promise!! i just sit there and look pretty!! ↳ danielricciardo the prettiest x

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

👤 bffstagram liked by bffstagram, danielricciardo and 992,716 others

cheflingy/n who up ratting their touille rn??!!

bffstagram MEMEMEMEME!!!!! ↳ cheflingy/n how's that fourth red bull treating you? ↳ bffstagram i can see sounds.

fan she's just like me fr: losing her mind during final exams ↳ cheflingy/n now who said i'm losing my mind... ↳ cheflingy/n you would be right tho my eyeballs ache from being open for so long

mercedesmgf1 we can send you some lewis hamilton monster to help you stay awake 🩵 ↳ danielricciardo this is a red bull house ONLY ↳ redbullracing iktr! y/nnie we have a special care package coming your way soon 💙 ↳ cheflingy/n i love you red bull

lilynzeimer what happens if we're not ratting our touille? ↳ cheflingy/n you gotta step your game up!

landonorris the girl in the second pic is cute, she got an @ ? ↳ cheflingy/n you stay away from her she's a good girl. ↳ landonorris c'mon, you know i'm a nice guy ↳ bffstagram unfortunately for you, i'm allergic to papaya :) ↳ bffstagram i am however, a big fan of chilis x ↳ carlossainz55 good to know 🤨 ↳ cheflingy/n get your flirting OUT of my comments

fan you got this y/n!! can't wait to call you chef y/n properly!!! 💘💖💗💞💕💗💞💝💖💓💕 ↳ cheflingy/n thank u i love u 🥺🩷

fan when's the last exam miss chefling?? ↳ cheflingy/n tomorrow!! luckily we get our results in a week so i wont be climbing the walls for too long!! ↳ fan good luck!!! you're gonna smash it!! 💘💘 ♥️ cheflingy/n

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

chefling y/n has uploaded a new video

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

👤 chefy/n liked by vcarb, chefly/n and 1,728,915 others

danielricciardo after 4 long years, my girls finally a graduate ❤️ chef y/n i love you and i'm so bloody proud of you x

See 104,817 other comments

chefy/n danny 🥹 thank you for the flowers and the cake and for just being there with me, i love you so so much ❤️ ↳ danielricciardo i love you more my sexy gordon ramsey

vcarb congratulations y/n!!! we may have an opening in red bull hospitality for you 😉 ↳ chefly/n love y'all but i am very happy just following dan around the paddock on race days 🤣

maxverstappen1 simp ↳ maxverstappen1 also congrats y/n! now about that meal you mentioned last week... ↳ chefy/n man can i enjoy my post grad vacay first damn 😭

alexandrasaintmleux chef y/n we love you 💜 ↳ chefy/n i love you alex 💛 ↳ charles_leclerc don't suppose you fancy sharing some of that cake? ↳ chefy/n come over, doors unlocked! (bring alex too) ↳ charles_leclerc you just want to see my girlfriend... ↳ chefy/n correct captain obvious

fan she changed her @ !! chef y/n welcome we love you!!! ↳ chefy/n i love you too!!!

bffstagram that's my favourite chef right there!! ↳ chefy/n thank you chef x ↳ bffstagram you're welcome chef x

landonorris let's go chef y/n!! you should celebrate by bringing me and osc those banging pastries in your last vid ↳ chefy/n if you run over here in time, there may be some left 🤫 ↳ oscarpiastri you should have seen his little legs it was giving scooby doo ↳ chefy/n giving? we need to get you away from that man ↳ oscarpiastri please...

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

📍 Spain

liked by danielricciardo, maxverstappen1 and 893,017 others

chefy/n week away with my love ❤️ spain was so so gorgeous i couldn't resist picking up a camera and documenting danny trying to make paella, coming to youtube tomorrow x

danielricciardo i think i did a banging job ↳ chefy/n sure you did babe x

maxverstappen1 where was my invite? ↳ fan breaking up the throuple fr 😔 ↳ chefy/n you have your own plane you could have flown over ↳ maxverstappen1 WAIT that was an option? ↳ chefy/n no x ↳ maxverstappen1 that's just cruel...

fan are we getting a y/n recreates of dannys paella?? ↳ chefy/n is that something you would want?? ↳ fan YES ↳ fan YESYEYSYESYEYS PLEASE ↳ fan it's a need not a want y/n please!!!! ↳ chefy/n i hear y'all, i'll get started soon x

kellypiquet gorgeous girl x ↳ chefy/n love you kels x

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

chef y/n uploaded a new video

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

👤 enchante, chefy/n liked by chefy/n, enchante and 1,938,724 others

danielricciardo welcome to the Enchanté cafe. All meals provided by our resident chef 😉

See 934,018 others

fan STOP y/n making the food for the promo videos 🥺 i love them

fan and WHY were there no videos of y/n cooking? ↳ danielricciardo she didn't wanna steal my limelight ↳ chefy/n i'll be uploading a bts vid to my youtube tomorrow, you'll see me there 😉

chefy/n that food looks super yummy! ↳ danielricciardo yeah i heard the chef graduated top of her class ↳ chefy/n damn she must be good then ↳ danielricciardo the absolute best x

enchante the resident chef is never allowed to leave ↳ chefy/n i would never want to ❤️

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

a/n: my first emoji anon! hi! and welcome danny ric to tinycoffeeroom! i hope you enjoy and that i did your request justice! <3 also psa i looooveeee the honey badger nickname pls dont kill me 😭

taglist: @golden-hoax

#daniel ricciardo x reader #daniel ricciardo x you #daniel ricciardo imagine #daniel ricciardo fanfic #f1 social media au #f1 x reader #f1 imagine #f1 smau #f1 fic

500 notes · View notes

17020 · 4 months ago

Text

# I HEART PUBLIC RELATIONS

in order to your boost your popularity as a lifestyle influencer, your manager decides to partner up with anri teieri and jinpachi ego, for a pr stunt with a man from one of japan's most famous content houses: BLUE LOCK.

the rules are simple: choose a man, post three videos together a week, post an (undisclosed) ad weekly, and interact with each other on social media. ooh! don't forget! the more chemistry between you two, the better.

STARRING . . . yoichi isagi, meguru bachira, hyoma chigiri, rensuke kunigami. fem reader!

CANDIDATE 1 — YOICHI ISAGI

USER: ISAGIYO FOLLOWERS: 893k CATEGORY: LIFESTYLE/FITNESS

LIGHTS, CAMERA, ACTION!

the day you met isagi at the house, you immediately clicked. there was something so comforting and inviting about him, you knew the chemistry was going to be natural. seeing as you were both lifestyle influencers, you settled on doing vlogs and 'what i do in a day' videos for both your profiles.

the first tiktok you ever filmed was inside the house, with isagi inviting you over to try out gigi hadid's famous vodka pasta. it was an absolute mess, as the flour spilled everywhere and isagi almost overcooked the pasta. not to mention, he suggested you take some shots of vodka every now and then to keep things fun. people already speculated that isagi had something going on with you since bachira accidentally revealed in his tiktok that "isagi's having a girl over, so we're stuck outside." the fans absolutely adored the two of you cooking, and how after each shot, isagi became more loose, letting out more jokes and feeling confident enough to compliment you on your cooking skills.

the second tiktok was outside in the streets, with you and isagi filming a review of a well-known puppy cafe. it was so adorable to see such a strong man be so delicate with puppies, and you weren't the only one melting over it. fans went absolutely insane, thanking you in the comments as it was your idea to take him there in the first place. the comments were also filled with people pointing out that, in the video, isagi was completely red from all the times you complimented him, calling him cute and adorable. you took pictures for yours and his socials, captioning the post as "puppies weren't the only adorable thing there :)". news outlets caught wind of this interaction, popularizing your 'situationship' even more.

the third tiktok of the week was a gym vlog. isagi was also a fitness influencer, posting gym videos and advice from time to time, so he and you did the trend where you try to lift the weight the other usually does in their routines. safe to say, you struggled with his weights for arms, and he struggled with yours for legs. after filming the tiktok for his account, you decided to stop by a famous cookie shop, buying the weekly menu and trying it in the car. fans loved the way in which you bonded over cookies while sitting inside his car, commenting on the fact that you shared an indirect kiss from biting the same cookie. the fans want you to date already!

(UN)DISCLOSED AD . . . BLOOM!

when isagi and you got reached out to by bloom, you were thinking of how to incorporate it into your content. it wasn't hard, since its greens, and you and isagi had gained a new hobby together: going on walks, so that people could take pictures of you two, laughing, being happy, and looking at each other with lovesick eyes. you settled on filming the preparation of the drinks, then going on a walk focusing on the glass bottles with green liquid in your hands. isagi was nice enough to tag the brand and use a hashtag. he had to rerecord some clips as the first time you tried the drink, you almost spit it out, and so did he. but hey! money is money, right? fans were not amused that you promoted bloom, but they quickly got over it because you're both hot, and make a great couple.

"Can't go on our weekly walks without our @.bloom ! #bloompartner"

THE VIEWS SKYROCKETED! BECAUSE . . .

in every video, isagi just couldn't get his eyes or hands off you. he always had his hand on your arm, your shoulder, holding your hand, or had his arm wrapped around your waist. fans began to make compilations of the times in which isagi truly got lost in your eyes, or was a blushing, stuttering mess. so much for a pr relationship, huh? you both ended up gaining around 20k followers from this stunt, and when isagi hit one million followers, he decided to celebrate for the camera with everyone, and then privately at his parents' house with you, confessing that to him, everything was absolutely real.

CANDIDATE 2 — MEGURU BACHIRA

USER: MEGUUURUUU FOLLOWERS: 579k CATEGORY: DANCE/ENTERTAINMENT

LIGHTS, CAMERA, ACTION!

you met bachira at the house and knew he had to teach you how to dance and paint. bachira is a natural when it comes to all forms of art, so when you signed the contract, the first thing he suggested was that you go to his little studio for some dance lessons.

that was the first tiktok you made; bachira teaching you how to dance everything—from tyla's dances to jojo siwa's, you and bachira spent a good few hours dancing and making a few videos for his account, with yours posting the behind the scenes. fans loved how you tripped over bachira's feet once, and how he was eager to help you get every move right. the comments begged for more appearances from you in bachira's account, since the chemistry was off the charts.

the second tiktok was you and him at the house, sitting across from each other in the dining room, a canvas and paint in front of you. you decided to paint a portrait of each other, accompanied by some mocktails. you weren't sure if bachira was pretending to be bad at art or if he genuinely did not inherit his mother's talent (something he shared while painting), but he made you look like someone drew you from memory. you died laughing when he showed you the portrait, and he almost shook the whole house from his laughter when you showed him yours. the comments were filled with love for both of you, showing appreciation for the sweet comments that you threw towards one another while painting (because yes, you posted bits and pieces of the process, catching bachira call you beautiful on camera.)

the third tiktok, you filmed the disco dance in a parking lot, after leaving his studio. the way in which you looked at each other while swaying to the music was enough to have people's whole families in the comments gushing over how cute you looked. people focused on bachira, and how he always seemed to have the biggest smile on his face when you were with him. he posted pictures with you snuggling in his car on his story, captioning them "date with the cutest! :3", driving his fanbase insane (in a good way). he forced you to go a to a drive thru, a rose between his lips as he laid on the hood of his car as you ordered a water and a burger. poor worker, he deserved a raise after that.

(UN)DISCLOSED AD . . . BOSE!

bachira is known to partner up with technology brands as he is constantly dancing, so it was no surprise for him to partner up with bose. they sent him (and you) a pair of their wireless earbuds, which acted as the coolest accessory for him and you as you danced on the streets of tokyo. even better, he also got sent noise cancelling headphones, asking you to put them on and for him to say whatever sentence he felt like, and for you to guess what he said. he spent the entire video telling you how gorgeous you looked, and how he loves you! such a nice sponsorship, in fact, that the paparazzi caught him the next week using airpods. yikes! someone call crisis management.

Don't think she heard me telling her how beautiful she looks @.bose #teambose

THE VIEWS SKYROCKETED! BECAUSE . . .

bachira is a flirt, and the public knows that. what they didn't know, was that his flirtatious ways would absolutely multiply by a thousand when it came to you. even you were shocked, and people commented on your wide eyes and how red you were from bachira's compliments and nicknames for you. the dance videos had you and bachira so close to one another, people genuinely wondered if you guys would share a kiss at one point. bachira granted everyone's wish, sharing a tiktok of his face covered in lipstick stains, pecking your face so that you can match. he got around 20 million views from that video alone, and you both gained around 40k followers. who said this was all pretend? the next week, bachira was already asking you out on a date, no phones allowed, so that he alone can enjoy your presence.

CANDIDATE 3 — HYOMA CHIGIRI

USER: CHIGIRIHYOMA FOLLOWERS: 670k CATEGORY: BEAUTY/HAIRCARE

LIGHTS, CAMERA, ACTION!

as soon as you stepped in the house you noticed how chigiri's hair almost blinded people from how shiny it was, so the first thing you bonded over was haircare. you both decided to have the next few tiktoks be centered around beauty, as both of you were interested in get ready with me's.

the first tiktok you recorded was a heatless curl tutorial, with you and chigiri trying out the famous satin curler sets everyone gushed about. your presence on chigiri's account was expected, as the week prior you 'unexpectedly' commented on his video on how he should definitely do your hair. he replied to your comment with his video, with you and him preparing your hair, and then posting a second part where you showed the results. fans were shocked from this video, as they deemed this as a 'i never expected them to collab' type thing, but they didn't complain! they liked how you gushed over chigiri's hair, with him carefully helping you do yours.

the second tiktok was a get ready with me with new, viral products… except chigiri was doing your makeup! from skincare prep to setting spray, chigiri delicately applied new makeup on your face, commenting on the fact that you look incredible with and without it. you and chigiri were honest about everything, what you liked and didn't, and in his words, "mikayla nogueira has nothing on us, so trust when we tell you something's good." the fans went insane over chigiri's commentary, and you even got a response video from her. the beef with her made your accounts more known and had people praising you and chigiri for your honesty. you didn't need ardell wispies to prove a point, because chigiri made the l'oreal telescopic lift look fantastic on you.

the final tiktok was you doing each other's nails. you acted as his nail artist, carefully filing and painting his nails. while you did his nails, you asked him questions, to which he happily answered. the comments died when you asked him if he was single, to which he replied "why? you wanna date me or something?", followed by a lighthearted laugh. you painted his nails a beautiful shade of baby pink, and chigiri thanked you for your hard work. for your account, he did your nails with design, and as determined as he looked, his french tips looked like a french disaster, with your fingers filled with polish, and him scurrying to use acetone to clean you up. good to know that chigiri didn't excel at something for once!

(UN)DISCLOSED AD . . . DYSON!

he brought you into his bathroom to film his hair routine with you, and once you stepped out of his shower, the styling tutorial began. he had been given the dyson airwrap, and he used you as his human model to try out a blowout. he sectioned your hair and dried it, leaving you with the softest, shiniest blowout of your life. you tried drying his hair, and certain parts had to be cut out since you accidentally had the dryer too close to his scalp, with him cursing from the shock. the fans knew that a sponsorship from dyson was bound to happen, and they were so happy that it did. they thought you were the prettiest model, and your video had so many views that dyson actually reposted your video on their other social medias.

Gifted by Dyson, thank you so much. You made me and Yn's hair look absolutely fantastic. @.dyson #dysonpartner

THE VIEWS SKYROCKETED! BECAUSE . . .

chigiri was extremely attentive to detail and was very delicate when it came to you, and that excited fans. never in their lives had they seen chigiri so concentrated on someone else, and that meant that you were special. you became such an iconic duo in the beauty industry that you and him began to be invited to launch parties and events, going together as a couple. fans were totally in love with your vibes, as you both looked like models straight out of the runway. chigiri was attached to you after the stunt, unable to get you off his mind. after gaining more than 30k followers, chigiri asked you to sleep over at the house, having a nice, romantic movie night with face masks.

CANDIDATE 4 — RENSUKE KUNIGAMI

USER: KUNIGAMIREN FOLLOWERS: 740k CATEGORY: FITNESS

LIGHTS, CAMERA, ACTION!

the first time you saw kunigami you knew you fucked up because this is a gymrat. his tiktok was filled with gym videos, routines, protein smoothies tutorials, and more. you prayed to every god and deity out there to help you out. luckily for you, kunigami was open to adapt to your lifestyle content, which would open doors for him, essentially finding a new audience.

the first tiktok you recorded was a staged first meeting. you recorded yourself at the gym doing lateral pulldowns, only to be approached by a big, muscular ginger. he asked if he could help you correct your form, to which you agreed. giggles were exchanged, and people could feel the tension through the screen. the comments went crazy telling you that yes, that was the rensuke kunigami, and you need to see him again. on kunigami's tiktok, you made a cameo as he filmed his workout vlog, showing bits and pieces of you as he explained how he stopped his pull ups to help you out. the fans begged him to return to the gym to find you again, because according to them, you were definitely worth meeting.

the second tiktok was both of you trying out the rock's leg day routine. to say both of you were absolutely dead was an understatement, with both of you sweating like crazy and then stopping by some store to try out some smoothies. you were dead tired, and kunigami offered to give you a piggyback ride to the smoothie place. after trying to deny, he insisted that he could carry two of you at once, sweeping you off your feet and carrying you bridal style instead. that made for some cute pictures from fans who were on the scene, which later went viral on social media. he took a picture of you with your smoothie, posting it to his story with the caption "look who i found". safe to say that his fans went crazy.

the last tiktok was something nobody saw coming, as you signed both you and kunigami up for zumba lessons. after the experience of the rock's workout (which was unsurprisingly suggested by kunigami), he then suggested you both do something more to your liking. then, you proceeded to not tell him what you signed him up for until he arrived at the gym, with you dragging his ass to a zumba lesson. he was so stiff at first, but quickly got the hang of it. he seemed to have caught the attention of the women in there, with them swarming him with comments about them having daughters around his age. he denied, saying that he already has someone he can dance with, turning to you with a smile. of course, you got that all on video, posting it on both your accounts. even youtube channels covered this fiasco, with you and kunigami reigning on the youtube thumbnails. "RENSUKE KUNIGAMI DATING YN LN CONFIRMED? *not clickbait*"

(UN)DISCLOSED AD . . . ALO!

alo reached out to you and kunigami for a nice photoshoot for their latest drop, and even sent you some pr packages for you to unpack. you and kunigami proceeded to go workout, but not just anywhere… alo flew you to their williamsburg sanctuary! some nice yoga classes for you and kunigami awaited, as well as some nice hotels and champagne. you, of course, enjoyed your trip to brooklyn with kunigami, posting pictures of you two on your stories, wearing matching sets from the brand. thankfully, kunigami does like to disclose his ads, even thanking the brand for flying you out. the comments freaked out over you two, deeming you tiktok's gym couple goals.

#AD | Thank you to @.aloyoga for flying us out to try the Power Class at the Alo Sanctuary. Truly enjoyed my time sweating with @.yn #alopartner

THE VIEWS SKYROCKETED! BECAUSE . . .

because there was so much tension between the two of you it was actually insane. people were commenting on the fact that you and kunigami were basically eye-fucking each other in every video because of how into each other you were. and it was true, kunigami couldn't stop staring at you, and you couldn't keep your eyes off him. the way in which kunigami helped you work out in your tiktoks made him known as husband material, which you agreed with. after the stunt, both of you gained around 40k followers, and to celebrate, kunigami offered to take you out to dinner, as well as a whole week doing things you like. you had to accommodate to his content for a pr stunt, so he stood outside of your door with a bouquet in hand, ready to spoil you.

tags: @kaiser1ns @o-sachi @kaiser-impact @empress-ruby @meowkages @plsmarrymehioriyo @vayahatesu @karasuglazer @megutime @celestair

#this is pure brainrot!#blue lock x reader #isagi x reader #bachira x reader #chigiri x reader #kunigami x reader #blue lock x female reader #yoichi isagi x reader #isagi x you #meguru bachira x reader #yoichi x reader #meguru x reader #hyoma chigiri x reader #chigiri hyoma x reader #hyoma x reader #rensuke kunigami x reader

285 notes · View notes

oonajaeadira · 8 days ago

Text

Patricio Keeps a Journal, Pt. 1: Winter

Good. Things. Take. Time. is a series that grew out of prompts–the whisper of a character, the asks of readers. And now, to get myself back into PATS’s head, the prompts are coming from @fanfticionoverload’s Seasons of Life challenge.

What you’re about to read are some excerpts from Patricio’s journal. Heads up they probably won't make much sense if you haven't read the ongoing series.

Each excerpt is just that–snippets that pertain to the story, taken from his presumed wider journal, each notated where it lands in the series and follows the chronology of the series.

The rules of the challenge ask for 250 words per prompt. I thought it would be a little less forced if I didn’t worry so much about that, so some may fall short of that number. And I’ll say that these aren’t heavily edited nor are they anything other than basic reactions, precisely because I wanted them to feel like the unfiltered thoughts one writes in a journal.

Let’s say that it was Shell’s orders for him to keep a journal in the first place. If his practice is his way of dealing with his demons, if he’s not going to go to traditional therapy, then “the least you can do is just offload before bed, and not the kind of offloading you do with your dick. I’m not gonna read it, but I’ll want to see words on those pages. Write a fucking play for all I care, write a manifesto about your love of pasta, I don’t give a shit what. Just write.”

I don’t have anything to write. I’m not a fucking poet. Shell says use the pen, get the words out of your head, just write anything. Anything. Anything. Tables have turned. Now I’m the one practicing letting it all out. Trying not to think too hard. Anything.

EXCERPT 1: SNOW

TIMELINE: a few days before Good. Things. Take. Time.

…

#39 gifted me four tickets to the game at her last session. It’s Neils’ birthday. I’ll surprise him and Dan with a guy’s night out.

Got a new client coming in on Thursday. #48. I wasn’t going to approve her. Nothing in her application hints at any lingering trauma that she can’t just get treated at a legit clinic. But Shell was pushy about this one. She's got a knack for these things and hasn’t been wrong yet. Official referral diagnosis: pain is psychological tension from a recent(?) divorce. I guess it’s worth a shot. If nothing else, divorcees are usually just in need of a good fuck so it’s an easy fix. Good photo. I like her style. She’s going to make pretty faces.

Thinking about taking some time off after that. Rare confluence of three clients ending their run at the same time, it’s slow season at the office and the guys can handle a week without me, I should get out of town. Someplace quiet. Or fuck, I don’t know, someplace distracting where I can get out of my head. Maybe I should book a massage. Look at me, I’m hilarious. Who massages the masseuse? I’ll have Shell find me something. Keep it interesting. Place yer bets: seedy and cheap or golden toilets and happy endings? As long as it’s somewhere warm.

Renee posted the pictures from her honeymoon. Skiing in the Alps. She always used to hate the snow. Guess people change. Change can be a good thing.

She’s better off.

___

EXCERPT 2: SCARF

TIMELINE: The night of Good. Things. Take. Time.

…

Shell hit the jackpot on this one. Perfect plaything. She’s like I custom ordered a client. Recurring cluster knots all down her starboard teres major, needs a hand getting in under the port shoulder blade…can’t do it alone. Needs my hands. She needs me. Follows directions, trusts completely. Has a good imagination. That will open up more in time. I expect a challenge out of this one. Surprised the shit out of me with the beautiful thing though. Maybe shouldn’t have let her have that. Maybe shouldn’t have gone down on her. It’s fine. She’s clean. Tastes good smells good ass for days. I can get a good handful. Everywhere.

And perfect inside. Tight but not too tight, good control with the right assistance, takes direction like a dream. I’ll be able to get her to sing if she keeps listening. Mierda, her skin. My hands want to eat it. Oil it up and map it out and scarf it down. Her muscle structure is -just- amazing. I haven’t been this amped in months. This one hits the spot.

Giving her Thursday across the board might have come off too eager. Well, if that didn’t, offering up extra days on call probably did. Jackass.

Not gonna worry about that tonight. Bowling with the guys tomorrow night. Hope they’re ready to eat their damn balls. I’m fucking invincible.

She called me beautiful. She’s [sentence scratched out]

Forgot to note in her file–she said she hasn’t had anyone make her come in over a year even though info says she’s only been divorced a few months. What kind of an asshole just walks away from that her? How could anyone share a bed or a house or anything with that and resist for a year? She deserves to get fucked every day. Why wouldn’t you want someone that just falls into you so willingly and fucks so pretty? Great. Now I’m angry. Not my concern. Just my gain.

___

EXCERPT 3: COZY

TIMELINE: weekend evening, after installment #2, relieving period cramps

…

Keep thinking about Thursday. It’s not about the blood. It is and it isn’t. It’s obviously that she needed relief. It’s good to see her trusting. That can be tricky for some women. Beaten into them that they have to hide what their body does. It’s a body. It’s a unique mechanism. It has shit and blood and needs a good release now and then. Or every day for some people...another truth for some of us that the world wants hidden away.

The blood’s messy. It’s primal. It’s brutal and nobody blinks an eye if it comes from a punch to the face or a slice of the thumb. But the minute it comes from the minute it shows you what a woman’s body is capable of… But it’s also the harshness of the color, a signal that if there’s pain then it’s real. It’s a helpful focus.

She just LETS me. There's beauty in that pliability. She trusts, she follows, she heals. The way her face just relaxes when the knots are gone. It’s almost as good as the orgasm itself. Beautiful.

Got her all warmed up in the bath, all cozy in bed. Fell asleep like a worn-out kitten and I had an urge to kiss her forehead. Poor thing just needed it today. Successful session.

___

EXCERPT 4: FIREPLACE

TIMELINE: a couple of weeks later, evening, after installment #3, the treatment for migraine and anxiety AND includes this six sentence ficlet

…

Well shit. There’s a coincidence. She wouldn’t believe me if I told her.

Thursday came in tonight tight as a screw, migraine a good 7 or 8. I had to take it slow. Asked her to focus on some bright spots in her life, like her favorite things. I might have guessed the animals and reading, but the fanfiction was a surprise. Cute. It was best not to talk about what was causing the stress because

Her family coming to stay.

Fuck if I don’t sympathize.

Mama got here two days ago and all she can do is complain about her hotel and American food and how everyone speaks too fast for her to keep up. It’s cold here. The hotel should have a fireplace. Why don’t you take time off Patricio? You have an extra bedroom, why can’t your mama sleep there?

I love her. But I get it. There are just some boundaries that are hard. I get you, Thursday.

Preciosa.

Fucked her five ways til Sunday. She fucked ME five ways till Sunday.. She drew blood. Didn’t even care. Mark me up, girl. Glad I could help, but damn that might have been more mutually beneficial than I’d originally planned.

___

EXCERPT 5: HOT CHOCOLATE

TIMELINE: night of installment #4, with the undergarment ripping and the thigh-highs

…

I didn’t expect to get to play this much. I’m usually so focused on the pain and making sure the client can come in their condition that there’s not a lot of room for fun and surprises. I got to take Shell out last weekend and might have bought her too many beers and pull-tabs. It took her about three bottles to get profound. She wants to know who "therapies the therapist" and told me I should remember that it’s okay to put my own priorities first sometime. She said that people in the industry of care need to be taken care of too. She said it’s okay to have a client that gives as good as she gets. Then she went home and threw up and texted me the next day that she’s drinking nothing but hot chocolate from now on. Haha

Shit. Thursday feels good when she walks out of here. She looks like a million bucks. I did that. I DO that. THAT’s what I need. So yeah. Why shouldn’t I enjoy that? Cute tonight. She wanted me to rip her panties. All she had to do was ask, but I think she was embarrassed to?

So the new diagnosis is lack of confidence and the treatment is for her to speak up for what she wants. We’re going to get her to a place where she can ask–or demand what she needs. We’ll work on her trusting that I’ll give her anything she wants–anything.

She’ll be able to walk out of here and conquer the world when I’m done with her.

___

EXCERPT 6: FREEZING

TIMELINE: a couple of weeks after the previous entry

...

[….] and Niels can go to hell though because I don’t care how low key it is or how good the whiskey is, I’m not giving up my Thursdays to fill in the hole in his poker night. His basement is freezing and I have warmer places to be.

Although speaking of, Thursday canceled again. It’s been a couple of weeks. Crunch time at work for her I guess. Her portal messages seem pretty stressed. She’s apologetic about missing sessions. I can tell her she doesn’t need to apologize, I’m getting paid whether she shows or not. And honestly, it just means we’re going to have to work that much harder to get her malleable again and I can hardly complain about that. A build up’s a hell of a thing. As long as she doesn’t mess up her rhombs again. We were just making headway on that. I should ask her about her desk chair.

But I’d be lying if I said that I gave a shit about the pay. I’m allowed to enjoy my clients and be disappointed when I don’t get to see them.

At least Jean’s back on Friday. It will be nice to see her again. Now that her latest surgery’s all healed up, we can find her some good positions for her to take home. I know her partner’s skittish about the discovery phase. But she’s almost done and when the reconstruction’s over, he’ll thank me for it. He SHOULD thank me for it, she’s got a good laugh and good tits.

Jean’s a perfect example of learning to speak up for herself. I can do the same for Preciosa. Lucky for her she doesn’t have Jean’s level of pain to work through. But she’s gotta show. up. for. it. Come on, girl. I got you.

___

EXCERPT 7: MARSHMALLOW

TIMELINE: directly after installment #5, all pent up and feral

…

Now THAT. Was a successful fuck. We’re making headway here. Little slapping, little biting, she got a good few hair yanks in there. She’s learning that not only am I not a marshmallow…neither is she. Good girl. Pretty high praise response, but she’s also got a little fight in her. She’s a switch and doesn’t even know it. She will.

There were some real emotions tonight, real anger, real tears. But when she let go I nearly wept myself. It was beautiful. She’s working too hard and she knows it. But she also knows I’ve got her when she does. Hopefully that will preempt some of the stress next time. Not even upset about that shoulder blade. We’ll just start from the beginning on that.

[....]

Just reminded me of Renee nagging about working too hard. I just remembered that I had a dream about her a few nights ago. Not really about her. She was in the background somewhere and not even angry that I didn’t stop to say hello. Then she picked up her purse and left. The light kind of shifted like, I don’t know. Felt like it was the last time I’d see her. Not in a bad way.

It’s good. Like a door really closing.

Maybe I do work too hard. But I like it. It’s who I am. It’s my choice.

____

PATS in winter by @d4rm4nd4

SERIES MASTERLIST

#good things take time #pedro across the street #calls fanfiction

142 notes · View notes

skipper1331 · 10 months ago

Text

Spider // Alexia Putellas

a/n: inspired by a tik tok I saw, but sadly can’t find anymore!

Early on in your relationship, you learned that Alexia wasn‘t afraid of anything - the complete opposite of you.

It was you who hid in the crook of her neck when you watched horror movies,

it was you who sent her downstairs when you heard some weird noises,

and it was you who had a night light on when she was away.

Seeing Alexia scared or frightened had never been on your agenda as you had tried to scare her multiple times already, her reaction always the same, "I know you‘re there" or "don‘t even try it, mi amor, I heard you"

But the one time you did see her scared was in a way you never expected it to be.

You stood in the kitchen as you debated on what to cook tonight.

You weren't the biggest fan of cooking nor the best at it, but since it was an unspoken rule that one night you would cook and the following day Alexia, you naturally stuck to it, especially when you knew that she had training until the evening.

So, as you leaf through the cooking book, you stopped at every recipe you knew Alexia enjoyed, checking if you had the ingredients.

With the music playing softly in the background and your daydreaming, you didn‘t realize that your girlfriend had entered the room. Silently, she walked up behind you, resting her chin on your shoulder while her arms looped around your midsection as she pulled you against her front, "what got you so distracted, mi amor?"

Your body tensed and froze - being frightened before you quickly melted into her embrace.

"I don‘t know what to cook" closing your eyes, you rested your hands over hers.

"What about some simple pasta?" she proposed as she started to press featherlight kisses along your neck, making you melt even further in her touch. In responds you nodded, turning in her grasp, "how was training?" you asked, putting your arms around her neck, the two of you swaying to the music.

Tiredly, she smiled "good but exhausting. I scored some goals"

"Something new" you teased, pinching her cheeks, grinning widely at her expression.

"Stop"

Biting your lip, "Hm? I‘m not doing anything. All I was saying was-"

Leaning in, the Catalonian locked your lips, preventing you from finishing your sentence. Immediately, butterflies erupted in your stomaches while your minds went blank, only focusing on each other.

"If it was always that easy to shut you up, hm?" the girl grumbled jokingly, pulling you back in. Kissing you would always be her favourite activity.

That girl was obsessed with and addicted to you - she could never get enough of you.

She loved kissing you,

she loved hugging and holding you,

she loved talking and listening to you,

she loved protecting and claiming you as hers,

she simply loved you.

After a few kisses, the midfielder excused herself to change into more comfortable clothes when all of sudden a hair-raising, terrifying and horrific scream came from upstairs - Alexia.

"Ale?!" you shouted, grabbing the nearest weapon - a fork.

Running to your bedroom with adrenaline pumping through your body, you prayed that she was alright.

Please let her be okay.

As you threw the door open - ready to fight whatever was behind it - your girlfriend stood on your shared bed, gripping the sleep shirt in her hand and screaming.

"Are you okay?! What‘s wrong?! Are you hurt?! Why are you screaming?!"

Alexia had a look of disgust and fear displayed in her features, "araña!"

At this point, you really should have continued your duolingo strike because you didn‘t understand what she was talking about at all.

"Spider"

She pointed to the wall, her body tense and slightly shaking.

Sighing in relief that it was nothing dramatic, you walked to the wall where she was pointing at, the spider not visible until you were one step in front of it.

"la araña is huge!"

"It‘s tiny" you laughed, shaking your head, putting down your 'weapon' "baby, I thought someone was in here"

"She is!"

"yes but she probably lives here" walking towards the bed, you held out one hand for her to take, leaving your guest alone "she does not pay any bills! She‘s not allowed to live here! Kill it" your girlfriend demanded, crossing her arms yet her eyes not leaving the gigantic monster, "I will not leave this bed until it‘s out of my house"

"Okay" you stated, walking towards the door, intending to get an item that would help you remove the spider.

"Where are you going?!" Alexia‘s voice shrilled, more fear appearing in her eyes.

"Getting a glass" your voice was calm and gentle, not wanting to stress out the footballer even more.

Which didn‘t seem to help.

"Why do you need to drink something now?! Kill the monster!" she panicked, "don‘t leave me alone in here"

"I want to-" you cut yourself off, there was no point in explaining what your plan was as everything seemed to freak out the Barcelona player. So instead of walking out of the bedroom, you walked towards her, offering your hand once again.

She clinged onto you, her legs wrapping tightly around your waist, arms holding you around your neck as she hid in the crook of your neck - something that had never happened before.

Roles were reserved - you were the protector and she was the one to be protected because the 'I’m never scared'- girl was in fact scared and very so.

Gently, you sat her down on the couch, pressing a kiss to her forehead before you got a glass and a piece of paper, heading back to your bedroom. You felt Alexia‘s eyes burning holes into back of your head until you were out of sight.

The tough girl was seriously afraid of a tiny tiny spider, somehow ironic.

When you arrived in the room, you walked towards the spot were the spider was - it wasn‘t there anymore.

Slightly in panic, (not afraid of the missing spider but your girlfriends reaction) you thought about what to do. Telling Alexia was definitely not an option and neither was searching for it. The spider was tiny and compared to your bedroom, it would take hours to find it, so there was only one option left: leaving the spider wherever it was and acting like you removed it.

And even though, you were the worst liar and you hated lying, was this an acceptable lie - after all, it was about her safety and peace of mind.

With a plan in mind, you headed to the bathroom. You knew Alexia would hear the flushing toilet and assume you killed the spider, exactly what you needed - for her to think the spider was gone forever.

All you could do now was to hope and pray that you would eventually find it and not her.

Making your way downstairs, Alexia waited patiently at the edge of the couch, "is it gone?" she asked.

"Yes, baby"

"Gracias amor" she got up, keeping her distance as the items the spider had touched were still in your hands.

She followed you in the kitchen where you threw away the paper, about to put the glass in the dishwasher, "what are you doing?!" the midfielder‘s eyes wide, voice high-pitched, "put the glass in the trash!"

"What? Baby, it’s perfectly fine"

"No no no, this will not stay in my house!"

You admitted defeat as you also threw away the glass. The lady needed her inner peace back.

"Maybe we should get some takeout tonight?" you proposed, taking her hand and walking in the living room.

"Sí, that‘s good"

The midfielder collapsed on top of you, hugging your figure as she pressed soft kisses along your jaw, "my hero" she smiled, finally interlocking your lips, showing her appreciation of protecting her. She purred every inch of love and affection into that kiss, thanking you yet also shutting you up as she knew you had a teasing comment resting on the tip of your tongue.

After puling away to catch some air, it left your mouth anyways, "never scared, hm?" you giggled, her cheeks turning red.

In responds, she just kissed you once again, the spider long forgotten as the touch of your lips made her forget everything in the world.

If the spider had still been there, you would have gotten rid of it to protect your girl and though, the plan had changed, the intention stayed the same, so you happily accepted the thank you and love you were getting at the moment.

next day

"AMOR!"

#alexia putellas #alexia putellas x reader #woso fanfics #woso x reader #woso #woso image x reader #woso imagine #barcelona femeni x reader #fc barcelona femeni #fc barcelona women #barca women #barcelona femeni #barcelona women #barça femeni #barca femeni #espwnt #espwnt x reader

986 notes · View notes

mygnolia · 4 months ago

Text

get better! | 13. my kitchen almost caught fire!

SMAU! synopsis -› in which your neighbor and popular twitch streamer park sunghoon breaks his arm, so he switches to vlog style content that matches up with your’s! now everyone’s curious why 1) you have a cute boy in your apartment, 2) sunghoon’s not on his grind anymore, and 3) when are you two going to date!?

[1.2k, minor minor cut, cursing]

Choosing your kitchen to film was one of the worst ideas you’ve ever had.

Sunghoon barely bothers to knock now, yelling at you when there’s no one else in the corridors to let him in. He’ll frantically text you or blow up your phone until he’s impatient from your ignorance and ends up ringing the doorbell to catch your attention.

You don’t even greet him, and instead, you open the door with an accusatory finger.

“You better not mess anything up. This apartment is new.”

He puts his hands up in surrender, following you to see your camera set up, along with ingredients, cutlery, and everything you could need in case he needs to find something.

“You’re awfully prepared for this,” he notes, walking around the kitchen island to face the camera. “Trust me, I’m friends with a guy who cooks, so I promise nothing bad will happen.”

You stare at him unconvinced, before he hears you mumble something about never trusting men who lie (which he takes a lot of offense to).

Slipping behind the tripod, you click a few buttons, readjusting to get the perfect angle where both you and Sunghoon are in frame, and your roomy cooking space is all included before clicking the dreaded start button.

“What’s up, Pickles Fan Club? It’s your club president Y/N L/N, and I’m joined with a special guest!”

Sunghoon’s gaze lingers on your infectiously cheerful personality, before he smiles brightly at the camera and introduces himself once more. You two explain the challenge you’re doing in today’s video, and after the rules are clear, you pull out your cute pink sleeping mask and a pair of white headphones, grinning mischievously when you see him eye the two objects.

“I’m not wearing that,” He states, staring wide-eyed. You place the items down, putting your fist out to initiate a game of rock paper scissors—and that was how you lose three times, before you had to place your favorite covering over your eyes.

You hated this; you felt like you could trip at any moment.

Returning to the camera, you asked Sunghoon to check up on the smaller cameras on your counter and near your stove to make sure they looked right before turning on an upbeat playlist for his headphones.

“Hey Sunghoon, do I look cute?” You asked, testing to see if he would respond. He was in his own world, staring at the flour and block of cheese as if dozing off.

Estimating where the camera was based on the counter, you confirmed that, “Either Sunghoon is in another dimension, or he can’t hear me. Anyways, we’re going to make pasta, and we printed the recipe from Jay.”

Making pasta was probably an even worse decision than choosing your kitchen as your channel’s next battlefield.

It was chaotic as Sunghoon scrambled to lead you away from pricking your finger immediately, telling you to wait as he read the instructions on how the hell you make creamy pasta sauce.

“Three cloves, finely chopped. You can cut it, right?” You nodded in response, and he handed you the handle of a small knife, watching you carefully find the cloves and using the proper method to cut them slowly without ever hitting your finger. He began to pour hot water into a pot, switching on your stove carefully and waiting for it to heat up. In another pan, he added oil, and measured out heavy cream and butter to keep aside.

He turns around, just the sound of HOT TO GO by Chappel Roan in his ears as he bops his head to the music before he notices you. Sunghoon grins as he observes how you reach out nervously to find the fabric of his button up. “Sunghoon, where the fuck are you?” You say, knowing he can’t hear you, before you point to your cloves.

They could use some work, but he slides them into the sizzling oil.

“Okay, now get the wooden spoon and stir.” You do as he says, slowly mixing as he pours in heavy cream and warns you not to stir too much. He proceeds to place the pasta in the water, switching tasks for you to grate the parmesan instead of stir and possibly burn yourself.

The moment he sees you stop in his peripheral, he whips around to make sure you’re okay, only to see you’ve nursed your finger after a small scrape against the grater leaves your skin pricked and red.

“____,” He murmurs, abandoning the stove to make sure you’re okay. “Let me get you a bandaid,” he says. Sunghoon reaches gently for your wrists, and although you can’t see anything, it heightens your senses, and you hear his worried gasp before the barely there pressure of his fingers around your hands.

Too close. You’re friends.

You shake your head and stop him by his wrist, finding the block of cheese and waiting until he helps you get it right. What you don’t expect, though, is how he reaches for both of your hands and leans over your shoulder, staying silent as he guides your firm grip on the cheese in the proper direction.

Friends also do not do this, you think, as he stands behind you and watches you carefully grate a fucking block of cheese. You don’t feel the rise and fall of a friend’s chest behind you or hear their quiet breaths.

Then, something beeps.

You immediately wring your hands out of his to take off the mask and pull off his headphones to reveal a beeping smoke alarm. Your sauce was bubbling much too high, and somehow your detector went off, and you two turned off the stove before trying to fix the stupidly loud problem on hand. Sunghoon ended up hitting it multiple times on end before it finally stopped, and you looked at each other in fear before quietly returning back behind the camera.

“So,” you started, “Sunghoon set off the fucking smoke detector.”

He gives you an offended look before turning to the camera as his witness. “It was literally you!”

You two point fingers at each other before laughing and simply finishing the challenge without your handicaps, and you end up making a really good looking pasta. The chicken looked well seasoned, and although your sauce might’ve burned the bottom of your pan, it leaves a fond memory behind.

To be fair, you both think you did the challenge wrong somehow.

Sunghoon shrugs before he takes a bite, his eyes glowing with approval. “I knew Jay’s recipes were good,” he comments as he digs his fork back in…to feed you. He opens his mouth as a way to get you to subconsciously do the same, and you raise an eyebrow at not only the hand under your chin to catch any food, but also the fork that was barely a centimeter away.

“You’re spoon feeding me?”

“Say ahh,” he deflects, before you give in with an amused look. You two spend a few minutes reflecting on how you did, and you still laugh at the fresh memory of your alarm, or cutting your garlic cloves well, or—how Sunghoon felt as he leaned over you and carefully held your hands in his.

You watch the footage that night with a smile and a storm in your heart, unsure of what the hell you’re going to do regarding a certain Mr. Park Sunghoon.

prev. | ml. | next.

158 notes · View notes

thebibliosphere · 7 months ago

Note

I’m not aware of new studies, but I do know that when I was diagnosed (2016 ish?), we were very explicitly told to get rid of all our wooden spoons, wooden cutting boards, etc. and replace them with new ones that wouldn’t touch gluten. It was in the same breath as colanders and things with tight corners that wouldn’t let food out (mainly muffin tins). In general, you can use your own wooden whatevers just fine, because you aren’t glutening them in the first place, just don’t use someone else’s wooden whatevers. Truly, same rules as with my grandma’s gluten free colander that only comes out when she’s making me pasta and then goes back into its hidden cabinet when I leave.

Those are the rules I follow in my home. I don't have celiac, but gluten is a mast cell destabilizer, and exposure to it primes my body for anaphylaxis, so we don't take any chances.

I've got all my own cookware, my own side of the sink, my own dishwasher drawer (we've got a split model), and honestly, @mothman-etd eats 99% gluten-free just so we don't have it in the house.

269 notes · View notes

georgiapeach30513 · 10 months ago

Text

With Your Touch, Part 3

Summary: you had rules.

Pairings: Lloyd Hansen X Reader

Rating: mature

Warnings: explicit language, teasing, The Verb, grinding, spanking, tension, 18+ ONLY

Word Count: 5.2K

Series Masterlist

*dividers created by @firefly-graphics

Lloyd didn’t lie. Being an early riser, you thought you would see him, but alas he had already left. You walk into Lyla’s bedroom, and see her still sleeping soundly. Her little lips pucker out looking all comfortable and cozy. Her fingers twitching makes you watch her a bit longer. Seeing her already relaxed in this very new environment. Unaware of whatever her mother did to get her here. It’s refreshing to think that she won’t ever remember the life before now.

How could a mother do that to her child? Well, a baby. And Lyla is the sweetest little thing. You had heard her cry a few times in the middle of the night. Even woke up. Listening as Lloyd walked to her room and soothed his daughter. The part that got you was after her cries had stopped he lingered in there a bit longer than you thought necessary. Thinking that maybe he had just been watching her.

It is foreign and yet still one of the sweetest things. You had heard about daddy’s girls, and father’s that adored their daughters. But in this world, you’ve never seen it. Why was he so different? And why did his behavior intrigue you so much? And the dumbass brought up your daddy issues. You did not have daddy issues. Your mother did a great job. And you had a stepfather. He wasn’t terrible. But he did treat you differently than your brother.

You didn’t have daddy issues. That much you know is true. You just had a soft spot for…something. You aren’t even sure what you’re feeling. What you’ve been feeling since being in his apartment, but you are going to blame it on Lloyd. It truly was him. What the fuck even was that last night?

Softly closing her door you venture into the kitchen for some coffee. You need it this morning. What even was that? Why did you — feel? That was the weirdest experience. Something that should have made you uncomfortable, or at the least pissed you off, but it did not. In fact you went to bed confused, and uncomfortably turned on. That shouldn’t have happened, and it did. And you’re left with lingering questions that you have no brain capacity to answer currently.

You couldn’t believe that you allowed this man to command you. Not just you physically but also mentally. Because yes, you had stayed up way too late running the events through your head. He made you ramen noodles. You had pasta with him twice. In one day. And now you’re being such a girl and overthinking everything.

But how could you not? He called out your lack of panties. Was he offering sex when he said if you wanted more than a dildo? That is what it seemed. Thoughts run rampant in your mind as you take a sip of the bitter brew. Moaning at how just the smell alone was waking you up. Sleep evaded you because of these fucking thoughts. And he had to know what he was doing. He mentioned spanking you!

Was he on a power trip? Or maybe it was more than that. And you sound crazy again. You were here to do a job, and that’s what you need to do. Hearing Lyla squeak out some cries, you pour the rest of your coffee down the drain, and walk towards her room. Giving her a big smile when you walk in, and she answers by pouting that lip out and whimpering.

“Oh my goodness. Did Miss Lyla Bee not sleep well, princess? Come here,” leaning over the crib, you pick her up. Holding her close to your chest, you bounce the baby around until her little cries stop. “Are you ready to get you changed and ready for the day? We have such a big day, you and me. We’re going to have some belly time, and we’ll go on a long walk in the park. And you’re probably going to sleep and drink your milk all day.”

She gurgles up at you, and even though she can’t talk, you just know you’re going to enjoy being here with her. There is a thing or two you could learn about yourself by keeping Lyla.

“Peekaboo!” Leaning over Lyla, you pull your hands away from your face waiting for her squealing laugh as the cutest toothless grin smiles up at you. Using your hands to tickle her sides before you hide your face again.

”Peekaboo!” She giggles so loud, kicking her feet around. Eyes shining up at you. She is adorable. All dressed up in her luxurious baby outfit that is full of pink. She may look sweet and adorable, but this is already her second outfit for the day, and she couldn’t even crawl. “You are a messy little thing, you know that?”

She laughs again. Clenching her fists together. “But you are cute!” More laughter rings out from this tiny little thing on the floor. Using her body to roll over onto her belly, and she lifts up her head to look at you, “I am new to this, and I don’t know if this is normal, but I want to celebrate you rolling over! Oh my gosh, that is so cute. Do it again,” you flip her body over, and she quickly rolls back onto her belly.

Lifting up to look at you with a gummy smile. “Why are you so cute?” You squeal, laying on your belly to look at her. “I think you are the most adorable and smart baby in the world, did you know that?” Her mouth opens and closes a bit. Giving you a look of pure adoration, and you soak it all up.

“You don’t do much, but what you do do is incredible. And,” you give her a quick boop to her nose, and she lets out what you could only assume is a giggle, “Yes, you are so cute, and you have your daddy wrapped around your little finger. Yes you do. Do you know if your daddy is dating anyone? He’s a bit…he’s different, ya know?”

“Lloyd!” Ari shouts behind his colleague, and the man turns to glare at him. “What are you doing looking at your phone?” The wider man grabs the device out of his hand, and starts laughing as he looks at Lloyd, “Oh, I see.”

“You see my daughter. Now give me the fucking phone back.”

“No, I see creepy Lloyd watching his daughter’s au pair. Laying on the floor with her ass perfectly placed. Imagine she was naked looking back at you with those innocent eyes. Lifting up that perfect ass for you to rail into her,” Lloyd rolls his eyes. Locking his phone as he settles down in the chair in front of Ari, glaring at him.

“You haven’t thought about fucking that?”

“‘That’ like she’s a possession.”

“Oh, come now, has Lloyd Hansen grown a conscience? You’ve got to be kidding me. You got you a baby girl, and now you want to value women? She’s living in your fucking apartment, and you haven’t even tried?” Ari didn’t need to know exactly what happened. He’d never hear the end of it.

“Didn’t say that,” Lloyd begins, but shakes his head no. “It’s fucking complicated, you know? She’s Roman’s spawn. And she has a job to do, and none of that requires bobbing her mouth on my cock. She is there to watch Lyla Beatrice when I can’t,” Ari smirks, nodding his head, and not believing anything that Lloyd says.

“She’s not a whore wanting to be used.”

“How do you know that?” Lloyd didn’t know that. In fact what he did know was you were obedient, and reacted to him. He could feel the heat wafting off you. Could smell your scent change when he set you on fire. The Verb could not possibly give you all that you deserved in any way shape or form. There is no way that he could treat you like both the princess and slut that you craved.

“She’s got a,” Lloyd wants to retch for even saying the words in the same sentence. “A boyfriend,” Ari lets out a long chuckle, framing his beard with his fingers as he watches the usually in control Lloyd. “And he’s a damn problem.”

“Why is that, sunshine?”

“Because he wants to assert dominance over me. In my fucking house! They’re mine.”

“Who is yours Lloyd?” Ari’s mouth turns up into a devilish smile, and Lloyd pounds his fist on the desk. Ari truly didn’t understand the predicament Lloyd had placed himself in, “Easy there. You wouldn’t want to show your dominance by your temper tantrums.”

“Lyla and her au pair are mine,” he speaks through his teeth. Contemplating on the ways he could get rid of The Verb. It wouldn’t be long. He couldn’t handle staying away from you. He couldn’t possibly know what it takes to be a man that has to be away. He’s young and needy. Stupid and impulsive. It was a matter of time before he messed up.

“So you just want to own her?”

“I pay for her,” Ari purses his lips as he squints at Lloyd, “And I sound like an ass. No, I don’t want to own her.”

“You want to devour her.”

“Shut up,” Lloyd is never the one to concede an argument, so Ari lets it go. Realizing there is much more to whatever is bothering Lloyd, and his lingering obsession with watching you.

Just as he starts to speak up, he gets an alert on his phone, and he grabs it up immediately. Having nothing to do with his job, but there he is. The Verb. The ingrown hair on his perfectly round ass. Standing at the door of his apartment while you hold a slowly drifting asleep Lyla. You stare up at him with a bit of fear in your eyes.

“I will enjoy slowly murdering that boy.”

“You could just show him who is boss,” Lloyd places a finger over his mouth as he turns up the volume. He needs to see your reaction to The Verb being there.

You gulp as you stare at Chase. Giving Lyla a quick glance as you rub a finger over her soft cheek. You need to remember you have a child in your hands, and unfortunately she is about to be used as a barrier.

“You shouldn’t be here,” you don’t even fully open the door. Lloyd was very clear on his rules, no Chase in his home. “I’m working,” you add in, looking back down at Lyla who had fully drifted to sleep. What could you do to wake her up? Keep her interfering in this conversation that wasn’t going to end well for someone.

“Is the weirdo here?”

“Don’t call him that.”

“Fine, is the neurotic nut job that was staring at you like a personalized sex doll here?” Chase had no idea what had transpired between you and Lloyd last night, but you couldn’t forget, and feel a bit annoyed that Chase would use such words against your employee.

“Well, no, he’s not, but,” Chase pushes past you into the front door, and you check the baby to make sure she is still sleeping. “Chase, you can’t be here. There are rules, and…”

“You always follow the rules precisely as they're given,” he falls back onto the lush couch, pulling up the remote. He even turns on the TV. This isn’t going to be good. You just knew Lloyd had cameras all throughout Lyla’s room, probably everywhere you would be with her. Most definitely had a camera on the front door.

“You are always the type to shut up and listen when it comes to a man in authority. Do you know why?”

“No, but you’re going to tell me,” Chase always fancied himself the smartest person in the room. He graduated a few years ahead of you as a psychiatrist. He always assumed that you wanted him to diagnose you. You didn’t. You wanted to have fun, and let off some steam. You didn’t care about his psychoanalysis bullshit. You were doing just fine.

“Because your father left you. Your mother never took up for you concerning your step father, and now you want to be perfect. Hoping that one of the three will not only notice, but will praise you for your good work. It’s why you took this job. You’re in no way equipped to raise a child, but daddy asked you to. So you obliged, and here you are. Of course he stuck you with some weirdo that was looking you up and down, and all I see is my girlfriend being in a place where she is going to let a man she doesn’t know dictate what she needs to do because he’s become your replacement for your father who never loved you apart from being an accessory. And a step father who loved his son, and tolerated you, and a mother who looked at you like a burden because she couldn’t have her perfect life with her new husband.”

“You’re a fucking asshole, you know that? All of that was not necessary. I didn’t even ask for it. You just opened your arrogant mouth and told me, and it's not true,” he throws both arms over the couch, giving you a cocky little grin and it infuriates you. “It’s not. And I told you months ago I didn’t want to be analyzed.”

“Because you know I’m right. Poor little rich girl. You’re no different than the rest of us. Our parents fucked us up in the head, and now we’re doing what we must to survive. Except you have become a glorified babysitter, and if that jerk has it his way, a blow up doll for his enjoyment,” how could he even say something like that? Like you didn’t even have agency on what you wanted.

“The man pays well, but you’re still under the thumb of a man in power.”

“Is this what this is? You don’t get to power me, so you’re trying to wear me down in hopes that you can?”

His bright blue eyes stare too long at you, while you look at Lyla. Despite the conversation at hand, she remained sleeping peacefully. “Put the baby up, and quit using her as a shield. You know that I’m right, and you’re now refusing to make out with your boyfriend because of the man in charge told you I shouldn’t be here, huh? It’s not your rules, but his. And you’re going to make sure you follow every single one of them. Now, put the baby in her room, and talk to me like an adult. Or are you too scared?”

“She wasn’t held enough when she was with her mom, and she sleeps better when she’s being held.”

“Excuses. Excuses, Dolly,” he almost sneers at you when you pop your sight in his direction. “Go on, go put the baby up. I love when we get into our little debates, and I don’t want to wake the sleeping cherub. Go on,” you didn’t want to have the conversation, or wake her up. And with the way Chase is right now, you’re going to have to do one of them.

You spin on your heels, and walk towards her bedroom. Giving her forehead a kiss before walking back into the living room, and Chase rubs his thighs. Rebelling just enough you sit on the couch beside him, but pull the remote out of his hand, turning off the television. “I told you that you shouldn’t be here.”

“We’re debating.”

“No, you are. And Lloyd doesn’t want strange men in his house. And…”

”I’m your boyfriend. I think it’ll be okay. It’s not like I’m some stranger. We’ve had fun this past year. And,” he pulls your legs over on top of his, running a smooth hand up your thigh before he lifts himself up. Pushing you to lay flat on your back while he hovers over you. “What are you scared about?”

“Losing a job.”

He presses his mouth against your neck as you start to melt a bit. Feeling the heat from his body, coupled with the intense tension you still felt from last night you weaken, “Daddy dearest won’t let that happen,” he whispers against your neck, and you throw all caution into the wind. Lloyd is at work. You aren’t doing anything in front of his daughter. He couldn’t keep you from Chase.

Chase’s thigh goes between your own, and he chuckles when you start to grind on him, “You’re always so needy, sweetheart,” you want to cuss him, and tell him to just get a quickie in. Anytime he talks the paranoia slightly kicks back in. Paranoia, frustration, and being horny isn’t the best combination.

“Shh,” you moan, pulling his mouth towards yours while your fingers fiddle around with his stupid pants. Who needs pants anyways? Stopping a bit to rub over his growing bulge while you mewl his name. “Chase, I…”

He has your panties and leggings halfway pulled down your legs. His hand running through your slick when the front door to the apartment slings open, “I thought I gave you very explicit instructions. The Verb goes immediately!”

“Lloyd,” pushing Chase off your body, you sit up, and stare down at your bare legs. Biting at your lip, and looking between the men. “He was — he was just visiting, and…”

“I said no!” He leans towards Chase getting his face inches away from your boyfriend’s, and his whispered threat is more menacing than any of his yelling, “I said go immediately,” Chase looks at you, saying your name, but you shake your head, “Now!”

He screams so loud you can hear Lyla’s pitiful whimpers from her room. It takes Chase a beat too long to stand up. He buttons up his pants, and gives you a regretful look, but you stare down at your legs like a scolded child. Still afraid to move even though you're exposed when Chase walks out the door, leaving you alone with your neurotic boss.

“I thought I told you…”

“I’m sorry,” your voice is meek and hardly audible, and your eyes never meet his. “He barged in on me. I didn’t ask him to, and he was insistent, and — Lloyd, I’m sorry,” he takes a step back from you. Glancing down at your pants, and barely there underwear before he looks back into your eyes. “I didn’t…”

“I can make sure he never bothers you again.”

“I don’t want you to kill him!”

“And I thought I told you not to be out of your room with no panties on,” your body straightens up, and you glare up at him. Daring to make due on the promise he made you last night. “Stand up,” you shake your head no, and before you can count to three Lloyd is sitting on the couch, and pulling your body over his lap.

Your hands cover your backside, in hopes of not being so exposed, but he swats them away. Gritting through his teeth before he holds both your hands behind your back, and your ass as naked as the day you were born right there for him. “Please, Lloyd, don’t.”

“You knew the rules,” his voice growls as he slaps your left cheek hard. “Count,” you stay silent, and he smacks the other cheek, “I said count, goddammit.”

“Two!” You cry out only to hear him laugh. “Two!”

“You missed the first time, so we’re starting all over again. Let’s make this quick, Dolly, my daughter needs you,” smack! You blubber out one, and his hand smooths over the sphere of your ass with a smile, “Good girl. Now let’s get to five, and I’ll let you get Lyla Bee, so we can have a little talk. Okay?”

“Okay,” you whine, and he spanks you again, “Two.”

Slap. “Three,” this is humiliating, and the worst part is you didn’t hate it. He is giving you more attention than your father or stepfather ever did. Smack. “Four,” it stings, and burns, but when you look back at him, he has a proud smile on his face, and you arch your back to push your ass more into his view.

Spreading your legs a bit so he can also see between your thighs, and you get the hardest slap yet. His hand lingers on your ass, and those large fingers stroke the tender skin softly, “Five,” you weakly say, and he pulls you into a standing position right in front of him.

His face completely facing your exposed core, and he pulls up your panties first. Grinning up at you before the black leggings are pulled up your body, and he taps your hips a few times, “There, there, you did such a good job,” he isn’t even flinching, or looking up at you. He continues to stare at your covered pussy, taking slower, deeper breaths as he inhales your aroma.

“I believe Lyla is still crying. Why don’t you go fetch her,” his voice is so even and deep, showing no emotions as to what just transpired. How is he so calm? “Dolly, you have a job to do,” those eyes look up at you, and his pupils are so wide, very little of the blue is peeking through. Just deep pools of black. Giving him the appearance of being high from spanking you, “Dolly, I need you to get my daughter.”

Giving him a nod, you walk into Lyla’s room, and her sweet face is turned up, and she swishes around trying to find someone that is normally there to comfort her. Been with Lloyd for such a short time, and is already spoiled on touch, “Hey, miss Lyla Bee,” her lips tremble as she looks up at you, trying to calm herself.

It isn’t until you pick her up, and hold her close to your chest that she starts snuggling into you. Calming down even more, “Oh, honey, I’ve got you. I’m right here,” Lloyd listens to your sweet words to Lyla as he cracks his neck. You were going to be the death of him. Twice he took things too far.

But he did warn you what would happen if you didn’t have panties on. And dammit you were right there looking so pretty and…he shouldn't have looked, but he did. Delectable is the perfect word to describe that moment. And you weren’t all innocent in it. You enjoyed it. He could tell from the heat pulsating off your core, and the wet spot that lingers on his leg. You wanted him to see your cunt, so he did look. Trouble. You were the devil for him.

“There’s your daddy,” you coo, bringing Lyla into the living room with you, and she gives Lloyd a sweet smile. “Tell him that you were asleep the whole time.”

“Dolly, do you know why I don’t want that boy here?”

“Because your jealous? Oh — um,” you press your hand over your mouth, wondering if putting your foot in your mouth was an option. “I mean…what I meant to say is…”

“I don’t get jealous. I can have whatever the fuck I want. And what I want is for my daughter to be safe. You may not know it because I’m keeping you and her away from my business, but I am a feared and known man. I have many enemies, and people willing to pay millions of dollars to see me crumble. They want my weaknesses. They want to see me tortured slowly. And do you know what my weakness is?” You shake your head no as you look at the coffee table. Unable to stare at him, and you’re not even sure why.

It is hard to even look at the sweet girl’s face that you’re holding. You feel ashamed. You did have the one rule, and Chase was seeing to it that it was the one that was broken. “My weakness is that tiny little girl in your arms. And you by extension. I have to trust you.”

“I get that, I really do, but —“

“There’s no buts here. There are real people who will not hesitate to kill you or Lyla. Do you understand that?”

“I do. But Chase isn’t one of them, and you want me to break up with him, and —“

He is always interrupting you. He never lets you finish a thought before he tells you what is going to happen. “Keep the fucking asshole. I just don’t want him in my damn house. And just for the record,” Lloyd reaches over towards you to get the baby. Moving his gaze to her instead of you. Almost like it pained him to see you. “You deserve more than that boy can give you. He’s an asshole.”

“You don’t know him,” you only feel like defending him because hearing someone call Chase an asshole reflected on your choice for keeping him. It is silly, but it’s the truth. Chase had his flaws, but he wasn’t all bad.

“I heard what he said to you,” you look up at him, figuring he had cameras in the main rooms, and Lyla’s room. It shouldn’t surprise you, but realizing Lloyd heard Chase’s psychoanalysis was heard by Lloyd is infuriating. “Even if it's true, he shouldn’t have said that to you. You’re not his patient, so don’t let him treat you like one,” he slowly stands up. Leaning over to hand Lyla back to you. “I’m going back to work. Don’t make me regret not spanking you five more times. I mean what I say. Panties off in the bedroom. Panties on out here.”

Lloyd stomps back towards the door. Never giving you and Lyla another glance as he hurries out of the apartment. Sighing as he adjusts his jeans. Trying to ignore the uncomfortable feeling he had dwelling between his legs. He wouldn’t allow that moment to be a weakness. You had no effect on him. None.

Lloyd’s dark gaze finds you as you walk out of your bedroom. Wincing on your way into the living room, but you walk past him and into the kitchen. You didn’t know what to say to Lloyd. You had betrayed his trust. He saw you a bit more intimately than he needed to. There’s a lingering embarrassment in the pit of your stomach, and your damn ass hurts.

Grabbing out the things to make a quick snack, you turn around, and there he is. Still glowering at you. His brow is still low on his forehead as he watches you get out different noodles than the first night. Clearly, you and Lloyd had a noodle thing. “Would you like some butter noodles, too?”

“If you’re offering,” he responds solemnly, and you answer with a curt nod. He won’t apologize to you, of that you’re sure of. You just would have to put your foot down a bit more concerning Chase.

“Where do you all have cameras?”

“Anywhere that Lyla will be,” there’s no emotion in his voice, it's just the factual evidence. You aren’t sure where to take the conversation from there. Standing in silence is crippling. It’s like the air in the kitchen is so thick you can’t even breathe. “How is your, um, your ass?”

You snort as you glance back at him. He isn’t as quick with averting his gaze from the subject at hand. “It’s sore,” well, what else are you supposed to say? It feels amazing, thank you for showing me who is boss. I promise to never disobey you ever again.

“Do you understand why I did it?”

The spoon falls onto the counter loudly and you saunter over to the kitchen island where he resides, and lean over it, demanding he looks at you. He does, but his chin is still jutted up. He’s still in control, “Please, don’t try to parent me. I’m a grown woman.”

“People who say that are often trying to convince themselves of that. I’m not parenting though. I have my rules, and I expect you to follow them. That’s strike one. The only reason you’re still even here is because of Roman,” you begin to speak, but he smirks, shaking his head, and you immediately stop talking.

“You do know how to listen, even if it’s not words, I’m impressed. You are Roman’s daughter, and he has been loyal to me. I really don’t give a fuck about him not being present in your life,” his mouth twitches, and you slowly retreat from him. He stops you by wrapping a hand behind your neck, holding you in place. “He knows who I am, and trusted me with his precious daughter.”

“He was just a sperm donor.”

“And for some unknown reason, I like you,” your eyes brighten, and a slight smile pulls up your mouth, “Don’t get to excited, Dolly,” he slides over a tube of cream, and you glance down at it confused, “It’ll help your ass,” is he giving you some form of relief? He sees you uncomfortable and is offering aftercare. Not at all what you had assumed of Lloyd Hansen.

“I should finish the noodles,” you finally pull away from him leaving the cream untouched on the island as you separate the noodles into the bowl. You slide over his bowl, but remain standing as you take a bite.

“Are you struggling to sit down?”

“I think that’s quite obvious, Lloyd.”

“The cream would help.”

“Then why don’t you put it on me since it was you that caused it?”

Lloyd takes a slow bite of his buttery noodles, and then another. Keeping those cool blue eyes on you the entire time he finishes his bowl before letting his fork drop into the bowl with a clink. He stands up, walking around you as he cleans up the mess you made before his body towers behind you.

Leaning his head around you until his mouth is right at the shell of your ear, “Put it on yourself,” he starts to walk back to his bedroom before stopping in the doorway of the kitchen, “Make sure you clean up your mess,” even though you can’t see his face, he smiles. He still had control. And if you want him to put anything on you, you need to learn how to ask with manners. He wouldn’t be commanded. He was the one in control. Despite the strain in his pants. Fucking nymph.

You exhale, not even realizing you had been holding your breath. Sweat beads around your hairline, and you struggle to control your breathing. What is he doing to you to make you feel so…weak? Did you actually want him to see your ass again?

“Ugh,” you groan as you put away your dishes, and grab up the cream. Stopping outside of Lloyd’s bedroom when you hear the shower on, and an angry groan. Moan? You aren’t sure. He sounds like he’s not happy with his shower.

If he wanted to ice you out while also exposing you, you could do the same. You let a phone call from Chase go to voicemail. You weren’t in the mood for his games, or even whatever brand of medicine he had to offer. You are sore, and still left —

Wanting.

Needing.

Fuck Lloyd Hansen.

Masterlist

Taglist: @tis-thedamn-season @marveloustaylortot @pono-pura-vida @peaches1958 @seitmai @smile1318 @andydrysdalerogers @cjand10 @midnightramyeoncravings @kmc1989 @floral-recs @pandaxnienke @theinheriteddutchess @rainydayandmondays @buckybarnesisdaddy @patzammit @xoxo-ls @rebeccapineapple @slutforchrisjamalevans @marvel-wifey-86 @jesevans @ughdontbeboring @infantasywonderland @vampy-doll @i-like-to-read-13 @missacidburn928 @charmed-asylumasylum @honeylovelyy @superflannel @hisredheadedgoddess28 @ughdontbeboring @lostinspace33 @abbyyourlocalmilf @saranghaey

#with your touch #lloyd hansen #lloyd hansen x reader #lloyd hansen x fem!reader #lloyd hansen x female reader #lloyd hansen x y/n #lloyd hansen x you #lloyd hansen fic #lloyd hansen fics #lloyd hansen fanfic #lloyd hansen fanfiction #the gray man #chris evans #chris evans character

299 notes · View notes

thatssocheezy · 1 year ago

Text

3 notes · View notes

seospicybin · 18 days ago

Text

TASTE MASTERLIST.

Lee Know x reader. (s,f,a)

*Based on a k-drama, Pasta.

CHAPTERS:

I: Piquant.

II: Sweetbitter.

III: Aftertaste.

IV: Decandent. Coming Friday, January 24!

#taste masterlist #taste series #seospicy smut

283 notes · View notes

themorningsunshine · 2 years ago

Text

Pie-eyed over you Series Masterlist

Pairing - Mafia!Bucky Barnes x f!reader

Summary - When a new baker in town refuses to abide by his rules, Bucky has no option but to go and take care of it himself. But nothing could prepare him for what stood on the other side. Nothing could prepare him for you.

Warnings - Each chapter has its own warnings but in general, this story will contain weapons, murder and a hell lot of sweets.

You can also read it on AO3.

Chapter 1 : Cupcakes

Chapter 2 : Brownies

Chapter 3 : Muffins

Chapter 4: Pancakes

Taglist (open) - @alana4610 @infinitehyperfixations @emilyroberts @winters1917 @almosttoopizza @lizslibrary @darlingwhoreslut @broadwaybabe18 @lolabrielle @quethekillerqueen @bbiaa420 @verveta345 @cookielovesbook-akie @saranghaey @writing-for-marvel @talesofadragon @depressed-gays-of-marvel @carrysears @supernatrualqueen @thecubanator2 @mcucatlady @tesseract69 @unaxv @fridooolin @havlindzk @coffeejustcoffee @nabiiturner @galaxy-dusk @blog-the-lilly @roserfz27 @elsie-bells @partypoison00 @melsunshine @thevodkori @emoalien69 @alilstressyandlotdepressy @awkwardgiraffe726 @just-set-things-on-fire @lalalalalafu @jotaros-bara-tiddies @scuzmunkie @moonchildlov @pampeop @mossiswriting @gloriouspurpose01 @day-dreaming-goddess @hawkeyes-queen @thats-alittle-gay @gigiislove @panhoeofmanyfandoms @solisinferni @dragonsandfunkyneonmushrooms @5lutty5arah @hopeluna @lethallyprotected @marvelxlevram @casualchaosdevil @happinessinthebeing @franfineashell @emily7232 @lizzystuffsthings @buckystevelove @polireader @niophiasca @mss-nthng @roe20r @devil1112 @hooomansstuff @missaprilt23 @sherlockstrangewolf @philiasoul @hasta-la-pasta-bb @rintheemolion @marvelxlevram @winifrede @kentokaze @buckybarnessimpp @rivalriotrenegade @spookylady92 @distinguishedbluebirdtriumph @wayward-gypsy @samlworld @thecraziestcrayon @winters1917 @hopefulrascalstatesmantoad @elayne321 @kemillyfreitas @mongoose-king @bonkybarnes106 @weirdothatwritess @hawkinsavclub1983 @thebombdropper @meganjudee@cobra-kaii @bbiaa420 @queerqueenlynn @elizacusi-blog @lefibee @hermione-grangers-wife @aurorathi @volklana @noisesinthedark @unaxv

@matchat3a @mrs-bucky-barnes-73 @etherealskzss @beware-my-thorns idk0daddy0issues @deansgirlsworld @lactoesintalleraunt @avengersinitiative2012 @surhii @deansgirlsworld @ashk1017 @taylors--version

2K notes · View notes

janeyseymour · 8 months ago

Text

chosen family

summary: jacob hill has always been like something of a son to Melissa Schemmenti. You, Melissa's partner, make him realize that.

WC: ~3.3k

Melissa Schemmenti has always been drawn to people who could not be further from herself. It’s always been that way for her.

You are not the exception. You couldn’t be more different than the fiery redheaded teacher. Just like everyone else to work there that she is close with, you couldn’t be more different. You’ve picked up on this pattern. You’ve also picked up on other things concerning your new colleagues.

Barbara Howard is a perfect example of being entirely different from Melissa Schemmenti- her work wife, her platonic soulmate until the end of time. The first day, you were made very aware that Melissa Schemmenti and Barbara Howard were something of work wives and platonic soulmates. While yes, they both attend church every Sunday, the kindergarten teacher is much more devout. Barbara Howard is a rule follower, where Melissa bends the rules in ways nobody ever thought possible. While Barbara Howard is often steady and stable, Melissa Schemmenti could light someone’s car on fire over something as trivial as picking up the wrong pasta sauce on the way home.

Janine Teagues, someone who radiates sunshine and positivity, is somewhat of a daughter or a niece to the redhead. The same goes for Gregory- he’s like a son or nephew, in an odd way. You’ve learned that one thing to be aware of is that Janine is never stopping- she’s always going to the point of exhaustion and usually ends up creating a bigger mess than the one she was trying to clean up in the first place. You’ve learned that her and Gregory are dating; but apparently they’ve only officially been dating for a few months now. Before then, they’ve been the ‘will they, won’t they’ talk of the staff room.

Mr. Johnson has such a free spirit that it irritates Melissa at times. But they see eye to eye when it comes to important things in life- like how they would survive on a desert island or a zombie apocalypse. The two have a friendship that confuses both of them. He is there for fun, despite having a crucial part in the school.

Ava Coleman, at one point an enigma to the teacher, has a special spot in Melissa’s heart. At first, it was hatred. And then it was something of a kinship. Ava Coleman may not be conventional by any means, but it worked. Melissa found that she quite liked the zest and interesting takes that the principal held with her. It took time, but they found a rhythm, and that rhythm has since been perfected. Ava Coleman, much like the custodian, wants all fun and no work.

And that left Jacob Hill. Jacob hill, a soft and at times skittish gay man that Melissa couldn’t stand when he first was employed by the city of Philadelphia. But now? Now they’re like two peas in a pod. They’re quite the unconventional pair- a very soft and somewhat skittish gay man and a tough, mob-like redhead. But they seem to work. They seem to work far better than anyone had expected, including the two living together. And the last thing that you’ve come to understand about the young man is that Jacob Hill is something of a son to the fiery second grade teacher. When you first started working here, you actually did think that Jacob was her son- that was quickly laughed off by Janine and she told you the truth of the matter.

And since you’ve worked at Abbott, you’ve become quite close with the second grade teacher. You’re actually dating her now. It’s something that you’re still having a hard time grappling with. How could someone as beautiful and as… Melissa, as she is end up with someone like you?

But it seems to work out. The green eyed woman seems to be drawn to people who could not be further from her.

Jacob has quickly become a staple at the apartment that the two of you now share, him moving out a few months ago- it makes sense in all actuality. He and Melissa are quite close, and in turn the two of you are closer now as well.

You see how happy it makes your girlfriend to have the always grinning, and yet somehow still always subtly cynical, man around. You see it when she’s able to make him a plate of dinner, share lunch portions with him, when she’s able to give him advice (in teaching or other), when he’s settling on the couch with the two of you to watch what they know refer to as ‘their’ show. Melissa mothers him more than she mothers Janine, leaving that job to her platonic work wife. It’s a sweet little relationship that the two of them hold very dear to their hearts.

You’re about to enter the staff room when you hear the two of them chatting quietly over their lunches.

“You’re still coming over tonight to watch, right?” you hear your girlfriend ask.

You can hear Jacob scoff. “Of course I am. Where else would I be?”

“I figured now that you’re seeing Ravi a bit more seriously, maybe you would want to-”

“Mel Mel, no,” you hear the middle grades teacher laugh. You can practically see him rolling his eyes. “Why would I want to be anywhere else?”

You see this as a good time to enter the room, taking your seat next to the redhead. You peck her cheek delicately before diving into your leftovers from last nights Schemmenti family dinner.

“Jake’s coming over for dinner tonight, that okay?” Green eyes look into yours for any sort of hesitation from you.

“He knows he’s always welcome to come over.”

So that’s how you spend that night. You’re in the recliner reading your book while Jacob and Melissa veg out on the couch with their popcorn and sour cream and onion flavoring. They each have a glass of wine, and they’re deep into conversation about who is slighting who and why. It makes you chuckle as you half listen to their conversation, half read about the drama that is happening in your book.

“What are you reading?” Jacob asks. Only then do you look up from your book and realize that your girlfriend is nowhere to be seen.

You show him the cover before asking, “Where’d Mel go?”

“Bathroom,” he tells you. “Then we’re going to watch a movie since our show is over… she thought it might be a nice way to wind down, and who am I to deny that?”

“You’re such a good son to her, you know,” you say casually as you return your attention back to your book. You flip the page.

Jacob is left searching for words. “She’s not my mother.”

“No, but you’re still the best son she has,” you shrug and reach over to pop a piece of popcorn in your mouth.

He goes to say more, but Melissa returns, reaching for the blanket that is draped over the edge of the couch. She lays it across the two of them before reaching for the remote to turn on whatever movie the two of them will be watching. Jacob swears he sees a smirk dancing across your lips. And he’s right- you are smirking. Because now you know he’s thinking about what you said.

He supposes he sees it- the way that Melissa mothers him. If he’s being honest with himself, his own mother doesn’t even treat him like this anymore. It’s… nice to have someone care for him like that.

That night ends in Melissa sending Jacob off to his house with a Tupperware container full of Braciole and a “Text me when you’re home and safe in your apartment!”

As time goes on, your words linger in Jacob’s head. He’s like the son Melissa never had. And that is oddly okay with him- he like’s being the best son that your girlfriend has.

And when he and Ravi end with a messy breakup, your girlfriend is the first person he calls. He doesn’t call Janine, he doesn’t call Gregory, he doesn’t even call his own mother. No. The first person that crosses his mind as he leaves Ravi’s apartment for the last time is Melissa.

It’s late, and logically he knows that she probably isn’t awake and hasn’t been for hours. But he wants some maternal love and dials anyway.

You and your girlfriend are curled up in bed- her asleep, and you on the verge of sleep- when her phone rings to life.

“Who the fuck is calling at…” she blinks her eyes awake and glances at the clock. “1:30 in the morning?”

“Just let it go,” you sigh softly.

She reaches for her phone, and when you expect her to set it back down and pull you into her arms again, she doesn’t. Instead, her voice sounds concerned.

“Jacob?” is the only thing that she says into the phone.

You can hear his labored breaths. He doesn’t speak.

“Jake,” your girlfriend sighs. “Jacob, what’s going on? It’s 1:30 in the morning.”

“I- I know,” he chokes out. “But I- Ravi and I just broke up, and I didn’t know who else to call.”

“Oh,” Melissa’s face absolutely drops. She knows how much the social studies teacher liked the firefighter.

“I- I’m sorry,” he says pathetically into the phone. “I- I don’t even know why I called. Get back to-”

The redhead clears her throat, trying to get any of the remaining sleep out of her voice before she speaks again. “We’re still up. Come over.”

“It’s okay,” the distraught man sighs into the phone. “I can just…”

“Jacob, your ass better be here within the next thirty minutes,” Melissa tells him sternly. “You called me, you clearly don’t want to be alone, we were already up, so just come over.”

And that’s how you end up curled up next to your girlfriend, a glass of white wine in hand while Melissa sits in her spot, two glasses of red wine poured out for when her work son arrives.

“Babe, when he gets here though-”

“When he gets here, I’m moving to my recliner so you can mother him,” you roll your eyes as you yawn. “I don’t even know why I have to be here when he comes in.”

“Because I told him we were both up, and I don’t want him to think that we got out of bed for him,” Melissa tells you.

You smile at her softly as you rest your head on her shoulder. “You’re a good mother to him.”

“He’s not my son,” she chuckles.

“No, I know,” you sigh. “But he might as well be at this point. He called you, not his own mother.”

That thought makes her quirk her head to the side, thinking on this sentiment. She doesn’t have much time though, because Jacob is at the door knocking softly. You pick your head up and stand with her. While Melissa makes her way to the door, you take up the space in your recliner and curl up under the blanket, immediately reaching for the television remote.

You hear his sniffles as he comes in. He kicks off his shoes, and your girlfriend ushers him to the couch. She hands him the wine and wraps her arms around him. All Jacob can do is cry.

The redhead hushes her coworker gently, promising him that everything will be okay. And Jacob believes that- because if Melissa is saying it, it has to be true.

That night ends with him falling asleep on your girlfriend’s shoulder, and Melissa lays him down on the couch when the two of you finally decide to retire back to bed. She pulls the afghan from the back of the couch and gently drapes it over his body before running the tip of her index finger over his cheek.

“You’ll be alright, hun,” she whispers to him. Then she turns back to you and takes your hand.

As the two of you are curling up in bed for the second time that night, you hum, “You really would make a wonderful mother.”

When the time comes that you finally (according to Jacob and Janine) think about getting engaged and married to Melissa, Jacob could not want to be in on it more. He helps you find the perfect ring, he helps you plan it all, and he even insists on hiding out in the shadows in order to capture the event.

“Trying to make your mom happy?” you tease him.

He rolls his eyes with a smirk on his face. “She’s not my mother, but… Melissa being happy is all all of us want.”

When you do end up proposing to her, you expect Barbara to be the first person that your girlfriend flies into the arms of. Instead, it’s Jacob. Barbara, of course, is second. But Jacob seems absolutely ecstatic, telling the redhead that he helped with almost every aspect of the proposal. Melissa tells him that she couldn’t have wished for it to be anything else, and that she was very proud of him. Jacob blushes profusely, and it reminds all three of you just how close your Abbott family really is.

As wedding plans come along, Jacob is there for all of it. It’s a sweet thing. He looks like a kid in the candy store as Melissa, Barbara, and he look for the perfect outfit to get married in. Barbara is of course Melissa’s matron of honor, and Jacob is just happy to be there. He has no idea that at this appointment, Melissa is also going to be having him try on suits to match the bridal party.

“So,” Jacob leans forward with excitement. “What colors are you planning on doing for the bridal parties?!”

“Y/N and I decided that a nice salmony pink color might be good,” Melissa says with a twinkle in her eye. “So… you better start looking at ties and suits, mister.”

Barbara, who knew that her best friend was going to reveal this bit of information, grins. Meanwhile, Jacob’s jaw absolutely drops. He’s astounded.

“What? Why would I have to find a tie for-”

“Did you really think I wouldn’t have you in my wedding party?” the redhead rolls her eyes as she opens up her arms. “You’re as close to a son as I’m going to get as of right now. Of course you’re in the wedding.”

Tears begin to pour over the younger man’s face as he fully tackles his work mother in a hug. “Oh my god.”

“I don’t know,” he chuckles through his tears. “I just thought that I was here to-”

“To help me pick out my outfit, but also to help figure out the perfect color that you’ll be wearing and to get fitted for a suit, if you want,” Melissa tells him.

Barbara passes out three glasses of champagne in celebration.

When your wedding day finally comes, you’re standing up at the altar in your own suit as you await the moment that Melissa will be walked down the aisle by none other than Mr. Johnson (he was elated when your fiancee explained to him that he was something of a father figure to him).

The ceremony is beautiful- perfect even. Everybody laughs, everybody sheds tears, everybody is just thrilled at the fact that the two of you are tying the knot.

The reception is a thrill. Both you and Melissa make small toasts, a few others speak, and then it’s time for dancing.

You have your first dance with your wife (good God, you can call her your wife now!), she dances with Mr. Johnson, you dance with your own father, and then… Melissa makes her way up to the microphone.

“Hey youse guys,” Melissa chuckles nervously. “I know everyone else wants to get to dancing, but there is one more special person that I’d like to dance with… if he’ll make his way up.”

Nobody stands, but your wife’s green eyes are trained on Jacob.

“Me?” he gasps. At Melissa’s nod, he stands hesitantly before making his way over.

“Of course.” You see that those green eyes start to turn a little glassy, and she takes a deep breath to steady herself. “For those of you that don’t know… this is Jacob Hill- grade A pain in my ass turned something like a son to me.”

The two dance to a beautiful song written by Elton John, “Chosen Family”. By the end of it, there are no dry eyes in the audience. It’s a song that feels like it was written for them.

And then the night is off, everyone is dancing, and you’re just relishing in this beautiful moment that you have in your hands.

Jacob is dancing near the two of you when you decide to make your way over.

“Hey,” you check him with your hip gently. “Welcome to the family.”

The man smiles at you from ear to ear.

“You’re such a good son to her,” you compliment softly as you envelope him in a hug.

He just chuckles in your ear. “I know. I don’t know how I got so lucky to have her in my life.” Then his jaw drops. “Oh my god. Does this mean you’re like a weird sort of step-mom to me now?!”

As time goes on, you and your wife decide to try to expand the family. And somehow, by some grace of God (Melissa would tell you that it’s because Barbara prayed over you two night after night), you end up pregnant after the first treatment.

If you thought Jacob was a part of your household before, he’s only over more now. He’s constantly bringing over baby clothes and toys, helping Melissa to assemble the crib and the rocking chair as well as installing carseats into both of your cars, he’s bringing over remedies to help you with morning sickness and then creams and other things to help you feel the most comfortable that you can be during this pregnancy.

When you go into labor, he’s the first one Melissa calls, and then she calls Barbara.

You deliver a son, a beautiful baby boy. He’s perfect. And he has an even more perfect name.

“Go get Jake,” you tell your wife gently as you continue to cradle your son to your chest. “He deserves to meet his godson, and lord knows that boy has been sitting in the waiting room since he got your call.”

Melissa just chuckles as she stands from her place on your bed, kisses you softly, strokes the boy’s cheek, and then heads out.

She brings back both Barbara and Jacob, who immediately squeal upon seeing you as a mother for the first time. While Jacob fully thinks that you’ll hand the baby to your wife’s work-wife first, you actually hand the baby to him. He looks at this baby like he’s never seen anything more perfect.

“Do we have a name?” Barbara asks.

You smile at the man holding your newborn. “We do.”

“And it is?” Barbara prompts.

“Mel, do you want to tell him what his godson’s name is?” you prompt.

Jacob’s eyes go wide, and his jaw drops. “G-godson?”

“Godson,” you confirm, tears in your own eyes. You wipe at them gently as you lay back in the hospital bed.

“His name is,” Melissa chuckles through tears of her own as she makes her way over to the pair. “Milo Jacob Schemmenti… Milo meaning beloved, and Jacob, after you.”

“After… after me?” Jacob’s voice goes high as his eyes fill with even more tears. He holds the baby even closer to him, if that’s possible.

“Of course,” your wife smiles as she wraps a proud arm around him. “And if Milo turns out half as good as my first son, that kid is going to be set for life.”

TAGS: @schemmentis @thesapphictimelady @marvel210 @itisdoctortoyousir @morgana-larkin @thesamesweetie @doesthatsuggestanythingtoyou @marvels--slut @gwennybriggs @megamultifandomtrashposts @lemz378 @http-sam @melissaschemmentisbranzino @imaginesmultifandoms @sexysapphicshopowner @lilfartbox1 @maybe-a-humanbean @imlike-so-gaydude @sapphicxrat @a-queen-and-her-throne @sunsol-22 @notinmyvocab @melanielaufeyson @dvrkhcld @cosmichymns @sasheemo

#abbott elementary #abbott elementary fanfiction #abbott elementary fanfic #melissa schemmenti fanfiction #melissa schemmenti fanfic #melissa schemmenti #melissa schemmenti x reader #melissa schemmenti x you #jacob hill

264 notes · View notes