#so when a voice reached out he thought why not

[trashytracktales]

Inked | LN⁴

. ݁₊ ⊹ summary ──── While Lando is away for a triple-header, she decides to surprise him with something bold. The moment he catches sight of it as she gets ready for an exclusive event, he’s completely captivated and, what begins as surprise quickly ignites into passion, as Lando makes it clear just how much he appreciates every inch of her inked skin.

. ݁₊ ⊹ pairing ──── Lando Norris x she/her reader

. ݁₊ ⊹ rating ──── explicit

. ݁₊ ⊹ category ──── F/M

. ݁₊ ⊹ warnings ──── 18+, mature/sexual content, descriptive language, smut, swearing, detailed depictions of sex, public teasing & suggestive behavior, possessiveness & intense emotional intimacy, praising, multiple orgasms, unprotected sex, fingering, overstimulation, continued intimacy after initial climax.

. ݁₊ ⊹ word count ──── 4.2k

. ݁₊ ⊹ date ──── Jan. 25, 2025

. ݁₊ ⊹ a/n ──── Inspired by anon & based on THIS ASK 🤍 I couldn’t get BackTattoo!Reader out of my head, so now I am subjecting all of you to my interests. I have nothing to say except that this is simply, pure filth hehe. Enjoy ^^

. ݁₊ ⊹ dedication ──── @landooscurls this one’s for you, sweetie. No, I won’t elaborate, you know why 💋

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

IT’S EIGHT O’CLOCK when Lando adjusts the cuffs of his tailored suit. His tie is still untied around his neck, a clear indication of his second-guessing habits.

His focus has been elsewhere completely ever since he got back home. More specifically, his girlfriend. After a triple header, sponsorships are the last thing he wants to deal with being back in Monaco, but he is content with the fact that she can accompany him this time.

On the counter, his phone is constantly buzzing with messages about tonight’s event. It’s supposed to be a big deal, but for Lando, every contract is the same. More or less.

No tie, he decides in the end.

Across the hall, she’s still in the bedroom, standing in front of the floor-length mirror. She’s chosen a dress that perfectly fits the grandeur of the event — a sleek, midnight-black gown with an open back that dips low, revealing her shoulders, spine, and the ink she’s been keeping a secret for a couple of weeks now. She is a bit nervous about it, because she’s been planning this for a long time, and his reaction might make or break her heart.

She’s aware of Lando’s opinion on tattoos. For now, at least, he wouldn’t get one, but he designed most of his helmets, merch and has a pretty good taste in cars. Even though she’s not sure yet how, she’s convinced that his ability to recognize art is transferable.

As she adjusts the delicate straps of the dress, she catches sight of herself in the mirror. Her tattoo is intricate, sprawling across the lower part of her back. The design is abstract, a mix of delicate lines and bold shading, flowing with the natural contours of her back. It’s a piece she’s thought about for years, and it feels like a part of her now.

Lando, finally deciding to stop stalling, heads toward the bedroom, calling out, “Babe, have you seen my cufflinks? I’m not sure—” he steps into the doorway and freezes mid-sentence, while eyes widen, immediately locking onto her reflection in the mirror. “What is that?”

She startles slightly at his tone, meeting his gaze while deliberately holding back a smile.

“Surprise?” she asks a little unsure.

Lando’s jaw tightens as he takes a step closer. “Turn around,” he says, his voice a mix between demand and curiosity.

She arches an eyebrow but obliges, slowly spinning before turning her back again. “You like it?” she asks lightly, glancing over her shoulder at him.

��Like it?” he echoes, his hand already reaching out instinctively to touch her. His fingertips hover over the ink, tracing the air above it before gently sliding on her skin. “When the hell did you get this?” asks Lando, still questioning the authenticity of it, even though the proof is right in front of him.

“While you were away,” she answers, her smile widening. “I... please, be honest.”

“Well,” Lando begins, stepping closer until his chest nearly brushes her back. His hands slide to her waist, holding her firmly as he studies the tattoo, his breath warm against her neck. “It’s incredible,” he admits, the sincerity in his tone making her stomach flip.

Her laugh is soft, “Really?”

Lando’s eyes slide down her back, inhaling sharply, “Yeah. I think it’s fucking hot, baby. Let me see you.”

She closes her eyes for a short moment, her heart beating faster, but she’s more relaxed now.

“You’re supposed to be getting ready,” she says, turning around in his arms. “Come on, we’re already late.”

Lando scoffs, “I’m supposed to be doing a lot of things,” he agrees, his lips brushing against hers, while his eyes remain glued to her reflection in the mirror, “But I don’t think I can leave this apartment now.”

Her cheeks heat, stepping out of his hold. “Yes, you can. You can admire it later.”

“Later,” he repeats, sighing dramatically. “As if I’m not already obsessed with it.”

She moves back to the mirror, adjusting the delicate drop earrings she’s chosen, while Lando watches her with a mix of admiration and lingering distraction.

When she catches him staring, she smirks. “Where’s your tie?”

Lando puffs out a sigh, stepping back toward his side of the room. “I left it on the counter. Don’t feel like wearing one tonight,” he says, his gaze flickering back to her every few seconds, unable to help himself. “Just so you know,” he continues, his voice trailing off as he shakes his head, “I’m done for tonight.”

“Mission accomplished,” she quips, throwing him a wink.

THE VENUE IS screaming with opulence, a grand hotel perched high above the marina, its sprawling terraces and gilded architecture lit up against the night sky. Expensive cars line the valet entrance, and the air hums with a quiet kind of wealth — the kind that doesn’t need to flaunt itself because it’s simply understood.

Inside, every detail is curated to perfection, from the massive crystal chandeliers casting warm light onto marble floors, to the intricate floral arrangements placed at every corner.

Lando’s hand rests instinctively on her lower back as they walk in, the warmth of his palm sending a shiver down her spine. He’s polite and attentive as he nods to the occasional familiar face, but judging by the firm touch, his focus is clearly on her.

After chitchatting with various people, they stop at the bar to grab drinks, and as she leans slightly forward to give her order, the light catches the details of her tattoo again.

Lando exhales sharply, gripping his glass tighter than necessary.

“It’s gonna be a long night,” he says under his breath, just loud enough for her to hear. “Can you at least stop doing that?”

She glances over her shoulder, a smirk tugging at her lips. “Doing what?”

“You know exactly what,” he counters, his voice low, but there’s a heat behind his words that makes her cheeks flush.

Before she can respond, another guest approaches to congratulate Lando on the sponsorship deal, and he’s forced to shift his attention momentarily. But even as he chats politely, his fingers find their way back to her lower back, tracing light circles against her skin, a silent claim, and a way to keep himself grounded.

A couple of hours later, Lando sits next to her at their table, his hand casually resting on the back of her chair. His smile is charming, seamlessly participating in the conversation that flies around the table. Yet, every so often, his eyes drift to her, taking in the way the delicate fabric of her dress.

She catches his gaze, raising an eyebrow in question, but he only grins and pulls out his phone. A few seconds later, a vibration hums against her thigh.

Lando: I’ve been thinking…

Reader: Not good.

L: We never did it in public, did we?

Her breath hitches, and she glances at him sharply, finding his expression impossibly casual as he sips from his glass.

She types back quickly.

R: No, we didn’t. Also, offended you had to ask.

L: Just making sure. So...?

R: NO. That’s illegal.

Another vibration follows almost immediately, his reply making her cheeks heat.

L: Only if we get caught 👀

She clenches her phone tightly, her flushed cheeks betraying her as she stares at the glass in her hand. Lando chuckles softly beside her, the sound silent enough for only her to hear.

His hand moves from the back of her chair to her bare back, his fingers brushing gently against her skin, the warmth of his touch giving her goosebumps.

L: ?

L: ??

L: You look so hot when you’re ignoring me.

L: Yeah, just like that 🥵��

Her grip tightens on her glass, and she dares a quick glance at him. He’s typing something else, his thumb moving lazily over his screen as if they weren’t in the middle of a packed room.

L: Turns me on almost as much as that tattoo.

She swallows hard, her cheeks catching fire. Her back straightens slightly as she tries to maintain composure, but his next text nearly makes her choke on air.

L: I’m thinking doggy tonight?? Wanna stare at it while you’re wrapped around me.

Her hands drop to her lap, pressing the phone down like it might combust. Lando’s fingers trace slow patterns along the edge of her tattoo now, his touch light but intentional.

Then, another vibration.

L: Non-negotiable.

She turns to him again, and he meets her gaze with a smirk so smug it nearly makes her gasp.

Lando leans in, brushing his lips close to her ear under the guise of conversation, and whispers, “Something wrong, love?”

Her only response is a roll of her eyes, and a desperate sip of her drink, which he watches with clear amusement.

While caught in their bubble, the room buzzes with chatter, laughter, and the clinking of glasses, but it all fades into background noise as she places her palm on Lando’s thigh under the table. Her fingers glide upward with deliberate slowness, inching closer to his already semi-hard length. The moment she palms him through his trousers, Lando’s breath stutters, and he shifts in his chair, pretending to adjust his posture.

“Something wrong, love?” she copies his tone from earlier, the corners of her mouth rising in triumph.

As a response, Lando places his hand over hers, and for a brief second, she thinks he’s going to push her away. But instead, his long fingers cover hers, guiding her movements, and her smile flatters. Her breath hitches at the boldness of it, and she turns her head slightly toward him, her eyes wide with a mix of shock and anticipation.

Lando flashes her a smile, his lips brushing against the shell of her ear as he whispers, “Seriously, baby. I don’t know why you’re acting like I’m not going to bend you over this table and fuck you in front of all these people.”

She swallows hard at his affirmation, her heart pounding wildly in her chest as she whispers back, “Maybe because I want you to.”

His smile turns into a wicked smirk, his eyes flashing with something dark under his long, thick eyelashes. Without another word, Lando removes her hand, intertwining their fingers and pulling her to her feet. She blinks in confusion, but follows his lead, her heels clicking against the polished floor as he guides her toward the exit.

THE DRIVE HOME is pure torture, the air in the car thick with tension. Lando grips the steering wheel with one hand, his other hand firmly holding hers. Every now and then, he brings her knuckles to his lips, pressing tender kisses to her skin as if trying to soothe the storm brewing inside both of them. Her chest rises and falls nervously, her thighs pressing together to quell the ache building between them.

When they finally reach the apartment, they barely make it through the door before their hands are on each other. Stumbling backward, they move toward the bedroom, Lando’s lips brushing hers in quick, heated kisses. His hand blindly fumbles for the light switches along the way, filling the space with bright light.

“I want to see everything,” comes his excuse, breathing heavily against her lips, his voice husky with desire.

“You look so handsome,” she says as a realization. “Should’ve told you earlier—”

“Technical details,” Lando cuts her off, his hands already slipping beneath the straps of her dress.

One by one, their clothes fall to the floor, leaving a trail of discarded fabric they’re bound to trip over in the morning.

When her dress slides off her shoulders and pools at her feet, Lando freezes for a moment, taking her in. Every inch of her seems like has be sculpted for his eyes only, making her blush intensely under the weight of his gaze, knowing what kind of thoughts run through his mind.

The lights casts soft shadows over her skin, accentuating every curve, forcing a low groan out of Lando, as he strokes himself, pumping his cock a few times in his hand while his eyes drink her in.

“On all fours,” he orders gently, his voice thick with need.

She shifts into position, her movements slightly rushed, yet sensual, and the sight of her like this nearly makes him lose it. As he positions himself behind her, his hands trail reverently over her hips and down her thighs, grounding himself in the reality of the moment.

Almost obsessively, Lando’s hand starts tracing her tattoo, his fingers skating over the inked lines like he needs to memorize every detail as quickly as possible. The sight of it beneath his touch makes him harder, his cock pressing insistently against her ass. He lets himself rest there for a moment, one hand gripping her hip to angle her just right while the other slides between her legs. Gently, he parts her folds, and the moment he feels her slick heat, his breath catches in his throat. She instinctively presses into his touch, a small whimper escaping her lips as her body responds to him like it always does — so ready and inviting.

“That’s my good girl,” his thumb circles her clit briefly, satisfied with her silent response before he removes his hand, and gripping her hip to steady her as he lines himself up.

When he pushes in, the tight warmth is making him suck in a sharp breath. Her sensitive walls clench lightly around him, and he can’t help but let out a shaky moan. Her slickness allows him to set a rhythm effortlessly, each thrust accompanied by the soft slap of skin on skin.

His hands guide her hips, ensuring her rhythm matches his, while his eyes remain glued to the ink on her back; it is hypnotic, his palm sweeping over the tattoo as if claiming it along with her.

“Lan…” her eyes close in pleasure, pushing back against his slow, agonizing thrusts.

“I know,” he rasps, his voice breaking as he goes deeper; she lets out another moan in response, her body arching to meet him with every stroke.

The connection between them feels ancient, profound, electric, her breaths mixing with his in the air around them.

As his speed increases, Lando needs to adjust himself, grounding his foot against the mattress and lifting one knee for better leverage. The new position gives him absolute control, his thrusts precise and devastatingly deep. She feels as if he’s splitting her in two in the best way possible, as he alternates between slow, teasing movements that leave her whimpering, and hard, purposeful thrusts that have her crying out his name. Again, and again, until her voice cracks under the weight of euphoria that circulates throughout her body.

The sight of her beneath him, trembling with pleasure, and that tattoo that taunts back at him sends Lando careening toward the edge. He feels his climax building, but before he allows himself to exhale in relief, be pulls out abruptly but just in time, leaving her gasping at the sudden emptiness and clenching hard around nothing.

“Lando!” she protests, her elbows giving out as she collapses into the pillows. “Fuck, I was so close!”

A deep growl rumbles from his chest, his jaw flexing as his eyes darken. “My bad,” he breathes heavily, his hand wrapping around his slick cock, stroking himself with urgency, his swollen tip brushing her lower back.

With a guttural moan, he comes, his release painting her tattoo in warm, sticky streaks. The thought alone is enough to make her whimper at the sensation, her body so close to collapsing, as she realizes that’s just how he wanted to leave his mark on her this time.

Not quite done, Lando leans down to press a kiss to her shoulder, his breathing uneven and deep. Then, pulling back, he watches intently, almost mesmerized as he presses the pads of his fingers into her skin, spreading his release over the lines of her tattoo. There’s something maddening in the way he admires it, the contrast of white against her ink drawing a low hum from his throat.

His hand slides lower, gripping her ass as he speaks in a raspy voice, “You did so good with this. Putting on such a show for me from now on, hm?”

Her breath catches, but before she can respond, his palm lands a light slap on her ass, his grin smug as her body jolts slightly under his sudden touch. His cock twitches at the sight, still hard and insistent, and without another word, he guides himself back inside her.

The sensation pulls a moan from both of them, and he thrusts a couple more times, savoring the way her warmth envelopes him again. But his body gives in to exhaustion, and he collapses onto the mattress, pulling her with him. At that, doggy evolves into reverse cowgirl effortlessly, her thighs bracketing his hips as she straddles him. His hands find home on her waist, steadying her as she adjusts to the new — and quite unexpected — position.

Lando’s voice is low, encouraging, as he tells her, “Your turn, love. Let me see how beautiful you are.”

It is a good thing, she tells herself, that Lando can’t see her blush right now.

With a newfound determination, she starts to move experimentally at first, before finding her own rhythm. Each motion is hypnotic, her body arching and curving as she bounces on him, her head tilted back in pleasure.

Lando’s eyes trail her every move, from the sway of her hips to the lines of her body, and finally to his release, still glistening and dripping faintly from her lower back.

The sight is almost too much for him.

“Fucking hell,” he swears, his hands tightening on her waist as his hips lift slightly to meet her movements; he is well aware that this is her moment, but he can’t help himself. “You have no idea what you’re doing to me.”

Her pace quickens, the control she has over her pleasure intoxicating. She rides him with confidence now, her movements purposeful and demanding.

Lando watches her in delirium, his gaze locked on the tattoo that started it all. Every bounce and every grind, pushes him closer to losing his mind, and he can’t help but let her see exactly what she’s done to him, his eyes burning with admiration and lust.

In the haze of pleasure, she glances over her shoulder, curious to see him. The sight makes her heart skip more than one beat. Lando looks completely undone — his lips parted, curls damp and clinging to his forehead, his chest heaving with uneven breaths. Every muscle in his body is tense, his hands gripping her like a lifeline as his eyes remain locked on her tattoo.

“Oh, fuck,” he exhales, voice hoarse and strained. “You look so good. Don’t stop, baby, please don’t stop.”

Her cheeks flush deeper at his praise, her own breathing ragged. Their bodies are slick with sweat and her wetness where they’re joined, the obscene sounds filling the room every time her hips meet his. The lewd rhythm of it only spurs her on, her movements growing more impatient.

“Yes,” she moans, the word drawn out as her head falls forward, overwhelmed by the intensity. “Can’t—shit, Lando.”

Her mind spins, every nerve alive with pleasure as she loses herself completely to him. Her body tightens around his cock, the pressure finally snapping as she falls over the edge, a cry of bliss leaving her lips in the form of his name.

The way her walls clench and pulse around him pulls a deep groan from Lando, and his grip on her waist tightens impossibly further.

“Fuck, that’s it. Fuck,” he repeats, his hips stuttering as he stills deep inside her, his release spilling into her this time. His head falls back against the pillow, jaw slack as he moans her name like a prayer, the pleasure washing over him in waves.

No one dares to move, but they’re both trembling from the intensity. The room feels warmer, the air heavy with the scent of sex and satisfaction as they catch their breath.

After she comes back to herself, she slowly rises to her knees, Lando’s cock slipping free, slapping against his lower abdomen, coated in the remnants of their shared pleasure. The slick mixture trails down her thighs, warm and unmistakable, and the oversensitivity makes her thighs press together instinctively as she falls beside him on the bed. Her breath still comes out in shallow pants, her body shaking with tiny replicas, completely spent.

Lando shifts beside her, reaching out to press a soft kiss to her temple, his lips lingering as he murmurs, “You’re a fucking masterpiece. I’ll never get enough of you.”

She lets out a soft moan, unexpected but undeniable, as his hand drapes her leg over his hip. Her body moves on autopilot, her hips rolling ever so slightly against his thigh, seeking a relief she doesn’t fully understand.

At that, Lando’s brows furrow in curiosity as he looks down at her, his voice gentle but slightly concerned. “Are you okay?”

Her answer is a shaky sigh, her body betraying her as her pussy presses harder against the solid muscle of his thigh. Lando’s gaze sharpens, his concern turning into realization, his lips curving into a faint smirk.

“Tell me what you need, baby,” he pushes her.

Shyness blooms across her face, and she shakes her head, her voice barely audible as she speaks, “Nothing, I’m fine.”

Lando leans in closer, his voice soft yet insistent. “Then why are you still squirming, hm?” his hand cups her cheek, tilting her face so their eyes meet. “Keep lying, and I’ll make you beg for it.”

Her breath hitches at his words, her body already responding as her hips move again, this time more deliberately.

Lando’s hand slides down to her waist, steadying her as his lips ghost over hers, his voice a whisper against her skin. “Such a needy little thing.”

The vulnerability in her eyes fades, replaced by desire, and with a small nod, she surrenders to him once more. Lando smiles, sitting up slowly, gazing down at her with a look that’s a mix of confidence that he knows her too well, and pure, unfiltered love.

She looks utterly radiant, sprawled out in his bed, with her skin glowing, her hair messy, and her lips slightly parted as she catches her breath. Moments like these always remind him of just how lucky he is to have her.

With a low grunt, Lando leans forward, positioning himself between her legs. His hands trail gently up her thighs, and as he hovers above her, he finally presses a soft kiss to her lips. It’s tender, an ephemeral moment to savor before his lips begin a journey down her body. He kisses her jaw, her neck, the soft swell of her chest, all while his hands roam, one cupping her breast while the other is tracing the curve of her waist.

As his lips descend, so does his hand, sliding between her thighs. His fingers part her folds gently, and he exhales deeply at how wet and warm she is. Without hesitation, he pushes a finger inside her, the slickness allowing him to glide with ease. He starts working with calculated moves, curling and pumping in and out, watching her reactions as her hips instinctively rock into his hand.

“There’s my pretty little liar,” he tells her in a low voice, filled with accusation. “Squeezing my finger so sweetly… Want more?”

She nods, making Lando smile just as his lips return to her skin, kissing her breasts, taking her nipple into his mouth and slides a second finger in, scissoring them to stretch her further. She whimpers, her body arching off the bed, fisting the sheets as the tension within her builds.

He doesn’t stop, his pace increasing, his fingers waving into her, hitting the perfect spot, again and again. The sound of her wetness grows louder, mixing with her soft moans and the whisper of his praises.

“So good for me, look at you,” says Lando, studying her face in admiration just as her body tenses, her head pressing back into the pillow as her orgasm washes over her. Her cries fill the room, and Lando continues stroking her, coaxing her through it, not stopping even as her thighs tremble around his hand.

Without warning, she gasps sharply, her body quivering as a sudden gush of liquid escapes her, soaking his hand and the sheets beneath them.

Lando freezes for a moment, his eyes wide as he realizes what just happened. “Holy shit,” he breathes, utterly amazed.

Her moans grow louder, her face flushed with pleasure and embarrassment. “Fuck. Sorry, I can’t stop—”

He cuts her off, leaning down to kiss her. “God, look at the mess you made,” he adds while his fingers trace the wetness on her thighs, completely captivated. “The sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.”

Lando’s eyes sparkle with excitement as he sits up quickly, his cock already hardening again at the sight of her, his pride evident in the way he bites his lower lip. Impatiently, he strokes himself once, then presses the head of his cock against her drenched folds, slapping it lightly against her clit, the wet sound echoing in the room.

The obscene noise sends a thrill through both of them, but he still finds the power to smirk down at her.

“You look so beautiful like this. I’m kinda offended you’ve never squirted for me before,” Lando’s voice trails off, mesmerized by her leaking hole. “You’re fucking dripping, baby,” he continues, his hand dipping back between her legs, unable to resist touching her again. “Come here, I’m not done with you yet.”

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ MASTERLIST . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

Thank you for reading!

None of my works are available for reposting on other platforms. Reblogs, likes, and comments are deeply appreciated ♥︎

© trashy track tales, 2025

[strawberrymochin]

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐁𝐫𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐞𝐚 𝐆𝐨𝐝 ଳ⋆｡˚

Synopsis- On the night of the blood moon, you are offered as a sacrifice by the village chiefs to appease the enduring wrath of the sea god. As your fate unfolds, you find yourself transported to a mystical realm inhabited by enigmatic immortals and powerful deities. Stripped of your soul and surrounded by the unfamiliar, one particular immortal, named Gojo Satoru, challenges your perception of reality and leaves you questioning your very sanity.

Warnings- immortal au!, immortal!gojo x mortal fem!reader, mythology references, asian drama vibes, gojo is a jerk most of the time, the red string of fate, Mithridatism, fluff, heavy angst, suggestive, slowburn, mutual pining, hot geto, gojo again being a jerk, gojo getting dominated by our reader, toxic reader, poisons, blood, murders, forced proximity, no smut in this but reader kisses gojo and that specific scene is...just read it

Word count- 12.03k (trust me)

Trisha's mail- just read it, wrote continuously for hours, and i will edit it later not proofread so ignore the mistakes, happy reading

You have been awfully familiar with the ritual performed for appeasing the sea god— once in every five years, comes the great night of the blood moon. 

The night whose darkness swallows the world in its greedy sheen, so deep and thick that it even blows out one single burning flame of hope. The moon on that particular night, bathes itself in red, and an eerie bloom of fathomed anger peers down on the muddy coastal sands— the anger of the sea god. 

On that day, a young crane is to have her wings tied, thrown into the sea, sacrificed in hopes of hankering to cool the sea god's fury. As it has been sung by folks and danced on ropes, ancestors say only a bride can dimmen the rage of the sea god's soul. 

A crane symbolises a bride— a girl chosen from the shores of eighteen villages, whose beauty is serene; voice spins a melody; eyes speak truth and finger sway in delicacy. 

A girl chosen has her hands tied, eyes closed and in the tainted rage of the moon of the night, one drop of blood in the middle of the sea sweeps away a knight. The people who perform the ritual find themselves awake the next day and the bride sacrificed had no trace of her existence lay.

Though you never thought that one day I'd be you, bawling your eyes out, not wanting to give away your life to the cruel god who chose to turn a blind eye to his devotees, for a reason unknown. 

Why did the sea god have to be this cruel? Why does he have to gobble down so many lives? And even if he does, why does it have to be you?

His rage has already unfurled enough misfortune in your life, and now it was going to seize your life. What will happen when you will be sacrificed to the sea god? What will happen when your life will be thrown in his mercy and swallowed by the deep of the ocean? What will happen to your father whose only child is you, torn away from his dear embrace? 

The village chief among the 5 major coastal villages came forward near you and bent down to your level. You edge backwards, hands bound behind your back, and you keep scooting away till your back reaches the huge plum tree. It's faint scents of fresh and rotten plum trail near your nose. “It will be a noble sacrifice, young lady. You do not have long to live anyways.” he smiled at you with the most sickening polite expression you'd ever seen. “Mmfff” you resist try to speak past the barriers of fabric looping tight at your mouth. 

So what if I possess a weak body? Is my life not worth the same as your daughter? 

You wanted to spit these words out and you would have, if the fabric tied on your mouth weren't so tight that you could barely even muffle. 

He forwards a hand and clasps the collar of your thin robe, dragging you away from the tree. You try to protest, looking horrified, there must be something, some key to run away….

You hear the footsteps of other chiefs surrounding you. If only you didn't help that girl, you wouldn't have to face this. You should have listened to your father's words and shouldn't have stayed out long outside searching for medical herbs, which would heal his health. Especially on the day of the blood moon. 

And even if you did, you shouldn't have helped the girl run who was originally chosen to be sacrificed. But you just couldn't ignore her cries, her tear stained face, her pleading eyes asking for a chance to live, looking so similar to the blurred face of your mother in your memories who died during your childhood and which is why you helped her run. 

You wanted to feel the rush and the puff in your chest as you dared to help the girl who was about to be another victim of the cruel sea god. And when you did that you felt as if you snatched back your mother's life from fate— from the sea god. 

However, one of the guards followed her, and while helping her run home, you got caught instead. And now here you were pleading for your life, for your father who must be worried sick, eyes on the door waiting for your safe return.

A thin sheet of silk is tied around your eyes, one of the men securing the knot, before picking you up on his shoulders and making his way to the coast, where the sea meets the sand. 

Soon you will be drowned to death in the name of sacrifice. Is this where your life ends? 

You were never supposed to be a sea god's bride; The qualities needed to be chosen as a bride were far away from your hand. You owned a fragile body, sick since birth. You can't even manage lifting heavy weight, how are you supposed to carry the grace of a bride.

But aren't all these just a saying, all stupid beliefs of your dumb ancestors, to come up with such rituals pleasing a god? 

If they claim the frequent storms and death of their family members as the wrath of the sea god, and as per the saying, a bride should calm his wrath. Up until this date you're sure more than 100 brides are sacrificed— none satisfied the sea god. None.

And none of them came back. 

Because it was simple, that the god didn't care and the ritual didn't work. Or maybe it does work but all the god wants is blood and not love. All he wants is despair, cries and screams of hunger. 

The sea has been raging off season, destroying the crops, sweeping away families, causing deaths and even after praying to the gods for their protection what did they do? 

Nothing. 

At this point you even wonder if the sea god is even real or just a myth.

Whatever it was, you realised none of them could stop fate from seizing your life away. 

The guy who had you on his shoulders, threw your frail body into what felt like a flat round hollow structure— probably a boat. You muffle a cough at the jerk your body has to face, not even getting to ease the pain since your hands were tied.

The sound of the night thundering among the clouds, echoed through the vast coast. “So now we sail her away? The sea god won't be displeased finding her instead of the chosen bride? Won't he be angry?” 

One of the men questions their doings, unsure if sending you as the bride might fuel the god's rage even more. “She helped Akihiko to run, if the sea god is displeased, he must be happy to punish her himself.” 

Another loud thunder bolted among the clouds. If the gods do exist they seem angry, and the only subject of their anger for now seems to be you. 

One of the men came near the round boat and took your right palm, causing you to bite your tongue with a shriek as you felt him stabbing the middle of your palm with a knife and then dragging it near the tip of your ring finger.

Tears stain the silk wrapped around your eyes. Do they even sacrifice a bride or murder them? If you're meeting death today can it not be any less painful? 

You stilled for a while as you feel the man digging the knife among the tied bunch of fabrics binding your hands together and tearing them apart with its sharp blade. 

The crane's wings were not tied anymore. She could run. 

But before you make any action on running, or even removing the piece of silk blocking your vision, your body slips to the opposite of your boat—a high tide. 

You try to get the silk of your eyes or get off the boat so you could swim your way to the shore but it was useless. The more you tried the more harsh waves played with you. They mocked your every movement, salty water drenching your robes, and its splashing noises squeak out laughing at you. Probably laughing at how weak and helpless you are.

The water is even making the cut on your hand burn even with tingling pain. At this point you were nothing but devastated, you surely realise that you're far away from the shore, and even far from your home. All you prayed for was your boat not being in the middle of the sea. 

The movements stilled, the boat danced gently on the waves, you could feel the furious tides shifting into a sweet calm— the calm before the storm. 

You raise your hand up, feeling the fabric of silk tied around your eyes, fingers tracing it's knot on the back. Once your fingers find it, you pull one strand of it. The drenched silk stuck close to your wet skin as you peeled it off. 

You were about to open your eyes, but something told you not to, as if you were to open your eyes, you would see your world shift altogether. Nothing would ever be the same. 

But you weren't dead yet. Even though you realise that you've come really far from the shore, if you somehow make it up, somehow struggle and reach the shore you can make it back to your father. 

To your home. 

Your eyelids flutter open, pupils slowly adjust to the little amount of light, making your vision clear. 

You freeze. 

Something was behind you, or I'd be perfect to say something was looming above you, preying on your tiny body. Its huge shadow floated over the cool waters, shielding the only dim red of the moon.

Is this the sea god? The one you cursed so much for causing the death of your mother? The one whose bride you helped eloping?

Is he here to punish you for your deeds or to savour you as his sacrifice? Just like any other soul, each five years.

You dare to look behind your back. If today's the day you meet the serene of death, who has always caged your body till now, you decided to numb your emotions and face it. How long will you be a coward? How long will death haunt you?

There was a creature, its scales shiny, half emerged from water. Gulping down a gasp you raised your eyes up tracing the elongated body till it's silhouette contrasted a sharp dark under the bright red of the moon. 

Sapphire blue eyes peered down at, huge scaled head tilting ever so slowly. It was a dragon— a sea dragon. The scene was so terrifying and yet something about the dragon drew you in. It curled his head in a loop before the huge face was right inches near you, letting out a low growl. 

His warm breath grazed your skin, so fierce it blew a few wet locks of your hair. The only word your unconscious shouted was ‘run’ yet it was as if you were tranced, your body wouldn't move. There was something so not right with you, and if anything you had this unwanted urge of consoling the dragon, in your arms even if his head was solely 3 times bigger than your body.

His eyes— looked so, what do you even describe, lifeless? Such a huge creature of might, yet eyes were of an unusual drear.  

The dragon’s pupils slit at your figure as an unyielding force tugged at your right hand, forcing open the palm, trails of wet blood smearing itself on your fate lines. 

The dragon scrutinized your cut and all you could do was look at him, standing still, as if all of your senses were gobbled down by him the moment you looked into his dull blue eyes. 

The blood of the bride shall appease the god's soul, a mortal is to be honoured with a sempiternal stroll

You couldn't figure out where the words echoed from, there was no one in the middle of the sea except you and the blue eyed dragon. 

Was it him? 

In moment you could use any of your senses, the sea erupted in its violent desires and one high splash of the dragon's, tearing his way down the surface of water caused you to lose your balance and fall down the boat. 

You panic, fluttering your hands as desperately as possible. You thought before you won't run from death yet your actions caused you to question your resolve. 

The dragon spinned his long body in peculiar loops around you. Your erratic movements of panic weren't helping to save the small amount of oxygen still left in your lungs. 

With one last try you try to throw your body up the surface, yet all you see is more blood oozing out of your wound and the last bubbles of oxygen escaping in blobs of air.

Your mind grew foggy as eyes could barely make out the blur in the deep waters, your body losing its senses growing limp just like when you looked at the dragon's eyes, sinking down beneath the sea. And the last thing you could make out before losing your consciousness, was the same lifeless unearthly blue eyes. 

You open your eyes feeling a sharp tug at your hand— right hand to be specific. You sit up straight as the flashbacks of your desperate cries strike you. Weren't you drowning? How come— you looked around your surroundings, you were in the middle of a lake, on a pavilion. Several blue lotus blooming emitted some sort of strange sweet intoxicating smell. It was as if they were luring you, but if you drowned how come you can still breathe? Is this the immortal land? Are you in the afterlife? 

As you were chewing over your thoughts, you noticed something tugging at your right hand and when you brought a closer look to your hand it astonished you, for the wound which hurted so bad was healed without a scar, as if it was never there in the first place. 

You might as well think that all of it was nothing but a pretty terrifying fever dream. However, you knew better. The scar did vanish but it left a crimson thread tied around your ring finger. It was floating in the air, rippling as you move, dancing with all the grace, twisting and turning, but most importantly it was tugging at your ring finger.

It was meant to show you your direction to the sea god, the one with whom your soul was bound with yours, the moment you presented your blood to him— the moment you became the bride of the sea god. 

The thread kept pulling your finger to a direction wrapped in mist and the sweet smell of the sea petaled flower. You decided to follow it, now that you're already so far from your home you have no other choice but to comply with the current of the river of your fate. You stepped down the marble stairs of the pavilion, mist obscured the path, refraining your vision to even make out your surroundings. 

You look back to the pavilion and it was no longer there, the mist swallowed it in whole, if it were not for the glowing translucent thread of blood, you would have been lost as soon as you stepped down the pavilion. 

Will it take you to the sea god? 

Will seeing you calm his anger? You didn't have any answer to satisfy your curiosity, the fact that even thinking about the sea god makes the veins of your neck pop, your jaw tick surprises how on the entire Earth could you be chosen as his bride. 

You don't understand how long you were walking in the mist following the thread floating, elongating and contracting in mid air, showing the pathway of the unseen world beyond your eyes could ever do.

After walking for what seemed like a long time, the thread stilled, a slow burn of fire seemed to run through the string and became awfully straight.

The mist slowly cleared, and in front of you stood a huge dais, over there was a canopy, made from the mother of the pearl reflecting colours so serene, that made your pupils dilate. The canopy was draped with a red fabric, probably of delicate muslin, which allowed to make out the silhouette of the figure sitting in it.

The thread vanished behind the fabric, which only meant that the god who you are sacrificed to was sitting there, on his huge throne. 

Unconsciously, you step forward on your feet.

One step.

Two steps.

Three steps.

Raising your hand, you slowly part the veil of secrecy, peering inside, forgetting any poise or courtesy you ever possessed. 

Fingers halt midway, no more bunching the fabric to get a proper look, for what you saw inside shook you to the core. Is this the sea god?

A sharp pull on the back of your head, yanked you away from crossing any other borders of seclusion. “Ahhhh” you couldn't help but let out a shout at the grip on the roots of your hair. Someone was dragging you down miserably and when you tried to see who it was you could only make out the vague tresses of long white hair and robes of black.

The hand dragged you by your hair and threw you down the dais, violently till your body hit the cold marble floor and made you cough at its brutal force. 

Your chest heaved and burning pain on your head made you look up at the person who inflicted such discomfort. 

A man with long silvery hair stood infront of you, his figure was feets above you, hovering as his head peered down at you, expression neutral, while his eyes were veiled with a silk of midnight, robes of similar shadows, some gold streaks running around the edges. 

How did the man even saw you if his eyes were concealed to let the light of the world pass? 

“Another year of the blood moon has another crane caught.” an unfavorable voice laced through the heavy air, it's tone mocking straight up. 

You turn your head to the owner of the voice— a man in violet robes, dragons were finelly embroidered with threads of gold on the hem, his hair was tied up in a knot, upheld by a pin of gold with pearls dangling from it. 

He slowly came near you, before crouching down to your level and taking a few strands of your hair to raise to his nose smelling it. “ A favourable crane instead,” you don't like how it sounded, backing away as far as possible. 

Looking around the hall you are able to make out a few more people present in the same marble hall as of you, which was probably— no, surely the royal throne chamber of the sea god.

Another man in white and of similar age, to the violet one watched the scene unfold amusingly. Two others were standing a little bit far away from the man who yanked you by your hair. 

“Gojo, say what if I have this crane after 13 days, I'm sure you can keep this one aside for me,” the man in violet spoke, something so dark lacing through his intentions. He scoffed with derision, eyes feverishly measuring your each move. “Can't I, my dearest brother ren?”

“Sure brother shota, I wouldn't mind leaving out on this crane, though I must express my condolences on missing out on such a vicious beauty.” the man in White offered a smile of kind to his brother. 

Gojo, the midnight veiled man, stepped forward bowing his head down to both of them, ren and shota, who looked like royalty. 

“But before that,” ren came near you, his sime as polite as ever, “my dear crane, by chance had a proper look inside the canopy?” 

You gulp, the burning sensation of gojo dragging you down the dais by your hair pulsated even more with pain, “n—no” 

“My, are you sure you're not lying?” He bent down, one hand gently caressing your cheek, “i-it was dark.”  

“That's very good of a situation, our god prefers solitude,” he said, straightening himself up and signalling gojo with a nod. You look at him as he takes out a crystaled knife. 

What?

“No wait, don't kill me —please,”  before you could say any, gojo caught the crimson of your hand and severed the thread which connected your soul to the sea gods. 

The broken string burned with an intense blaze before vanishing away in thin air.

“What did you do?” you ask, horrified at what just happened— a red string of fate was never to be severed, that's what you've always heard but then how?

“Oh nothing young crane, breathe in calm, I will be waiting for you in my parlour.” With that said, shota marked his leave. Ren scrutinized you for a while before following shota out. 

Left in the throne chamber was you, gojo and two other men standing a bit far away. Both were dressed in shades similar to the silver haired.

“Capture the crane”, gojo’s voice erupted in a velvet tone, devoid of any emotions. You look at them bewildered as you try to run but it was useless, the other two men, one of striking pink hair and other of a raven caught you from both sides, “sorry little crane, didn't wanted to hurt ya’” the pink haired guy muttered before you lose your consciousness.

“Had a pleasant dream?” The pink haired guy asked, sweeping behind small strands of your hair, you wildly flinch as you dart around your eyes scanning the area. Your hands were tied and so were your legs, just like how the village chiefs tied you up, “why am I here?” You demand answers with a frustrated frown. The room was small and cramped and after all that you've gone through in the span of the last 24 hours you've decided you'd had enough. 

“What do you mean little crane?” Said the pink haired guy tilting his head in a confused manner.

“Y/n.” 

The boy looked confused for a while before baring a bunch of teeth in a silly grin, “Itadori Yuji.”

“That's your name?” 

“Yes it is what people address me as.”

“Okay whatever, mind telling me why am I here?” You grow more and more annoyed at your questions being ignored. 

“Little crane, you're the bride of the sea god, it is absolute of you being safe in our protection.” Yuji said with the same wide grin. 

“By protection you mean this? If you lack basic knowledge, I shall teach you this is called incarceration.” 

“Oh you can consider this being the only means for your protection” his answer made your head pulse with rage, “by imprisoning me? If I am the bride of the sea god shouldn't you let me see him, so that his wrath calms down.”

“Well, speak about wrath less, think about your precious life, if we let you roam outside, in such crucial time of coronation, you won't live longer than an hour or two.” He mentioned casual, straightening himself up and walking to the low table, to plop one carved flesh of fruity apple inside his mouth.

“What?” 

“The coronation…the sea god will be replaced soon.” He said gulping the apple before plopping another, “you know our sea god, have concealed himself for ages, ever since the moment he was crowned. The only ones who ever pay him a visit are his brothers, Prince Shota and Crown Prince Ren.” 

“The ones in white and violet robes?”

Yuji nodded his head, leaning one elbow on the low table, placing his head on it, and smiled as pure as a kid. “Since you mortals are even stupid than me, you won't stop sacrificing cranes and just like each blood year, a crane— you appeared.” 

“So the god my soul is tied to won't be the god anymore?” you ask bewildered, unable to fathom whether to be happy or sad.

“Yeah, it's not like you're tied to him anyway.” Yuji shrugged, causing you to frown at his words. “the bond has been severed by the crystal knife, so you're nothing but a useless mortal in the realm of immortals.” 

“Useless you say, so let me go home….my father will be worried for me, he's sick, I need—”

“Speak less, you mere mortal.” The black haired boy from before entered the room, sliding the fusuma doors shut. “Oh Fushiguro, have a bite, these are real delicacy, I didn't knew the zenin houses cultivate such fine produce.” 

“Could you speak any less too?”

“God! I still don't understand why you left the zenins to serve our bounded master.” Yuji huffed, picking up another piece of apple pointing it to you, “want some?” 

“master? Who's your master, the white haired one? Gojo?” Yuji nodded at you, lowering the piece of apple, “shall i feed you, we are not allowed to free you from thos—”

“Yuji please, let me go back home I need to see my fathe—” you beg desperately cutting him mid-sentence.

“Such an intelligent, vacuous crane, who even chose you to be a bride, don't you understand once you are sacrificed to the immortal realm you cannot go back to the mortal world without your soul?” Fushiguro groaned at you, shutting you from whining anymore. 

“Without a— soul?” You ask uneasily, what was that even supposed to mean, you were still alive how can a person without a soul be alive? “But I'm still alive…” 

“Just because you are in the realm of the immortals, you cannot go back nor leave this room considering the risk of you getting murdered, not until you become one of us— an immortal.” 

“So if I become an immortal I can return.” 

“No! How can you be even more dull witted than Itadori, you can leave this room, after that, go find any work to suit your pleasures and work till you earn another chance in life.”, Fushiguro finishes, rolling an eye at you. 

“I am not dull witted and just to let you know I had no intention of being around such immortal beings who aren't familiar with a shred of kindness, why pray to you then? And since it was my soul in the first place I have the right to ask, what happened to it.” 

Fushiguro raises a brow at you, “considering such fragile body, you sure have a tongue of fire,” Yuji laughs at his comments, “your soul was severed from you along with the string of fate, it will be kept in the house of the death god. Another reason for you to keep your voice down and accept whatever is going on.” said Fushiguro, looking outside the window at the moon, it's glow so illuminating, that the entire room was better off without the half burning wax candle on the low table. 

“The god of death?” 

“Suguru Geto, the god of death. He owns your soul for now and will be in account of it till the 13 days pass by.” Said Yuji, stretching himself. What an odd situation you found yourself in…will you ever be able to get back?

“But as you said, I am more or less useless to you, why not let me go?” This came out as a whisper, you were doubtful of anyone listening, however Fushiguro sighed, “you're right, but we aren't the one who gets to decide that, prince shota seemed to have taken a liking for you, once the coronation is fulfilled and our new sea god sits on the throne, you will be sent to his parlour.” 

“Will talking to prince shota can help get me out of here?” You ask hopefully, while Fushiguro’s eyes darkens, “if anything I would suggest you stay as far away as you can from that certain princeling” with that said he abruptly leaves the room, Yuji’s expression too grave, followed Megumi out of the room, leaving you alone with your thoughts and the bone gnawing silence as the moon light pours into the room, pooling itself into the tatamis, where you laid tied. 

They made it very clear it was unlikely for you to leave this realm, but if you no longer had any connections with the sea god, what's the problem returning your soul to the mortal realm? What could possibly be the reason behind the immortals stealing a mortal soul? And what could be the reason for the sudden coronation? 

Prince ren’s voice echo near your ears, causing you to flinch a little, his polite facade wasn't entirely able to conceal the chill in his voice when he asked you if you got a glance at the sea god….and his sceptical eyes studying you even after his brother left. Probably he knew you lied to him, he knew that you saw the sea god and what you saw was sure to make you question your eyes, but then it was not much of a topic to think about. 

What could be certainly odd about a sea god that looked half your age? 

You don't know what to assume, Fushiguro mentioned the only people to meet him are— Prince Ren and Prince shota, his brothers. So it means they belong from the same family, the same blood runs in their veins, then what could be the reason to crown such a young boy who looked barely ten years of age? 

The sea god wore a mask to his face— a dragon mask. Similar to the one dragon who drowned you into this realm. He was dressed in bright blue robes with delicate threads of embroidered lotus, dragons and clouds sewn perfectly to match his unearthly young presence. The mask on his face was painted in an expression of slumber, as if a dragon sleeping and— 

But this is not the time to reminisce about the sea god’s attire, not to mention just a few days to go, when the young boy would no longer bear such a heavy title, for his age. 

Suguru geto, the death god was the one to possess your soul, and if only you could go to his house, it would benefit you to steal your soul back from them, but your hands are tied and so are your legs. 

You dart your eyes around the room, there must be something, anything, any sharp— you glance at the plate of crisp apples, cut in beautiful shapes and placed over one another in a decorative way, next to it layed a small fruit knife, sharp enough to cut past the fabric bound around your wrists and feets. 

Awkwardly you struggled near the low table in your restricted position, wriggling and squirming, close enough for you to grab the knife with your mouth. 

Seizing the knife with your mouth you let it fall beside you, as you reposition yourself in order to pick it up with your tied palms and cut through the fabric. After what seemed for such a long time, is when you feel the fabric loosening up and finally letting your hands free of restriction. 

You immediately massage your wrists and get down in the work of freeing your legs, once you get done with it, you peer out of the window. 

It seemed like you were in the second floor of a wooden pagoda, surrounded by a lake and small connected pavilions to make commuting easy, the problem was sneaking outside the pagoda seemed enough with risks if not getting caught by anyone of them, considering how busy it was even at what seemed like already midnight?

You let yourself calm down, all you need is to sneak out of this specific pavilion, you can trick immortals asking for the god of death, right? Except they would recognise you as a mortal instantly. Still you couldn't seem to keep your feet in this pavilion, you wanted your freedom back, you wanted your soul back. 

Sliding the doors very softly you speculate the corridor which seemed empty for now, you waited a while to finally set a foot outside, for now your plan is to just somehow or the other make your escape from this pavilion. 

Your heart thumped like drums in your chest, when was the last time you ever showed this defiance, you don't remember. This was probably the first time. 

You took a few steps out in the corridor, when a hand clamped around your lower face, the movement was so fast that you could barely sense anything, rather think any. Its iron grip forced you backwards, till you noticed you were back into the small room, and the sharp sound of doors shutting closed behind you. 

You laid stricken to the tatami floors, the hand still locked around your jaw and a huge figure hovering over you. 

Gojo. 

His Silver long hair pooled on the floor as he supported his body with one hand while pressing you down from any movement with the other. He snuck his veiled face near you, “Don’t. Even. Try.” 

“Mfffff” you tried shouting yet nothing came past your clamped mouth except pressed muffles. You were just so, so close yet he has to come right on time to snatch that one ray of hope from you. 

You protested, trying to thrash out of his grip, yet your body moved none, and the more stronger the grip of his hands became that at one point you felt he would crash your head right on the floor staining the tatami red. 

Were you scared? Yes. 

The man, supposedly named gojo, still had his eyes veiled on the very midnight sash you'd seen before, yet you felt like it was staring at your soul. Not liking the feeling, you pressed down your nails into his skin scratching it down till drops of blood start oozing out. Yet he didn't move an inch. 

You throw a hand at his face trying to make another desperate move of your leave, pulling the veil down, till it unloops entirely, falling down on the floor, along with your hand. 

You stilled, your movements stilled, he stilled. 

His eyes sparkled in a distant bright, hollow black that makes you shiver in fright. His pupils were black, entirely black, glassy and vacant. It was as if you weren't staring into a man’s eyes, but rather a void of such murky iniquity, that even the night of the new moon might turn out being shades lighter than his sinful eyes. 

Gulping hard, unable to breathe, you tap two times on his hand, whose grip he loosened further, he stared blankly at you, with no expression on his face, it was as if he was a statue himself, hollow from inside, even more dead than a dead plant in the hot of a desert.

You let out a shaky breath, unable to tear your eyes away from him nor move your body in anyway. Your eyes started burning, tears brimming up your eyes at the sheer amount of fear you're experiencing. But you didn't want to cry, you just didn't want to show that you were afraid— Afraid of him. 

He yanked you by your hair before, slammed you on the floor, most importantly he hurted you. And you wanted to do the same, even when you were scared of him. 

Near your hand, layed the fruit knife perfectly in reach for you to grip, and you do so. You grab the knife and aim to stab it right at his neck. And you do so. You stab right at his neck yet the knife would pierce through his skin. You noticed a subtle space which prevents the knife from touching his skin. So was the case with his hand, which wasn't directly touching your face now, it was a slight space of void pressing you down on the floor. 

You looked at gojo, staring at you with the same face without any sarcasm or humour, as if he felt finding your little attempts to escape humourous was not even worth mocking. You felt even more shame and embarrassment creeped up your face. 

“Master!” Yuji's voice rammed through the room. Gojo’s hollow pupil moves to the side, before he gets off you, finally letting you out of his grip, before grabbing the piece of midnight silk and looping around his eyes again. 

You cough and back away to the corner of the room, the knife still in your hands. 

Yuji threw a concerned look over you, fushiguro was standing behind, face unreadable. Gojo turned over to them, “tie her up well and make sure there aren't any weapons near her to help her escape” 

The boys nodded at the white haired man who was about to take his leave, “wait! Gojo!” You shout, causing him to stop his movements. He turned back facing your frail body. His eyes were covered behind the fabric, still he faced you as if he could see you right through the fabric, or maybe he did see you right through his fabric. 

Maybe you're forgetting that all of the persons present in this room are immortals, except you, they are sure to possess some otherworldly power. 

“I want to see the god of death. Please take me to him, I give you my word I won't try to escape. Please.” You demand, eyes pleading even if you didn't like the idea of begging to this certain guy. 

And yet. You did. 

Gojo remained still for sometime, before turning his back and leaving you alone with the other two boys, not faltering the vacant facade. 

What? You swear you'd kill this guy, if he were any near, and if there wasn't such a power difference between you two. 

“Listen, little crane, your demand is far away to be fulfilled.” Said Yuji coming near you, a rope forming in between his hands as a he makes a certain gesture, probably his magic. “Why? All I want is to see the god of death—” 

“You dull-witted crane, that's not possible.” Fushiguro taunts you, massaging his temple with two fingers. 

“My name is y/n and I'm not a crane. I am a human and yes a mortal, and I want my soul. If I serve no purpose to your god now or in near future why not serve my demands. I am unable to understand why I have to remain as a captive of you. And why can't I see the god of death?” 

Yuji sighs, “its not as easy as you think, it would have been possible for you to meet the god of death, if the friendly bond between master and him wouldn't have been severed.” He stated blandly, winding the rope around your wrists. Fushiguro gets annoyed at yuji reciprocating your answers and leaves the room. 

Not paying any heed to his exiting figure, you ask “why? Why happened between them?” 

“Hmm?” Yuji hums at your questions, before making up a troublesome expression, “well a lot happened at once. You see, our master and the god of death suguru geto were quite good friends but since the last few years nothing has been the same. I don't know the details, but the news was in the air that it was in regard of the sea god.” 

“The sea god?” You ask, the fact that hollow guy you faced right now, was capable of being in a friendship was strange enough for you to twist your face, especially with the god of death. 

“Yeah, and then they had a huge fight, in which a very dear friend of suguru got hurt, since then both of them aren't on speaking terms.” Yuji stopped looping the rope around your wrists, about to bound them in a knot again, when you distract him with another question, “why? Why did they fight over the sea god?” 

“You see, the god of death is severely against the reign of our current sea god. He has always made a strong opposition to the sea god's decisions, even though the crown binds all of us to the words of the sea god. This also counted as another reason for the passing down the crown to Prince Ren.” You clasp Yuji's hands, pressing them a bit and he grows a bit flustered, if the only person who can get you out of here was Yuji Itadori, who seemed too innocent and kind. Never have you ever thought of using someone’s kindness to your favour, but when even gods were selfish who were you to walk on a path of morals. 

“Yuji, please I promise I will not escape, please take me to the god of death,” Yuji backs away, freeing his hands from your grip, shaking one palm at you, “that's not possibl—”

“Please Yuji, you're the only one I can trust. Help me, just let me go once to see the god of death, I swear I will not run.” You assure him with pleading eyes, nearing him till you get hold of his hands again. “Please.” 

“Little crane, I am not allowed to let you leave this pagoda…” his stubbornness to his higher ranks made you leave any hope you had for seeing the god of death when, “but I wasn't instructed on helping you or not.” he tilted his head in a fond way and frowned his eyebrows with a sad smile on his face.

“Huh?” 

“Maybe it's best to retrieve your soul back, no matter what. You must retrieve your soul back, and return to the mortal world as fast as you can. So I guess I will help you run to the house of death god, but beware of the wolves, you won't want them catching you on the way.” Yuji said, unlooping the rope off your wrists before snapping his fingers to dispel his magic. 

“Thank you, thank you so much Yuji!” You expressed your gratitude, to the pink haired, feeling sad he had to serve such a severe hollow master. 

“Now listen to me very carefully, I will kiss your forehead with my magic, it will conceal you from the other prying eyes for a few moments of time, say about and hour or so,” he stops whispering and walks near the door making sure fushiguro isn't present near. Being sure he walks back to you and continues, “during that one hour of your concealment, you must leave the Tsubaki pagoda and at least be about a mile or two away from the entrance gate.” 

You nod trying to process all the information together, Yuji was dumping on you, “and while you do that, you must make sure not to cross or be any near master gojo, stay as far away as possible. He can sense reeks of my magic and my concealment is very feeble in his eyes, he would recognise you in a second so do not ever cross paths with him.” You nod at yuji, your heart thumping as if you were about to face a war, and the way his voice had the serious hint in it, you were sure that running into gojo would be the last thing you want in the entire world.

“As soon as I conceal you run from here, no one will be able to see you, take the left corridor and search for the nearest stairs leading to the floor underneath. Find the door with a huge old camellia flower carved on to its body, that's the back door…you will take the way to the left pavilion and not stop running, still you cross all three of them and exit the main entrance. Remember even if you exit the entrance don't stop running, run as far as you can. And if you see any group of people with designs of wolves embroidered, do not linger around them, ask the commoner to show you the path to the house of death god and they will.” He shuffles his one hand inside the sleeve of his robes, and takes out a thread of gold coins, shoving them to you. 

“Give them these for payment and you will be just fine, insist them to drop you near instead, it's dangerous roaming alone. When you meet suguru geto, beg him for your life, he won't agree to give your soul back right away so crack a deal with him, offer him something precious to you and he's sure to help. If he insists having your soul till the coronation let him be but ask him to hide you in his house till the thirteenth day, and once you have your soul back pray to him to send you back.” 

“And he will?” 

“Probably. Keep praying till he agrees, no matter what he is still a god, if you devote yourself to him with pure heart he is bound to comply.” Yuji explains, dragging you near the door, one hand cupping your cheek gently. 

you never had a brother, which always made you wonder how it feels to have one. Now you might have an answer to this. Yuji brings his lips to your forehead. “Run as far as possible, little crane” he whispered before pressing his lips to your forehead. A tingling sensation coursed through your veins and the moment you open your eyes, Yuji rushes you out of the room. 

You run.

You ran and ran and ran. Two times nearing the failure of Yuji's concealment, when you passed near fushiguro but he was busy in conversation with a official in fancy robes. And the second time when you were about ten fleeting steps near gojo. But you ran. You somehow ran. And you're pretty sure you're miles away from the pagoda, which Yuji mentioned as Tsubaki pagoda— domain of gojo. 

Your chest was heaving, throat itching of thirst, and your knees were shaking from running so long. The place where you were in currently resembled a busy market in the immortal realm, yet you could barely find people as it was still very early in the morning. 

You didn't sleep for an entire night, the thread of gold coins Yuji gave you jingled heavy in the small coin purse which belonged to your mom as you walked around finding a place to sit. 

Retiring yourself under a big osmanthus, you let out a breath, reflecting what you went through just in the past few hours, which now had been a day and a half you'd say to be exact. 

You sit up straight, noticing something weird. Ever since childhood you couldn't run a mile distance without coughing or gasping for a bunch of oxygen which seemed to be slipping from your lungs. Yet, you ran continuously for an hour and probably more than that, and nothing really happened?

The thing just didn't sit right with you. But it was useless finding this thing odd, which could probably be one of the perks of Yuji's magic. 

You huff out another breath leaning your back on to the bulk of its massive trunk. Breathing in the trails of its honeyed sweetness, with delicate hints of sun warmed peaches and somewhat complex undertone of the scene of rope apricots dancing in between— you gulp, trying to ease your thirst. 

The smell of osmanthus relieved you, reminding you of your sweet home, where your mother once cradled you, where your father taught you how to walk. Feeling nostalgic and worry seeping in your thoughts of your father's health, you look up not wanting to cry. 

You squint your eyes as you see a silhouette of something, deliberately peering down with curious eyes. You shriek of horror as you realise it was a figure of a girl, hurrying away from the osmanthus. 

Sensing your panic, whatever the thing it was, landed on the group with a smooth jump— a girl....who seemed kind of human.

“Umm—” 

“What are you doing here?” 

“Shouldn't I be the one asking you this as you were hanging on the branch of the tree like a dead corpse?” You burst out, trying to calm down your pacing heartbeat. 

“Dead? Aren't you dead too?” She said in a tone which caused a gush of familiarity, where have you heard it before?

“I am not,” you say, the girl who looked awfully cheerful, came near you, “do you need my help standing up?” She forwarded a hand which you refused to take. “No.” You said standing up on your own and dusting your clothes. 

“You smell….very…very mortal.” She commented, pouting at you causing you to gulp, she realises the smell yet not able to distinguish you, “is that so? Do you want something?” You try to change the topic, unwilling to discuss any about your mortality.

“No. Nothing. Just curious about something heavy jingling on that very beautiful coin purse of yours.” 

Oh. 

“Well, I will be very happy to give you some if you do me a favour.” She jumped at you with curious eyes of excitement, “what favour? Yes I will.” 

“umm..I would like to visit the…god of death, do you know where his house must be?” You ask not wanting to sound too obvious, afterall what business might a commoner would have with the god of death.

The girl nodded without any further questions and gestured to you to follow her, by now you forgot about your thirst and not wanting to lose track of her, you followed close by. 

The girl left with some coins of gold leaving you at the doors of the huge palace which is known as the house of death. You sneaked in, through the gates, feeling no less of a thief, the palace guards were not present near the gate so you didn't have anyone to take permission from, which was to your advantage. You wouldn't want to spread the news of your escape. 

After crossing two huge shrine-like gates, you enter a palace finding no guards there too. Following an elongated corridor you check the entire floor before taking the steps to the upper floors. 

Even after checking the entire palace you found no one. Did the girl trick you? And now you ended up in an abandoned palace, with no surety of— 

“Any problems, young mortal?” 

You flinched at the voice behind you, a man stood behind you, tall enough to hover over you, somewhat near gojo, you could see hints of black yukata with some gold robes. Under the chilling intensity of his gaze, you slowly turn back to face him. 

He was awfully beautiful, to be termed as the feared god of death. Black streaks of hair falling down while half of them were tied in a knot, his eyes held a curved sinister gaze as lips twisted in another pout. “Tell what mortal, you come in my house, take a look at each and every corner in here and when I decide to appear in front of you, you freeze?” 

“God of death?” You ask, even though every single hair on your body knew whose presence you were under. 

“Yes, I am the god of death, Suguru geto.” He said before letting out a chuckle “What demand do you have? You want your soul back?” 

“Yes! Please give me back my soul, I wish to return to my world, please I beg you—” 

Geto lets out a laugh before coming extremely close to you, till your back hits the wall and he is hovering over you, face inching closer each moment, “and why shall I? If satoru gojo expects me to return your soul, I must make it clear, poor thing. I. will. not.” he says, tucking his index finger beneath your chin plopping your head up to face him. 

Tears brim down from your eyes, “what does it have to do with gojo? I came here to expect help from a god, a god who is expected to help his devotees. And if you don't know what the sacred relation between a god and a devotee is, you should know better to leave your position.” 

His face twisted in mockery, the index beneath your chin slid down to grab your throat, hand tightening around it, strangling you, making it difficult to breathe. “You sure have a lot to say, but my dear crane, you should think properly, what sacred relation? I am the God of death. I am to be feared not to be prayed. I am not to be worshipped, but to be dreaded.”

“Isn't death the start of a new life?” You choke your words out, “doesn't that mark you not only as the god of death but the god of life?” 

“You speak too much mortal…the god of life is the sea god, who has ignored all of your pleas of help for decades, he trampled down on all of your cries and you expect me to—” you can barely make out what he was saying, your mind was growing dizzy and your body was going limp. Yuji’s voice echoed from the back of your mind. ‘crack a deal with him’ he said. 

“I will give you anything you want, return me back to my world, to my father.” Your voice came out in a choked whisper, geto stared at you for a while, before loosening his grip on your throat, “too late, I expect another visitor.” 

You look behind geto to see prince ren staring at both of you with unreadable eyes, his calm demeanor sent chills to your spine, “did I interrupt your fun with the mortal crane?” He asked, his voice was nothing other than composed, “what if my answer is a ‘yes’...” 

“Guess I will have to apologise, however the crane is already decided to be taken under my brother, so—” geto interrupts him mid-sentence. “Oh don't worry, I'm not interested in hunting cranes from the very beginning, crown prince ren.” 

“Ah, I guess then we can leave her out of the conversation.” Prince ren's face displayed a polite smile as geto skims his fingers to your forehead head, rendering you unconscious. 

The next you opened your eyes, you found yourself tucked in a bed, mattress filled with what seemed very soft cotton, the room you were in seemed different than the rooms of the house of death, shifting yourself out of the feathers you walk up to the door, feeling uneasy about opening it or not. You had no idea where exactly you were in or who might be waiting outside this room— the death god? Prince Ren? Or gojo?

You could hear something going on, as if an interrogation, “I am the one responsible.” 

A chill runs down your spine, you slowly part the doors creating a small gap enough for you to peek in. You see prince ren moving in circles and the one standing still was— gojo. 

You were back in the Tsubaki pagoda. Cursing yourself mentally, you feel your hands getting clammy, all of the hard work for nothing? You traveled so far to retrieve your soul from geto suguru yet—

“So you're telling me you're the one responsible and she ran away without receiving any help from your subordinates?” Prince Ren asked him as he stood silent. His face was still the same expression, vacant. 

“Might be so when you render yourself responsible. Must take the responsibility. Grab the knife near and stab right through your hand” 

What?

The prince said it so casually as if it meant nothing and you could only widen your eyes when Gojo took a knife and stabbed it right through his palm. 

You gasped, trying to calm down your breathing, the sharp blade was still stuck in his palm as blood slowly trickled down tainting the tatamis. 

Unable to see anymore, you shut the door and return back to the bed. Your hands were shaking, whatever you saw you no longer understood what you felt, because why would you feel such extravagant unfurling of excitement when gojo did stab right through his hand. Why would your hands shake of envy instead of fear, wishing you would have stabbed it instead of him. 

You try to shake off these thoughts from your mind. What the heck were you thinking anyway? Yes he did yanked you by your hair, seized your jaw and threw your fragile body to the floor, even ignored your pleas, but it doesn't mean he deserved that…right?

You had no answer. 

What troubled you even more is his expressionless face, who didn't even display a hint of pain at such a brutal attack, inflicted by himself. What exactly was wrong with him?

You decided to care less. What mattered more is the movement of the doors which opened to reveal prince ren. He entered the room with his calm demeanor, and polite expression. 

You cannot fathom how he was the same person who made gojo stab his hand in just one order. 

“You're awake.” He said nearing your bed, and dismissed your effort of standing up with a hand gesture. “Do you feel better now?”

“Yes, I do prince ren.” You bow your head, “that's great, I was quite worried for you,..” 

“Worried? Excuse my words but why must the crown prince worry for me?” 

“I just happened to make an observation,” he settled on a chair near your bed, picking up some freshly cut pears and passing it to you, wanting you to have it. Not wanting to refuse the prince you comply with his desires, “that your body is quite frail, how long have you been practicing it?” 

“Huh? Practicing? Practicing what, your highness?” 

“Mithridatism.” 

You still, no more chewing the fleshy fruit rather gulping it down, “ah…I apologise I don't get it.” 

“How long have you been poisoning yourself?” 

“Why would I poison myself?” 

“Oblivious. Aren't you? Your body reeks of strong poisons, these veins on your wrists, don't you think they are too blue, too noticeable? Since you seem to know nothing about this, it concludes your parents or specifically your father, the one you're so desperate to return back to— has been poisoning you little by little for years.” 

“You're sprawling nonsense…” the prince chuckled in amusement, particularly not minding the lack of your poise, “am I?” He picked up another piece of pear, going to the other corner of the room, where caged was a little swallow. The small bird innocently fed on some of it as the prince smiled, humming a tune which made you uneasy. 

“What exactly are you doing prince ren?” You couldn't help but question his actions. Whatever he was doing didn't feel right. “Hmm, just feeding a bird.” 

You watched him confused, a while later the bird fell off the perch, the little swallow was dead. “What?” You're breathing quickened as you realised what exactly the prince was implying. “I fed the same poison to you and this bird, yet you're still alive whereas the bird is not, do you know what that means? It means your body has been consuming poisons for so long that it has grown immune to it....” 

You swallowed thickly, unable to form any words, the prince came near you, “I wasn't sure so I decided I'd try experimenting.” 

“And what if you were wrong…what if..what if I died?” You ask, letting out a calculated breath, trying to process whatever truth about you were getting enlightened on. “Then I could have blamed your death on the enemies, plus who would care for a crane.” 

You still couldn't believe it, you didn't know why you agreed to the prince’s terms but you did. For you had no other choice, the prince promised you anything you want would be granted if you spy for him. All you wanted was to go back home to your father, but all this while he'd been poisoning you? You didn't know what to feel about it. You said you'd take time thinking about what you want after all the prince wants is for you to spy for him in the Tsubaki house, and report any interaction between prince shota and gojo. 

“Why prince shota? Isn't he your brother?” You questioned, when he chuckled at you, “brother by blood is a crack forged on a sword. I do not grant my trust simply…” 

“But you're trusting me to spy for you…” 

“Since you're bound to follow my orders. And I know you don't trust me nor I'd ask to. Only a fool would make such a mistake.”

“I'm not bound, I am meant to be taken in by your brother, and If I want I can reveal it all to him, about how you ask me to spy on him.” you hiss your defiance at him, which twists his court smile into one of satire.

“oh do you think you will be safe under his wing? Young crane, have not understood him yet, he's a hunter, all he wants to do with you is to green-gown you, and once it's done he will throw you away to get you used by his followers.”

You felt numb, confused and lost. It was too much for you to take and too much for you to grasp, unsure of what was happening around you. 

He even removed restrictions on you being held captive. you were free to move as long as you're inside the boundaries of the Tsubaki house. All you had to do is spy on each movement of gojo; let the other spies of prince ren in the Tsubaki house and report to him your observation. And in between all the 10 days you've spent in the Tsubaki house near gojo, Fushiguro and a guilty Yuji who has been avoiding you, nothing happened which needed serious report. 

It was the day of coronation, a three day function to celebrate by the immortals and vow their oath as a new king is crowned. You heard Fushiguro speaking to Yuji about how prince ren isn't going to start his reign with the blood crown passed down since generations, rather he ordered the forging of a new blood crown, which is why this coronation would be three days long. 

And as promised, after his coronation, the prince would grant you anything you want, but what would you ask? You had nothing to desire anymore. Except for your soul, and even if you have your soul you'd have to go back to the mortal realm— to a father who poisoned you. 

But staying is even worse, it'd question your chastity. 

The royal chamber swayed with immortals of high ranks and officials, you notice the other kins to the royal family—Princess nanako and najimi. You also spot the betrothed of prince ren, lady harumi. 

The god of death soon made his arrival and so did the god of wind and goddess of motherhood and even more, that you struggled remembering their titles. 

Prince Ren made sure it was perfect, and it was until— princess nanako, the eldest kin to the sea god clan, came forward, her hand glazed with the new blood crown, gold threads of pearls suspended to it. The former blood crown laid behind the canopy, on a low table, where the soon to be former sea god sat on his throne. Its silhouette is visible to all.

The new oaths were to be taken and the crown was soon to be adorned on the prince's mighty head— as long as he had a head. 

Prince shota twisted his sword, wrenching the guts of his kin, his eldest sister before drawing the sword back, her screaming figure fell to the floor, so did the new crown.

Everything was a mess, the crowd freaked out and when Ren came protesting with a sword ready to fight his kin, it was the god of death stabbing him right through his stomach. 

He betrayed prince ren— for prince shota. And the next you blink your eyes you see Ren's head cut off rolling on the marbled floor. 

You felt something wet on your face. These 10 days you've been convinced you couldn't feel anything yet when you raised your hand to wipe it off your face, expecting to see the splattered blood, you see your tears, spilling continuously from your eyes. 

Prince Ren was dead. And so was your only guarantor of your wish. Even though you couldn't trust him, prince shota is even more not to trust, now that you knew what his intentions with you were. 

You dart your head around, coming out of your daze, you need to run as fast as you can from this place or else you will be dead meat. Everyone was running here and there while some took the scene in amusement. The goddess of motherhood, who was supposed to be kind, glances at the scene, quietly sipping on her drink, not a single drop of motherly kindness glazed in her eyes. It was as if she was enjoying the indiscriminate slaughter. 

You shift your focus to fushiguro and Yuji, who seemed to help commoners get out of the high palace. Gojo was nowhere to be seen, you make your way to them when some commoners among the massacre take out their grudges, seeking this as their perfect chance to get away with a murder. 

Horrified you fall back, your robes are now tainted in red, you don't know how or from where, pushing past crowds of so called immortals, you find yourself in a secret chamber, where the figure of gojo, seemed to be in a daze. 

Bewildered, you grab a candelabrum, posing as a weapon to any threat he displays. Gojo, who seemed to have noticed your presence, didn't stand up, rather stayed stuck to his place. His long white hair fell from the top of his ribbon knot. The piece of midnight silk was discarded on the floor, “y/n…” he said.

Hearing your name from his mouth sounded unfamiliar to you. For a moment you found yourself contemplating if you heard it right, and then doubting he even knew your name. He turns his head at an angle, which allows him to side eye you as if he'd jump out right now, and the next thing you know is you'd be dead, “Don't you dare…” 

Gojo stills at your words, before asking “dare what y/n?” 

“Don’t come near me…” 

“....I understand. I won't. And I can't.” 

You frown even more. He just simply agreed? Something about him doesn't sit right with you. It just doesn't. Taking your surroundings properly you notice, he wasn't sitting on the chair, rather he was plopped perfectly bound to the chair, chains of metal wrapped around wrists and feets, securing him tight, unable to escape.

You swallow an unwanted bubble of laugh creeping past your lips. He, once ordered to enslave you, was here captured and chair to a mere chair. What a shame. 

Gathering more confidence than you needed you put the candelabrum down and search around the room until you find a perfect piece of dagger— to threaten him. 

You already have enough of it and it's not like days spent in this immortal realm made you any less crazy. “And who dared to bind you to this mere chair?

“Suguru.” face still devoid of any expression. 

“ahh I see, you kind of deserve this.” you mock, staring into the hollow eyes of the white haired, till you felt something so overpowering that you turned your head away. “Oh.” He said. 

“And you won't attempt running away?” You say grazing the tip of the dagger down his face to his neck, wondering if the space barrier would avoid the tip touching the skin but it didn't. “I am not allowed to…”

“And why so?” he didn't answer you for a few minutes, before you realise he doesn't want to answer you, when you press the tip of the dagger more firmly to his neck.

“.....a curse.” 

You tilt your head, amused, finding it hysterical. So the gojo satoru, head of the Tsubaki house, and the right hand of the dead crown prince all while bound to a mere curse, “what curse?” you interrogate further, unable to best yourself taking advantage of his situation.

“...a curse which binds me to words.” You pinch your brows together, at which he explains further, “of any person imposing those on me.” 

“So you won't be able to do anything unless someone tells you to…” he nods, “and by that you mean anyone?” He nodded, hesitation peeking his vacant face for the first time, exciting you even more. You still find it hard to look straight to his dark hollow eyes but the way knowing about his weakness courses energy through you, you find yourself mocking him, staring right at his eyes.

“even me?” You ask in a knowing tone, already guessing his answer at the delay of his response, “I'd count that as a yes.” It is fun. Why did you even come here in the first place, you didn't remember, but seeing him, satoru gojo weak, had you giggling inside your head. 

“So gojo, you know that I hate you…right? What do you feel about me?” you ask, bringing your mouth near his. 

“If you want an answer, I would like to reciprocate the same feeling of hatred, which you hold in account for me.” 

“And how would you feel, if the person you hate so much had you underneath…” you closed a bit more distance between you both, similar to the situation you'd been in before, when he hovered over you, limping your body to the floor. His eyes still had chills running down your spine yet you refused to look away. “I'd be humiliated.” 

“Is that so? How about you kiss the person you hate instead, that'd be even more humiliating, don't you think.” gojo doesn't answer you, rather slips his eyes down to your lips and gulps as you bring them even closer. You press the dagger in his neck, piercing his skin, yet he didn't seemed as alert as when you bring your other hand near his hair and yank his head. 

“Isn't this what you did to me? How does it feels?” 

Gojo doesn't answers you, bringing your head near, you open your mouth to ask again, when gojo tilts his head at you, as if begging to— you near his lips as he captures yours with a devouring kiss. 

His lips moved around yours, sucking the plump of your fleshes so feverishly, if you didn't knew better you'd think he has been secretly craving for you all this time, but you did know better, he was just disgusted by the fact that he was kissing you. And it humiliated him, the first expression you've ever seen in his face, as you find hits of crimson slowly spreading across his ears. 

His lashes brushed against your skin, and in order to humiliate him even more, you let go of the dagger, hands cupping his cheeks deepening the kiss. 

You slipped your tongue in his mouth, as gojo sucked on your sweet juices, the tingly sensation seemed to grow your brain mushy, when all of a sudden he pulled away. 

“What happened?” You blink innocently as you watch him coughing, and wheezing, soon followed by blood spilling out of his mouth, staining his robes. 

“Oh, I might have poisoned you…” you forgot you had the toxin of the crimson lily before on your way to the high palace. Or maybe you didn't. 

Gojo halts his coughing a bit as he looked up at you, he spits blood from his mouth, some dripping down his chin as a smirk spreads across his cheeks, causing you to take back your taunting smile. 

His dark pupils dilated, and if you weren't hallucinating, you might have seen his dark eyes break out in a colour of brilliant blue. 

“What vicious plan are you plotting against my heart y/n?” 

tags- @teddiiursulas-ink @jkslaugh97

[holdmytesseract]

One Night or Forever?

Daryl Dixon x fem!Reader

Summary: When one thing leads to another, you and Daryl spend a passionate night together at the CDC. Unfortunately, neither of you is interpreting the signals right afterwards...

Warnings: 18+! MDNI! smut (not entirely graphic, but it's definitely there - like, you know exactly what's going on), uhhh sub and dom Daryl? unprotected rough-ish sex? Daryl gets a bj (yes, you read that right), he's a bit mean, too - but also a cutie patootie, uhh slight angst? bit of drama, alcohol - drunk-ish Daryl and tipsy reader, fluff, swear words, bickering

Set in Season 1!

Word Count: 4,5k

a/n: You want it, you got it, friends. I don't know what this is, though - or which demons possessed me as I wrote it. I really don't. I also don't know how I should feel about it. Embarrassed? Proud? Send help, lol.

Anyways, I hope you like this! Please go easy on me. Smut isn't really my forte...

EoH Masterlist °☆• LITRM Masterlist °☆• Daryl Masterlist °☆• Masterlist

"Booyah!"

Daryl's toast had been the starting shot for an evening full of conversation, fun, laughter - and alcohol. Some would say reams of alcohol. Wine, booze, beer - you and the group stopped at nothing. That was probably the reason why everyone staggered somewhere on a scale between tipsy and shit faced drunk at the end of the evening.

You were currently on your way to your personal room - something you'd describe as a luxury. Sure, back at the quarry you had your own tent, but there was a huge difference between that and a whole goddamn room. With a own freaking shower! It was crazy. Who would've thought that something so plain and simple would become such a valued, precious thing? Most likely nobody, because it was something taken for granted.

Well... Not anymore. Not since the world went to shit.

After passing a very drunk Glenn on the way, you more or less stumbled into your room. Tipsy... You were definitely tipsy. Without a single care in the world, you started to shed your clothes the moment the door shut close behind you. All you wanted to do was sleep. You had too much alcohol coursing through your veins to search for something you could use as a pyjama. You hadn't a problem with sleeping naked. Not tonight.

Unfortunately had your plan a catch... One that you weren't aware of yet.

This wasn't your room.

You were just about to free your body of the last piece of fabric you were wearing - a pair of admittedly beautiful dark blue lace panties, when a sudden voice managed to almost send you into cardiac arrest.

"Wha' the fuck 'r ya doin' in my room?!"

You startled so bad, that you almost lost balance and fell flat on your ass. Your balance was a bit off-track anyways, due to the wine...

With wide eyes you turned around to face the intruder.

"Daryl?"

You blinked. "What are you doing here?" He scoffed; his cheeks puffed out and reddened. He had been drinking way more than you did, and it showed. The archer's hands were fumbling clumsily with the fly of his jeans. "Jus' been taken a damn piss, 'n 'm comin' back to find ya standin' in my room." You crossed your arms over your bare - an information which hadn't reached Daryl's brain yet - chest. "This is clearly my room, Dixon." He scoffed again. "'S not!" "Yes, it is!" "'S not!" The man took a few wobbly steps closer. "Go bullshit someone else, I-" He stopped abruptly in the middle of his sentence; eyes widening to the size of plates. Now the information had been received and processed.

"Yer almost naked," he stated; bluntly staring.

Oh, you suddenly realised and remembered as well. He was right.

In any other situation, you'd have frantically tried to cover yourself up and perhaps even threw an insult at the man standing across from you, but the alcohol lowered your boundary of shame and loosened you up; making you see things more relaxed.

You huffed out a breath. "Yeah, no shit, Sherlock." Daryl still blinked and tried very hard to not let his eyes drop, but that was an almost impossible task for the alcoholized man. "Why?" You shrugged your shoulders. "'Cause I wanted to go to sleep." The archer swallowed hard. "In my room? Naked? Ya lost yer damn mind, woman?" "It's my room," your tipsy self was still profoundly convinced, while you made your way over to the bed on slightly wobbly legs. Daryl just watched you; flabbergasted, speechless, shocked - and incredibly turned on. After all, he had a damn pretty woman in his room - no, bed. Half naked!

"You could join me, Dixon." He scoffed again and tried to walk in a straight line over to the armchair; accepting his fate. "In yer damn dreams. 'S ain't gonna help me - or my hard-on." You giggled at his words like a schoolgirl and rolled around in the sheets. "That the reason why you can't get that zipper up? You like me, Daryl? Like what you see?" You pestered him with questions; smirking, and watched his cheeks redden even more - if that was physically possible and your eyes didn't betray you. "Shuddup," Daryl just growled in response. You giggled again, before a long beat of silence passed between the both of you.

The alcohol didn't just lower your boundary of shame... It also caused you to become bolder. "I could help you with that, you know..." You tried to sound as flirty and seductive as possible and turned in the sheets once more, but now to face the man sitting across from the bed. You perched yourself onto your stomach and crossed your ankles in the air; swaying your legs.

Gods, you felt like a teenager again. Damn the alcohol and your crush on the archer. It was a dangerous combination, since you hadn't planned to actually act on said crush. Well, and here you were now in his - nu.uh, your - bed, almost naked and trying to seduce him.

Some might say this escalated quickly...

"Help me with wha'?" The archer finally responded after a long moment; dumbfounded. His usually very smart and witty brain slowed down by the alcohol. You thought for a hot minute that he had already fallen asleep on you. You rolled your eyes and groaned - acting like Daryl just said the stupidest thing in the world. "Your boner," you deadpanned - as if it was the most normal thing to say.

The archer swallowed hard; feeling his chest (and pants) tightening.

"Wha'?" He crooked out. The normally so talkative, glibly redneck seemingly rendered speechless by your boldness.

Once again, you rolled your eyes. "Do you reaaaaally want me to spell it out for you, D?" Daryl clearly needed a moment to recover, but once he did, he scoffed.

"Pf, yer bluffin'."

"I'm not."

"Yeah, ya 'r."

"No, I'm not."

"Yes, ya 'r. Can tell. Yer way to innocent fer shit like tha', sunshine."

"Are you challenging me, Dixon?"

"Nah, jus' statin' facts."

Now you were the one who scoffed. He really asked for it, didn't he? You smirked and hid your face in the blanket beneath you. Oh, you were so going to prove him wrong.

You rolled your barely covered body around a third time, but this time to get up from the bed - which was a much more difficult task than expected, but you made it in the end - even though not gracefully and certainly not seductively. "Facts, huh?" You asked the crossbow-wielding archer then with a raised eyebrow and your hands on your hips. He crossed his arms over his plaid beige-brown shirt clad chest; bare forearms and biceps bulging with the movement. "Yes, facts." Although he stared into your eyes with his blue coloured irises, he still had a hard time for them to actually stay on your face.

"Well, you can go screw your opinions - or me. Your choice, pretty boy," you stated and shrugged your shoulders as you bridged the short distance between the bed and the armchair. Before the younger Dixon could even do as much as open his mouth for a snarky respond, you had dropped to your knees in front of him - between his manspread legs.

Daryl's eyes widened and his jaw slacked. "Wha' 'r ya doin'?!" He literally screeched and gripped the armrests of the armchair. "Proofing you wrong, pretty boy." You smiled up at him like a Cheshire cat; hands and fingers clumsily trying to open his jeans. "F-Fuckin' hell, wha'?! Yer insane, woman!" The archer cursed above you, but also didn't make any moves to stop you. So, you took that as a sign to continue. And continuing you did...

It took you a hot minute to get your eye-hand coordination straight and overcome the obstacles which were his jeans and boxers, but once you did, there was no holding back. "Ya really gonna do th- F-Fuck..."

You did.

"Told you, Dixon," you stated with a mischievous glimmer in your eyes; hands firmly cupping him. Daryl answered nothing. The archer had a hard time to control his breathing and rapidly beating heart. He was still gripping the armrests like a vice - his knuckles already turning white. He really couldn't believe this was happening right now. Was he asleep and dreaming? Was he hallucinating? Did the wine manage to fog up his brain so much that his eyes were deceiving him? But when he felt your lips wrap around him, he instantly threw all those thoughts overboard again. This was real. It had to be real. After all, he was feeling it, right?

"F-Fuckin' hell," he cursed again; feeling waves of pleasure crash over him. One of his hands loosened its grip on the armrest and went in your hair instead - tying your loose hair into a makeshift ponytail. You were already too far gone to care; the taste of him addictive.

Working your magic, you tried to grant the man above you as much pleasure as possible - and it seemed to work. Within a few minutes, Daryl was a whimpering mess - a side you'd never thought you were ever going to see of him. Not in your wildest dreams.

"Ain't... Ain't g-gonna last," the archer panted breathlessly; the hand in your hair twitching. You didn't want him to. You wanted him to fall apart. A gentle squeeze of your hand was all it took. "Y-Y/N, damnit, 'm gon'- Gonna cu-" His sentence got interrupted by a low moan that paved its way to the forefront of his lips. The hand in your hair twitched again as he attempted to pull you off him. You didn't let him, though, and easily dodged his lousy attempt. Instead, you helped him ride the wave. His thighs twitched; muscles tensing as his high crashed into him. Daryl felt like he had been hit by an eighteen-wheeler - but in the best way possible. It had been so long...

The gentle grip he had of your hair slackened; hand falling limply to his side. You lifted your head to look at him to witness his blissed-out state. Daryl's eyes were closed, and his breathing laboured. You smiled; hands gently caressing his clothed thighs. "You believe me now, D?" He gave you a mere nod. Clearly he needed another few moments to get his head straight again. Your smile never ceased as you kept up your fingers movements. Your knees protested by now, but you didn't care.

Another few moments passed, before the archer peeled his eyes open again. Seeing you still on your knees for him managed to send another shockwave of arousal throughout his entire body.

Wide-blown eyes stared at you intensely; the gears turning in his fogged up head.

"T-Thanks, I guess," he whispered then. His voice was still hoarse. You smiled up at him. "You're welcome, pretty boy. Said I'm gonna help you." Daryl nodded almost shyly and clumsily stuffed himself back inside his boxers. You eyed him thoroughly and started to giggle. "Didn't think you'd loose it so fast. Wouldn't have pecked you to be a... premature guy." Not that it mattered to you, but you couldn't help yourself but to tease him a bit. It was meant to be a playful comment, but you seemed to hit a sore spot...

You could practically see how his eyes darkened, before he narrowed them. "Whatcha say, huh?" He asked in a gruff voice and stood up; towering over you. You blinked - were a bit taken aback by the sudden shift in his demeanour. "I-I, uh... Said I didn't think you'd be one t-to, uh, come too early..." The archer growled under his breath. "Ya better watch yer mouth, sunshine," he said in a threatening tone and grabbed your arms to pull you up on your feet. Daryl quickly noticed, though, that his legs were even more wobbly now that they've already been before; forcing him to take cautious steps. "What are we doing, pretty boy? You gonna make me pay for saying that?" You gave another sassy remark; provoking him and tickling his nerve ends even further. A grunt passed his chapped lips as he dragged you with him. Once close to the bed, he wrapped his arms firmly around your bare midsection and literally threw you onto the bed - wobbly legs be damned. You giggled at his eagerness and slid upwards to rest your head on one of the pillows; giving the man a confident look. "C'mon then, pretty boy, show me what you got. I know you want to." He scoffed and crawled on the bed. "Pretty boy my ass." You just giggled again. You felt intoxicated by the wine you had consumed and definitely aroused - which got only worse when you felt calloused, deft hands gripping your delicate skin. Daryl parted your legs and settled on his knees between them. His eyes were directed on your face. He looked like a predator - ready to attack his prey. It was incredibly hot.

"'M gonna shut tha' sassy mouth 'a yers, just ya wait," he growled in a deep voice, and wrapped his arms and hands around your thighs like a snake - holding them firmly and simultaneously keeping you splayed open for him, before he literally yanked you down; bringing your hips closer to his.

Your breath hitched in your throat at his sudden movement and the upcoming anticipation.

His fingertips danced over the skin on your hips then - and suddenly got your dark blue lace panties ripped into shreds.

"Daryl!" You shrieked, then gasped. "Those were my favourites, I-" "'S jus' a damn piece 'a fabric. Dun be such a crybaby," he interrupted you; instantly putting you in your place. Your mouth clapped shut. This was yet another new side of him. Sure, you knew he was hotheaded, but he literally just went from kinda submissive to dominant within the blink of an eye. Was it the alcohol? Or truly his temper?

The clinking of his belt ripped you out of your thoughts. Some shuffling and the rustling of fabric was the only premonition you got, before you felt him against your hot and pulsating center. Your hips instantly bucked; trying to get closer.

More friction.

More pleasure.

More of Daryl.

The archer hovering above you scoffed. "Look how needy ya are. Dun even hafta prepare ya." You could see the corners of his mouth twitching into a small smirk. "Tis all jus' from gettin' me off, huh?" You nodded and bit your lip. Daryl on the contrary shook his head, "Yer tha' desperate? Pf... Pathetic." and lined himself up, before hitting home.

Stars exploded in front of your eyes as his hips met yours. The most sinful moan the archer had ever heard in his life slipped past your lips; only spurring him on more. He picked up a firm, steady pace - leaving you a mess beneath him barely within a few minutes. Just what you did to him.

Revenge was sweet, wasn't it?

His precise, powerful thrusts carried you from one high to the next - and Daryl enjoyed it. He loved to see you fall apart beneath him. And this time, he was the one lasting longer. "Who's commin' too soon now, huh? 'S not me, sunshine. Told ya I'd shut tha' sassy mouth 'a yers," he growled lowly; slowing his pace to just give you a few moments of recovery. You moaned at the sheer endless pleasure he granted you. Your hands gripped his thick arms like a vice after he had planted both palms firmly in the mattress beside your head to gain more leverage. "F-Fuck, Daryl," you whimpered; fingernails digging into his sweaty biceps. "I know. Jus' one more, 'kay? Can ya give me one more?" You nodded wordlessly. "Good girl," the archer praised and picked up his speed once again; pulling another sweet moan alongside some incoherent noises from you.

Your hands travelled. They left his arms to rest on his chest, where they fisted the fabric of his plaid shirt with the ripped off sleeves. The fabric held a darkened stain - a puddle of sweat formed on his chest.

Your hands continued to fist his shirt, as you pulled - an attempt to undo a few buttons. But once the archer noticed what your mission was, he stopped dead in his movements. "Nah, dun do tha'," he scolded you instantly and peeled your hands away from the fabric covering his upper body. "W-Why?" You asked breathlessly; not understanding his sudden mood shift. "'"Cause I told ya to!" He snapped.

Just in that moment, you realised that you must've hit another sore spot... But this time one that actually seemed to get to him. Not one that managed to turn him on.

"S-Sorry, D-Daryl, I-" You immediately apologised, but got interrupted once more. "Keep holdin' on ta my arms, if yer need sum'thin' to hold on to." His voice was gruff, but way more soft than a few moments ago. The archer redirected your hands and placed them once more around his sweaty biceps. Without another word, he continued where he left off, causing your grip to instantly tighten. "There ya go," he praised you again and readjusted your legs with his thighs. Just the slight change of angle was enough to send you a third time over the edge. This time, though, you dragged him right with you.

A broken sound - close to a cry, left the man's lips as he pulled out and coated the supple skin of your stomach with his release. A single droplet of sweat rolled down his neck as he threw his head back in ecstasy. It was a sight to behold. A sight you might never forget for the rest of your life - no matter how long your life was going to be.

A few moments later collapsed Daryl on the mattress beside you. He was clearly spent. Perhaps this had been something you both needed. Who knew?

"Imma take a shower," the archer announced after a while and left the bed - but not before gentleman-like wiping the mess he made on your stomach away with his hand. Without another word, he left, while you just laid there - still naked and staring at the ceiling; recalling in your mind what just happened. The sex managed to sober you up a bit. Did that really just happen? Had you been dreaming this?

You heard the water run, but not how Daryl returned to the room and settled down for the night in the armchair. You had ventured off to dreamland at some point.

To say the next morning was awkward was an absolute understatement. Awkward was not even remotely enough to describe the vibe between the both of you.

When you woke up again, the archer was nowhere to be seen. Now sober, you left the bed, picked up your clothes, noticed that you truly were - in fact in his room, and tiptoed butt naked down the hallway into your room. Luckily nobody had seen you. That would've been scandalous, right?

Your luck was also that everybody was quite hungover from last night. Some more, some less. Therefore noticed nobody the way you and Daryl acted around each other.

You could barely manage to look into his eyes.

You felt ashamed; thinking that you pushed him too far yesterday night. Thinking, that you were too bold and unable to control your damn feelings. Thinking that you pushed him away, instead of drawing him in. You anticipated that the archer must hate you now - and you couldn't even blame him...

Nevertheless seemed a conversation inevitable. You didn't want to destroy the friendship - if you could even call it that - the both of you had before last night.

It took you days to bite the bullet and ask him to talk, though. Sure, you had been on the road again since the CDC was a dead end, but that wasn't an excuse in your eyes.

"D-Daryl?" You approached him cautiously as you found him alone in the stables of the Greene farm; saddling a horse to go looking for Sophia. "Whatcha want?" He asked you and gave you a short look. You swallowed nervously. "Can we, uh, can we talk?" "'Bout wha'?" You watched him work for a moment, while your fingers fumbled with the hem of your t-shirt; trying to gather all the courage you could find. "That, uh, night at the CDC..." Your words came out as a whisper, but Daryl heard them nonetheless - and froze in all his tracks.

"Why'd ya wanna talk 'bout tha'?" He asked nonchalantly after a beat of silence and continued his work; had seemingly shaken off the small 'shock' quite quick. "I-I..." You started and sighed. "Things f-feel so weird between us since that n-night, and... I don't want that. I-I'm sorry for what I did. I'm s-sorry for making you sleep with me." Your eyes were stuck on him. You watched him and tried to gauge his reaction - afraid of what was going to happen.

"Yer sorry 'bout it?" Daryl asked then - almost in disbelief. Then he scoffed. "Do ya regret it?"

That was a question you didn't see coming. A question you haven't thought about yet. Did you regret it? Your memories took you back in time; letting you relive that night you shared with him. The answer was clear - as you quickly discovered.

"No, I don't, but... It was wrong. I shouldn't have-" "Wrong?" He interrupted you. His voice appalled. "Tha's what ya think 'bout this? 'Bout... us?" Daryl accused you with a grimace on his face. Was that... sadness you could detect in his blue orbs? Hurt?

You blinked; "U-Us?" were definitely confused by his words. "W-What do you mean 'us'?" "Ya know wha' I mean, Y/N." You shook your head. "No, Daryl. No, I don't. We've been practically ignoring each other since the CDC. We can't even talk properly! Neither of us can look into the other's eyes! Everything is just... weird, and you talk about an 'us'? No, I don't get it. Tell me. Explain it."

A frustrated huff left the archer's lips, before he started to gnaw at the pad of his thumb; averting your eyes. All of a sudden, the usually so confident redneck became all shy and insecure. "Dunno how," he started; merely shrugging his shoulders. "'S difficult, 'n I ain't good with words." "Try it, D," you encouraged him and gave him a soft smile. "Please. I want to make things right between us again." The archer nodded and took another moment - most likely to gather his thoughts. "'S tha' feeling, ya know? Can't pin it down. Always feelin' so strange whenever yer close to me."

Your heart skipped more than just one beat as his words urged to your ears. Could it be...? No...

"W-What do you feel? Can you... describe it?" Daryl lowered his gaze to the ground. The little stone laying beside his left foot suddenly became really interesting. "Jus' strange. Gets harder to breathe, 'n... My stomach's all messed up. Feels like an itch I can't scratch." You couldn't believe this was happening. Did that night cause Daryl to fall in love with you? "You're doing good, D. Keep going. What else?" You had to know.

He grunted; his foot playing with that little stone, before kicking it aimlessly over the concrete ground. "I... always go back to tha' night in my head. Can't forget it. Yer look. Yer touch. The way ya felt, I-" He stopped himself to take a deep breath. And you smiled. Perhaps having slept with him hadn't been a mistake. Perhaps you interpreted his behaviour wrong. Perhaps you just misread the signs...

"I jus' dunno how to act 'round ya. I dunno wha's happening to me. Tha's why I ain't talkin' to ya. Didn't mean to ignore ya..." Daryl apologised with his head still lowered.

You stepped closer to him and cautiously reached for his hand. He flinched, but didn't pull away. "Daryl, I... I think I know what happened to you," you whispered. "'N wha's tha'?" He asked; finally brave enough to lift his head to look into your eyes. You smiled and squeezed his hand. "I think you... are in love."

As quick as the man had lowered his guard, as quick was it up again.

He pulled his hand out of your grasp and scoffed, before he took a few steps back. "Pf. Love? Me? Tha's ridiculous, woman - 'n we both know it!" "Is it, yeah? You really think so?" "Yes!" He yelled, and wanted to rush past you - but you stopped him with your palm splayed on his chest. You didn't know if what your heart made you do was a wise decision, but it acted on its own will. Your head was powerless anyway.

Daryl's eyes travelled from yours to the hand on his chest and back. "Whatcha doin', woman?! Leave me the hell alo-" You had heard enough. You had held yourself back long enough. This was the only option you had left. It was do or die.

You cut the man off with standing on your tiptoes and connecting your lips to his. It was a chaste, gentle kiss - but nonetheless meaningful. It felt so right. So good. His lips so soft and warm - compared to his seemingly rough exterior. His blond-brown goatee tickled your skin in the best way possible.

Once more, Daryl froze to the ground; not moving a muscle.

When your lips left his again with a soft pop and you reopened your eyes, you could see how his eyelids fluttered slowly open as well. You could feel his heart galloping underneath your palm. "What do you feel now, Daryl?" You asked in a hushed tone. Your eyes never left his. The archer swallowed hard. His Adam's apple bobbed in his throat. "I-I-I..." He stammered out; his cheeks heating up. "G-Good," he croaked out. "R-Real good." You smiled - happy that your heart had made the right decision. "Wanna do it again?" He blinked. The tips of his ears got red as well. "I-If yer willin' t-to k-kiss me again?" Your smile even widened, before you reached up to cup his beardy, red cheeks in your palms to pull him into another kiss. Daryl gasped against your lips; eyes falling shut and lips following your lead. It caused the kiss to get more intimate. More demanding. More passionate.

His hands acted on their own will, as they settled on your waist and pulled you closer. Your body crashed against his. You could tell that he hadn't kissed a lot in his life; his movements clumsy and messy - but perfectly Daryl. And you loved it. You didn't care how experienced or skilled he was. All you cared about was him - and all the love he deserved you wanted to give him.

He was far from perfect; had his flaws - but so were you.

"What do you say now about love, pretty boy?" You asked in a playful, yet loving manner; your hands crossed behind his neck. Daryl's hands gently squeezed your sides, "Shuddup." before he dipped his head to indulge you into yet another kiss.

Yeah... He was definitely whipped.

Tags: @angelwings-crossbowstrings @belitoxx @fictive-sl0th @marvelcasey05 @loz-3 @whore4romance @stitchintimefan @bigbaldheadname @making-the-most-0f-it @erebus-et-eigengrau @km-ffluv @0-aubrie0 @sweetz1919 @mikaela-granger @secretsicanthideanymore @dilfdixon @txtttttttttttttt @dixons-sunshine @cakesandtom @mayday2007 @dixonsdarkelf @huntedmusicgardenn @ffsjustletmesleep

[ninikrumbs]

things he'd never admit

Sukuna x femreader. Just pure fluff. modern au. Soft Sukuna. Sukuna is bad at emotions. first time writing for sukuna so this could be bad.

The smell of rain reaches your nose first making you look up at the dark and gloomy clouds in slight panic, "Damn, its gonna rain soon."

Quickly, you run to the bus station, but apparently not quick enough as you made it halfway through before the soft pitter patter of rain slowly turns louder.

Lady luck was not on your side today. After long tiring day at University, you're now about to turn into a wet rat. A cute wet rat, but still a rat.

It was probably a dumb thing to do, especially when the pouring rain was now blurring your vision, yet you still continued running down the slippery pathway anyways, trying to salvage your books and papers inside your gradually dampening bag.

A low, annoyed grumble made you halt in your step, "Are you trying to kill yourself, brat?"

You could recongnize that rude voice anywhere. You look up to the large form now blocking your way, and quickly noticing the dark umbrella covering your head, "Kuna?"

He scoffs and let out an irritated sound, "Who else?"

Suprise and something warm flits through your body, your eyebrows raising, "What are you doing here? I thought you were busy all day today?"

Your mind recalls his blatant reminder that he couldn't come see you today because he had some school shit to do. Hence why you didn't call him to pick you up which he usally does. Because despite his semi aggressive personality, he does take his studies seriously so you didn't want to disturb him.

And Sukuna was busy, unbearably so. Not that he would admit it, he loved spending time with you thats why he chose to spend the entire day to do his papers and essays due this week was so there would be no interruptions during your time together - which was another thing he would never admit to you- and he could just focus on you.*simp

But when he saw the weather forecast and knowing your bad habit of always forgetting to bring an umbrella, he was already out the door with his keys in hand.

He was right to trust his gut cause here you are almost soaking wet, like a stray kitten left out in the street. Not mention your clothes that were now almost translucent.

It makes him grit his teeth, no one else should see you this way other than him. He holds out the umbrella to you. "Hold this."

You take it without question and hold it above the both of you as Sukuna removes his coat and puts it over your wet clothes. The annoyed look still plastered on his face as he keeps grumbling under his breath of how much of a spoiled brat you are.

It makes you grin cheekily. Other people might take Sukuna's surly personality the wrong way but you knew better. You spoke fluent in Sukuna Itadori.

And you knew, regardless of his complaints and rumblings, he cared. He cared so much even if he wouldn't admit to you or to himself. But you felt it every second you're together.

"Watcha smilin about, woman?" He grouses, annoyed, his eyes locking in on your smile, the type of smile that makes his pathetic heart stumble.

You shake your head still grinning innocently, "Nothing."

He glares at you, not believeing you for a second, but he can roast you about that later. Right now he just want to get you home to make sure you don't come down with a cold or a fever.

With a shake of his head, he takes the umbrella from you and starts walking you to his car. He tries to be subtle about it, but you didn't miss the way the umbrella tilted more on your side getting his right arm soaked from the rain.

"Kuna, your-"

"Leave it."

"Are you sure?"

"Im fine, brat."

You bit back a grin, his words were so jarring yet with no real bite behind them. It could be his jacket that envelops your entire frame and his comforting scent emitting from it, but you feel so warm and cherished. Only Sukuna can be so grumpy yet somehow affectionate.

The car finally comes to view and he ushers you into the passenger seat, placing a practiced hand on the car door frame as you sat down.

You bumped your head into it once but the grimaced you wore is forever seared into Sukunas brain. He realized then and there that he didn't want you in any form of pain, not that you'd ever know when he called you a clumsy idiot as you rubbed your sore head.

He drove extra slow that day.

Plus he stared at that door frame for a hot minute like it was his biggest enemy when he got home.

The moment you got inside his apartment, he immediately demands you get into the shower. His voice holding no room argument.

You comply without complaints of course. After a warm shower, you change into his baggy shirts and make your way to the kitchen when you hear the kettle boiling, and surely enough he has your favorite tea ready in the favorite mug that you bought when you first started dating.

"Oi, your hair's still wet." He notes grimly by the kitchen counter, crossing his arms in displeasure. Though you don't miss the way his eyes flits across your figure in his shirt apprciatively.

You wave him off, grabbing the mug off the counter and breathing in the soothing scent of the tea, a content smile on your lips, "It'll dry off on its own, Kuna."

He tsks at your carelessness and disappears to the bedroom, he comes back a few moments later with a towel and hair dryer. "Sit on the damn sofa"

You gaze at him with exasperated affection. If only people could see through his rough exterior and notice how much this man dotes on you.

Finding no reason to argue, you plop down on the sofa with your legs crossed and he finds his place behind you, fluffy towel in hand.

Gazing down in the mug in your hands, you smile secretly to yourself. Your boyfriend may not be the most expressive when it comes to declarations of love, but you didn't need words. His actions spoke more than any kind of heart trembling confession or lovesick poem.

And you felt everything he would never admit outloud in the way his rough, calloused hands are so uncharacteristically gentle as he weaves through your hair with the towel. Handling you like you were some precious china.

You clasps your hands over his, making him stop. You turn your head and look up at his questioning gaze. Smiling softly, your kiss one of his palms. "Thank you for always taking care of me, Kuna."

His eyes widen slightly before his mask of nonchalance returns, huffing,"Dunno what yer talkin about."

"You know exactly what Im talking about." You grin.

He rolls his eyes feigning irritation in order to hide the small smile tugging in the corner of his lips, "Don't get too used to it."

But he did want you to get used to it. Needed you to need him. This way maybe you'll ignore how shitty he is at emotions or how he can't do all the lovey-dovey stuff that makes you swoon in those crappy rom-coms you're always watching. He'll never hold a boombox over his head outside your window.

"Too late." You say, snuggling your cheek into his palm.

Sukuna falters a bit.

He's a confident man, women would beg for just a single glance from him despite his abrasive nature, it was all part of what Gojo called his charm -and once again he'd never admit it to you- but your words eases the insecurities he didn't realize were there. He grumbles under his breath somewhere along the lines of you better not taking that back.

You laugh at his mumbling, the sound like music to his ears, "Oh, Kuna."

[jobean12-blog]

The Best Worst Day Ever

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x female reader

Word Count: 3.4K

Summary: You're having a shit day but then you see a dog and things start looking up...

Author's Note: We love a soft and sweet Bucky and dogs and bookstores and cookies and kisses- so here we are! Hope you enjoy, thank you all so much for reading! Much love always! ❤️❤️❤️The two bookstores I mention can be found here (Spoonbill and Sugartown) and here (Albertine Books). Divider by the lovely @firefly-graphics thank you Daisy! 🥰

Warnings: a cute dog, Bucky saves the day (a few times), cookies, soft fluff, building tension, books

“You will not believe the day I had.”

You practically sigh the words into the phone, feeling at least slightly better at the sound of your best friends voice.

“Tell me everything,” she says.

You start to recap your shitty day but a large fluff of black fur across the street catches your eye.

“Oh my god…,” you start, completely derailing your previous thought. “There is this giant black dog across the street. I have to go pet it.”

Your best friend laughs, “of course you do,” and you can feel yourself start to form a real smile for the first time today.

“I’ll call you back,” you tell her.

“You got it,” she answers, not even questioning your behavior.

You start to cross the street, giving a quick glance in both directions before breaking into a jog. You’re just about to call out to the old man to ask if his dog is friendly, when you hear the screech of tires.

Your heart drops and your body instinctively reacts but all you feel is the whoosh of air that whips past you and a set of strong arms wrapped around your waist.

For a few long seconds you simply breathe, clinging to the solid warmth of whatever is holding you up.

“Are you ok doll?”

The voice is soft but deep and you look towards it, blinking against the bright sun, wondering for a moment if the car hit you and you’re dead and in fact, now in heaven.

Your fingers dig into soft leather as you stare at one of the most beautiful men you’ve ever seen.

“Am I dead?”

Bright blue eyes peer down at you, the corners lightly crinkling at your question. His gaze wanders over your face, his expression seeming to waver between awe and concern.

“No, I’ve got you. But are you ok?”

His words draw your attention to his mouth. Blinking again and trying to clear your head you finally manage to answer him.

“I…I don’t think so…I just wanted to pet the dog.”

His perfect lips curl up into a teasing smile and you have to drag your eyes away to focus on his blue ones. But the fact that you’re pressed against his solid chest and encased in the warmth of his arms does nothing to help your concentration.

With a slight tremble you start to sit up, but he doesn’t release you from his hold. He just moves with you and helps you to stand.

Once he feels you’re steady enough on your feet he removes his hands but stays close, clearly not convinced you’re fine.

You let out a shaky exhale and smooth your hands over yourself.

“That was so scary.”

You can feel the warmth of tears spring to your eyes and your vision starts to blur. He reaches out a gentle hand and places it on your arm.

“I’m sure it was. And while we could stay here I think it would be best to get out of the middle of the street. Why don’t we go sit?”  

He points to the bench on the sidewalk where the old man with the dog stands and watches.

As you approach the old man asks, “it’s a good thing this young man was here to save you. I could never move that fast.”

You glance at the “young man,” and he extends the hand that doesn’t have a secure hold on your arm to greet you.

“Bucky. Bucky Barnes.”

“Thank you Bucky,” you say and then give him your name.

“Is she ok?” the old man asks Bucky.

“I think she’s gonna be fine,” Bucky says with a reassuring smile.

Bucky helps you onto the bench and as the dog moves closer, tail wagging, you blurt out in a rush, “can I please pet your dog?”

“Sure,” the old man says. “She’s very friendly.”

“What’s her name?” Bucky asks, as he kneels down to put his hand out for the dog to smell.

“Luna,” the old man replies, sitting down next to you on the bench.

You reach for Luna, letting her smell you before scratching her ears and leaning down to press your face into her soft fur.

Your focus stays on the dog until your heartbeat returns to normal, the conversation between Bucky and the old man lingering quietly in the background.

After a few more steadying breaths you thank the old man and Bucky helps him to stand, watching as he takes slow and small steps away from you, Luna in tow but still looking back at you.

Bucky stands and offers you his hand; strong and slightly clammy, and sparks fly, a curious look flitting across his stunning face as you both react to the touch. You fix your gaze on him and finally give yourself a chance to look. Your heart starts to crash against your chest all over again. You just sit there, staring.

He’s tall and the soft henley he wears beneath his leather jacket is fitted so that you can see the outline of the muscles in his chest. His eyes are the most beautiful blue, and the stubble covering his strong jaw does nothing to conceal the handsome features beneath it.

He smiles softly and for a moment you think you see his cheeks turn a light shade of pink at your obvious examination. He’s still holding onto your hand, and suddenly, seeming to come to his senses, he releases it and smooths his palm over his hair and then the back of his neck.

You feel a flush of heat move through you.

“You’re sure you’re ok doll?”

You nod.

“She should probably eat something.”

At the old man’s gruff voice both you and Bucky startle and turn to see him standing just a few feet away, a knowing smile on his face. Obviously, he didn’t get very far.

“He deserves a date for savin’ your life there young lady.”

With a decisive nod he dismisses you and Bucky and calls to Luna to finally continue on his way.

You feel Bucky’s eyes on you, and you look back up at him from your seat.

“Food?” you ask quietly.

“Let’s go,” he answers, his easy smile returning. “I know just the place.”

The butterflies stay firmly planted in the pit of your empty stomach and you stand so abruptly that you teeter forward and into his arms again. He catches you with two hands splayed at your waist and the urge to bury your heated face against his chest is overwhelming.

“I’m really having a day,” you mutter. “I’m sorry.”

“Nothing to apologize for. I’m just happy I’m here to help.”

“Me too,” you whisper.

He falls into an easy stride beside you and a huff of laughter falls from your lips before you say, “I can’t believe I almost died trying to pet a dog.”

“I get it,” Bucky says, throwing you a wink.

You’re careful with your footing, still somewhat shaky from the whole ordeal but when your attention turns back to Bucky, his eyes trailing across your face, seeming to linger on your mouth before lifting to your eyes, you stumble, your foot catching a crack in the sidewalk.

He grabs your bicep to steady you, and you groan. “Shit, you must think I’m hopeless.”

“That person’s driving skills having nothing to do with you,” he assures you as he gently leads you toward the restaurant. “And everyone likes to pet dogs…or at least they should.”

His voice is gentle, and you avoid his gaze, his hand still curled securely around your arm as you come to stop outside the restaurant.

He only let’s go to open the door and usher you in with a soft press of his hand to your lower back.

The flutter of butterflies that you keep trying to ignore are back in full force and when Bucky stops at a table and pulls out the chair for you the gesture has you feeling faint.

You must be starved.

With a monumental effort to relax you sit back in the chair and cross your legs. His gaze automatically flickers downward and be visibly swallows before quickly looking away.

There’s a definite blush on the tops of his cheeks now.

“The pizza here is really good.” His voice sounds extra rumbly, maybe even a little hoarse.

You pick up a menu and start to fan yourself without even thinking. “I’m sure it is.”

“Do you live close by?” you ask him.

“Just a few blocks away. I’m here all the time.”

Before you can ask any more questions, an older woman appears beside your table with a beaming smile.

“Barnes has finally showed up with a girl!” she sings. “And a beauty at that.”

You hide your giggle behind the menu and peer at Bucky.

“This is Millie,” he says, his smile wide. “She owns the place and loves to bust my chops.”

You introduce yourself, delighted and Millie’s warmth.

“Are you having the usual?” Millie asks Bucky.

He nods and looks to you.

“I’ll have whatever he’s having,” you tell Millie.

“I like her already,” Millie says before rushing back off to the kitchen.

Bucky sits forward, his arms crossed in front of him and now that he’s taken off his leather jacket there is more of him to admire.

His blue eyes are focused entirely on you, and you try not to blurt out your thoughts about how nice his biceps looked in his shirt so instead you clamp your mouth shut and look around the cozy space.

You fall into easy conversation and when the food comes the silence is comfortable while you eagerly eat it, not realizing how hungry you really are.

After your stomach is full, Bucky pays the bill, even after you offered several times, pleading with him that you owed him at least that after saving your life.

He waves you off and hands Millie the cash then holds his hand out for yours.

At the feel of his skin tension immediately springs between you, and you scramble to think of something to say.

He beats you to it.

“What are your plans for the weekend?”

Grateful for the distraction, you reply, “well, I usually spend my Saturday afternoons at this little bookshop in my neighborhood.”

“Is it Spoonbill and Sugartown?”

Your eyes widen and light up.

“YES! You know it?”

“I do. I used to go all the time. Haven’t been in a while though. I love the smell of the old books.”

A rush of attraction sweeps over you like a wave and your hand squeezes his.

“You could meet me there tomorrow? If you’re not busy?”

“Yeah. I’d love that,” he says, grabbing the door and holding it open so you can exit the restaurant.

“Which way are you?” he asks, still holding your hand.

You point right toward Bedford Avenue.

“Come on, I’ll walk ya home doll.”

“Is it out of your way? I don’t want to take up any more of your time.”

He chuckles before leaning down to press a quick, surprising kiss to your cheek.

“Nah, it’s not and I really don’t mind.”

You are in love.

Inside the old bookstore, with its vaulted ceilings and shafts of light pouring through the skylights, you stare at the rows and rows of bookshelves.

Through the aisles there is something to catch the eye at every turn. Not just books, but interesting and antique Tiffany lamps and various knick knacks that make you smile. Reading areas are set up in breaks between the shelves, tables with chairs so people can lounge, read, and drink their coffee and eat their desserts.

You let out a contented sigh. On purpose, you arrived a bit early, hoping the familiarity and comfort of the store would calm the persistent butterflies that have taken up a permanent residence in your stomach since your literal run in with Bucky.

As you’re falling deeper under the spell of the leather lined bindings and dusty-smelling pages a soft voice calls your name.

You look up and see Bucky standing at the end of the aisle. He’s dressed casually but different from yesterday, his dark jeans fitted to his muscular thighs and his black tee shirt showing off those perfect arms and chest.

He steps closer and greets you with another kiss to your cheek, this time, closer to the corner of your mouth.

You close your eyes briefly, inhaling his scent and steadying yourself on your feet. Before you can actually swoon to the floor you tell him about the expansion they recently built in the back with a rush of enthusiastic words.

Taking his hand, you lead him to the new section, practically running.

Laughing at your overexcitement, he squeezes your hand.

“You’re very cute.”

When you turn to look at him, something in his eyes makes your skin heat and you have to look away again, but not before you give him a thankful smile.

You expect him to let go of your hand once you reach the back, but he doesn’t.

“Have you ever been to Albertine Books?” he asks.

You stop and think.

“No, I don’t think I’ve even heard of it.”

“It’s easy to miss,” he explains. “It’s inside the French Embassy and has mostly French language books and translations from French into English, but it’s gorgeous.”

“Really?” you say with uninhibited joy. “Will you take me there sometime?”

You’re too busy deciding which part of the expanded bookstore you want to show him first to see his expression, but you hear the affection in his tone when he replies, “I’ll take you anywhere you want to go, doll.”

Your heart flutters.

Your hand gets clammy, and you gently pull it away, trying to use the shelves and the books lining them to refocus yourself.

He stays with you, content to watch you peruse the bindings, moving from bookshelf to bookshelf.

The book titles quickly become a blur as your awareness zeroes in on one thing, one person.

Bucky.

You feel the warmth of his presence, hovering at your back, and feel the heat of his gaze on your face. The skin on your cheek tingles and you can still feel the press of his lips.

Your breathing grows shallower as his fingertips brush against the small of your back, a gentle touch, but searing through your clothes.

Busy frantically pondering how to navigate the chemistry you share; you don’t realize the book you halt in front of until it’s too late.

A romance novel with a couple in a sexy position on the cover.

Just perfect.

His fingertips press deeper against your lower back, and then you feel the whisper of his lips on your ear as he comments, “interesting choice.”

You make the mistake of turning your head toward his and find his nose just inches from yours.

Your eyes lock for a second before his gazes drops to your mouth. Your body sways slightly toward his, and he takes the movement as an invitation, his head dipping those last few inches.

“Excuse me.”

A voice, loud and close, jolts you away from Bucky, whose mouth had just been millimeters from touching yours.

“I just…want that book.” An arm reaches between you and Bucky, and dazed, you look over to see a woman. She seems unfazed by the fact that she clearly interrupted a moment, and you grab the book for her.

She gives you a thin lipped smiled and darts away.

After a second or two of staring after her, you finally draw up the courage to meet Bucky’s eyes.

His cheeks are pink again and he’s rubbing his palm on his jeans.

Looking over his shoulder you spot the coffee and dessert counter.

“Ooh!” you say, hurrying towards it. “Let’s get a cookie!”

Bucky follows and you turn to him, smiling through the awkwardness.

“You have to try the double chocolate chip.”

He bends down to peer into the display case. Your eyes meet, and just like that you’re too close for your body to handle. You swallow hard.

“It’s delicious. And the chunks of chocolate are gooey.”

His eyes are trained on your mouth as he murmurs, “maybe we should get two.”

“Good idea. I can eat a whole one easily on my own. We might even need three.”

You sound breathless.

“Hm.” He’s not even listening to your words at this point. His focus is on your lips, his eyes are hooded, and he is definitely going to attempt to kiss you again.

“What can I get for you?” the worker behind the counter asks, smiling brightly when the two of you jerk your heads up.

“Four double chocolate chip cookies,” Bucky blurts out, then follows with a soft, “please and thanks.”

Once you have your cookies in your hand you head to one of the back tables and sit, stuffing nearly the whole cookie in your mouth.

It’s so good that for a moment you forget yourself and moan around the bite.

Bucky clears his throat, and you lock eyes. His reaches across the table, his strong fingertips gripping your chin, and he bends his head toward yours. He halts when he’s close enough that you can see the patches of gray in his beard and feel his warm breath fan your cheek.

With the softest brush of his calloused thumb, he wipes away some chocolate from your bottom lip.

“Had a little chocolate smudge right there,” he whispers.

You slowly nod and your tongue darts out to lick your lips. His eyes track the movement, and he releases you, biting into half of his own cookie.

“These really are amazing,” he says around the mouthful.

You nod again, too flustered for words.

The two of you eat all four cookies and despite wanting to distract yourself with more you leave the bookstore and let him walk you home once again.

When you stop outside your building you fiddle with your hands and look anywhere but at him.

“I had the best time,” he says, drawing your attention.

“Me too,” you say quietly.

“When can I take you to Albertine Books?” he asks, as he takes a tentative step closer.

“Tomorrow?”

It’s a hopeful question. One you couldn’t stop yourself from asking even if you wanted to.

“I’d love that doll.”

A deep tug low in your belly makes you bite your lip. You love the use of that endearment and after spending most of the afternoon so close to him you’re nearly at your wits end.

His gaze fixes on yours and his jaw tightens at whatever he sees in your expression then he closes the distance and slides his arms around you, his hands coasting slowly up your back.

He lifts a hand to your cheek, sweeping his thumb across your soft skin and splaying his hand to draw you closer.

“If someone interrupts us this time…” he says, tone full of warning but still teasing.

“Honestly, I wouldn’t even notice if there was a dog nearby for me to pet,” you say with a smile.

He laughs and bumps your nose with his.

“Not even a dog huh?”                                                                                   

You shake your head, and your eyes start to close as your hands grasp the front of his shirt. You feel the heat of his breath first, the warning before his lips touch yours. And when they do, it’s barely a brush, a hot, glancing touch.

Your fingers close more tightly around the fabric of his shirt, silently urging him to really kiss you. You’re desperate for it.

Another whisper of a of kiss, then a slightly deeper press, a nibble on your lower lip. A whimper escapes you.

It shatters whatever restraint he’s grounded himself with and his hand splayed at your back hauls you against his body as his mouth presses to yours.

You open your mouth to let him in, and his groan of satisfaction rumbles through you. The tickle of his scruffy jaw is rough in the just the way you’d hoped it would be and when you feel the slide of his hands down your back, the smooth strength of him under your touch, you completely melt into the kiss and the rest of the world fades away.

[seospicybin]

TASTE.

CHAPTER IV: DECADENT.

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. (21,5k words)

Author's note: Congratulations on surviving the week. Pls enjoy the new chapter and don’t forget to share what you think of it ♡

Decadent /ˈde-kə-dənt/ (adj) characterized by or appealing to self-indulgence.

We've all heard the phrase: "You are what you eat." Have you ever considered, however, that what you eat might also affect how you feel? Certain foods are filled with compounds that have the potential to make you happy, for example, dark chocolate. You always start your mornings with a cup of coffee and you never forget to drop in a chunk of dark chocolate. It’s your little treat to yourself, a tiny boost of serotonin that makes even the busiest mornings a bit sweeter. Today is no exception, but as you finish your coffee in a hurry, there’s a lightness in your chest that has nothing to do with the chocolate.

It’s going to be a good day. You grab your bag and step out of your apartment, locking the door behind you. Just as you turn around, you see Minho stepping out of his apartment. Your heart skips a beat, the sight of him adding another unexplainable surge of serotonin to your morning.

You lift your hand to wave, but before you can, Minho strides toward the elevator, his pace hurried. He reaches it just in time, stopping the doors from closing, and slips inside without even glancing your way. You pout, your hand dropping back to your side. He didn’t see me…

But then, just as the doors are about to close completely, his head pops out. “Why are you just standing there?”

A grin spreads across your face. Without a second thought, you jog to the elevator, slipping inside to stand beside him.

The space is small, quiet, but the silence doesn’t feel awkward. It feels charged, alive with unspoken words and a giddiness you can’t seem to shake. You glance at him out of the corner of your eye, your smile returning before you can stop it. The memory of last night rushes back, unbidden but vivid. The warmth of his touch, the sound of his laughter, the way he looked at you like you were the only person in the world.

You feel the heat creeping up your neck and quickly look away, trying to steady your thoughts. But when you glance at him again, you notice something—a tiny imperfection in his otherwise perfect look. Without thinking, you reach for him, your fingers brushing the collar of his shirt, straightening it for him.

Minho tilts his head slightly, watching you with an amused glint in his eyes. “If you keep doing things like this in the kitchen, people are going to figure it out,” he says, his tone teasing.

You blink up at him, feigning innocence. “Figure what out?”

His lips twitch, and he looks away for a moment, as if to keep from laughing. “It’s written all over your face,” he replies, his voice lower, softer.

You shake your head in denial, but the smile pulling at your lips betrays you. Minho’s gaze lingers on you for a moment longer, and then he smirks. “Stop being so obvious,” he says, his voice playfully scolding.

You lower your head, trying to stifle your laughter. “Yes, Chef,” you reply formally, biting back your grin.

The silence that follows barely lasts a second before you both break into smiles again, the sound of your laughter filling the elevator. Minho lets out a playful groan and gently shoves your shoulder. “I’m serious. Stop.”

You scoot closer to him, your smile turning mischievous. “Make me,” you tease, linking your arm with his.

Minho shakes his head, his eyes crinkling at the corners, reaching to untangle your arm from his. But instead of letting go, he lets his hand slide down to yours, his fingers lacing with yours in an easy, natural motion.

For a moment, neither of you says anything. The only sound is the soft hum of the elevator. Your heart beats wildly in your chest, but you don’t let go. Neither does he. And just like that, the day feels even brighter.

-

Lunch service is in full swing, the kitchen alive with clattering pans, sizzling oils, and the hum of orders being called out. Minho stands at his chef’s table, his eyes sweeping across the room like a hawk, watching every station for mistakes or signs of slacking off. His expression is calm, composed, the perfect picture of control. But no matter how hard he tries, his gaze keeps drifting your way.

It’s distracting, this magnetic pull toward you, as if his eyes are betraying his better judgment. He stiffens when you approach his table, balancing two plates of aglio e olio in your hands. The precision in your movements catches his attention, but it’s your face he’s scanning for remnants of last night—some telltale blush, a lingering glance, anything. But you’re calm. Too calm.

“Chef?” you ask, your voice low enough that only he can hear over the chaos of the kitchen. “Is there a problem?”

Minho blinks, caught off guard. You look at him with innocent eyes, and for a moment, he’s annoyed—not at you, but at himself for expecting something different. You’re good at hiding your feelings, he realizes, far better than he is.

“No,” he mutters, grabbing a cloth and wiping the edge of the plate with unnecessary care. He keeps his eyes on you as you turn and head back to your station, his chest tightening with a strange, inexplicable pull.

Even with the entire kitchen between you, Minho feels drawn to you, like a magnet he can’t resist. He tells himself he’s just observing your cooking—making sure your technique is flawless—but the truth is harder to admit.

Before he knows it, he’s walking toward your station, aiming to stand behind you. But just as he gets close, you step away, heading toward the freezer without sparing him a glance. Minho halts awkwardly mid-step, cursing himself for his obviousness.

Quick to recover, he veers toward Felix, glancing over the risotto Felix is stirring. “Too much thyme,” Minho comments curtly, masking his unease. Felix frowns, his lips twitching as if to argue, but Minho doesn’t give him the chance.

“Yes, Chef,” Felix quickly responds to avoid being scolded.

Returning to his chef’s table, Minho’s phone vibrates in his pocket. He pulls it out, his heart skipping when he sees your name on the screen.

He glances up, and there you are, emerging from the freezer, carrying a container of grated Parmesan. So that’s why you went there, he thinks, a smirk tugging at his lips. He opens the text and reads it quickly: Don’t make it obvious.

Minho scoffs, shoving his phone back into his pocket. Too late, he thinks, though he’d never admit it. You’ve gotten under his skin more than he cares to acknowledge, and it’s showing. It’s time to remind himself—and you—that he’s still in charge.

“You!” he calls out loudly, his voice cutting through the kitchen like a whip. Heads turn as you straighten up at your station. “Table 18 and 21, you take them all. Now. And if you can’t get them out in time, I’ll hang you upside down like a bat.”

You put on a feigned look of horror, widening your eyes and pouting slightly. “Yes, Chef!” you reply, your tone both dutiful and teasing.

Minho’s lips twitch, but he keeps his expression sharp. From the corner of his eye, he sees Felix glaring at him, his brows furrowed in silent question.

“Why is Chef being so harsh with us?” Felix whispers to you when he gets the chance.

You shrug, offering him a coy smile. “I have no idea,” you say lightly, but there’s a glint in your eyes, one that only Minho can decipher.

He watches you with a faint smirk, his irritation dissipating as quickly as it had come. You’re playing your part perfectly, and even though he started this game, he knows you’ll always find a way to win.

-

The idea of meeting Minho outside work feels thrilling, like a secret only the two of you share. You take off your jacket and step out of the restaurant during idle time, excitement bubbling inside you. You shove your hands into your jacket pockets, walking casually down the street, your mind already imagining his expression when you see him.

Out of nowhere, Chris appears beside you, matching your stride. "Where are you off to?" he asks, his tone light but curious.

Startled, you quickly pull yourself together. You hadn’t expected anyone to catch you leaving. Thinking fast, you point down the street and mumble, "Oh, just heading that way. What about you?"

Chris grins, his dimples deepening. "Same direction, actually."

You nod, trying to mask your unease as the two of you continue walking side by side. But as you near the convenience store, your chest tightens. Panic creeps in—how are you going to explain this to Minho?

Slowing your steps, you turn to Chris and say, "You can go ahead. I’ll catch up."

Chris chuckles, bumping your shoulder playfully. "What’s the rush? I like walking with you."

You force a laugh, your nerves showing. "Are you sure you’re not following me?"

He scoffs, amused by your accusation. "Don’t flatter yourself."

You pick up your pace, hoping to lose him, but Chris keeps up effortlessly. To your dismay, he follows you right into the convenience store.

Minho is already there, sitting on a stool and leaning casually against a counter, his sharp gaze softening slightly when he spots you—until he notices Chris trailing behind. His expression shifts to one of barely concealed annoyance.

You shrug sheepishly, pretending to be surprised. "Oh, Chef! What a coincidence," you say, your voice overly cheerful.

Chris walks past you, oblivious to the tension, heading straight for the freezer section. Minho’s glare sharpens, and he jerks his head slightly, gesturing for you to sit on the stool next to him.

As you do, he discreetly slides a chocolate bar under the table. You catch it and quickly tuck it into your jacket pocket, mouthing a grateful "thank you" as a small smile tugs at your lips.

Chris returns, holding three ice creams. He places one in front of each of you before sitting down next to you.

The three of you unwrap your ice creams in silence, the sound of crinkling wrappers the only noise. You take a bite, the cold sweetness melting on your tongue.

After a while, Chris is the first to break the quiet. "It’s payday. Shouldn’t you be treating me to something?"

You chuckle, nodding your head. "Sure, I’ll pay for the ice creams."

Minho slightly swivels his stool and cuts in. "Why should she be the one paying?"

Chris smirks, clearly enjoying the back-and-forth. "Then why don’t you pay for it, Chef?"

Minho sighs, leaning back and gazing out the window. "You are indeed an interesting person," he mutters. "You own a fine dining restaurant but come all the way here for ice cream."

Chris turns to you with his signature dimpled smile and playfully bumps your shoulder. "But it's good, right?"

You nod, grinning. "It’s good."

Minho’s glare swings to you. "Is it good?" he asks, his tone pointed.

You meet his eyes and smile sweetly. "It’s good, Chef."

Minho exhales sharply but doesn’t say more. The three of you finish your ice creams in relative quiet, the tension between Minho and Chris oddly amusing. Despite the unexpected company and how far the situation strayed from your plan, you find yourself enjoying it. Minho’s sharp wit, Chris’s warm charm—they’re such opposites, yet somehow the dynamic works. For now, you savor the moment, the sweetness of the ice cream and the peculiar balance of the company around you.

-

Minho steps into his office, his jaw tightening as he recalls how his intended rendezvous with you had been derailed by Chris’s untimely appearance. The faint annoyance gnaws at him as he tosses his coat over the chair and heads for the small coffee station in the corner of the room.

Making coffee has always had a strange way of soothing him. He finds a rhythm in the grind of the beans, the steady hum of the machine, and the rich aroma filling the space. It’s methodical, like cooking, but without the chaos of the kitchen. Once the cup is brewed, he brings it to his desk, its warmth radiating through the ceramic against his palms.

Settling into his chair, Minho takes a slow sip, savoring the bitterness. The smell alone brings him comfort, but today, it also stirs memories of the previous night. Just you and him. No distractions. No interruptions. He closes his eyes briefly, replaying the way your laugh had sounded, how you’d looked at him with that softness in your eyes that made his chest tighten.

Minho leans back, letting the moment linger longer than he should. He knows better than to dwell, yet the thought of being alone with you again is too tempting to ignore. He’s drawn out of his reverie when Taesoo enters the office and strikes him like a lightning in the middle of the day.

“I saw you kiss her in the kitchen last night.”

He stares at Taesoo, who stands before him looking like he regrets every word he’s just spoken. But there is no taking it back. The damage is done.

Minho straightens, his voice low and controlled. “Does anyone else know?”

Taesoo shakes his head quickly, his hands rising in defense. “No, no one. I swear.”

Minho’s jaw tightens as he steps closer, his shadow falling over Taesoo. “Then make sure it stays that way.”

The younger one nods, his face pale. “I didn’t mean—”

“Go back to the kitchen,” Minho interrupts, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Taesoo hesitates for only a moment before bowing and hurrying out of the office, leaving Minho alone once again with his thoughts that swirling in his head like a raging storm.

By the time dinner service begins, the weight of Taesoo’s insinuation hangs heavy on Minho’s mind. He works with precision, shouting orders and keeping a close eye on the line, determined not to let it show.

Amid the controlled chaos, a service staff approaches, momentarily breaking his focus. “Chef, a customer wants to personally thank the chef for the meal.”

Minho adjusts his apron, preparing to meet the guest, but the staff quickly adds, “Actually, they asked to see Sous Chef Seojun. He made the dish.”

Minho nods curtly, signaling for Seojun to handle it. He watches as the sous chef heads to the front, a mix of pride and frustration swirling within him. Normally, he’d take satisfaction in seeing his team praised, but tonight, his thoughts are elsewhere.

Just as Minho turns back to the station, Sara appears beside him, her voice low but firm. “We need to talk later,” she says, her tone serious.

Minho glances at her, his brow furrowing. She doesn’t elaborate, simply giving him a meaningful look before stepping away.

His grip on the edge of the counter tightens as the night presses on, the burden of unspoken words, secrets, and mounting suspicion weighing heavily on him. Minho pushes through service, but the once-controlled rhythm of his work feels off-kilter, his mind plagued by everything he’s trying to keep hidden.

-

Minho finishes changing into his casual clothes, buttoning the cuffs of his shirt when a knock echoes on his office door. Without needing to ask, he knows who it is. "Come in," he calls out, his voice steady but laced with curiosity.

The door opens, and Sara steps in, her usual composed demeanor intact as she casually takes a seat on the single sofa in his office. Minho raises an eyebrow at her boldness, leaning against his desk with his arms crossed. "You look a little too comfortable in my office," he remarks, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

Sara doesn’t flinch. Instead, she smirks, tilting her head. "You should get used to it."

Minho narrows his eyes but gestures for her to get to the point. "So, what is it you want to talk to me about?"

She reclines slightly, crossing her legs as she starts. "It’s about Sous Chef Seojun."

Minho’s brows furrow. "What about him?"

Sara doesn’t miss a beat. "He might be leaving the kitchen soon."

Minho's eyebrow raised at that and he straightens as the weight of her words settling in.

"The customer who asked for him earlier—he’s opening a new Italian restaurant. I’m willing to bet Seojun’s been offered the head chef position," she explains, her tone calm but with a hint of gravity. "And if that happens, he’ll probably take his people with him."

Minho takes in her words, the implications running through his mind. He knows Sara’s right; it’s not just a possibility—it’s a likelihood. The thought of losing key members of his team, of having to rebuild the kitchen dynamics, gnaws at him.

Minho steps out of the back entrance into the cool night air, his eyes scanning the parking lot. Seojun’s car is still in its spot and he sees Seojun sitting inside with Seungwan and Hyunwoo. The three of them are animated, their laughter spilling into the quiet night. Minho doesn’t need to hear the conversation to guess what it’s about—they’re probably already dreaming of leaving his kitchen behind.

Minho’s mood sours further as he heads home. By the time he steps into his apartment, the weight of everything—Taesoo’s suspicions, Sara’s warning, Seojun’s likely departure—feels unbearable. The suffocating stillness of his apartment does nothing to help. On a whim, he grabs his phone and sends you a text, telling you to come out.

A moment later, your apartment door creaks open, and there you are, smiling the moment you see him. That smile—it’s enough to ease the tension in his chest, even if only slightly.

"Were you sleeping?" Minho asks, his voice softer than usual.

You shake your head. "No, not yet. Why?"

He hesitates, the temptation to spill everything clawing at him. He wants to tell you about Taesoo, about Seojun, about how everything seems to be crumbling around him. But he stops himself. That’s not why he’s here.

Instead, he smirks, his tone shifting to something lighter. "Have you eaten the chocolate I gave you?"

You giggle, shaking your head again. "Not yet."

Minho stares at you, feigning disbelief. "Why not?"

You grin, teasing him. "Because it’s from you. I don’t want to eat it."

Minho hisses through his teeth, pretending to be annoyed. "Eat it," he orders, though there’s no real bite in his tone.

You respond with a playful, formal tone, "Yes, Chef."

Minho steps closer, leaning in until his lips are near your ear. His voice drops to a whisper. "And don’t share it with anyone else."

Your cheeks flush as you nod, a smile tugging at your lips. Before pulling back, Minho brushes his lips against your cheek, lingering for just a second longer than necessary.

"Go back inside and sleep," he murmurs.

You look up at him, your smile warm and soft. "Goodnight, Chef."

Minho watches as you retreat into your apartment, the door clicking shut behind you. He turns and walks back to his own apartment, the warmth of your smile and the memory of your laughter lingering in his chest, making the weight of the night just a little easier to bear.

-

The locker room is quiet when you enter, the faint scent of metal and detergent lingering in the air. You open your locker, placing your things inside methodically, your mind half on the day ahead and half on the memory of Minho at your door last night. His touch, his words, the subtle vulnerability in his eyes—it all lingers, warm and heavy in your chest. But you can’t also deny that you noticed something in his eyes, something troubling that he refused to share with you.

The sound of footsteps echoes in the room, pulling you from your thoughts. Voices follow, familiar and distinct. Seungwan and Hyunwoo, you realize, accompanied by Sous Chef Seojun. They always arrive together, carpooling to work.

Your locker is on the opposite side of the room, and they won't know you're there unless you make a noise, their conversation carries clearly in the space.

"Did you guys get your resumes ready?" Seojun’s voice cuts through.

"Yeah, I emailed mine last night," Seungwan replies, his tone light with excitement.

"Same," Hyunwoo adds, chuckling. "I can’t wait to work in a real kitchen, where we can actually create something."

Seojun hums approvingly. "Good. The owner’s expecting them today. This is going to be big for us."

You pause, your heart sinking. Their words start piecing together a puzzle you hadn’t even realized existed. Something that bothers Minho’s mind—this must be it. His team is planning to leave him.

Minho may act like it doesn't bother him but you can see it, especially during the lunch service. The kitchen is at its usual chaos, orders are flooding in and the rhythm is relentless. Sara’s triple-flavored pasta is still the crowd favorite and the demand is testing her limits.

Next to you, Sara wipes her brow, exhaling sharply. "This is insane," she mutters, glancing at you as you plate the last vongole for your station.

"Is that your last one?" she asks, her voice tinged with urgency.

"Yes, Chef," you reply, your tone calm and steady as always.

"Can you take three of my orders?" she asks, her gaze sharp but pleading.

You nod, placing the vongole on Minho’s chef table before moving to Sara’s station. She’s already started another order, her hands working swiftly as she talks you through the steps. You follow her lead, watching every motion, memorizing each detail.

When the first dish is ready, you bring it to her for approval. Sara takes a bite, her expression thoughtful as she chews. Then, a smile breaks across her face.

"The dough, the sauce, temperature and tenderness... it's all good," she says, nodding in approval.

Relief washes over you, and you smile back. "Thank you, Chef."

Sara laughs, a rare lightness in her tone. "I better watch my back. You’re going to catch up to me soon."

You laugh softly, returning your focus to the task at hand. The kitchen fades around you as you concentrate on perfecting the dish, tuning out the chaos that swirls like a storm. It isn’t until Minho slams his hands on his chef’s table and his voice booms across the room that you snap out of your focus.

"Sous Chef!" he barks, his tone sharp enough to cut through the noise. "How could you spaced out in the middle of cooking! Can't you hear your meat crying out to you? Can't you tell what to do from the color and the smell? You should know by now."

You glance over, catching sight of the sous chef scrambling to salvage the charred meat with his thong.

"And you! What good is this meat if you treat it like third class meat?" Minho continues, turning to Hyunwoo. "Top grade meat does not need anything but salt to melt in your mouth. It does not need any chef to cook it well."

Minho taps Hyunwoo’s pan with a wooden spatula as his voice raises louder as he continues talking. "A true chef is the one who can make low class meat taste like the top grade. But even with a top grade meat, I don't know what you've been thinking but you've made the meat go tough. You are ruining the food!"

He turns at Seungwan next as he prepares a salad on his plate. Minho grabs his container of cilantro, showing him how they're wilting against the temperature in the kitchen.

"Didn’t I tell you to give them some water and cover them with a wet cloth. I told you so many times but you just wouldn't listen to me."

Seeing the defiance in them seem to only anger Minho, he inhales air but it doesn’t help him anymore. "Do you think at a restaurant where there is a luxurious dining hall, and a grand kitchen would make you a top chef? Is that it, huh?"

Minho’s fury is palpable, his frustration spilling over. The entrée line is a mess, their movements sluggish and half-hearted. It’s clear their minds are elsewhere—already dreaming of the new kitchen Seojun promised them.

"GET YOUR BRAINS BACK TO YOUR HEADS!"

The tension in the kitchen mounts, heavy and suffocating. You steal a glance at Minho, his jaw tight, his eyes blazing as he tries to regain control. Despite everything, he doesn’t falter. He keeps shouting orders, his voice commanding as he refuses to let the kitchen crumble under his watch.

But you can see the strain in him, the weight of it all bearing down on his shoulders. And it makes your chest ache, knowing just how much he’s carrying.

-

The kitchen is eerily quiet after the lunch service ends, the usual clatter of pans and voices replaced by the hum of the exhaust fans. One by one, the cooks file out, muttering farewells or simply disappearing without a word. All except Seojun.

Minho stays rooted at his chef table, arms crossed, his sharp gaze trained on the sous chef still standing at his station. Seojun doesn’t move, his posture stiff, as though he’s bracing himself.

For a long moment, neither of them speaks. The silence hangs heavy, charged with unspoken words and simmering tension. Their eyes lock, an unyielding standoff.

Finally, Seojun breaks the silence. "You said first class chef can make the third class food to top class," he begins, his voice low but steady, "According to your theory, if you're a top class chef, shouldn't you also be able to make us into first class chef as well?"

Minho tilts his head slightly, his expression calm but sharp as a blade. "Are you saying it’s my fault that you’re third-class chefs?"

Seojun’s jaw tightens, his shoulders stiffening. "So, is it because we are third class cooks that you don't want to cook with us?"

Minho lets out a soft exhale, leaning slightly against the table. His voice is measured, deliberate. "You think I’m just sitting here, doing nothing? You’re like third-rate meat, full of fat and sinews. It needs to be pounded, poked, and tenderized to become top-grade. If you resent being called third-class, then try harder. Endure the process. If I slap your left cheek, offer me the other so that you can learn. This is how I cook in my kitchen."

Seojun clenches his fists, the muscles in his jaw twitching as he grinds his teeth. "You think that’s all it takes?" he says, his voice rising. "You think burning us down and grinding us up will make us better?"

Without breaking eye contact, Seojun grabs a nearby bottle of wine, yanking it open. He strides to the grill, tipping the bottle and splashing a stream of wine onto the hot surface. Flames roar to life, licking the air in a brilliant burst of heat and light.

Seojun turns back to Minho, the fire reflecting in his eyes. "No matter how good the meat is, it’ll burn if you keep cooking it on high heat," he says, his tone biting.

The flames die down, leaving only the faint scent of charred wine in the air. Seojun sets the bottle down with a sharp thud. "Stop setting everything on fire," he says, his voice quieter now but no less forceful.

And with that, he turns on his heel and walks away, leaving Minho standing alone in the silence.

Minho remains still, his expression unreadable as he watches Seojun’s retreating back. Resistance isn’t new to him—cooks have come and gone, each one thinking they could challenge him, break him. But there’s something about Seojun’s words that lingers, digging beneath the surface like an itch he can’t scratch.

-

The day at the restaurant is long and grueling, but it ends like it always does—everyone pulling through to close out another service. Minho is heading back to the kitchen when he spots Seojun walking toward him from the opposite direction.

Their eyes lock, the unspoken tension between them thick in the air. Minho knows he can’t leave it as it is—not with the quiet defiance in Seojun’s gaze. He stops him by standing in front of him, crossing his arms over his chest, his stance commanding.

Seojun halts, his posture stiffening slightly.

"I’m not good at beating around the bush, so I’ll just say it," Minho begins, his tone blunt. "If you want to leave this kitchen, then leave after I fire you. Or leave after you beat me."

He steps closer, leaning in until there’s barely any space between them. His eyes narrow, his voice lowering to a near-growl. "Leave after you surpass me. Got it?"

The air between them is heavy with challenge, neither of them moving, neither willing to back down. Finally, Minho straightens, his expression unreadable, and strides past Seojun without another word.

When Minho enters the kitchen, he isn’t surprised to find you there. You’re bent over the counter, carefully squeezing the filling onto flat sheets of pasta dough, your movements deliberate and precise.

He leans against his chef table, watching you in silence. There’s something calming about the way you work, even in the quiet hum of the now-empty kitchen.

After a moment, he approaches, stopping just close enough for you to notice. "Are you busy?" he asks, his voice casual.

Without looking up, you nod. "Yes. Chef Sara asked me to make 100 ravioli tonight."

Minho hums in response, staying where he is and watching as you cut the dough into perfect circles. But he isn’t one to let things go easily. He straightens and moves closer again, his voice soft but teasing. "Come play with me."

You glance at him briefly before turning back to your task. "Can you see I’m busy?" you reply evenly.

Minho tilts his head, a smirk tugging at his lips. "Come, play with me. You can work later."

You shake your head, your tone light but firm. "I can’t. You’re too scary."

He chuckles, the sound low and warm. "You don’t look scared of me," he counters smoothly.

"I have to finish these ravioli first," you remind him, keeping your focus on your work.

Minho nods slowly, though the mischievous glint in his eyes doesn’t fade. "You’re right—you have to do it to learn. But you also have to learn with me."

Before you can argue, he grabs your bag and jacket from the chef table, holding them out to you. "Let’s go," he says, his tone leaving no room for argument.

You open your mouth to protest, but Minho is already heading for the door, your bag slung over his shoulder. With no other choice, you sigh and follow him, your heart racing as you step out of the restaurant together.

-

The silence in the elevator is broken only by the soft hum of its movement. You trail slightly behind Minho, who stands calm and unreadable, his finger having pressed the button for the 14th floor. You glance at him, curiosity getting the better of you, and playfully nudge his side with your elbow.

“If you told me you were taking me on a date, I’d have come without a second thought,” you whisper with a grin.

Minho turns his sharp gaze to you, narrowing his eyes. “It’s not a date,” he states firmly. “I told you I want you to learn something tonight.”

You let out an exaggerated sigh, dramatically pouting. Minho doesn’t spare you another glance, stepping out as the elevator doors slide open.

He leads you to a restaurant on the hotel balcony, the cool night air mingling with the soft glow of city lights. Despite the late hour, the kitchen is still open. The waiter, seemingly assuming you’re a couple, seats you at a table with the best view.

Minho orders right away, his confidence making it clear he’s familiar with the menu. When the server brings over a tray of bread, you light up, hunger gnawing at your stomach since you haven’t eaten anything all day.

But just as you’re about to grab a piece, Minho’s voice cuts through your excitement. “Don’t eat the bread,” he warns.

You freeze, confused. “Why not? I’m starving.”

He crosses his arms, his tone firm. “You’ll ruin your appetite. You’ll fill up on bread and won’t appreciate the main dishes. Unless it’s to soak up the leftover sauce, don’t touch it.”

Reluctantly, you sigh and set the bread back down, earning a brief approving nod from him.

Moments later, the server returns with your first course—a shrimp and avocado salad. You and Minho share the plate, each picking up your forks. Minho takes one bite before setting his fork down, his expression immediately souring.

“How does it taste to you?” he asks, his tone sharp.

You hesitate before answering honestly, “It’s not that bad.”

Minho raises an eyebrow, incredulous. “Not that bad? The shrimp is overcooked—it’s a pink sponge that smells like shrimp. If you cooked like this in my kitchen, I’d make sure you grew horns on your head, like a shrimp.”

You sigh again, reluctantly putting your fork down as Minho insists you stop eating.

Soon, the main course arrives: crab meat ravioli in a tomato basil sauce. You’re thrilled, digging in right away, but before you can enjoy your first bite, Minho stops you.

“Hold it,” he commands, gesturing with his knife toward the ravioli on your plate. One has burst open in the back, spilling its filling.

“What’s the purpose of making ravioli?” he asks rhetorically. “To keep the filling intact. This ravioli has lost its purpose in life.”

You roll your eyes, setting your utensils down again. “Why didn’t you just ask them to recook it then?” you challenge.

Minho scoffs. “That’s the last thing I want to hear as a chef, and I won’t say it to another chef.”

“Then just eat it,” you reply, exasperated.

“I don’t want to,” he retorts stubbornly.

You groan, leaning back in your seat. Minho continues to mutter, lamenting the quality of the dish and feeling pity for the customers paying for this food.

“I should call the chef out and shove this plate down his throat,” he mutters darkly.

Shaking your head, you sigh. “You know, I’m just grateful anytime someone else cooks for me. I hate having to cook for myself at home.”

Minho leans forward, fixing you with an intense stare. “Are you saying that if you lived with someone, you wouldn’t cook for them? That you’d let your partner starve in the morning or fall asleep without making dinner?”

You smirk, propping your chin on your hand. “My partner can cook for me.”

Minho scoffs, smirking back. “What man in his right mind would cook for a partner who’s a chef?”

You flash him a sly smile. “Then I’ll just marry a chef.”

Minho gasps dramatically, his disbelief exaggerated but amused. He leans back in his chair, his eyes studying you with a mix of delight and curiosity.

Suddenly, he shouts for a server nearby, clearly intending to complain about the food. You sink lower into your chair, already feeling the heat of embarrassment creeping up your neck.

Minho's complaints echo in your mind as you sit stiffly in the car beside him. The memory of him criticizing the food so openly to the server makes your cheeks burn. You glance out the window, trying to shake off the embarrassment, but it lingers.

Unable to hold it in any longer, you turn to him. “Why did you do that?” you ask, your tone sharper than you intended.

Minho keeps his eyes on the road, his expression unbothered. “Because if I didn’t, it’s like telling those chefs to never improve. To just stay stuck in the same place their entire lives.”

You sigh, glaring at him, though he doesn’t look your way. He still seems to feel it, though, because he spares you a quick glance.

“What now?” he asks, clearly exasperated.

“I’m hungry!” you whine, your tone full of complaint.

“Then why didn’t you eat earlier?”

That does it. You snap, your voice rising. “Because you told me not to!”

Minho pauses, processing your words before letting out a long breath. “Fine,” he mutters, turning the car sharply.

Before you know it, you’re at his place. Minho ushers you inside, moving straight to the kitchen.

-

As Minho places the plate of grilled cheese in front of you, the aroma hits you like a warm embrace: toasted bread, melted cheese, and a hint of nuttiness. Your mouth waters at the sight, and your stomach growls in anticipation. One bite and you know—it’s not just a grilled cheese. It’s a masterpiece.

Minutes later, you set the empty plate down on the coffee table, leaning back with a contented sigh. Then reality hits, and you groan. “Ugh, I still have to finish the ravioli tomorrow morning.”

Minho, lounging beside you, raises an eyebrow. “So?”

You turn to him, giving him your best pleading look. “Help me with it?”

His response is instant and firm. “No.”

You pout, but he doesn’t budge. “Why would I waste my energy making ravioli for Sara?” he adds, sounding almost offended.

Your shoulders slump in disappointment. “Mean,” you mutter under your breath.

Minho leans back further, running a hand through his hair as he lets out a low sigh. “And why should I waste my energy on people who want to leave me anyway?”

The words hang in the air, and your ears perk up. Something in his tone—calm but heavy—gives you pause. It hits you then: he indeed knows about Souschef Seojun.

You turn to him sharply. “So, you knew about it?”

His gaze shifts to yours, and his eyes are piercing. “And you didn't tell me about it.”

You hesitate, feeling cornered. “I like Souschef,” you admit. “I want to keep working with him, but… I also think he should take this opportunity for himself.”

Minho clicks his tongue, his expression darkening. “You’re a professional two-timer,” he says with a scoff.

The jab stings, but before you can respond, he stares at the ceiling, his voice quieter now. “It’s the hardest thing... moving up to chef from sous chef. Most don’t make it.”

You study his face, the frustration he tries so hard to mask. He’s bothered, even though he won’t outright say it. The fact that Minho thinks about it means he actually cares more than he let on.

A question forms in your head and in a softer tone, you dare yourself to ask but keeping your tone soft, “Why do you push away the people who like you and push even harder the ones who don’t? Who’s going to stay by your side if you keep doing that?”

Minho turns his head, his eyes locking with yours. A smirk tugs at his lips as he answers, “I have you.”

The words hit you harder than you expect, your heart skipping a beat. Without thinking, you slip your arm around his, holding it close to your chest.

“That’s true,” you whisper, smiling softly. “I’ll always stick by your side.”

Deep down, you hope he believes you and that it's not some words you said to please him. You hope he knows you’ll stay by his side, no matter what.

-

The next day, Minho strides purposefully through the restaurant, his mind already racing with the tasks of the day. His feet carry him toward Chris's office, but he pauses as he notices Seojun approaching from the opposite hallway.

Their eyes meet, and they exchange a brief, puzzled look. Neither says a word, but the shared confusion is clear: why are they both heading to the same place?

When they reach the door, Seojun glances at Minho and knocks. Chris’s voice calls out, “Come in,” and they step inside together.

Chris is seated at his desk, scribbling his signature onto a stack of papers. He doesn’t look up immediately, merely gestures for them to sit. Minho and Seojun take the seats across from each other, the silence stretching as they wait for Chris to finish.

Finally, Chris sets his pen down and moves to the small sofa in the corner of the office, gesturing for them to stay where they are. He leans forward, hands clasped, his face serious but unreadable.

“A customer has requested the restaurant’s service after business hours,” Chris begins, his tone measured. “They want to hold an event at midnight tonight.”

Minho raises an eyebrow, glancing at Seojun, who looks just as perplexed. “What could they possibly want to eat at midnight?” Minho asks, skepticism laced in his voice.

Seojun leans forward slightly, echoing Minho’s confusion. “Did the customer ask for me specifically?”

Chris nods, addressing both of their concerns. “I don’t know why the event is at midnight, but yes, they specifically asked for you, Souschef.”

Seojun’s eyebrows knit together in confusion, and Minho narrows his eyes, trying to piece together the puzzle.

Chris continues, “I need both of you to oversee this request. You’ll also need to pick an assistant to help you with the prep and execution.”

Minho leans back in his chair, crossing his arms. He studies Chris’s expression, searching for clues, but his boss remains as inscrutable as ever.

The room falls silent for a moment, the weight of the request sinking in. Midnight. A private event. A specific request for Seojun.

As they stand to leave, Minho’s thoughts churn. What kind of event requires such secrecy and precision at this hour? And why does it feel like tonight is going to change everything?

-

When Minho tells you to stay after dinner service tonight, you don’t expect to find yourself assisting in what feels like a culinary duel. He and Seojun go head-to-head, cooking the same dish—grilled lobster bisque—for a special customer order. As you move between them, handing over ingredients, wiping surfaces, and following their instructions, you can’t help but notice how starkly different their approaches are.

Minho works with practiced precision, each movement calculated and efficient, while Seojun experiments, adjusting on the fly. At one point, Minho catches your eye and smirks, his expression practically saying, This is child’s play for me. You bite back an eye roll, handing him a cloth to wipe the edge of his plate.

When they finish plating, Minho and Seojun each carry their dishes to the dining hall. You trail behind, quietly observing as they serve the customer. The man sits alone at the large table, his demeanor calm but unreadable. As Minho and Seojun approach, you catch the brief flicker of surprise on Seojun’s face. It’s then you realize—this must be the man trying to recruit him for the new restaurant.

The customer greets them with a polite smile and sets a napkin on his lap. Before he can say anything, Minho asks the question lingering in everyone’s mind. “Why did you order the same dish this late at night?”

The customer smiles dismissively. “Shouldn’t that remain the concern of the guest?”

Minho keeps his face neutral, though you can sense his annoyance bubbling beneath the surface.

The customer tastes Minho’s dish first, nodding slightly but offering no comment. He then moves on to Seojun’s, taking a single bite before pausing. “Why didn’t you use higher-quality extra virgin olive oil? Was it the cost?”

Seojun hesitates, clearly caught off guard. He stammers out a response, but Minho cuts in smoothly. “It’s not about the cost. Extra virgin olive oil burns too quickly on the grill. It’s a matter of technique, not expense.”

The customer arches a brow. “But I still prefer the expensive oil.”

You see the muscle in Minho’s jaw twitch, though his smile remains intact.

The customer takes another bite, then comments on the sauce. “The flavor is quite good. Did you use the lobster shell?”

You blink, recalling the cooking process. Seojun didn’t use lobster shells. Without thinking, you blurt out, “It’s shrimp, not lobster.”

The room goes silent. Your stomach sinks as you realize you’ve spoken out of turn. Quickly, you lower your gaze and stammer an apology.

The customer turns to Seojun. “Why would you use shrimp shells when lobster shells were available?”

Before Seojun can respond, Minho steps in again. “It’s not about cost-cutting. Shrimp shells retain a better flavor profile than lobster shells.”

The customer dips his fork into the sauce and frowns. “The sauce... It’s too salty.”

Seojun forces a sheepish smile. “I’ll keep that in mind for next time.”

Minho, clearly at the end of his patience, interjects, “The sauce is meant to be eaten with the lobster and salad. It’s balanced when combined.”

The customer raises an eyebrow. “Should I?”

Minho’s smile strains further. “Yes, you should.”

As soon as he excuses himself to leave, Minho storms off, heading for the stairs. You scramble to catch up, struggling to match his furious pace. He reaches the top of the steps, then stops abruptly, spinning around to march back down. You quickly dart in front of him, blocking his path.

“That pompous idiot!” he hisses, his voice rising. “Acting like he knows everything when he knows nothing!”

“Chef,” you whisper urgently, glancing nervously toward the dining hall. “He’ll hear you!”

“I don’t care if he hears me!” Minho snaps, his voice growing louder.

Panicking, you grab his arm, pulling him back. “You can’t go back down there!”

His eyes blaze as he glares at you, his chest heaving with frustration. “That kind of person is the one I hate the most!”

You tighten your grip on his arm and press your forehead against his shoulder, desperate to calm him down. “Chef, please. Just let it go.”

He lets out a harsh sigh, running a hand through his hair. After a tense pause, he finally turns and continues climbing the stairs, muttering under his breath. You follow closely, silently praying he doesn’t change his mind and storm back down.

In the car ride home, Minho grips the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles turn white. His jaw is clenched, his eyes fixed on the road ahead as he navigates through the dimly lit streets. His anger still simmers, radiating off him in waves.

“Shake it off already,” you say gently, hoping to lighten the mood.

He lets out a long, frustrated sigh but doesn’t glance at you. “I’m going to be even harsher on them from now on so they won't leave,” he declares firmly.

“Why are you so sure they won’t just leave?” you ask, genuinely curious.

Minho finally responds, his tone steady but loaded with conviction. “Chefs need to know how to negotiate with the owners. Our souschef might look tough, but he’s a softie inside. He doesn’t have the backbone to stand firm. If he stays obedient, he’s going to get eaten alive by someone like that.”

He pauses, his grip tightening slightly. “Owners always push the blame back onto the chef. Even if you follow their orders to the letter, they won’t take care of you when things fall apart. That guy tonight—requesting some bizarre, last-minute order at midnight? He’s exactly that type. It’s not about the food with him; it’s about control.”

Minho’s voice lowers, but the intensity remains. “The real power struggle in a restaurant should be with the customer’s taste buds—not with the owner of the restaurant. Do you get it?”

You sit quietly, absorbing his words. Tonight suddenly makes so much more sense. This wasn’t just about the grilled lobster bisque; it was a test. The customer wanted to see what kind of chefs Minho and Seojun are. While Minho stood firm in his principles, Seojun seemed eager to comply without pushing back.

For a moment, you admire him in silence, impressed by his confidence and determination. But as the awe settles in, you can’t resist teasing him. “Still, I have to say… I like our owner’s taste.”

Minho’s head snaps toward you, his brows furrowing. “What?” he shrieks.

“I like Chris,” you say, a sly grin spreading across your face. “The more I see him managing the restaurant, the more I like him. He’s great.”

Minho slows the car as the light ahead turns red. He turns to you, his expression unreadable. “Come closer,” he says softly, his tone suddenly sweet.

You narrow your eyes suspiciously. “Why?”

“Just come closer,” he coaxes, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

With a small, mischievous smirk of your own, you lean in, wondering what he’s up to. The second you’re close enough, he flicks your forehead with his finger—hard.

“Ow!” you yelp, jerking back as you cradle your forehead. “What was that for?”

Minho’s expression is deadpan, but there’s a hint of amusement in his eyes. “Shut your mouth,” he says bluntly, then shifts his focus back to the road as the light turns green.

You rub your forehead, pouting as you whine, “That hurts, chef.”

Minho doesn’t respond, but the corners of his mouth twitch upward, betraying the faintest of smirks.

-

The kitchen hums with the usual midday chaos, everyone focused on getting the last few lunch orders out. Pans sizzle, knives clatter against cutting boards, and the air is thick with the aroma of sauces and seared meats. You keep your head down at your station, working quickly to finish plating.

A service staff member steps in, calling out, “A customer wants to see the sous chef.”

Minho doesn’t even lift his head. He knows exactly who it is. His sharp gaze cuts across the kitchen, landing on Seojun, who hesitates for a moment. They share a silent exchange, and Minho gives a small, almost dismissive nod, granting permission.

From your station, you notice Seungwan and Hyunwoo exchanging a look, their smiles widening with excitement. They’re already celebrating in their heads, assuming Seojun is about to confirm their move to the new kitchen.

After service slows, you and Felix retreat to the locker room, escaping the heat and noise of the kitchen. You sit together on the small sofa—Felix lost in a game on his phone, headphones in, while you scroll through your own phone.

Curiosity gets the better of you, and you start researching the new Italian restaurant that Seojun has been eyeing. It doesn’t take long for the pieces to fall into place—the owner of this restaurant also owns the hotel restaurant Minho took you to the other night. Everything suddenly makes sense.

You don’t say anything, though. The room starts filling with people—familiar voices drifting in as Seungwan and Hyunwoo enter, their excitement still palpable.

“They probably have state-of-the-art equipment,” Hyunwoo says, his tone brimming with enthusiasm.

“And a bigger kitchen,” Seungwan adds, practically glowing at the thought.

Taesoo chimes in, skeptical. “Are you two really thinking about leaving this kitchen?”

Felix finally glances up from his game, pulling out one earbud. “What are they talking about?” he whispers.

You hurriedly cover Felix’s mouth with your hand to stop him from talking. “Shh...”

The door opens again, and Seojun walks in. Seungwan and Hyunwoo practically pounce on him, bombarding him with questions about their supposed future kitchen.

Seojun clears his throat, his expression a mix of discomfort and apology. “The owner said... I’m not ready to be a head chef yet.”

The air shifts as Seungwan and Hyunwoo’s excitement fizzles into confusion.

“What?!” Seungwan blurts out. “Why would you make us think this was happening if it’s not?”

Hyunwoo crosses his arms, frowning. “Yeah, what was the point of all this?”

Seojun’s shoulders slump slightly, and he rubs the back of his neck. “I’m sorry,” he says sincerely, looking genuinely guilty. “I really thought it was going to happen. I didn’t mean to get your hopes up.”

You watch the scene unfold in silence, piecing everything together. Minho was right. Seojun may act tough, but inside, he’s soft and earnest—a far cry from the steely ambition that fuels most chefs. And yet, it’s that softness, that genuineness, that sets him apart.

-

Minho leans back against his desk, a steaming cup of coffee in his hand, enjoying the rare moment of peace in his office. The faint hum of the kitchen filters through the closed door, but it’s a comforting background noise, a reminder of the controlled chaos he thrives in.

The knock on his door pulls him out of his thoughts. He isn’t expecting anyone, but he calls out, “Come in,” assuming it’s Felix, likely here to pester him with some nonsensical question or pointless chatter.

But when the door opens, it’s not who he expected—it’s Seojun.

Minho straightens slightly, surprised. Seojun steps inside, his hands clasped in front of him, his demeanor uncharacteristically hesitant. Minho studies him for a moment, noting the look in his eyes, the way he’s clearly turning something over in his head.

“What is it?” Minho asks, setting his coffee down on the desk. “Just say whatever’s on your mind.”

Seojun offers a soft smile before speaking. “Chef, what gave you the biggest push to become a head chef?”

Ah. So that’s where this is going. Minho smirks, recognizing the underlying intention. Seojun isn’t asking out of idle curiosity—he’s looking for direction, for some kind of encouragement.

Minho crosses his arms, his smirk deepening. “I had a nasty chef when I was a sous chef. Absolute piece of work. Thought he knew everything, never let anyone else have an opinion.”

Seojun looks at him with interest, clearly not expecting such a blunt answer.

“I endured it all,” Minho continues, his voice calm but firm, “because I wanted to be better than him. To prove to myself—and to him—that I could do it my way and do it better.”

He glances at Seojun, raising an eyebrow. “Why do you ask?”

Seojun smiles sheepishly, shaking his head just enough to be noticed. “I should get back to work,” he says, his tone polite and respectful, but there’s a quiet determination in it.

Minho watches him leave, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at his lips. He doesn’t need Seojun to say it outright—it’s clear he’s decided to stay. Minho knew Seojun wasn’t the type to jump ship easily.

As the door closes, Minho leans back against his desk again, his smirk softening into something almost thoughtful. If Seojun is going to stay, Minho will make sure he gets that push he’s looking for, whether he knows it or not.

But now, with the matter of the cooks settled, Minho’s thoughts shift to something else, something that’s been nagging at him. It’s time to deal with another issue that’s been bothering him—and this one isn’t work-related.

-

Minho strides confidently ahead, carrying a couple of bags over his shoulder while leaving you with the bulk of the load. The stairs creak under your feet as you haul the bags of food he made you carry, your arms aching with the weight.

"Where are we going?" you finally ask, trying not to sound as annoyed as you feel. It’s late, the air is cold, and you’re in a neighborhood you don’t recognize.

Minho glances over his shoulder, his face annoyingly nonchalant. "Just keep going," he says dismissively.

That’s it. You stop abruptly, dropping the bags onto the steps with a huff. "I’m tired," you whine, crossing your arms over your chest. "I’m not moving until you tell me where we’re going."

Minho sighs audibly and turns back, walking down a couple of steps to stand in front of you. "We’re taking care of someone," he says cryptically, his tone flat and unreadable.

Your eyes widen in horror, your mind immediately jumping to the worst conclusions. With Minho, it’s impossible to tell when he’s joking or being serious. "Taking care of someone?" you repeat, your voice an octave higher.

Minho doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he looks at you with an expression that’s halfway between amused and deadpan. Then, out of nowhere, he says, "Taesoo knows."

You blink at him, utterly confused. "Knows what?"

"About us," Minho replies, his voice low but calm. "About the kiss. In the kitchen."

Your stomach drops. You feel faint all of a sudden, your knees wobbling under you. "Why didn’t you tell me earlier?" you ask, your voice trembling as your panic rises.

Minho tilts his head slightly, his gaze sharp as he studies your reaction. "Are you scared?" he asks simply.

You nod meekly, unable to form words as your fear takes over. "What should we do? We got caught too fast..."

Minho smirks, his eyes glinting mischievously. "Don’t be scared," he says, stepping closer. "If the other cooks find out, we’ll just leave the earth together. But first—"

"First?" you echo nervously.

"We’ll sew Taesoo’s lips shut so he can’t tell anyone," Minho says matter-of-factly, as if it’s the most logical solution. He leans in slightly, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial tone. "You can be the thread, and I’ll be the needle. Together, we’ll make sure he stays quiet."

You stare at him, unsure if you should laugh, cry, or run for your life. His words do nothing to ease your anxiety, and the amused look on his face only makes you more uneasy.

"Chef…" you start hesitantly, but the words die in your throat.

He steps back, his smirk widening as he gestures for you to pick up the bags. "Come on," he says, as if he didn’t just suggest something completely unhinged. "We’re almost there."

Still uneasy, you grab the bags reluctantly, your mind racing with questions. Whatever Minho has planned, you’re not sure you’re ready for it.

-

The rooftop feels colder than you anticipated, the crisp night air wrapping around you like a thin sheet of frost. The lights in Taesoo’s apartment are out, and after knocking on the door a few times to no response, you and Minho are left to wait. You sit together on a weathered wooden bench outside, the city sprawling below you. The view is breathtaking, the glow of city lights mimicking the stars above, both twinkling in their own rhythm.

You scoot closer to Minho, partly for warmth, partly because the moment feels intimate in a way you can't quite put into words. Your shoulder brushes against his, and the contact grounds you. The silence stretches on, comfortable but heavy with unspoken thoughts. You decide to break it.

“Chef,” you start softly, your breath forming faint clouds in the cold air. “Working in your kitchen, I’m more afraid of disappointing you as a cook than anyone finding out about… us.”

Minho’s gaze shifts to you, his sharp eyes softening slightly in the dim light. Encouraged, you continue, “I can take the scoldings, the whispering, all of it. But I don’t want to lean on you when I’m not good enough. I don’t want to be the weak link in your kitchen.”

You look down at your hands, suddenly aware of how vulnerable you’ve made yourself. But then you glance up at him and press on. “I like you and I want to lean on you, but I also want to stand on my own. It’s just… so hard to stand on my own sometimes.”

He smirks, the corner of his mouth tugging up in that infuriating, teasing way of his. “If it’s that hard, should we just give up?”

You know he’s joking, but you still pout at his words. “We haven’t even done anything yet!” you protest.

Minho raises an eyebrow, amused. “What haven’t we done?”

Instead of answering, you throw the question back at him. “What have we done?”

He clicks his tongue, leaning back against the bench. “What is it you want to do, then?”

“Everything,” you reply without hesitation.

“Everything, huh?” he repeats, his tone light but his gaze lingering on you. “You sure about that?”

“Everything,” you confirm, crossing your arms stubbornly.

Minho chuckles under his breath, shaking his head. “Fine, let’s do everything. But we’re going to be pretty busy sneaking around the kitchen.”

You burst out laughing, the sound ringing out into the quiet night. Without thinking, you playfully punch his chest, and Minho counters by wrapping his arm around your shoulders and pulling you into his side. His voice drops to a low murmur, teasing, “Doing it in the freezer is that what you’re saying?”

The bubble of your shared laughter is suddenly burst when Taesoo appears, his voice cutting through the moment like a knife. “Oh, don’t mind me,” he says dramatically as he plops himself down between you and Minho, forcing you apart.

Minho glares at him, his irritation evident. “Where the hell have you been? Do you know how long we’ve been waiting?”

But Taesoo cups his hands around his mouth and shouts loudly enough for the whole city to hear, “Chef Lee is dating in the kitchen!”

Minho claps his hands mockingly, clearly unimpressed. “Louder. Let the entire neighborhood know.”

Taesoo grins and obliges, shouting even louder, “CHEF LEE IS DATING IN THE KITCHEN!”

Minho leans back, shaking his head in mock exasperation before casually wrapping an arm around Taesoo’s neck. “Now that the world knows, you have to keep it to yourself in the kitchen.”

When Taesoo doesn’t respond immediately, Minho tightens his arm around his neck in a playful headlock. “Got it?”

“Y-yes, Chef!” Taesoo splutters, tapping out in defeat.

Taesoo settles down between you and Minho, a mischievous grin plastered on his face after his dramatic outburst. Minho loosens his grip around Taesoo’s neck and lets out a mock sigh. “You’re lucky I don’t kick you off this rooftop right now.”

Taesoo laughs, rubbing his neck theatrically. “Relax, Chef. Your secret’s safe with me.”

Minho raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Oh, is it? After you just announced it like that?”

Taesoo grins wider but then glances at you, his playful demeanor softening just a touch. “I wouldn’t actually tell anyone, you know.”

Minho crosses his arms skeptically, but you lean in, curious. “Why not?” you ask gently.

Taesoo shrugs, looking uncharacteristically shy. “Because you’re the nicest to me in the kitchen. You’re the only one who treats me like I’m more than just a kitchen assistant. You talk to me like I matter, and... I’d feel bad if I went around blabbing about your business.”

The sincerity in his voice catches you off guard, and you blink at him for a moment before smiling warmly. “Taesoo... thank you. That really means a lot.”

Minho looks between the two of you, his expression unreadable, but there’s a flicker of something softer in his eyes. “Well,” he says after a beat, his tone still teasing but less sharp, “I guess you’ve got one redeeming quality after all.”

“Only one?” Taesoo shoots back, grinning again.

You laugh, pulling out the food you brought and setting it on the bench between you. “Alright, enough with the compliments or Taesoo’s head won’t fit through the door. Let’s eat before everything gets cold.”

The three of you dig into the impromptu feast, the atmosphere light and comfortable. You feel relieved to know that only the three of you know about this secret, oh and maybe the billion of stars blinking at the night sky tonight. But you can count on them to keep it safe for you too.

-

The faint light of dawn paints the horizon in soft golds and pinks, bathing the streets in a tranquil glow. Minho grips the steering wheel loosely as he drives home, feeling uncharacteristically light. Tonight had been... cathartic, in a way he hadn’t expected, and now, as the city slowly stirs to life, he feels at peace for the first time in weeks.

He doesn’t need to glance to his right to know you’ve fallen asleep in the passenger seat. The steady rise and fall of your breathing fills the quiet car, a soothing rhythm that matches the calm of the morning. Minho allows himself a rare smile, pleased to see you resting after such a long day.

When he pulls into his parking spot, he cuts the engine and sits there for a moment, glancing over at you. Strands of hair have fallen across your face, and without thinking, Minho leans over, brushing them aside with a featherlight touch. Your face is serene, lost in some peaceful dream, and for a brief moment, he’s tempted to let you stay like this. But he knows it’s not good for you to sleep in the car too long.

“Wake up,” he says softly, his voice barely above a whisper. “We're here.”

Your forehead creases as your eyes flutter open, a sleepy haze still clouding your gaze. Minho watches as you try to orient yourself, finding it strangely endearing. Gently, he tucks a stray strand of hair behind your ear.

“What time is it?” you mumble, your voice still thick with sleep.

“Early,” Minho replies simply, his lips quirking upward at the corners.

You blink a few times, then, in your drowsy state, ask, “What do you usually do at this hour?”

He chuckles lightly. “Wash up, hit the gym, sometimes I have breakfast... sometimes I don't.”

That earns a small laugh from you. “Same,” you say with a little grin, as though you’ve uncovered some shared secret.

Minho shakes his head, amused. “It doesn’t take much to make you happy, does it?”

You roll your eyes but smile back, the kind of smile that lingers. “I just think it’s nice we have something in common.”

“Well, if it makes you this happy,” Minho teases, “should we have breakfast today?”

The offer takes you by surprise, and you tilt your head at him, curiosity glinting in your eyes. “Huh?”

“Yeah,” he replies coolly, leaning back in his seat. “Come over later. We’ll have breakfast together.”

You hesitate, your brows knitting together slightly as though unsure if he means it.

“Come on,” Minho coaxes, his tone playful now. “Make breakfast with me. I want to see if you can cook something other than pasta.”

Your lips twitch into a sassy smile as you shoot him a side-eye glance. “I can cook plenty of things besides pasta, thank you very much.”

“Good.” He smirks, satisfied. “Then come over and prove it. We’ll head to work together after.”

Your hesitation melts away, replaced by a shy but bright smile that warms something in Minho’s chest. “Okay,” you agree softly.

Minho plays it cool, gesturing toward the door. “Alright, get out of my car. You’re drooling on the upholstery.”

You laugh and swat at him lightly before stepping out, still smiling as you close the door behind you. Minho watches as you walk away, unable to help the small smile that lingers on his own face.

-

There’s no time to waste once you step into your apartment. Dropping your bag onto your bed, you head straight to the bathroom, craving the refreshing wake-up of a quick shower. The water washes away the weariness of the long night, and when you emerge, you feel lighter and more alert.

Stepping out, you spot Sara already dressed, her appearance neat and polished despite the early hour. She glances up and smiles faintly at you.

“Good morning,” she greets softly.

You return her smile, wrapping your towel tighter around you. “Morning. You’re up early.”

She hesitates, then says, “Can I have a word with you?”

Something about her tone makes you pause, but seeing no harm in it, you nod. “Sure. Let me just—”

“Here,” she interrupts, pouring coffee into a mug and offering it to you.

You accept it with a quiet “Thanks” and follow her to the living room. The air feels heavier than it should for such an ordinary start to the day.

Sara settles into the couch, taking a slow sip of her coffee. You mirror her, letting the warmth seep into your hands as you wait. She doesn’t speak immediately, and you realize she’s stalling. Her smile is polite but thin, her eyes flitting between you and the coffee in her hands.

Finally, she breaks the silence. “Where were you and Minho coming back from?”

Her question catches you off guard. Your heart skips as you realize she must have seen you together—either in the parking lot or in the car.

“Taesoo’s place. We had some food together,” you answer simply, careful to spare her the details.

Sara nods, her gaze briefly dropping to her mug. She takes another sip, prompting you to do the same.

“I think you already know,” she starts slowly, her voice laced with hesitation, “that Minho and I didn’t just study together in Italy.”

You say nothing, sensing she isn’t looking for a response.

“We were... deeply in love,” she continues, her words steady now, as if she’s rehearsed them. “We were in a relationship. Rivals, yes, but also partners. We had dreams of becoming chefs in Italy together.”

She pauses, her eyes scanning your face. You remain quiet, cradling the mug in both hands as if its warmth could shield you from the vulnerability of the moment.

“But I made a mistake,” she admits, her voice softer. “I was greedy, and I lost him.”

Her gaze hardens slightly as she leans forward. “But Minho... he’s the only man I’ve ever wanted to be accepted by. As a chef. And as a woman.”

You feel your chest tighten as her words sink in. She’s not just baring her past—she’s staking her claim.

“And earlier,” Sara adds, her voice sharper now, “I saw the same look on your face.”

Your eyes widen slightly, and she presses on.

“I wanted to ask sooner,” she confesses, “but I was cautious. We work together. Live together. But now, I have to ask—do you like Minho?”

Her gaze pierces through you. “Is that how you feel, or am I mistaken?”

Your heart races, but you force yourself to stay composed and hold her gaze firmly as you answer, “No. You’re not mistaken at all.”

The confidence in your voice surprises even you. You’ve suspected for a while now that Sara’s return wasn’t just about proving herself as a chef but also about rekindling something with Minho. And while you don’t owe her an explanation, it feels like she’s doing this on purpose—To mess with your head.

Sara blinks, her expression faltering for a split second before she nods slowly. “Ah, I see,”

She opens her mouth to say something else—probably to cut you down—but you don’t give her the chance.

“I'm sorry but I need to get ready for work,” you say briskly, standing up. “Thanks for the coffee.”

Without waiting for a response, you head to your bedroom, closing the door firmly behind you but it seems like Sara is already succeed on messing with your head.

-

Minho leans against the counter in his apartment, staring at the now-cold plates of food he had meticulously prepared. The aroma of the breakfast he’d been looking forward to had faded hours ago, replaced by an unsettling quiet that seemed to echo his disappointment. He had waited long enough, but you never showed.

Sitting alone, Minho ate in silence, each bite more hollow than the last. Your absence lingered in his mind, nagging at him like an itch he couldn’t scratch. Did something go wrong? Did he misread the situation? His chest tightened at the thought that something might have happened to you.

Now at the restaurant, Minho stands in the hall, his arms crossed as he keeps an ear out for the sound of footsteps. When he finally hears them, his heart skips—but it’s only Taesoo. The younger man approaches, his usual meek demeanor replaced by an uncharacteristic confidence. They exchange a knowing glance, and Taesoo silently zips his mouth shut with a gesture. Minho nods in acknowledgment, watching as Taesoo disappears into the locker room without another word.

Still, Minho stays where he is, debating whether to call you. Then, finally, he hears more footsteps coming up the stairs. His heart leaps, and he straightens up as you appear at the top. But something’s different.

The brightness he’s grown used to seeing in your face is gone, replaced by a faint scowl that unsettles him. Your shoulders are tense, and your expression is clouded, as though a storm is brewing behind your eyes.

Minho’s heart sinks further when you don’t even glance his way, heading straight for the locker room as if he doesn’t exist.

“Hey, you!” He calls, his voice steady despite the unease creeping into his chest.

You stop but don’t turn to face him until his fingers gesture for you to come closer. Reluctantly, you obey, stepping forward without meeting his eyes.

Lowering his voice, Minho asks, “Why didn’t you come over for breakfast?”

You stare at him, your silence louder than any words could be. There’s something raw in your eyes—something that makes his stomach twist.

“What’s wrong?” he presses, his tone softer now. “Did something happen? Are you hurt? Did someone hurt you?”

Your voice is quiet but sharp as you reply, “Yes. Someone did hurt me.”

Minho straightens, alarm flashing across his face. “Who?” he demands, his voice firm. “Who hurt you?”

You look at him, your gaze cutting like a blade. “You did.”

The words hit him like a slap. His eyes widen in disbelief.

“Me?” he shrieks, his voice higher than intended. “When did I—what are you talking about?”

You don’t answer. Instead, you mutter something under your breath—too low for him to catch—then clamp your mouth shut, as though the words are too dangerous to say aloud.

Before Minho can ask again, you punch him square in the chest. Not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough to startle him.

“What the—” Minho stares at you, flabbergasted.

“You deserved that,” you say, your voice trembling with something he can’t place—anger, hurt, or maybe both.

Before he can recover, you turn and walk away, leaving him standing there in stunned silence.

Minho watches you go, his chest still stinging—not from the punch, but from the sharp, cutting weight of your words. He stands frozen, replaying everything in his mind and if something wrong happened in between this morning and now.

-

Minho stands at the chef’s table, surveying the bustling kitchen as the lunch service begins. The usual energy fills the air, but his eyes are drawn to you. Your glum expression hasn’t changed since you walked into the restaurant this morning, and it’s unsettling.

Pushing personal concerns aside, Minho claps his hands to gather the kitchen’s attention. “Listen up! It’s graduation and admission season, which means family gatherings are in full swing. People want separate pasta dishes rather than full-course meals, so expect an overload of pasta orders today.”

The staff murmurs their acknowledgment, and Minho continues. “Pasta line will handle all the orders without help from entrée chefs unless absolutely necessary. It won’t be easy, but I trust you’ll manage.”

The kitchen erupts into motion as the first few orders come through. Minho shouts them out, and the organized chaos begins. As predicted, pasta orders flood in, pushing the pasta line to their limit.

You approach Minho’s chef’s table, placing two plates in front of him. “How many more?” he asks, inspecting the dishes.

“I still have four more after this, Chef,” you reply, your tone distracted.

Sara steps up, placing her plates on the table. “I’m done with my orders,” she announces, glancing at Minho. “Give me orders!”

Minho nods and redirects some of your orders to Sara, sending you back to your station. But as he observes you, it’s clear that something is off. Your movements are out of rhythm, uncharacteristically sloppy. Clams slosh out of your pan and onto the floor.

“You!” Minho snaps, his voice cutting through the clamor. “Did the clams come all the way here just to dive onto the kitchen floor?”

“I’m sorry, chef” you mumble, quickly picking up the pace.

But it doesn’t get better. Your cooking remains erratic, and Minho’s patience wears thin. He strides over to you and extends his hand. “Give it to me,” he orders, eyeing the pan.

You shake your head, gripping the handle tightly. “I’ll do it, Chef. I'll do it myself.”

Minho stares at you, his frustration mounting. “Do it right, then,” he mutters, stepping back to watch.

When you finally place the dish on his table, Minho takes one look and frowns. The pasta glistens with an unappetizing sheen, and the clams sit lifelessly atop it. He picks up a fork, poking at the dish before placing it down with a sharp clink.

“What’s the matter with you?” he demands, his voice rising. “The pasta and oil aren’t emulsified. Your hands and your mind aren’t working together—just like this dish. Now, what’s wrong with you?”

The kitchen falls silent. All eyes are on you as you stand there, head bowed. Minho’s stomach twists, guilt creeping in despite his annoyance.

“I’m sorry, chef” you whisper, your voice barely audible. “I’ll do it again.”

“No,” Minho says firmly. He turns to Sara. “Take over the rest of her orders. Total of six, go!”

You nod, defeated, and return to your station. Minho watches as you scrape the failed dish into the trash, the weight of his scolding visible in the slump of your shoulders.

He sighs and calls you back to the chef’s table. You approach hesitantly, clasping your hands in front of you.

“Do you know why we stir these clam shells in the frying pan when we can't even eat them? You think we put in those shells that are ten times their size so we can eat the tiny bit of clam in them?” Minho begins, keeping his tone steady. “It is to keep the clam juice inside the shell. As it opens up, it should release fresh clam juice. For that reason, you have to stir at the same speed with the same strength so that all clams get cooked and opens up simultaneously. That is the key to make vongole.”

You nod but don’t meet his gaze.

“Aren't you going to answer me?” Minho presses.

“Yes, chef,” you reply softly, still avoiding his eyes.

The meekness in your voice is jarring, so unlike your usual spirited self. Minho waves you back to your station, but the sight of your retreating figure only deepens his confusion. What in the world is going on with you?

-

Minho’s head is already swimming with frustration as he walks toward Chris’s office after the dinner service. The last thing he wants is another conversation with the restaurant’s manager, but the summons was clear. He drags his feet, feeling the weight of the long day pulling at his shoulders.

Reaching the door, Minho knocks half-heartedly and waits until Chris’s voice grants him permission to enter. He steps in to find Chris tidying up his desk, moving stacks of papers into neat piles.

“Please, have a seat,” Chris says, gesturing to the sofa across the room as he joins Minho there.

Minho sits, his patience thin, and looks at Chris expectantly.

Chris wastes no time. The second he's seated on the sofa across from him, he asks, “How do you feel about sharing the chef’s office with Sara starting tomorrow?”

Minho’s brow furrows, the question catching him off guard. “Is that an order?” he asks flatly.

Chris leans forward, clasping his hands together. “Sara’s a chef, just like you. I don’t think it’s right for her to share a room full of guys who clearly don’t make her feel welcome. It’s only fair she has a better environment to work in.”

Minho doesn’t hesitate. “I don’t want to.”

Chris blinks, surprised by the blunt rejection. “It’ll help you two work better together. Sharing the space will make communication easier and—”

“I don’t want to,” Minho interrupts firmly, his voice low but resolute.

Chris leans back, exhaling in exasperation. “Sara deserves the same respect and facilities as any other chef. She has every right to use that office. Am I the one not making sense here?”

Minho leans forward, his eyes sharp as he looks around Chris’s spacious office. “Your office is nice and big,” he remarks, his tone laced with sarcasm. “Why don’t you bring Sara here instead? Let her share this space with you. Or is this really about what’s best for her? Maybe it’s more about what’s best for you.”

Chris’s face tightens, but he doesn’t respond immediately. Minho stands, brushing off invisible lint from his jacket.

“You can start by being honest about that,” Minho says coldly, heading toward the door.

“Chef,” Chris calls out, his tone final. “You’ll be sharing the room with Sara starting tomorrow.”

Minho doesn’t stop walking, his hand gripping the door handle. Without looking back, he steps out of the office and into the hallway.

Chris can insist all he wants, but Minho isn’t going to give in easily.

-

The parking lot is quiet, with only the faint hum of distant cars breaking the silence. Minho walks briskly toward his car, his thoughts scattered. He tries to focus on the day ahead tomorrow, but his mind drifts back to you—your distant expression, your unsteady hands, your reluctance to meet his gaze. He shakes his head, frustrated with himself for letting it bother him so much.

Just as he turns a corner, he spots you. Sitting on the steps leading to the dining hall, you’re hunched forward, your shoulders slightly slumped as if the weight of the day is pressing down on you.

Minho’s steps slow instinctively. Before he knows it, he’s approaching you. He stops three steps away and clears his throat to make his presence known.

Your head snaps back, startled, and then you quickly bow slightly. “Thank you for your hard work today, Chef,” you say, your tone polite but distant.

Minho clicks his tongue softly. He’s used to this—your tendency to put up a professional front when there’s something deeper bothering you. He sits on the steps, his posture relaxed, but his gaze fixed on you.

“Are you upset because I scolded you earlier?” he asks, his voice steady but probing. “It’s not like it’s the first time you’ve been yelled at.”

You sigh, your gaze dropping to your hands. “It’s not just that,” you admit quietly. “Getting scolded... hurts my pride now.”

Minho tilts his head slightly, clicking his tongue again. “That’s a good thing,” he says, as if it’s obvious.

You glance at him, frowning slightly, but you continue. “It feels even worse now because... it felt like I was being compared to Chef Sara. Like I’ll never measure up.”

Understanding dawns on Minho, and he nods subtly. He remembers those days—when he was the one being compared, his pride crushed over and over until he thought he’d break.

He leans forward slightly, resting his arms on his knees. “Getting your pride hurt is how you get better,” he says, his voice firm but not unkind. “If you just think your seniors are naturally better than you, you’ll never improve. Not in a million years.”

You look at him, your lips slowly curling into a faint smile.

“Being compared to someone better than you is what pushes you to catch up,” Minho continues. “And trust me, you will catch up. But you’ll only get there if you let that comparison push you, not break you.”

Your smile widens a little, and Minho feels a small sense of satisfaction. “From tomorrow on,” he warns with a smirk, “I’m going to compare you to Sara even more. I’m going to crush your pride even worse.”

Despite his words, your smile grows wider, your eyes softening as you look at him. “Yes, Chef,” you say softly, the words carrying a warmth that lingers in the air.

Minho moves down the steps, sitting next to you now. His voice lowers, the usual sharpness replaced by something more intimate. “Just because I like you doesn’t mean anything changes,” he says quietly. “You’ll still have to swallow your pride. More than ever.”

Your gaze flicks to him, a soft smile playing on your lips. “Yes, Chef,” you repeat, and Minho chuckles softly at the words he’s grown to love hearing from you.

Silence falls between you, but it’s the comfortable kind. The night air is cool, and the world around you feels distant, like it’s just the two of you in this moment.

After a while, you break the silence, your voice soft. “Having your pride wounded... is that really a good thing?”

Minho glances at you, his smirk returning. “Yes,” he says simply. “When you’re in trouble or your pride’s hurt, don’t get sad. Get even. Stand up tall and be jealous—it’s better than wilting like a dead plant.”

You chuckle softly, the sound light and genuine. “Yes, Chef.”

Minho raises an eyebrow. “What did I tell you to be?”

“To be jealous,” you reply, your smile growing.

“That’s right,” Minho says, his signature smirk deepening.

Silence falls again, but this time, it feels even more intimate. The tension between you is almost palpable, and when you turn to him again, your eyes meet his.

“I’m going to become a chef you can be proud of,” you say, your voice filled with quiet determination.

Minho’s chest tightens at your words, a wave of affection crashing over him. The sincerity in your eyes, the way you want to make him proud—it’s endearing, almost too much to bear.

If you weren’t here, at the restaurant, he’d kiss you right here, right now. Instead, he reaches for your hand, his fingers curling around your writst.

“It's cold. Let’s go home, mmh?” he says softly, standing and pulling you to your feet. You follow without hesitation, your hand still in his as Minho takes you home.

-

The moment the door to Minho’s apartment clicks shut behind you, the air between you shifts, charged with tension that had been simmering for weeks. You barely have time to glance around his apartment before Minho steps closer, his dark eyes fixed on yours.

“Finally,” he mutters, his voice low and rough with impatience.

Before you can respond, his hands cup your face, and his lips crash onto yours with a fiery intensity. The kiss is urgent, almost desperate, as if he’s been holding himself back for too long. Your hands instinctively clutch at his shirt, gripping the fabric as his lips move against yours, soft yet insistent.

Minho’s fingers slide down to your waist, tugging you closer until there’s no space left between you. His touch is firm but gentle, his hands warm as they settle on your hips. He pulls back for a fraction of a second, his breath mingling with yours as he stares at you, his pupils blown wide.

“You have no idea how much I’ve been holding back,” he murmurs, his voice a husky whisper.

Before you can reply, he bends slightly and scoops you up effortlessly, one arm under your knees and the other supporting your back. You gasp softly, your arms wrapping around his neck for balance as he carries you to the sofa.

Minho lowers you onto the cushions with care but doesn’t waste a second before leaning over you, his hands framing your face as he captures your lips again. This time, the kiss is deeper, hungrier, and you respond with equal fervor, your fingers tangling in his hair.

The heat between you is palpable, every touch and kiss filled with emotions he’s kept bottled up—desire, affection, frustration, and something deeper he hasn’t yet put into words. His lips trail down your jawline, leaving a scorching path as he presses open-mouthed kisses along your neck.

Your breaths come faster, your heart pounding as his hands roam, his touch leaving sparks in its wake. Minho pulls back just enough to look at you, his gaze intense and filled with an emotion that makes your stomach flip.

“Do you have any idea what you do to me?” he whispers, his voice barely above a growl.

You shake your head, breathless, and he leans in again, brushing his lips against yours in a kiss that’s softer this time but no less consuming. His hands find yours, intertwining your fingers as he presses you deeper into the sofa.

Every kiss, every touch feels like a confession, a way for Minho to pour out all the feelings he’s been holding back. And as you kiss him back, just as fervently, you let him know without words that you feel the same.

-

Minho hovers over you, his eyes roaming your face, drinking in every detail. Your flushed cheeks, the slight parting of your lips, the way your chest rises and falls rapidly—it’s enough to drive him mad. Slowly, deliberately, his hands move to your shirt, fingers brushing your skin as he lifts it over your head and tosses it aside.

His breath hitches as he takes in the sight of you, his lips curving into a faint smirk. His hands move with purpose, tracing over your shoulders and down your arms, leaving goosebumps in their wake. When his fingers find the clasp of your bra, he pauses, his gaze flickering to yours for permission. The soft nod you give him is all he needs. With practiced ease, he unhooks it, sliding the straps down your arms and discarding it.

Once the bra is out of the way, Minho glides his hands up to your ribcage and moves them to the side to cup your soft mound, fingers lightly rubbing the hardening buds, but his eyes... they remain locked with yours. They're dark and wide, filled with lust.

You mirror his movements, your fingers fumbling slightly as you unbutton his shirt, pushing it off his shoulders to reveal the taut muscles of his chest. Your touch is hesitant at first, but as your hands run over his warm skin, Minho lets out a low hum, his eyes darkening with desire.

Piece by piece, the barrier of clothing between you disappears. Minho watches you with a mix of admiration and hunger, his hands grazing your bare skin, memorizing every curve, every dip.

He leans in, his lips pressing softly against your collarbone. From there, he works his way down, leaving a trail of kisses along your skin, each one lingering longer than the last. When his lips find the sensitive spot on your neck, you gasp, your fingers tightening on his shoulders.

“Mine,” he murmurs against your skin, his voice possessive as he leaves a mark there, a reminder of this moment.

Minho doesn’t stop there. His lips travel lower, over your chest, your stomach, your hips, your thighs... each kiss filled with reverence and passion. Every mark he leaves feels like a promise, a declaration of everything he can’t put into words.

“Mine, mine, mine,” that's all Minho can mutter with his lips pressed to your skin.

When he returns to your lips, his kisses are slower, deeper, as if he wants to savor every second. His hands cradle your face, his thumb brushing your cheek as he whispers your name.

“You are mine,” he says, his voice raw with emotion, before pressing his forehead to yours.

The next thing you know, your back resting on his chest, your legs parting open and Minho’s hand relentlessly touching, teasing your bundle of nerves. You're squirming against him, moans spilling out of your mouth and Minho tries his best to contain it by kissing you.

As you spill your release on his hand, you turn your head to the side and he immediately captures your lips in a hard, deep kiss that steals your breath away.

Swiftly, he turns you over, having you lying on your side next to him. His hand curves around your thigh before lifting your leg over his, allowing him the access to penetrate you from the back. His fingers have no problem finding your clit, applying gentle pressures on it as he pushes his length inside you. Your moans are low and sultry, the kind that he won’t get tired of hearing over and over again, spilling out from your mouth until he's fully sheathed inside you. He then pulls you close until your body molds into his, becoming one.

With gentle but deliberate movements, Minho guides you into a rhythm, his touch and kisses all-consuming. Every movement feels like an unspoken conversation, his body communicating what words can’t: desire, care, devotion.

In the quiet intimacy of his apartment, with only the sound of your breaths and the occasional murmured name, Minho makes love to you, pouring everything he feels into every kiss, every touch, every whispered word.

-

Minho pulls a blanket from the side of the sofa, unfolding it with careful hands. The fabric is soft and worn, a perfect cocoon for the two of you. He drapes it over your bodies, tucking it around your shoulders before settling back against the cushions. There isn’t much space on the sofa, but that’s what he likes about it. No gaps between you, no room for anything but closeness. Every small movement has your skin brushing against his, your warmth sinking into him.

As your chest rises and falls with each breath, Minho unconsciously syncs his breathing with yours. The rhythm is soothing, intimate, as though your bodies are speaking their own language. Your head rests on his chest, one hand folded beneath your chin, and he can feel the softness of your eyelashes grazing his skin whenever you shift slightly.

“Hey,” he calls softly, his voice barely above a whisper.

You tilt your head up, your eyes locking with his almost immediately. For a moment, he forgets what he was going to say, caught in the quiet brilliance of your gaze. His hand lifts to brush his hair back, steadying himself before he continues.

“From now on,” he begins, his tone even and measured, “I’m going to scold you non-stop in the kitchen.”

You blink at him, waiting for more.

“That way,” he adds, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, “no one will get suspicious about us.”

A smile blooms on your face, and you nod. “Yes, Chef.”

Minho chuckles softly. “When I scream at you, just remind yourself—it’s my way of showing affection, okay?”

You nod again, that playful glint in your eye as you reply, “Yes, Chef.” But then, after a pause, you tilt your head, your lips quirking into a teasing smile. “So… the more you scream, the stronger your affection?”

Minho’s smirk deepens, his eyes glinting with amusement. “Exactly.”

You giggle, the sound light and infectious, and he can’t help but feel a sense of satisfaction at how easily he can amuse you. Your hand reaches up, fingers gently curling under his chin as you hold his face still.

“What about when you’re being nice?” you ask, your tone soft but teasing. “Does that mean you don’t like me then?”

“No,” Minho shakes his head, his gaze steady. “It means I like you too,” he answers simply.

You giggle again, your face lighting up as you lean closer. “So basically, you’re going to show me affection all day long.”

A smile breaks across his face, warm and genuine. “That’s right,” he says, his voice dropping slightly. “I’m going to shower you with so much affection, you won’t even have time to complain. And if all that love and affection doesn’t make you better, then you’re in serious trouble.”

His eyes lock onto yours, an intensity in his gaze that makes your breath hitch. “Got it?”

Your lips curve into a smile as you answer in that soft, melodic tone he’s come to adore. “Yes, Chef.”

The way you say it melts something in him, because to him, it's not just an expression of obedience but also devotion, and before he can stop himself, he leans in, pressing his lips to yours. The kiss is soft, tender at first, but he pulls away for only a second before diving back in, capturing your lips in a long, lingering kiss.

When he finally breaks away, it’s only to pull you closer, tucking you firmly against him. The two of you stay like that, wrapped in each other’s warmth, until sleep gently claims you both.

-

You step out of the bedroom, still stretching the remnants of sleep from your limbs, and head toward the kitchen. The comforting hum of the coffee machine fills the quiet apartment as you prepare to make your morning coffee.

The front door creaks open, and Sara walks in, looking flushed and energized, like she’s just finished a workout. You offer her a polite smile and a soft, “Good morning.”

She returns the smile, her expression kind but guarded. “Good morning.”

“Coffee?” you ask, gesturing toward the machine.

Sara shakes her head. “No, thanks.” She moves to the other side of the counter, grabbing herself a glass of water.

For a moment, the kitchen is quiet, the only sound the faint gurgling of the coffee machine. Sara breaks the silence, her voice measured but clear. “I thought about what I said to you yesterday—whether it was wrong to tell you.” She pauses, taking a sip of water. “But now that I’ve said it, I think it was the right thing to do.”

You slowly turn to face her, leaning back against the counter as you meet her gaze. The warmth of the brewing coffee lingers in the air, grounding you.

“Thank you,” you say, your tone calm but sincere. “For being honest with me. For telling me the truth.”

Sara’s lips curve into a faint smile, and she takes a step closer, though she’s careful to maintain a respectful distance.

“I think the only way to do this is for us to do things our way,” she says, her voice steady and confident. “And because I promised Minho when I came to Farfalle that I’d be fair, I’ll only play fair and be honest—in everything. Including in getting him back.”

Her words are bold, but there’s no malice in her tone. It’s a simple declaration, as straightforward as a chef presenting a dish: no frills, no pretenses.

You tilt your head slightly, listening intently. There’s something admirable in her directness, her willingness to lay everything bare without disguising her intentions.

“If not,” she continues, her gaze unwavering, “then this victory wouldn’t mean anything to me.” She takes another sip of her water, her expression unreadable. “What do you think?”

You can see it now, the unspoken challenge in her words—a duel not fought with knives and flames in the kitchen, but with hearts and intentions.

You allow a small smile to form, meeting her eyes with a steady gaze. “Okay.”

Your single-word response hangs in the air, an agreement, an acceptance of the unspoken competition between you. Sara nods slightly, her expression firm but not hostile.

And as the coffee machine beeps, signaling your cup is ready, you can’t help but feel a quiet determination settling in your chest. Sara might be better in the kitchen than you but you’re competing for a whole different thing now and you're ready for it.

-

Minho’s good mood evaporates the moment he steps into his office and finds two members of the service staff maneuvering a desk through the doorway. His eyes narrow as he takes in the sight of them positioning it into the corner of the already cramped space.

“What are you doing?” Minho snaps, his voice sharp enough to make the workers pause mid-action.

“The manager told us to move this in here,” one of them answers hesitantly, gesturing toward the desk.

Minho clenches his jaw, the muscles in his neck tightening. He distinctly remembers telling Chris he didn’t want to share his office, but it seems like Chris doesn’t care about what he wants.

Storming out of the room, Minho makes a beeline for Chris’s office, his steps quick and deliberate. Before he gets there, though, he spots Chris in the dining hall, clipboard in hand, inspecting the setup.

Minho stops in front of him, crossing his arms. “I told you I don’t want to share the office,” he says, his tone low but laced with irritation.

Chris looks up, meeting Minho’s intense gaze without flinching. “And I told you this was going to happen.” His voice is calm, almost infuriatingly so.

Chris doesn’t back down, holding Minho’s stare with equal intensity. “Why are you being so narrow-minded?”

Minho’s jaw tightens further. “Why are you narrowing my space?”

The two engage in a fiery standoff, their gazes locked in a silent battle of wills. Minho feels his patience wearing thin, his frustration bubbling dangerously close to the surface. If this goes on any longer, he knows he’ll explode.

Without another word, Minho turns on his heel and storms away, opting for a different tactic. If Chris won’t listen, maybe Sara will.

He heads to the kitchen and spots her near the stock station, carefully stirring a pot of broth. Minho stops in his tracks, his frustration momentarily replaced by a flicker of professional instinct. The kitchen has been having issues with the stock lately, and he knows it needs to be addressed.

Deciding to step back, Minho retreats to his office and pulls out his phone. He fires off a quick text to Felix, asking him to meet in the office to discuss it.

A few minutes later, Felix strides into the office, his usual laid-back demeanor intact. He stands in front of Minho, hands in his pockets, waiting for him to speak.

Minho leans back in his chair, folding his arms. “We need to make a decision about this stock problem. Either we give in to Sara’s way, or she gives in to ours.”

Felix doesn’t hesitate, his answer immediate. “It's only right if she gives in. That was the only possible conclusion from the start.”

Minho raises an eyebrow at the certainty in Felix’s voice.

Felix shrugs. “If I thought I was going to give in, I wouldn’t have left the kitchen in the first place. I stand by what I said.”

Minho takes that in, nodding slightly. “Do you like the taste?”

Felix pulls a face, cringing dramatically. “It’s not that good, and I didn’t like it at all. Honestly, she’s just trying to win the power struggle.”

Minho nods again, this time slower, as if processing Felix’s words. “Alright,” he says, dismissing Felix with a slight wave of his hand.

Felix leaves without another word, and Minho leans back in his chair, staring at the desk that now occupies the corner of his office. He needs space—not just physically, but mentally—to figure out how to deal with both the office and the stock problem. But regardless of that, Minho has a feeling that Sara will still win, one way or another.

-

You finish tying the knot on your apron as you step out of the locker room, ready to start your shift. The sound of hurried footsteps behind you is your only warning before Felix grabs your arm, practically dragging you toward the kitchen.

"Felix, what—" you begin, stumbling slightly to keep up, but he interrupts you, speaking in a hushed tone.

"Chef asked me about Sara’s stock earlier," he says, his voice urgent. "And I, uh, might have told him I tasted it."

You stop dead in your tracks, eyes widening in horror. "What?! You lied about tasting it?"

Felix pulls you forward again, muttering, "It’s not lying if I already know what chicken stock tastes like."

"Felix!" you hiss, your voice rising slightly in panic. "That’s a fatal mistake! You know how thorough Chef is—how could you mess that up?"

"I panicked, okay?" Felix defends himself as the two of you step into the kitchen. "And it’s not like I’m completely wrong. Chicken stock is chicken stock."

You let out a frustrated groan, heading straight for the stove where Sara’s pot of stock still sits. Grabbing a ladle, you pour some into a small bowl, taking a spoonful to taste. The flavor hits your palate, and your stomach drops.

"This… this isn’t chicken stock," you say, turning to Felix with wide eyes.

Felix leans closer, frowning. "What do you mean? It tastes like it."

"It’s not," you insist, setting the bowl down. "Come on, we need to test this properly."

The two of you set to work, comparing Sara’s stock with the vegetable stock the kitchen has been using. You each cook three pastas, pairing them with white, red, and cream-based sauces. Once everything is plated, you spread them across Minho’s chef’s table, ready to taste and compare.

First, you both try the white sauce pasta. You twirl a forkful around and take a bite, chewing thoughtfully. "It’s not bad," you admit, "but the wine in the sauce stands out more than the stock. It doesn’t blend as well."

Felix nods, echoing your observation. "Yeah, it’s… okay. But not groundbreaking."

Next, you move to the cream sauce. Felix takes a bite first, his expression neutral. "The cream’s so rich, it overpowers everything else," he says.

You taste it for yourself and nod in agreement. "Yeah, there’s barely a difference."

Finally, you both dig into the red sauce pasta. The moment the flavor hits your tongue, you and Felix exchange wide-eyed looks.

"Wow," you breathe, genuinely impressed.

Felix lets out a low whistle. "She was right. The stock brings out the tomatoes’ savoriness, and the aroma—it’s so much better."

He runs a hand through his bleached blonde hair, ruining his already messy bun, and groans. "We should’ve tasted this before deciding anything."

You immediately snap your head toward him. "We? You’re the one in trouble here, Felix. Don’t drag me into your mess again."

Felix pales, realization dawning on him. He grumbles, "If Chef finds out we objected without even tasting it first, he’s going to make us take our uniforms off."

You let out a long sigh, tasting more of the red sauce pasta as Felix spirals. "Let me correct you again—you’re the one who’s in trouble, not us and definitely not me."

Felix continues to grumble under his breath, but you’re too focused on the food in front of you. As much as you hate to admit it, you’re impressed with Sara. Despite everyone being against her, she didn’t back down—and she proved herself. You take another bite, silently marveling at how bold and unwavering she was. Whether you like it or not, she’s earned a little respect.

-

The lunch service begins with the usual chaos brewing in the air, the kind that buzzes with both adrenaline and tension. Sara strides confidently to her station, placing a container of her stock front and center as if it were her crown jewel. Felix lets out an audible scoff beside you, muttering under his breath, "We don’t even have space for that."

You can’t tell if he intended for Sara to hear, but she does. Her lips curl into a smirk as she turns her head slightly, saying with calm confidence, "Why don’t we just unify it into one stock? Though for now," she adds, "I’ll only be using it for my triple-flavored pasta."

Caught between them, you feel the tension simmering, and a nagging thought creeps in—Felix's truth, or rather his lie, is bound to come back and bite him at some point.

Minho’s commanding voice pulls everyone’s attention to the chef’s table. "It’s graduation day," he announces, his presence radiating authority. "There'll be a flood for pasta orders. I want you to move your pans so fast that they're just a blur to me. Are we ready?"

"Yes, Chef!" the kitchen replies in unison, and the hum of anticipation turns into a full-blown symphony as the first tickets begin to roll in. The energy shifts instantly as the kitchen comes alive, the sound of sizzling pans and clattering utensils filling the space.

As you juggle pans in both hands, Minho appears at your station, his sharp gaze locked on your movements. He watches silently for a moment before stepping closer, reaching out to hold your wrists. His hands guide yours as he says, "Keep the rhythm fast but steady."

It’s impossible to keep your heartbeat calm with his touch commanding so much of your focus, especially when it’s in full view of the bustling kitchen. You glance at him, your lips twitching into a sly smile.

"Yes, Chef," you manage to say, hoping your voice sounds steadier than you feel.

He nods, releasing your hands, but not before reminding you, "Use your wrist for balance," before moving to Felix’s station.

From the corner of your eye, you see Minho’s sharp instincts kick in the second he watches Felix work. "Add more sauce," Minho orders, his tone direct. Felix, flustered, grabs a ladle from the container but accidentally knocks the entire thing over. The vegetable stock spills onto the stove and cascades onto the floor in a steaming mess.

The room freezes for a split second before Minho’s voice cuts through the chaos like a whip. "What are you doing? Don't you know how busy we are right now?"

Felix stammers out an apology, scrambling to clean up, but Minho is already turning to Taesoo. "Taesoo, why are you just standing there? Get him more stock!"

Taesoo hesitates, his brows furrowing. "Chef… that was the last of the vegetable stock. I was planning to make more after lunch... during prep time."

Minho’s eyes flick to Sara’s pot of stock, then back to Taesoo. "What is that then?"

"That’s Chef Sara’s stock," Taesoo meekly answers.

Minho’s jaw tightens, conflicted. "Change the stock now!"

Taesoo stutters as he asks Minho for confirmation. "To Chef Sara’s stock?"

"Then are you going to cook the pasta without stock?" Minho snaps, his patience running thin.

Taesoo complies, placing the container in front of Felix, whose face pales as though he’s staring at a loaded gun. He glances at you, muttering something you can’t catch.

You glare at him and through your gritted teeth, you say, "Don’t look at me. You dug this hole. You deal with it."

Felix grimaces as he reluctantly dips the ladle into Sara’s stock and pours it into his pan. Minho, ever perceptive, notices the brief exchange between you two. Without hesitation, he steps in between, dipping his wooden spatula into Felix’s pan to taste.

His expression falters for a moment, and he immediately tastes the stock on its own. The room feels heavy with silence as Minho’s piercing gaze lands on Felix, daggers practically shooting from his eyes. You exhale quietly, grateful beyond words that it’s not you standing in Felix’s shoes right now.

-

The rooftop air bites with cold, sharp gusts of wind cutting through the stillness, but Minho’s anger burns hotter than the chill. Felix and Taesoo stand before him, Felix’s defiance cracking at the edges, while Taesoo’s confusion is written all over his face.

What pisses Minho off the most about this isn’t just about Felix lying about Sara’s stock, it's because Felix lied about something he asked for his genuine opinion on and Felix let his petty hatred for Sara cloud his judgment like that. Minho takes a deliberate, unrelenting step toward him. His voice is low but sharp, like the edge of a knife as he asks, “You lied about the taste and you call yourself a chef?”

Felix flinches, his jaw tightening, but says nothing. Minho presses on, his voice rising. “While Sara spent hours, days, perfecting her recipe—while she was working, what were you doing? Criticizing? Lying? Wasting my time?” His arms fold tightly across his chest. “Do you honestly think you deserve to make pasta if this is how you act?”

Felix opens his mouth to defend himself, but Taesoo suddenly raises his hand hesitantly, like a schoolboy caught off guard. “Chef, I don’t mean to interrupt, but… why am I here?”

Minho shoots him a glare that could freeze fire. “You’re here because you didn’t make enough stock in the first place! What kind of kitchen runs out of stock during lunch service, huh? You’re supposed to anticipate these things!”

Taesoo shrinks under the weight of the scolding, muttering, “Yes, Chef.”

Minho’s voice drops to an icy tone. “Both of you—take your uniforms off.”

Felix’s eyes widen, his face going pale. “Chef, are you firing me?” he asks, panic creeping into his voice. “I know I was wrong, but— I left everything and came back from Italy when you asked me for help. How could you fire me like this?”

“Who said I was firing you?” Minho cuts him off, his tone as sharp as a blade. “I said take off your uniforms. Now.”

Taesoo blinks, his confusion deepening. “But, Chef… it’s cold.”

“I don’t care if it’s freezing,” Minho snaps. “Take it off! NOW!!!”

Reluctantly, Felix starts undoing his necktie, while Taesoo removes his chef hat. Slowly, they unbutton their chef coats, the icy wind biting at their exposed skin. Minho watches them without flinching, his expression unyielding.

The rooftop door creaks open, and you step out, pausing to take in the bizarre scene. Felix and Taesoo are shivering, with nothing covering their upper half bodies, while Minho stands before them like a judge handing down a sentence. He doesn’t acknowledge your arrival.

“How does it feel to take your uniforms off? Do you like it?” Minho asks, his tone dripping with disdain.

“No, Chef,” they reply in unison, their voices shaky as they hug themselves.

“Do you want to keep them off and stop cooking?”

“No, Chef.”

Minho steps closer, his gaze piercing. “If I catch either of you pulling something like this again, I’ll make sure you’ll never put those uniforms back on. Understood?”

“Yes, Chef,” they answer, trembling in the cold.

After letting the silence hang for a moment, Minho delivers the final blow. “Each of you owes me 100 push-ups. Start now.”

Felix groans under his breath, but neither dares to protest. They drop to the ground, their voices echoing across the rooftop as they start counting their push-ups.

Minho finally turns to you, sitting on the bench. You wordlessly hand him a lollipop, which he takes with a small, amused smirk. For a while, the two of you sit there, savoring your lollipops as Felix and Taesoo struggle through their punishment.

You glance at Minho. “What are you going to do now, chef?”

He withdraw his lollipop out of his mouth and raises a brow at you. “What?”

You pull your lollipop out of your mouth, twirling it between your fingers. “You’re going to have to acknowledge Chef Sara’s stock now that the sauces tasted better with it.”

Minho narrows his eyes, though there’s a faint conflict in them. Before you can press further, he turns his attention back to Felix and Taesoo. “Count louder! I can’t hear you!”

Their voices rise, and Minho leans back, savoring the sweet taste of his lollipop that masks the bitterness on having to accept his defeat to Sara.

-

Minho’s fingers drum rhythmically against the empty desk in his office, the sound filling the silence. The restaurant had another successful day, but exhaustion hangs heavy over him, though his thoughts weigh even more. Your question keeps looping in his mind, gnawing at him. What are you going to do now?

He sighs, staring at the desk like it might provide an answer. It doesn’t. His finger tapping grows sharper, almost impatient, as he wrestles with his thoughts. He hates it—admitting someone else is right. But Sara was right about her stock, and as much as it grates him, Chris’s words echo too. She deserves the same respect as a chef.

After another moment of frustration, Minho lets out a resigned huff and pulls out his phone. He types a short text to Sara, his fingers moving quickly: "Meet me in my office."

It doesn’t take long before there’s a knock at the door. Minho straightens, pushing himself off the desk. “Come in,” he calls out.

Sara steps in, the faint smile on her lips betraying none of the exhaustion he feels. She approaches confidently, her posture relaxed yet professional, her eyes meeting his.

Minho leans back against the desk, crossing his arms. “Your stock is good,” he says simply, his tone steady but measured.

Her smile widens slightly, though she keeps her response modest. “Thank you, Chef. I just finished perfecting it yesterday.”

He nods. “How long did it take you to get it right?”

“A very long time,” Sara admits with a soft laugh, her voice lighter than he expects. “But I pushed through because…” She hesitates for a moment, then continues, “...because I had you beside me. It motivated me to do better.”

Minho stiffens slightly, the personal undertone in her words prickling at him. His gaze sharpens as he leans forward, making sure there’s no room for misinterpretation. “This has nothing to do with our personal lives,” he says firmly. “I hope all you want from me is to be accepted as a chef, and you deserve that. So let’s share it—the kitchen and the office. Let's do it together.”

To emphasize his point, Minho extends a hand toward her. “Chef Choi Sara,” he addresses her with deliberate formality.

Sara takes his hand without hesitation, her grip firm and her expression warm. “Thank you, Chef Lee Minho,” she replies just as professionally.

Their handshake is brief but significant, a silent agreement between them. Minho watches her closely, his jaw tight but his expression softening just slightly. He hopes she understands what this means—nothing more, nothing less. Just professionalism, for the sake of the kitchen.

He releases her hand and straightens his posture. “That’s all. You can go now.”

Sara nods, offering him one last small smile before turning to leave. As the door closes behind her, Minho exhales deeply, the tension in his shoulders easing just slightly.

He looks at the desk again, then shakes his head. This is the right decision, he tells himself. But as he moves to gather his things, a flicker of uncertainty lingers in the back of his mind.

-

The next morning, Minho steps into his office, pausing when he notices the subtle changes to the space. Sara’s desk, which was bare just yesterday, is now decorated. A small potted plant sits in one corner, a neatly arranged stack of books in another. The sight makes him purse his lips, though his attention is quickly drawn to the pile of books.

Curiosity wins out, and he picks the one on top, flipping it open. It’s Sara’s recipe book. The pages are filled with detailed sketches of dishes, annotations, and scribbled ideas in the margins. Despite himself, he’s impressed by the level of detail.

The door opens, and Minho looks up to see Sara stepping inside. Her gaze lands on him holding her book, and she tilts her head, a small smile tugging at her lips. “Planning to steal my ideas, Chef?”

He snaps the book shut and hands it back to her without hesitation. “Do whatever you want with it,” he says curtly, turning toward his desk.

Sara takes the book, setting it back on her pile. “Actually, I was thinking of sharing it with the cooks here.”

“Like I said,” Minho replies without looking at her, “do as you wish.”

Settling into her chair, Sara glances at him. “You should share your recipe book too, Chef.”

Minho lets out a dry scoff, shaking his head. “So you can copy my recipes? No thanks.”

Sara laughs lightly, unbothered by his sarcasm. “Well, I can’t say no to that offer.”

Minho shoots her a flat look. “I’m not sharing it.”

She shrugs, adjusting her chair and continues organizing her desk. “It might not be easy sharing an office at first, but we’ll get used to it.”

Minho raises an eyebrow at her, skepticism written all over his face. “I don’t see how it can be better than using the office by myself.”

Sara leans back, watching him with a faint smile. “Are you bothered by me, Chef?”

To be honest, yes, but Minho isn’t about to admit that. Thankfully, a knock on the door spares him from responding. “Come in,” he says.

The door creaks open, and Hyunwoo hesitantly steps inside, his expression uncertain. “May I… come in?”

Minho gestures for him to enter. “Sure. What is it, Hyunwoo?”

Hyunwoo shifts nervously but eventually speaks. “I wanted to ask if I could work in the pasta line.”

Minho exchanges a brief glance with Sara before focusing back on Hyunwoo. “What’s the reason?”

Hyunwoo looks down as he musters up the courage to honestly answer to the question. “I don’t know if I can become a chef with my background, but in the future, I dream of opening a small Italian restaurant to support my family.”

Minho narrows his eyes. “So you don’t want to make pasta because you love it, but because it’s a way to earn a living?”

Hyunwoo defends himself quickly. “Chef, being a chef is a profession. It’s not unreasonable to think that way. And pasta is one of the most popular dishes in Italian restaurants. I need experience if I want to succeed. But I noticed you only put your people in the important positions.”

Minho’s jaw tightens as he crosses his arms, offended by Hyunwoo’s words. “People who make good pasta get to make pasta. People who are good at grilling get to grill. That’s how it works.”

Hyunwoo avoid Minho’s gaze but his voice grows more determined. “All I’m asking for is a fair chance, Chef.”

Minho looks at Sara, who meets his gaze evenly. Finally, Minho turns back to Hyunwoo. “You may go.”

Hyunwoo bows slightly and leaves the office, closing the door behind him.

Once he’s gone, Sara lets out a sigh, leaning back in her chair. “I don’t like switching people around on the pasta line. It’s just now starting to run smoothly.”

Minho nods, considering her point. “Keeping people in their current roles could be a little selfish on our part, though.”

Sara tilts her head, studying him. “True. We should think about it and decide what’s best for the team.”

Minho leans back against his desk, arms crossed. His gaze lingers on Sara for a moment. This isn’t just about Hyunwoo, he realizes. It’s also a test of how well he and Sara can work together. And though he won’t say it out loud, that thought weighs heavier on him than he’d like to admit.

-

As everyone else is having lunch, you slip out of the restaurant to a café a few blocks down from the restaurant. This time, you glance around as you walk, making sure no one from the restaurant followed you this time. The memory of your last close call still makes you cringe to this day.

The café is quiet, a comforting hum of soft chatter and the occasional clink of cups filling the air. You sit at a small table tucked into the corner, the bag containing your surprise securely nestled in your lap.

The door chimes, and your heart skips when you see Minho step inside. Dressed impeccably as always, his sharp eyes scan the room. You raise your hand, catching his attention.

“Over here!” You shout, excitingly waving your hand in the air.

He spots you, and you notice the way his lips twitch, almost betraying a smile before he reins it in. It makes your heart warm—he’s always trying so hard to maintain his composed front.

As he approaches, you offer, “Do you want to order coffee, Chef?”

“I already had coffee,” he replies nonchalantly, pulling out a chair and sitting across from you.

Since he's already here, you pull the bag onto your lap and take out the small box. Without saying a word, you place it on the table, sliding it toward him.

Minho looks at it, and this time, he doesn’t fight the smile. It tugs at his lips as he glances at you.

“Chocolates? Are we kids?” he teases, but there’s no malice in his tone.

You tilt your head coyly. “What’s wrong with it? I’ve always wanted to do this on Valentine’s Day.”

Minho lifts an eyebrow but says nothing, his fingers brushing over the box. You point at the small card you tucked on top of the package. “Read it,” you urge.

He smirks, shaking his head. “You read it.”

You shake your head back. “Nope. You have to read it yourself.”

Minho leans forward slightly, his eyes narrowing playfully. “What did you write?”

“Just take it and read it when you’re alone,” you insist, suddenly shy.

He tilts his head, studying you. “Did you write it from the heart?”

You giggle, nodding. “Of course.”

Something flickers in his eyes, softening his expression. He takes the card and tucks it into the inner pocket of his jacket, then focuses back on the box. You catch a fleeting look on his face, something you’ve never seen before—wonder, almost awe.

“No one’s ever given me something like this,” he murmurs, his voice quieter than usual.

The admission surprises you, and your heart swells knowing that you get to be the first for him, you can't help but feeling special.

Minho opens the box, and a genuine laugh bursts out of him. The sound is rich and warm, the kind of laugh that you rarely hear from him.

You grin, unable to contain your own laughter as he looks at the chocolates inside—the assortment of truffles arranged around the word “Chef” written in chocolate, flanked by little heart-shaped pieces.

“Don’t just stare at them,” you say, chuckling. “Try one!”

He picks up a piece, pops it into his mouth, and chews slowly, his eyes locked on you. His expression is unreadable at first, but then he nods, swallowing. “This must be why people fall in love.”

The words take you by surprise, and you feel your cheeks heat. You reach for one of the chocolates, but he swats your hand away, pulling the box closer to him.

“They’re mine,” he says, his tone mock-serious. “You can’t have any.”

You pout, feigning an unamused expression and then lean back in your chair. “Ugh! Fine.”

As you watch him, your eyes linger on his face. You’ve admired Minho before—his sharp jawline, his perfectly shaped lips, the way his eyes seem to catch the light just right—but sitting here, facing each other in this quiet moment, you feel like you’re seeing him in a new light. The usual sternness in his expression is gone, replaced by a softer, more relaxed version of him.

It strikes you how beautiful he looks when he lets his guard down. His smile, rare as it is, transforms him completely.

“What?” he asks, catching you staring.

“Nothing,” you say quickly, looking away. But deep down, you know that this moment, with the two of you sitting together and sharing something simple yet special, will stay with you for a long time.

-

The chilly air brushes against Minho’s face as the two of you walk side by side, the world around you quiet save for the faint sound of your footsteps. Moments like this, stolen and fleeting, remind him how much he cherishes your presence. He glances your way, and when you catch him looking, you smile—a bright, unguarded expression that makes his chest tighten.

Minho shoves one hand deep into his coat pocket, clenching his fingers into a fist to resist the urge to reach for your hand. Touching you, kissing you—it’s all he wants to do, but even walking next to you like this feels like a rare treasure.

In his other hand, he carries the box of chocolates you gave him, and every time he looks at it, he feels an inexplicable elation. It’s ridiculous, isn’t it? How something so small, so simple, could make him feel like this? His mind drifts to the card tucked inside his jacket. Curiosity simmers beneath his composed exterior, but he tells himself to wait. He’ll read it once he’s back in the safety of his office, away from prying eyes.

But the warmth in his chest is shattered in an instant.

The restaurant’s main entrance swings open with a loud clang, and Taesoo bursts through the door. His face is a twisted mix of panic and horror, his chef hat crumpled in his trembling hands. He stops dead in his tracks, eyes darting between Minho, you, and the restaurant behind him.

Minho’s brows furrow as he straightens up. “What’s wrong?”

Taesoo’s gaze flickers nervously, his breaths uneven. His mouth opens, but no words come out at first. Minho’s patience snaps.

“What’s wrong?” he accidentally raises his voice at him out of impatience.

Taesoo finally blurts it out, his voice rising in a mix of alarm and disbelief. “What have you two been doing?”

Your eyes widen, and Minho feels the tension radiate from you as you stammer, “What are you talking about? What’s happening?”

Taesoo’s voice breaks as he takes a step closer. “You’ve been caught!”

The words hang heavy in the air, freezing both you and Minho in place.

“Caught?” Minho repeats, his voice dangerously low, though his heart is pounding in his chest.

Taesoo nods frantically. “Everyone in the kitchen knows now about... you two!”

You gasp audibly, your hand flying to your mouth in a dramatic gesture. “Everyone?”

Taesoo nods again, his expression a mix of disbelief and regret, as if he wished he could have been the bearer of better news.

Minho exchanges a wide-eyed look with you, his mind racing. He can feel the weight of the moment pressing down on him, the precarious balance of secrecy teetering on the edge of collapse.

“What do you mean everyone knows?” Minho asks, his tone cold and unyielding, though his voice falters ever so slightly.

But Taesoo doesn’t answer. Instead, he steps back toward the door, leaving you both standing in stunned silence.

You turn to Minho, panic clear in your eyes. “What are we going to do?”

Sadly, Minho doesn’t have an answer for that but he feels as though the ground beneath him has crumbled, and all he can do is brace himself for the inevitable fallout.

-

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[dramaticweathergirl]

Swarm

Twst timeloop au

"Hey Deucy, don’t ya think the butterflies like Yuu a bit too much? No, scratch that—they’re totally borderline obsessed."

Deuce could only glance in the direction his companion was nodding at, curiosity tugging at him. There, in the distance of the Heartslabyul garden, stood Yuu, butterflies dancing around them in an elegant choreography. Some perched atop their head, while others rested on the blades of their shoulders.

It was almost beautiful—if not for the fact that it somehow reminded Deuce of how flies desperately clung to rotting organic trash in the dumpsite he and his old (former) friends used to hang around.

He coughed into his palm, composing himself.

‘How morbid,’ he thought.

"Maybe it’s their perfume or something."

"...Do you really think our dear I-don’t-have-budget-to-buy-a-toothbrush Prefect has the luxury to buy perfume? Let alone one that attracts butterflies like crazy?"

Touché.

The two continued their playful banter as they set up tables for the upcoming Unbirthday Party. They were so caught up in their verbal sparring that they didn’t notice two upperclassmen approaching.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa! If it isn’t the Adeuce duo working hard! Didn’t know you two were on duty today. Lemme guess—you made Riddle mad again, huh?" Cater flashed a grin, positioning his phone before snapping a quick picture of the pair. "There. For documentation—proof of your hard work to show Dormhead!"

"Hey!—"

"At least warn us before you take a picture!"

Trey sighed, watching the three of them bicker. "Don’t bully the freshmen too much, Cater."

"Speaking of freshies, where’s Yuu? I thought I heard Grimmy’s voice earlier while passing by."

"Oh, Yuu? They’re over there." Ace lazily gestured toward the school’s Prefect. "They’re kinda... out of it right now, so I wouldn’t get too close if I were you," he added, trying (and failing) to suppress the worry in his voice.

"Out of it?" Trey repeated, frowning.

Four pairs of eyes turned toward the figure in the distance. Yuu stood eerily still, like a statue, their eyes devoid of emotion as they gazed into the horizon. They seemed utterly unfazed by the butterflies swarming around them.

"Wow, ain’t that a Magicam-able sight," Cater murmured. "Yuu-chan really is a butterfly whisperer, huh?"

"I knew they had an affinity for butterflies, but never this extreme," Trey mused, cupping his chin as he recalled past encounters with the Prefect. Ever since he’d met Yuu, there had always been a butterfly or two flitting nearby. His first memory of it was when Yuu and the freshmen duo had returned from the Botanical Garden.

Trey’s brow quirked as he noticed two butterflies circling the Prefect. "Looks like you’ve got a new companion," he’d joked back then.

Yuu had given a grim smile, shrugging tiredly. "Seems like it," they’d said.

Even now, Trey remembered the peculiar look in their eyes. Yuu always had that expression—their smiles never reaching their blank, dead-fish eyes.

"Stupid bugs!" Grim had complained that day, pumping his paws in frustration. "These dumb things have been following my henchman ever since we came back from the mines! I thought we lost ’em, but the moment my henchman stepped into the Botanical Garden, more of them showed up!"

Ever since Riddle’s overblot, more and more butterflies seemed to flock to Yuu. Now, whenever the Prefect stood still in an open space, a swarm of butterflies would gather, their numbers growing the longer Yuu remained stationary.

Like flies buzzing around a rotting cor—

"What’s with all this commotion?!" a familiar voice barked, cutting through Trey's thoughts. "I’d appreciate it if the four of you finished your tasks instead of loitering. Especially you two dimwits who skipped cleaning duty yesterday."

"GAH!"

"D-Dormhead!"

"Riddle..." Trey muttered in surprise. The Heartslabyul Dormhead stood with his arms crossed, his gaze sharp and judgmental.

"Morning, Rids! We were just talking about our dear Prefect over there and the mystery of why the butterflies are crowding around them like a bunch of crazy paparazzi," Cater chimed in with his usual cheeky grin.

Riddle’s brows furrowed as he followed their line of sight. "My, there are more of them than usual," he remarked, his tone curious. "And all the same species..." he added, almost to himself, though the others heard him.

"Species?"

"Yes. I’ve been researching the insects attracted to Yuu. It’s been a personal curiosity of mine to figure out why they’re so drawn to them. At first, I thought it was due to sweat—"

"Sweat? That’s gross," Ace interrupted with a mock gag.

"Yes, sweat," Riddle repeated, unimpressed. "Some butterfly species are attracted to sodium, which is why they’re sometimes drawn to humans. But Yuu never seems to be sweating during these incidents. That led me to believe they might be secreting some sort of pheromone undetectable to humans. But when I asked a beastman—your friend Jack—he said he smelled nothing."

"Wow... you really did your research, huh," Deuce muttered, blinking in amazement.

"It’s hardly anything substantial. I’m still stumped as to why this phenomenon occurs. However, during one of my reading sessions, I came across something... surprising."

"Surprising? How so?"

"Did you know that some butterfly species—like the ones hovering around Yuu—are attracted to and feast on the fluids of decaying corpses?"

[okwonyo]

PARTITION ꣑୧ 이희승

𝖲𝖢𝖤𝖭𝖠𝖱𝒾𝖮 ✴︎ 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝗀𝗂𝗋𝗅 𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾𝗌.

【 備考 】 academic rival!heeseung & fem!rea 11OO high school au fluff ( ˵ˊᯅˋ˵ ) tension flirting

じや ⠀⦂⠀for hana banana bby @yeokii

reblogs ────── ㅤㅤ✿︎ㅤㅤ ︎ㅤㅤ︎ㅤclick

this isn’t how you imagined your day to end. it wasn’t what you imagined when you woke up this morning. this isn’t how you planned your evening nor this definitely wasn’t what you thought would happen.

but, you admit that it is nice. well— from your point of view. spending some time with the boy you spent you entire year competing, fighting to get better grades, is nice. even if it’s because you both got told to clean the classroom as a punishment.

it might see weird. it would be weird, if it wasn’t for the fact that your heart flatter at the mention of his name alone.

being here with him makes you happy.

the sun shining behind the classroom’s windows makes the winter cold weather more bearable. it reflects on the tables in the room, the rays follow a precise trajectory— from the sky to the boy at the opposite of the room. you try to not stare too much, but you admit that you let yourself peek over at him from time to time.

the silence is quite deafening. you and him never talked much about anything that wasn’t school related. even then, you just tell each other who will top the other in the school’s ranks.

it’s during a time where you are not looking that his voice reaches you, making your blood stop in your veins, your heart jumps.

“why did you do that?” heeseung’s eyes don’t leave the floor he is cleaning as he asks. unlike you, he doesn’t stop in his frenetic movements.

your gape at him. saying that you are confused is an understatement, “what?”

this time, heeseung stops. taking a deep breath as he leans the sweep in his hand against the wall. watching him close his eyes and slide his hands in his pockets makes heat rise in your body.

his steps lead him to you when he opens his eyes again. how he presents himself in the decelis uniform distracts you so much, you don’t realize how close he is getting to you.

your eyes are fixated on the red and grey cravat. you wonder how he makes it seem so much more attractive that it looks on anyone else.

“the reason we are here in the first place,” you feel something in your stomach when he speaks again. he has gotten so close, you have to tilt your head up to see him properly.

the memory of what happened a few hours prior makes you look away in embarrassment. you bite your lip nervously as the image of him finding out about that appears in your brain.

still, you decide to feign pure ignorance, “i don’t know what you are talking about.”

you still don’t look at him as he gets closer, making you walk backwards. he doesn’t say anything for a while but you can feel his stare— although your gaze is fixated on the floor beside you.

he calls your name, still stepping closer. you look at the floor then at your other side, carefully avoiding any eye contact, “don’t lie to me, please.”

the way his body language contrasts with how pleading he sounds is utterly attractive.

“i know how smart you are,” he continues, praising you as his body oppresses your own. he corners you between a table and his tall frame as he continues, “so smart. i am sure you wouldn’t do bad on a question as simple as it was.”

your breath catches as he leans forward. he is obviously waiting for an answer but you can’t find enough strength in yourself to come up with one.

heeseung is so close. so much that his hands are on the furniture behind you, each one next to your hips. he is straight up jailing you with his body. you can’t breathe, you can’t escape.

“why did you write an wrong answer on purpose?” he explicit his question, even if he knows you understood it already. what you don’t really comprehend is how he expects you to say anything when he is so close. “c’mon, look at me.”

you take a moment before obliging. his eyes have never been this wide before. so lovely, so demanding. you want to melt.

and before you can stop yourself, your heart speaks for you, “i thought you would like it.”

it is like the world stops as soon as you talk. his eyes grow a tad wider— mirroring his surprise. it is definitely not what he was expecting, you can see it all over his face.

but heeseung is smart, not smarter than you are, but smarter than most. it takes him a few seconds to realize what you truly meant by that.

to be frank, you did think he’d prefer a girl that wasn’t like you. you still think the same, maybe if you weren’t always competing and winning against him, he’d see you for something else than a rival.

that’s the kind of girl he is usually seen with. girls that praise him.

heeseung for sure doesn’t think the same.

he leans back, finally letting you out of the jail he made. you can finally breathe properly, your chest heaves and relax— nervousness finally leaving your body.

it comes back like a boomerang. when you look at heeseung again. he is still close to you, way too close and the way he looks at you isn’t pleading anymore.

he doesn’t seem displeased by what he found out. not at all. he seems to like it a bit too much.

he tilts his head to the side, a grin growing on his face. it annoys a lot, how easy he can make you blush with his antics.

“it is what this is about?” he chuckles, now almost smirking down at you. he gets leans towards you again, his face a few inches away from yours. his breath is on your mouth and it makes you so warm all over. but you can’t look away from this beautiful sight.

“you are smart,” he praises again. butterflies in your stomach, you swear you might be doing heart eyes right now. “much smarter than i am and i find it hot,” you feel the need to lick your lips slightly when his gaze falls on them. “really hot, i don’t need you to make me feel smarter to like you.”

you can’t say anything back. your throat is well too dry to even think of it.

he keeps getting closer, his mouth brushes yours, “you are the only girl who challenges me and,” he is almost there. “i love it.”

taglist open + net— @sgz-net

[angelfic]

dc vs vampires!dick grayson x reader

warnings — mentions of death, weapons, blood, vampire dick duh. unedited as per usual my bad

a/n; vampire dick gets me going like no other so let me know if i should make this a series… a more fleshed out series or just more drabbles (does this count as a drabble?) idk im asking the audience

dc vs vampires!DICK GRAYSON who allows you to stay human, as a kindness.

you try your best to hide from him, camping out in different bunkers every few months all over blüdhaven with groups of other survivors. the resistance is slowly dwindling and you know of other groups littered around, hearing tales of how each of them are being turned, imprisoned or simply wiped out.

you know he’s sparing you and the people you’re with to play with your mind. he doesn’t truly care for them, and all he wants to do with you is own you like he does the rest of his followers.

you know this, because he comes to visit you in the dead of night when you’re alone.

“hi, sweetheart,” he says, voice as smooth as ever, but you listen intently for the dangerous edge that wasn’t there before.

he steps forward and your stomach swoops as it does every time you see the startling red of his eyes that seem to glow in the flickering light of your room. you instinctively grab the knife tucked away in the waistband of your pyjamas, unsheathing it and gripping it tightly as you raise it in front of him.

“stay back,” you warn, unable to say his name.

he glances down at your knife, and grins wolfishly, revealing the sharp tips of his fangs. “hot,” he whispers, taking a step toward you unflinchingly. “you know i always did love seeing you with a weapon. never thought you’d be turning it on me though…”

he sighs deeply, as if suffering from temporary amnesia. you shake your head, slowly backing up. “you’re insane. you know exactly why. i just don’t understand why you don’t just kill me like you’ve done all the rest.”

dick’s smirk falters for a moment, but his confidence doesn’t waver. “kill you?” he echoes, advancing further. “no, no, i saved you. i could have turned you that night, but i didn’t. because i wanted you to choose, sweetheart.”

“choose?” you hiss, gripping your weapon tighter. “to become one of them? to join you in slaughtering humanity? the same humanity you once loved.”

his expression remains blank, and your heart clenches at the fact that he’s unaffected by your words. he doesn’t care because he physically can’t anymore.

“you’re thinking too small,” he says softly. “humanity was always heading in this direction… all i’ve done is speed it up. i can control it now. no more of the depravity we used to witness, we can be so much stronger. especially with you by my side.”

“yeah,” you scoff, rolling your eyes. “me at your side, watching you rule over everything like some kind of God?”

the next step he takes has you frozen. his presence was overwhelming and you’re paralysed by the way his gaze softens even though you know that every move is calculated. “i don’t want to be a God,” he murmurs, cold fingers reaching down to brush gently up your forearm, making you shiver. “i just want you.”

his words hit you like a punch to the chest and all you can do is stare at him. he’s terrifying, but so, so beautiful. you’re sickened by the thoughts running through your head and you screw your eyes shut.

dick takes the opportunity to reach up with his other hand to brush your hair away from your neck, leaning in to inhale deeply.

too late, you realise, his fangs are out as they’re hovering over your throat, threatening to break skin and allow your blood to flow onto his tongue. he always talks about how sweet you’d taste, how badly he wants to drink from you. you don’t bother stopping him — you couldn’t if you tried. surprisingly, he seems content with just staying there and you find your voice eventually.

“stop it,” you whisper, voice trembling. “stop trying to mess with me. i know who you are now and it isn’t the man i loved.”

dick lifts his head, not bothering to increase the distance between the two of you, allowing you to see the way his expression turns troubled. “i’m still me,” he mutters, careful not to let his fangs show as he pleads with you in the way he once did to earn your forgiveness. “i swear, that hasn’t changed.”

“you are not the man i loved,” you enunciate, tears stinging your eyes as you repeat your words to him like you do to yourself in the early hours of the morning when you can’t sleep.

dick’s expression darkens. he catches a stray tear with his finger and tilts his head. his voice is slightly colder now, more detached. “you still love me. i can feel it. but it’s alright, i’m a patient man.”

he drops a kiss to your cheek, where the tears threatened to flow before stepping backwards. “i’ll be back, sweetheart,” he murmurs, reassuring you as if you’ve begged him to stay.

and with that, he’s gone. disappearing into the shadows as quickly as he had arrived.

you collapse to the ground, knife forgotten at your side. your heart feels like it’s breaking all over again.

because this isn’t your dick grayson. you know deep down that your dick doesn’t have pale, ghostly skin that makes you flinch when he touches you. or fangs that glint menacingly when he talks.

but it’s a little hard to remember all those things when he looks at you with those eyes, that in the dimly lit bunker, look as lovingly at you as they used to.

a/n cont.; im gnawing at the gates of dick’s vampire manor begging to be let in so he can turn me… pick me, choose me, bite meeee🧛🏻🤍

[tfwbluu]

PAIRING — ni-ki + f!reader

WARNINGS — no plot, sub!riki & dom!reader, pegging, reader referring her strap-on as cock, reader’s older; noona kink, overstimulation/edging, pet names; lots of good boy & pretty boy, handcuffs, some slapping, oral (f. rec), size kink; belly bulge, raw sex (stay safe!), face riding/sitting, some nipple play, cockwarming, some very light aftercare.

WORDCOUNT — 3.9K

NOTE — i just love sub riki so bad ( ꩜///꩜;) !! i couldn’t help myself but indulge myself in this despite me almost losing my mind over how i wanted to go w it but here it is . . . might be a bit rushed but idk anyway.

It had been a few years since you and Riki started dating, and your relationship had settled into a comfortable rhythm. Your sex life was, for the most part, ordinary—fulfilling, yet nothing out of the box.

Riki, who had been shy in the beginning, gradually grew confident and usually took the lead. You’d always assumed he preferred being the dominant one, something you were perfectly fine with. Most of your intimate moments followed that dynamic, and it suited you both well—or so you thought.

It was a quiet Saturday evening, the kind where time seemed to stretch lazily. You were lounging on the couch in nothing but a pair of panties and Riki’s oversized hoodie, playing with your phone and enjoying your day off.

That's why it completely caught you off guard when your pretty boyfriend suddenly tugged at the sleeve of your hoodie. His expression was shy, cheeks flushed a soft pink, as he looked up at you with those big, innocent eyes that made your heart flutter. He was kneeling in front of you, his gaze filled with something needy, paired with the cutest pout on his lips. In your hand, you held the strap-on he had given you.

You blinked at him, processing the scene in front of you. “Riki,” you started softly, your voice laced with amusement and curiosity. “You do know what you’re asking for, right?”

He nodded quickly, biting his lip as his gaze flickered down to the toy in your hand and then back up to your face. “Please,” he whispered, his voice barely audible but filled with longing.

You couldn’t help but smirk at how adorable he looked, his usual confident demeanor nowhere to be found. “Since when were you this needy?” you teased, reaching out to cup his cheek, your thumb brushing over the soft skin as he leaned into your touch.

“It’s only for you,” he murmured, his words making your chest tighten and the heat pool in your core.

“Well then,” you said, your voice soft but firm as you straightened up your posture, towering slightly over him. “If that’s the case, you’ll have to be good for me. Can you do that, baby?”

“Yes… yes, I can,” he stammered, his cheeks burning even redder as he glanced up at you, utterly at your mercy.

He was practically begging, his lips pushed out in that irresistible pout, making him look like a sad little duck. A part of you wanted to kiss him right then and there, but that thought was quickly overshadowed when he whispered his next words.

“Won’t you take care of me, Noona?” His voice was soft, almost innocent, as he rested his cheek against your knee. A wave of heat rushed through you, settling deep in your core.

“Mm...? You want Noona to take care of you?” you cooed, gently stroking his cheek, your thumb ghosting over his lips.

“Please…” he whispered, pressing a lingering kiss to your palm, his breath warm against your skin.

“Then strip for me, baby,” you commanded, watching as he stood up, carefully taking his time as he slipped out of his clothes. His eyes stayed locked on you, a glimmer of tease dancing within them. Meanwhile, you calmly adjusted the strap, ensuring it sat snugly.

Now bare before you, his breath hitched as you motioned him closer with a flick of your finger. Obediently, he sank back onto his knees, his body trembling slightly with anticipation. With a firm yet gentle touch, you tilted his chin upward, forcing his gaze to meet yours.

The stark contrast between his bare vulnerability and your still fully-clothed figure sent a wave of heat coursing through him. His cock twitched, already oozing with arousal, betraying just how much the dynamic excited him.

“Is this what you want, baby?” you teased, brushing the tip along his flushed cheek. He parted his lips instinctively, eager to take what you were offering.

“Ah-ah, patience,” you murmured, fingers tangling in his hair as you pulled him back slightly. A soft whimper escaped his lips at the pull, sending a shiver of satisfaction through you.

“Please, need you so bad…” he whined, his voice trembling with desperation as he kneeled before you, his cheeks flushed and his eyes wide, pleading.

“My, you're so needy,” you mused, running the tip over his soft lips, your smirk growing as he kissed it without hesitation. “Are you always this desperate for my cock, baby boy?” His eyes flickered with desperation as he nodded, lips parting ever so slightly, his breath warm against your skin.

“Then be a good boy for me,” you whispered, your voice laced with authority. “Go on, show me how much you want it.”

Riki moved with ease, his lips brushing over the tip with delicate attention. He started slow—too slow for your liking—so you tangled your fingers in his hair, guiding him further down the toy with a firmer grip. A soft whimper escaped his lips, but he didn’t resist, surrendering completely as his warm mouth enveloped more of it. His eyes fluttered shut, a delicate blush spreading across his cheeks, the soft, muffled sounds he made filling the room. A thin trail of spit clung to the silicone, glistening under the light, evidence of just how much he wanted to please you.

“You’re making such a mess…” you teased, running your thumb along his flushed cheek, making him open his eyes gently.

You watched intently as he took in the whole toy, his breath hitching with every inch. It was slightly bigger than his own length, if your guess was right, and the way his body adjusted to it was mesmerizing.

His face was flushed, his breath uneven, and the way he looked up at you—eyes hazy with desire, mouth slightly parted with a faint trail of drool at the corner—made your heart skip a beat. He sucked onto the toy with newfound fervor, entirely caught in his own daze, surrendering himself completely to your control.

Just when he seemed fully lost in you, you abruptly pulled the toy away, a thin trail of saliva connecting his lips to the tip. A small whine of protest escaped him, his pout deepening as he looked up at you with longing. Before he could voice his frustration, you slapped his cheek, the motion enough to make him still. Then, cupping his jaw, you tilted his head upward, making him meet your gaze.

“Shh, no whining,” you murmured, a playful glint in your eyes. “Good boys don’t whine.”

“‘M sorry, Noona… ngh!” His lips parted in a quiet apology, but all that came out was a needy little sound as your fingers ghosted over his skin, flicking and fondling with his nipples gently. The way he twitched under your touch sent a thrill through you. Pulling him into a sweet kiss, you silenced his whines, letting his soft, needy sounds melt into you.

“Let’s move to the bed, yeah?” you suggested, breaking the kiss and guiding him toward it. Once there, you gently pushed him down, his wide eyes meeting yours, uncertainty flickering across his face as he reached out but hesitated.

“Noona…” he whispered, eyes searching yours.

“Shh, it’s okay, baby. I’ve got you,” you reassured him, pressing a soft kiss to his trembling fingers.

“Did you prep beforehand?” you asked, your voice was gentle yet teasing as you reached for the bottle of lube at the bedside drawer. Squeezing some out, you carefully coated it around the strap-on, the motion slow and careful. With a playful grin, you swiped a bit onto his hole, making sure it was well-coated.

Riki nodded shyly, his teeth sinking into his lower lip as he watched you, anticipation clear in his gaze. His fingers curled into the sheets, his breath hitching as you positioned yourself against him.

“Oh, but before that…” you murmured, mostly to yourself. Reaching for a pair of cuffs, you carefully secured them around his wrists, locking them to the headboard. “You’ll take it like a good boy, right?” you said with a satisfied grin.

“This is unfair…” he pouted, his lips forming an adorable frown at the feeling of being restrained. But his protest vanished the moment your hands settled on his waist, the tip of the toy finally prodding his entrance.

“You were the one that wanted this, baby, so let me take care of you without you interrupting me, hmm?” you murmured, brushing a hand over his thigh, spreading his legs apart before meeting his eyes with a knowing smirk. “Just let me know if it’s too much, alright? You know the word,” you reminded gently, finally pushing into him, making him moan as you filled him up.

“Fuck… yes yes yes, Noona~!” he moaned, tilting his head back in pleasure, not giving him much time to adjust, you began thrusting. “Oh fuck!”

“Yeah, you like it when I fuck into you like this? Love it when I fill you up, mhm?” you teased, your hips snapping into him with a relentless rhythm.

“Mhm… Noona… you feel so good inside me, ah!” he babbled, his voice laced with need. His cock, flushed a deep red and twitching with need, throbbed painfully as his hips instinctively bucked into the empty air, silently pleading for attention.

Your gaze finally drifted to his neglected arousal, watching as it slapped against his stomach with every involuntary movement. Without a word, you brought your hand down sharply, delivering a quick slap to his cock that made him jolt and let out a broken gasp.

“Poor thing,” you murmured, your fingers wrapping around his length with a feather-light touch as you began stroking him slowly.

The contrast between your relentless thrusts and the gentle care of your hand on him sent him reeling, soft whimpers spilling from his lips as he quivered beneath you. “O-oh… mhmm~ fuck—Noona!” he murmured, his voice unsteady.

“Such a good boy for me, taking me so well, mhm?” you whispered softly into his ear, your voice dripping with sweetness. You pressed a trail of delicate kisses down the curve of his neck, pausing to leave faint, possessive marks on his tender skin. Your hips and hand continued their steady rhythm, drawing the prettiest sounds from him.

His breath hitched, and his entire face flushed a deeper shade of red, the blush creeping up to his ears. He tilted his head slightly, exposing more of his neck to you as if silently begging for more of your touch, completely lost in the bliss you gave him.

When you pulled back slightly to admire him, his glossy eyes met yours, and he immediately looked away, biting his lip to suppress a shy smile. His chest rose and fell rapidly, the combination of your relentless movements and tender words making his blush deepen.

“You’re so pretty like this,” you cooed, tucking a strand of his messy hair away. The compliment only made him squirm under your gaze, his cheeks burning even brighter. “Don’t hide from me now,” you teased, gently guiding his chin back so he couldn’t escape your adoring stare.

“Y-You’re too much,” he mumbled shyly, though his voice betrayed how much he loved the attention. His blush only made you lean in to kiss his flushed lips gently, savoring the warmth of his skin and the way he trembled under your touch.

He suddenly felt a knot tightening in his stomach, the heat building rapidly as he teetered on the edge. His breathing grew uneven, and his hands tugged against the cuffs, desperate to ground himself.

“‘M so c-close… please, Noona, let me cum, pretty please,” he pleaded gently, his hips instinctively moving against your hand.

“Go ahead baby, cum for me,” you commanded and it didn’t take long before his release spurts out coating his abs and your hands.

“Y-yes, oh fuck..!” he mewled, his hips stuttering as he tried in vain to squirm away from your endless ministrations.

“That’s it… what a good boy,” you teased, coaxing every last drop out of him.

He mumbled countless “thank yous,” his voice soft and breathy, finally relieved from the overwhelming high. His brief moment of relief didn’t last long, though, as you resumed teasing him. Keeping the strap-on still buried inside him, your fingers began to playfully rub his sensitive tip, drawing out more desperate whines from him.

“Noona, stop—ah, ’m s-sensitive!” he whined, squirming beneath your touch. You ignored his pleas, continuing to stroke his tip as he writhed in sensitivity. “Mmph… p-please! Too much!” he whined breathlessly.

"I’m barely even touching you, love," you teased, giving his cock a few light slaps before resuming your slow strokes. He writhed beneath you, his body betraying him as he moaned uncontrollably. "It seems your body is speaking louder than your words, baby. Look at you, fucking up into my hand like you’re begging for more."

Your movements were subtle, your hand barely stroking him, but his hips did all the work, driving against your touch in desperation. His restrained whimpers turned into broken cries, the intensity building with each passing second.

“Fuck!” he yelped, tugging at the restraints as his body tensed, overwhelmed by the relentless sensations. He squirmed helplessly, unable to hold back as his release finally hit him. With a sharp gasp, his cum spilled out in messy, hot trails across his skin, leaving him trembling beneath you.

“There you go,” you cooed, your tone both soft and teasing, slowing your strokes to a stop as he twitched beneath your touch. “I knew you had it in you.” You smiled down at him, composed and satisfied, while he struggled to catch his breath, his flushed face a picture of exhaustion and bliss.

You finally pulled your strap out of him, his soft whine at the emptiness tugging at your heart as you set it aside. Slipping off your panties, you freed yourself from its confines, letting out a sigh of relief. Gently holding his chin between your fingers, you tilted his face up to meet your gaze.

“Want a treat?” you asked softly, your voice laced with playful affection.

He nodded obediently, his wide, eager eyes fixed on yours, but that wasn’t enough for you. With a sharp slap to his cock, you watched as he flinched, a desperate whimper leaving his lips. “Use your words, baby,” you demanded, your tone firm.

“Y-yes, please, noona,” he stammered, his voice trembling with need, his blush deepening as he squirmed under your gaze.

“See? That wasn’t so hard, was it?” Slowly, you moved to hover above his face, spreading your folds apart with your fingers, revealing just how much you needed him. Without a moment's hesitation, he leaned in, his lips latching onto your clit. His tongue worked with practiced ease, swirling and sucking as he savored your sweetness.

The room was filled with the melody of your soft moans and the wet, rhythmic slurping of his mouth, accompanied by his muffled hums of satisfaction. His hands twitched slightly in their restraints, his fingers curling as if longing to hold onto you, desperate for any sense of closeness. You rocked against his face, completely lost in the overwhelming pleasure he gave so willingly.

“That’s it, pretty boy,” you murmured breathlessly, your fingers tangling in his hair as waves of pleasure coursed through your body.

A soft moan escaped your lips, your grip tightening slightly on his hair and the headboard as you watched him eagerly work his tongue, completely focused on pleasing you. “Enjoying yourself?” you teased, amusement lacing your tone.

“Mhm…” he mumbled, unable to form a full response as you ground desperately against his mouth, his cheeks flushed pink from both effort and the attention you were showering him with.

“Oh, fuck, yes… c’mon, baby, make me cum on that pretty face of yours,” you instructed, your voice breathless yet commanding.

Your words seemed to spark something in him, his determination intensifying as his lips and tongue moved with precision. His eyes stayed locked on yours, studying your every reaction, undeterred by your hand tugging at his hair. Your hips stuttered against his face, grinding instinctively as the knot in your stomach tightened, signaling your release.

“Fuck…!” you cried out, your climax washing over you in waves, your juices coating his lips and chin.

He didn’t waste a single drop, eagerly lapping up every bit, savoring your sweetness with a satisfied hum. As you came down from your high, your breaths were heavy and uneven. Moving off him gently, you brushed your thumb over his swollen lips, cleaning the remnants of your release.

“Need a break? Or can you take one more for me?” you asked gently, your fingers carding through his hair as you pressed soft kisses along his skin, your touch tender.

“One more... ‘ts okay...” he muttered, his voice slightly dazed, but the affirmation was clear in his tone. His eyes were half-lidded, still lost in the sensations, but he was eager to please you once again.

“Good boy,” you murmured, pressing soft kisses along his flushed skin. Moving to straddle him, you steadied yourself with one hand on his chest, hovering just above him. Guiding him carefully, you lowered yourself onto his cock, inch by inch, until he was fully buried inside you.

A shuddering sigh of relief escaped your lips as his tip nudged deep inside you, hitting all the right spots. Your head tilted back slightly, your lips parted in pleasure. “You fill me up so well,” you praised softly, your voice trembling with need.

You began to move slowly, rolling your hips to savor the way he stretched you perfectly. Your hands instinctively moved the hoodie up to rub over the slight bulge in your stomach, a teasing smile curving your lips. “Look at that,” you murmured, voice dripping with satisfaction, “such a huge cock for me to use…” You rolled your hips slowly, savoring every inch of him, your tone laced with playful dominance.

“Just for you,” he managed to breathe out, his voice shaky and strained, his eyes locked onto you, utterly captivated by how stunning you looked on top of him. His gaze flickered to the way your body moved, the way you arched, and his chest rose and fell with uneven breaths.

Biting his lip hard, he tried to hold himself together, but the overwhelming sensation was too much. His hands clenched tightly against the restraints, his knuckles white with effort. “Please, noona…” he whimpered, his voice barely audible, thick with need and desperation, trembling beneath your every movement.

“Patience, baby,” you cooed, your tone teasing but affectionate as you leaned in closer. “Let me savor you just a little longer.”

You took your time, moving slowly and purposefully, soaking in every moment while your eyes admired his flushed face and trembling body. Riki let out a small frustrated whine, but the pleasure coursing through him was enough to keep him from protesting further. It felt too good for him to do anything but let you have your way.

“Noona.. p-please… Can you move faster?” he asked softly, his voice almost a whisper, the slight pout of his lips making him look even more endearing.

“Since you asked so nicely,” you replied, finally moving faster. Both of you moaned in pleasure, the sounds of your arousal and wet skin slapping echoed loudly against the walls, filling the room with heat.

You leaned down to kiss his lips gently, your hands resting on his chest as your fingers teased his sensitive nipples. You could feel his hips bucking up to meet your movements, instinctively chasing his release. His desperation only made you smirk, watching how he completely surrendered himself to you, his body trembling and needy under your touch.

Your face stayed close to his, your breath mixing with his as you whispered, “I know you’re close, baby. Let’s cum together.”

With one final push, you sat with him deeply nestled inside you, your walls clenched tightly around him, pushing him over the edge as he spilled into you, his warmth filling you completely. You continued with slow, gentle movements before finally pulling away, watching with fascination as his release dripped from you.

“Ah… so messy, baby,” you murmured, scooping a mixture of your releases onto your finger and holding it to his lips. Without hesitation, he obediently sucked it clean, his cheeks flushed and eyes half-lidded.

You leaned down to kiss him softly, your lips brushing against his as you shared a tender moment, tasting one another as your hands worked to release the cuffs around his wrists. The moment they were undone, Riki’s arms shot up to wrap tightly around your waist, pulling you close, as though he couldn’t bear to let you go.

As your breathing steadied, you nestled your head against his chest, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat calming you. His fingers lazily traced patterns on your back, his warmth a soothing contrast to the earlier intensity.

“You okay?” you asked softly, lifting your head to meet his gaze.

Riki smiled, his eyes filled with a rare softness. He kissed your forehead and whispered, “I’m okay, angel.” His voice was hoarse but tender, brimming with affection. Then, with a mischievous grin, he added, “Fuck, you’re so hot. Can we do that again sometime?”

You rolled your eyes, mockingly huffing, “Fucking pervert. I knew you weren’t such a dom. How long have you fantasized about me domming you, huh?”

He smirked, his gaze playful. “Now, now, my angel, that’s for me to know and you to find out.”

You chuckled, shaking your head. “Anyway, you wanna clean up?” you offered, shifting slightly to sit on his lap again.

Riki hummed thoughtfully, pulling you closer. “Hmm… we can do that later. But for now…” He trailed off, his intentions clear as he guided himself back into you, his tip brushing against your sensitive bundle of nerves.

“Ngh… why are you so huge?” you whined softly, your body melting into him as he adjusted your position, laying you down beside him with his arms wrapped tightly around you.

He chuckled, his lips brushing against your forehead. “But you love it, angel. Don’t even try to deny it.”

“Mhm… sure,” you murmured teasingly, your voice laced with contentment.

“Let’s nap first and clean up later,” Riki grumbled, already feeling the soreness in his legs. “I can’t believe this is what you feel like after I’m done with you.”

“Hah, payback,” you replied smugly, smirking against his chest.

He groaned playfully, burying his face in your neck. “Shh, sleep, or I might just take you again right now.” He punctuated his words with a gentle thrust, making you yelp softly.

“Hmph, as long as you know you’re actually just a yearner and a good boy for me,” you teased, tracing your fingers over the faint marks you’d left on his neck.

“Yes, yes, I am,” he admitted with a soft groan. “Now, are you satisfied enough? I’m actually tired.”

You giggled as he pressed light kisses across your face before claiming your lips in a slow, lingering kiss.

“Mhm,” you hummed, melting into his warmth. “Love you.”

“I love you so much more, angel,” he murmured, holding you even tighter.

The two of you stayed like that, wrapped up in each other, as the rest of the world faded away. Peaceful, content, and completely entwined, neither of you wanted the moment to end.

TAGLIST — @kikidoul @rikiives @contyynishimura @ziiao @lilmarsh-t @bxcndd @laylasbunbunny @d-dilemma

[neovillains]

DEATHBED | PART TWO

( HE'S NO DEADBEAT : NANAMI KENTO ) nanami believed he raised his son well, only for him to turn into a deadbeat right in front of his eyes. don't worry, he'll make it up to you. | watch time: 3.8k words.

── gilf!nanami & fem-bodied!reader, she/her pronouns, single mother!reader, adopted grandfather!nanami, deadbeat!yuuji itadori, high age gap, cunnilingus, clit stimulation, unprotected sex, multiple (2) orgasms, creampie, pussyjob, etc.

note. i am going so feral over my own series. like,,, i want to gnaw on the skin of gilf nanami so bad !

“I just don’t understand,” Nanami sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose as he throws his head back in the stress of all this. “You told me a couple of months ago that you love the girl. Now, you’re going back on your word the moment the child’s born? This is not the man I raised you to be.”

“Yeah, well,” Yuuji mumbles on the other line. “I’m sorry for disappointing you, but I just— I don’t think I’m cut out to be a father. I didn’t— I didn’t—”

“You didn’t realize how much responsibility it would be?” Nanami finishes for him. “How old are you again? I thought we were over this conversation the moment you left for college.”

“Why are you giving me so much shit?” Yuuji groans, voice getting more agitated the more his adopted father continues to chastise him. “(Y/N) and I had already had a discussion about things and I would financially provide for the child. That should be enough.”

“That should be enough?” Nanami scoffed, baffled by the words of the pink-haired fool on the other line. He could tell that Yuuji was still naive and idiotic to think that money would be the only thing that you needed to provide for a child all on your own. “What about doctor appointments? Emergencies at school and (Y/N) having to call off work to get them— did you consider instances like that? One person isn’t supposed to juggle the job of two.”

“I’m pretty sure she’ll be fine,” Yuuji hums. “You’ve done it with me—”

Nanami couldn’t take anymore of it, pulling the phone from his ears and immediately clicking on the red button to end the call. With a sigh, he brings himself out of the kitchen and towards the leather recliner that’s starting to fade. The burnt umber starting to dull in its color and having more of an orange hue to it. Relaxing in the seat as he leans back, he shuts his eyes. Over the years, he’s finally gotten a chance to relax. Slaving away in an office for hours and hours nearly everyday and coming home to provide for a young Yuuji, it’s brought a toll on his body. Gradually letting himself go, his stomach has grown a bit more pudge to it and the blond of his hair has completely dissipated to white. 

When Yuuji had found you, bringing you home to meet his father, he was happy for his son. You were such a sweet person who managed to handle Yuuji’s outgoing nature. You were someone who could provide him stability, something that Yuuji was in dire need of. However, Nanami should’ve seen this coming when the two of you had been together for ten years and he never mentioned the idea of dropping down to one knee. 

“Fuck,” Nanami curses as he rubs circles into the temples of his forehead. He thought that at some point Yuuji would get it. That he’s no longer a child and has responsibilities to tend to. But instead, he’s still running from adulthood instead of embracing it, coming to terms with it, and stop solely feeding into his inner child. Though it could be a gruesome thing, aging did have its perks. It was sad to see that his son didn’t seem to find that within you and his son. 

He wondered how you were doing. How you truly were doing. Reaching for his phone, he had never called you so periodically before. However, when he heard that you were pregnant, he wanted to be a present grandfather. But when he heard how Yuuji had broken your heart after so many years together, he felt ashamed to have ties with the younger lad. 

Last contacted: Two Weeks Ago.

With a heavy sigh, he presses the call button and waits. He’s expecting you to decline the call but after four rings, your voice— soft— sounds from the other line. “Hello? Nanami?”

“Hello, (Y/N). How’ve you been?”

—

You’re a very eclectic person. That’s what Nanami has learned about you from over the years. When you and Yuuji moved in together, you had taken over all aspects of interior design, having a more maximalist approach to things as countertops were littered with drinkets and pieces that were so vibrant and full of color. He couldn’t tell what your style was— bohemian chic with a mixture of rustic and historical? You mismatched a lot of things, but they always seemed to be coordinated in some sort of way. In the end, your home was an organized chaos that he’s come to admire. 

However, as he sits down on your couch, half of those decoratives and staples to your home are gone. Packed away in boxes as you’re ready to raise a child. Conversations between the two of you were short and brief, that light in your eye that he’s so accustomed to is starting to blow out and he can’t help but feel guilty for the role he has to play in this. 

“How’ve you been holding up, (Y/N)?” He asks out of the blue. “And be truthful with me. Don’t worry about me relaying the message back to Yuuji because I’m not— if that’s what you’re worried about.”

For the first time in the two hours he’s been here, you chuckle. The newborn laying on your chest as you rock your little boy to sleep, you shake your head as the corner of your lips rise. “I’m not worried about that, trust me. I’m just trying to think about that as much as possible, to be honest. It’s been a rough couple of days. With postpartum and everything, it’s taking a toll on me while I’m trying to keep it together.”

“Has he been sleeping well?” Nanami gestures to the baby. “If you need any help with him, you know I’ll be here as much as I possibly can.”

“You know,” you hum. “He’s really not that bad. I don’t want to jinx it, but he’s been good at night. The days, too. He’s been easy so far.”

“Probably because he can detect what you’re going through,” he lets out the comment absentmindedly before clearing his throat. “It’s good that he’s not giving you much trouble though. All you need is easy right now.” 

By the fourth hour, Nanami removed himself from your home. Seeing him out, you were about to shut the door when he stopped abruptly. “And I mean it, (Y/N). Call me if you ever need help. Don’t try to do everything on your own. I’ll be there for you as much as I possibly can.”

Your eyes glisten with tears as you nod. “Thanks, Nanami. I really appreciate that.”

—

Nanami had taken the initiative to do what Yuuji couldn’t. Making regular visits to you to spend time with you and help with the baby as much as he can. Months passed by and gradually you were forgetting about Yuuji. Even with Nanami in your presence, you no longer cared about the guy you had been with for ten years as the older man seemed to be filling this void inside of you as you didn’t feel alone. And when Yuuji would call, you’d always keep conversation short as your voice gained a bit more pep and you were able to get more decent amounts of sleep. 

There was something stirring inside of you when Nanami was around. It was like he made the sun shine brighter. 

Was this right— to be on the verge of developing plausible feelings for your son’s grandfather, your ex’s father? Adopted father, your brain corrected. Nonetheless, Nanami raised Yuuji as if he was his own. Were you just trying to fill that hollow void inside of you that was yearning for connection?

You loved Yuuji. He was childish and didn’t want to hold any responsibility, oftentimes making you do the brunt of things. Truthfully, you shouldn’t have stayed so long. But, you loved him. His childishness made you smile, his want for fun made the days go faster. However, you ended up getting the short end of the stick because of his ways. But still, you loved Yuuji.

Nanami was a tie to Yuuji. And whatever that was going on in your mind was still tied down to Yuuji. 

The pipe was running for far too long that it called for Nanami’s attention. Stepping inside of the kitchen, he stands behind you and reaches to turn off the pipe. He looks down at you when you jump, your back hitting into his chest. Making eye contact, you smile sheepishly as he looks down at you in concern. “What’s wrong?”

He doesn’t ask if there’s something wrong, he knows that something is. And in the whirlwind of your mind, you blurt, “I think it’s best if you go now.”

The immediate switch up is perplexing, catching Nanami off guard as he instinctively takes a step back. “Huh— did I do something wrong?”

“No, but— but I think it’s best if you stop your little visits,” you continue on, turning your back away from him as you grab the sponge, squirting soap on it. 

“(Y/N), talk to me.”

“I don’t think I want to talk anymore.”

“I don’t care if you don’t want to talk anymore, you’re going to,” he pulls at your wrist, dragging you away from the sink. “Tell me what’s with the abrupt decisions?”

“I—I—” you groan in frustration, flinging yourself against Nanami as you pull him in for a kiss. It lasts for only a second before he’s pushing you off of him, trying to collect his thoughts and understand what just happened. Your face heats up feeling like a complete fool. 

“I’m so sorry. I just— This is why you need to—” However, before you can even finish your sentence, he’s pulling you back into his embrace. The warmth of his body makes you melt as you taste his lips, fingers scrunching in the baby blue t-shirt hanging off his body. The tension from inside of you is relieved as your hand goes to drape around his neck as you let out the slightest of moans. It’s then that he pulls away, a string of saliva following.

Nanami’s brown eyes stare into you, no longer filled with the youth of his younger days like how you’ve seen in his photo albums. However, you can see how they brighten up with you in his hold. In a low and raspy voice, “If this was what you were scared about, I would’ve assured you a long time ago that you’re safe with me.”

He plants another wet and chaste kiss on your lips, adding, “Don’t worry. I’ll be sure to take care of you for the rest of the years I have.”

With your son fast asleep, the two of you become so enamoured in each other’s lust that reality slips past. Nanami’s veiny hands grip onto your hips with purpose and pull you closer into him. From the time he’s been spending with you, you’ve made him realize how much he’s missed out on companionship. How he had been so occupied with work and providing for Yuuji that he never took the chance to really connect with anyone. Aside from the occasional women and a few sporadic dates, his life was one of loneliness. Your lips are soft and full of life, transporting him back to his late twenties— blond hair and unblemished skin, green-tinted spectacles that hid his beautiful coffee-toned eyes. He was stressed out then, but imagine if he had found someone like you back then? Closer in age and held the same stupor that would make him realize his mistakes much sooner, he wouldn’t have ended up in the predicament he is in now. Kissing on a girl that’s nearly half his age, the mother of his grandson. He should feel ashamed of himself— disgusted— but his body craves this. Craves you. 

You manage to guide him to your bedroom without his knowing, his mind so preoccupied that the moment you gently shut the door, he’s disoriented. The two of you have moved so seamlessly in the heat of things that it makes this all too real. But still, even when you’re sitting on the edge of the bed and he’s climbing over your body, he can’t stop himself. Lust-blown eyes that gaze into yours, he breathes heavily. “You’d willingly love an old man like me?”

“Yes,” you breathe with a faint nod. “Need someone to take care of me.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah?” Nanami breathes. “You’d let an old man use this beautiful body of yours— ruin it with his old cock?”

You go to cup his face, eyes gleaming when you say, “You could never do that, Kento.”

He grounds his erection into your covered heat, pressing his lips down on yours before haughtily saying, “Oh, but I want to.” 

And your eyes say it all, giving him permission as you feel the fire that ignites in between your legs. Arousal continues to build up as Nanami’s breathing gets heavier. Aging lines that protrude the skin, cheeks sucked and exhausted eyes that reflect those many years of labor. You remember the words of your ex telling you about him, speaking so highly of his father and how he worked endlessly. Yuuji always said that his father needed a break, and finally does it feel like he is. Spending leisure time buried inside of your pussy.

Nanami knows he has to be careful not to strain the bones inside of his body, knowing that one bad ache can be detrimental. However, he’s eager— way too eager to have a taste. Traversing down your body, he stops himself at the hem of your shorts. One leg on the floor with the other knee pressing into the mattress of the bed, he grabs at the elastic of it and slowly drags it down. Your hips rise up from the sheets as your thighs press together before he’s flinging the two garments down to the ground. Your body was slowly getting back to what you used to recognize it for. After going through labor, your stomach had felt like it became a deflated balloon, gaining more and more stretch marks than you originally had. When you took Nanami up on his offer to help you, he encouraged you to get out of the house as much as you can. It had helped, but you were still coming to terms with the new you.

However, with every gentle touch that Nanami places on your body, it feels like nothing has changed. The way he caresses your waist, gently tugging you down to his lips. Hands pushing at the hem of your shirt and making it rise as your stomach is exposed. The gentle kiss to your left inner thigh and the soft rub to your stomach is a simple gesture that makes sparks fly. He spreads your legs slowly, but his eyes glued on yours as his hands come to travel higher up. He’s so close to you, his breath dancing over your pussy as he mumbles, moreso to himself than to you, “God, so beautiful.”

Simple gestures and simple words that give you enough validation as you say his name, Kento. Your legs tense up before relaxing, your body beginning to jitter the more he gets so transfixed with it. It’s only for the palm of his hand to stop and relax you before spreading you open even further. “Don’t get shy on me now, love. I’ll take care of you, just like you need to be.”

The first kiss to your lips is short, a simple taste test to your nectar— you’re the finest honey he’s ever tasted. Your arousal has him addicted, pressing his nose into your clit as he inhales your scent. Intoxicating and tantalizing, he finds himself getting lost in a matter of seconds. Your body shudders, making your spine arch with the way his tongue presses down into your warmth. One hand digging into your sheets while the next knots inside of his hair, pulling at the thinning strands of his scalp. However, he couldn’t care less as he finds himself impeccably lost. Your short tugs has him moaning, a sign of encouragement for you to continue those savoury sounds as his hand goes in search for the next to guide it where it belongs. 

With both of your hands tangled in what used to be blond, your legs trap him inside your heat as his arms wrap around your waist. There’s an ache settling inside of his legs, but he keeps himself still as his pink tongue prods at your folds. You’re a mewling mess as your eyes are shut and basking in this bliss. Your breathing becomes heavy as you can only think of the man making you feel so good. You gnaw on your bottom lip in hopes to ground yourself as his tongue swirls against your labia, nose nuzzling into your clit as he presses the muscle deeper and deeper within you. 

Wet sounds start to seep within the air as Nanami’s not caught up for breath once as you’ve got each other locked in each other’s hold. His moans are deep and from the soul, his arms tightening around your waist as he can feel it before you can. That coil deep within your body, shortly undoing and bringing you to the brink. Arousal dressing his taste buds, your juices continue to seep out as your back arches off the bed and your fingers get tighter. “K-Ken… Kento!”

“I know,” he pulls up for a first. “And I’ve got you.”

Nanami tips you over the edge, knocking you out of breath the moment he presses a finger to your clit. A high-pitched gasp leaving your mouth as you close your eyes shut and cry out in pleasure. “Kento, ohmigosh!”

You drag out a long-winded ‘oh,’ building up pride in the older man as a smirk graces his lips as he laps up your orgasm. Your eyes roll to the back of your skull as your upper body falls back into the sheets and your chin points to the ceiling. Your breath is ragged as you slowly fall from your high and feel the bed shuffle. A deep groan settles from off of his chest as Nanami has to take a moment to stretch out his limbs. He reaches to pull off his shirt and undo his pants, the tight-fitted boxer briefs resting on his lower half when your eyes start to flutter open once more. Chest rising and falling, you admire the chub of the man before you. 

He dropped the habit of working out in his early sixties the moment he realized the amount of strain it was putting on his body. And no longer did he care for it, not bothering to wake up in the early mornings or get ready in the evenings for it. Instead, he opted in for daily walks and called it a day. But even those had become a biweekly hobby. He was no longer sharp and strong as he used to be, but the remnants of it and the roundness of his body was more comforting than ever. Eyes lingering to the bulge inside of his undergarments, you ogled at the size of it, white hairs leading down to it. Inching towards you, he brought your attention to his face. Your glossy eyes no longer transfixed on the length hiding under the elastic cloth as he inched down to you. One hand cupping your face as he breathes heavily, giving you a once over. 

“My son,” he starts before clearing his throat. “My son never knew how to handle a woman like you.”

It was gradual. You didn’t know when he had managed to slip free of his underwear. “Could’ve never taken care of a woman like you.” 

You didn’t know when he managed to hike your legs up over his waist, his tip kissing at your clit and making you absentmindedly shudder. “That’s why you need me.”

It isn’t until you feel the press of his cock head inching inside of your heat that you’re taken out of your trance, your mouth falling open into an ‘O’ as a whimper leaves your lips. “Only I can take care of you. Be everything my son isn’t— a man.” 

“Yeah,” you agree with a meek nod, feeling the intrusion of his cock seer through you. 

“Yeah?” Nanami hums, pressing deeper and deeper into you until he’s fully sheathed. His breathing staggers a bit before regaining control. “I’m the only man you need. The only man that can give you what you need, hm?”

“Yes, Kento,” you whine and whimper, feeling how he pauses to get you acclimated. “I only need you. You’re perfect for me.”

One more chaste kiss before he’s pulling out of you, the head prodding at your entrance. A thought he’s unaware he’s said out loud, And you’re perfect for me. 

His length is thick and stretches open your walls, making you feel fuller than you’ve ever felt with any of your past partners. His hips don’t move with that same motion he had in his younger years. No longer languid movements, but growing rougher in age. Each thrust is calculated and hard against your pussy. His deep groans and grunts make your mind spiral and your eyes constantly flutter as each sound spills from his mouth. At some point, he comes to hold your face and does nothing else. A small and simple gesture that makes you melt into him. 

Your pussy, while used, sucks him up in a tight grip that doesn’t make him want to ever leave it. He finds himself stuck at the thought of leaving the sweetness that it is, your cunt a gift to him from heavens themself. Your hands wrap around his neck, nails digging into his fragile skin and sure to bruise as your legs tense up around him, his eyes flutter shut. “Gosh, it’s like your pussy was made for me to enjoy.”

And when he brings you to orgasm, you entrap him with your legs and call for his release as well. You milk of what he’s worth, letting him empty himself out into you without any concerns of the repercussions. You let out high-pitched mewls and moans when he rolls to the other side of the bed, having to take a moment to catch his breath. However, with your body running ablaze, a heat still sparked inside of you, you tiredly move yourself to hover over his frame and catch him off guard. “Wha— What are you doing?” 

“I need more of you.” The tip of his cock still leaking his seed and your pussy dripping of your intermingled cum, you press your cunt against his length. Grinding yourself against his softening length in hopes to liven him up again, you watch as he chuckles exhaustedly. “A pretty thing like you will surely lead me to my deathbed.”

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[jxwl4k]

Hi! I was wondering if you could write a Bakugou x female reader story where she has a newborn son (not with Katsuki) and struggles with being a teen mom at U.A. She tends to hide it, but Bakugou finds her one night breaking down while trying to warm a bottle for her fussy baby. The pressure of hero work and being a new mom is becoming too much to bear. Bakugou comforts the reader and helps her. It would be great if they knew each other since childhood. (You don’t have to write it if you’re uncomfortable with the idea!!)

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ strength .𖥔 ݁ ˖

☘︎ . . . genre. hurt/comfort

☘︎ . . . pairings. bakugou x teen!mom!reader

☘︎ . . . requested? yes by @rocketblasterr

⤿ yn is a teen mom at U.A tries to juggle her hero training and caring for her newborn son in silence.

The halls of U.A. were eerily quiet at night, the only sound being the occasional hum of the vending machines or the distant creak of a door. YN was sitting in the shared dorm kitchen, clutching a bottle of formula in one hand and holding her fussy newborn in the other.

Tears pricked at her eyes as her son’s cries echoed through the space, louder than she ever thought such a tiny baby could manage. She was exhausted—no, beyond exhausted. Between trying to balance training, schoolwork, and the sleepless nights that came with caring for a newborn, she felt like she was drowning.

The microwave beeped, signaling the bottle was warm enough, but YN’s hands trembled so much she nearly dropped it. “Come on,” she whispered, voice cracking. “Just stop crying for one second, please…”

It was no use. The tears spilled over as she sank into the nearest chair, holding her baby close but feeling like the worst mother in the world.

“Oi, what the hell are you doing?”

The familiar voice made her flinch. She turned to see Bakugou standing in the doorway, his usual scowl softened by the dim light of the kitchen.

“Katsuki,” she whispered, hurriedly wiping at her cheeks. “What are you doing here?”

“I live here, dumbass. The better question is, why the hell are you crying alone in the middle of the night?” He stepped closer, his crimson eyes narrowing as he took in her tear-streaked face and the squirming baby in her arms.

“It’s nothing,” YN muttered, trying to shield her face. “Just go back to bed.”

“Like hell I’m leaving.” He pulled out a chair across from her and sat down, his gaze intense but not unkind. “You’ve been acting weird for weeks. Thought you were just tired from school, but now I see it’s this little guy.” He motioned to her baby, who was still crying despite her gentle rocking.

“It’s fine,” she said, though her voice wavered. “I can handle it.”

“Bullshit.” Bakugou leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “You’re falling apart, YN. You think I can’t tell?”

Her resolve crumbled at his words. The tears came rushing back, and this time she couldn’t hold them back. “I don’t know what I’m doing, Katsuki,” she admitted, her voice breaking. “I thought I could balance everything, but… but it’s too much. I’m failing at being a mom, and I’m failing at being a hero. I don’t know what to do.”

For a moment, Bakugou didn’t say anything. Then, to her surprise, he reached out and gently took the bottle from her trembling hands. “First of all, stop beating yourself up,” he said gruffly. “You’re not failing. You’re just human.”

He stood and walked over to her, holding out his hands. “Here. Let me take him for a bit.”

She hesitated, but the exhaustion won out. She carefully handed her son over, and Bakugou cradled him in his arms with more gentleness than she thought possible. He adjusted the bottle and began feeding the baby, his expression softening as the cries quieted.

“There,” he muttered, watching as the baby finally settled. “Not so hard, huh?”

YN stared at him, a mixture of awe and gratitude flooding her chest. “Since when are you good with babies?”

He shrugged, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “I’m good at everything.”

Despite everything, she laughed—a real, genuine laugh for the first time in what felt like forever. “Thank you, Katsuki,” she said softly.

“Tch, don’t get all mushy on me,” he grumbled, though there was no heat in his words. “You’re not alone, okay? If you need help, just ask. I’m not gonna let you crash and burn, dumbass.”

She nodded, a sense of relief washing over her. For the first time in weeks, she felt like she could breathe again.

And as she watched Bakugou carefully feed her son, she realized that maybe, just maybe, she didn’t have to face everything on her own.

[captain-bubble-wrap]

Could we get a follow-up to the car accident post, maybe? Been getting into the dark Quinn aesthetic lately. Could we see him adamant about you letting him do everything for the reader? ❤️

I don't know if I did this right, tbh. I was confused with "Dark Quinn" when I posted the starter post. I've been caught up to speed...but I still don't know if this is what you wanted. Fingers crossed.

I feel like there should be a content warning with this one. If you're sensitive to dominant partners, emotional manipulation, and the grey line between abuse and control, I'd keep scrolling, babe. 🩷

You were asked not to get out of bed until he came back from practice. You hadn't listened.

Using the crutches had gotten easier over the past several days, and getting around with the weight of the boot on your right foot was getting better in time. All you had wanted was something different than the glass of water set out for you, and you thought you had enough time to get to the kitchen and back way before Quinn would walk through the door. However, you'd get caught while reaching for a glass and the shock of hearing the door open had caused it to slip from your fingers and break against the stone countertop.

You let out a yelp before he had even passed into the apartment. He wasted no time in getting to you to make sure you weren't cut by the flying glass. "Sweetheart, what are you doing up? You told me you would wait for me." Quinn's voice was soft at the start, but would grow more stern as he continued to talk. "Look at me, please. When I asked you to stay in bed, it was so I knew you'd be safe while I was gone."

With eyes kept low, you'd turn your face towards his while he looked for any fresh injuries against the various cuts and scrapes you were still healing from. You knew he wasn't mad; he was disappointed and that would always be worse.

"I'm sorry," you mumbled, as his fingers danced over your skin so delicately. "I was just--"

"I don't need you to apologize, I just need you to understand why I ask certain things from you. What if this had cut you? What if I hadn't been so close by, hm?"

You were trying not to cry but it was hard. As you looked him in the eye, the warmth was gone from his face; his eyes were darker as he scolded you in his own way. Your chest was growing tighter, and your breaths would become shorter and more rapid. Quinn, noticing you were panicking, would touch your face after you closed your eyes to him.

"You're alright," he hushed, "just breathe."

With his hand buried deep in your hair, Quinn would guide your head against his shoulder where you'd remain until he was confident you had calmed down. Your eyes stared at the counter, the fragments of glass silently mocking you, the reason you had gotten in trouble. Had you not broken the glass he wouldn't have had to reprimand you as much than if you had just been caught out of bed. Had you only just waited.

You could feel his fingers tighten in your hair slightly, as your own gripped tighter on the handles of your crutches, "Come on, princess, it's time you lay back down. You need your rest."

He'd release his hold on you enough that you could regain your complete balance. You still found it difficult to look him in the eye, and even as he tipped your chin upwards --still making sure you weren't bleeding-- you did your best to avoid his narrowed gaze.

"Did you hear me?" He asked, voice cold and tinged with demand.

You gave a small nod.

"Words."

"Yes."

Quinn sighed deeply, brushing a section of hair behind your ear. He took a step backwards, to allow you to pass by him, but as he did his shoe made contact with something on the floor. "Stay right here. Let me sweep up this glass first, so you don't step on it. Please, just do as I ask this time."

Once he had moved out of sight, you looked down to see what he was talking about. There, just to the right of where he was standing was a large chunk of the bottom of the glass. You felt so tempted to step down on it, but you didn't know why you felt compelled to go against him. Thankfully, for your own sake, Quinn would return from the hallway before you could act on your dark temptations.

"There," he assured, "it's safe for you to go pass now."

Taking that as your order to get going, you slowly limped your way from the kitchen with Quinn following close behind you. He'd stay in step with you as you rounded the bed and sat back down. Instead of placing the crutches against your nightstand, he'd walk them back to the bedroom door instead, rendering you completely immobile.

The way he had spoke was so soft and comforting, but the words he used clashed with his tone. "You'll get these back when you can prove to me you can listen." You looked at him from across the room with a glare, one that Quinn saw the full extent of.

"There's no need to have an attitude," he warned. "All I asked was for you to wait."

You swallowed hard, trying to get yourself back under the covers, your sore knee unwilling to cooperate and bend without copious amounts of pain. Quinn saw you struggling and debated just letting you deal with it --as punishment-- or moving to ease your discomfort. Deciding that there were other ways for you to see his point, he moved back across the room and you stopped fussing.

"Let me," he hushed, pulling back the blankets completely. His hands were warm when they touched your bare leg, and so carefully lifted it up and back down onto the mattress. He'd cover you back up as you remained pouting in silence.

Quinn wouldn't say anything more on the subject. He left you to dwell on your actions, hoping you realized you had no one to blame but yourself. And once he was out of the bedroom, you would hide yourself away beneath the covers and you tears would soak into the duvet, your quiet whimpers falling on deaf ears. Quinn couldn't hear you crying and even if he had, you weren't sure if he would even care. After all, his silent treatment had a purpose.

After dealing with the rest of the glass in the kitchen, Quinn would return to the bedroom to check on you. He wasn't surprised to see you hidden away from him like you were. You hadn't heard his footfalls as your sniffles and gasps for air had drowned out anything else in the room. He would reach for you beneath the blanket, causing you to jump at his touch, and he would be the one to reveal you from your hiding place, yet you would remain on your side with your back to him. His fingers again would toy with your hair, pulling it from your face so he could look at you.

"Do you want to tell me what's wrong?"

"No," you whispered.

"Why not?" Quinn pressed, his tone still dark.

You reached for the blanket to bring it back up to your face, but Quinn wouldn't let you have it just yet. "Good girls can have their blankets, sweetheart."

You bit your bottom lip, eyes still facing the bedroom door. "I'm cold."

"If you're so cold why did you get out of bed?"

"I was thirsty."

"I made sure you had a glass of water before I left." He turned to look over his shoulder at the nightstand. "The glass is still full. You haven't taken one sip from it."

You knew what he said was the truth. You hadn't touched the water he had left you, but you hadn't the nerve to ask him for something else before he had to go. You didn't want to make him late because you were being picky.

"I'm sorry."

"I know you are. I don't like having to punish you. You know that, right?"

You mumbled again, "Yes."

"I nearly lost you, sweetheart. Do you know how much you mean to me? I can't stand the thought of you being anywhere but right here with me. That's why when I tell you to do, or not do, something, it's for your own best interests. So I can ensure you're safe, whether I'm here with you or not. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"I need you to look at me. I'm tired of you ignoring me."

Without hesitation this time, you rolled over on to your back, to look up at Quinn as your head sunk back into the pillow. Once more, he'd deal with the rogue strands of hair, matted to your face with your earlier tears. He always wanted you as pretty as possible, and despite the bruises that still painted your body, especially your face, Quinn was still in love with you. You just knew how to press his buttons, test his patience. It didn't mean he didn't love you.

"Have you learned your lesson?"

"Yes," you said, eyes welling with another round of tears.

Finally, Quinn's expression softened. He just wanted you to know much it scared him to have you hurt, so much of your body broken, and the pain he couldn't take from you. You were his everything; truly his princess. He would do anything to keep you from getting hurt again, even if it was yourself he had to protect you from.

Satisfied with your answer, and that your reply was genuine, Quinn brought the weighted duvet back up around you and tucked you in carefully.

"Better?" He asked, still seated next to you on the bed.

"Yes," you replied with a nod. "Thank you."

"You're welcome, sweetheart." He leaned forward and gave you a kiss. It had been the first one you had been given since he had been home. You had wondered if you would have to work to earn them back, but thankfully Quinn had rewarded you early. "Now, are you still thirsty?"

"Yes," you said, throat tight with anxiety and from the fact that you were actually thirsty.

"If I bring you something will you be a good girl the rest of the day?"

"Yes," you nodded.

Quinn smirked, "You promise?"

"I promise."

After a kiss was placed to your forehead, Quinn got to his feet and left the room. Your eyes lingered on your crutches propped up against the wall near the door. In the moment, you never realized just how much you took your ability to walk for granted. However, after the day's events, you weren't eager to get up right now.

When Quinn returned to the bedroom, he had a glass of orange juice and small plate of cookies.

He handed you both the glass and plate without requiring anything from you. "This should tide you over until dinner. I thought you could you use a little treat."

You looked up at him, undeserving, but took them gladly. "Thank you."

"You're welcome, sweetheart," Quinn said, taking a seat next you once again. "How are you feeling?"

"I'm okay."

"Do you need anything? You've not had any of your pain medication since this morning. I want to make sure you're comfortable."

You'd shake your head, bringing the cold glass to your lips for a drink before answering, "I'm okay."

"Princess," Quinn said flatly, eyes flicking that dark tone that they were before. You felt that he thought you were lying.

"I'm okay, I promise. I don't like the way those pills make me feel."

"But the pain, sweetheart."

"I've felt worse. Please, don't make me take them!"

Quinn would try to calm your nerves, "Shh, quiet now. I'm not going to make you take them. Not if you're sure you're alright. Now, I have something else you can take, but they're not as strong. Would you like a couple of them?"

"They won't make me feel like I don't have any control, will they?"

"They shouldn't, no. Do you trust me?"

You searched his face. His eyes had mellowed, back to that golden-green you loved and his face showed no hints of a hidden agenda. Quinn had never gone that far with you, but if he felt you were pushing yourself too far, or just trying to be headstrong, you couldn't help but wonder if he'd switch pills, with you know no difference. For the time being, you'd let that go. You did trust him completely, and you knew he always had the best intention where you were concerned.

"I trust you."

Quinn smiled, "Good girl. Enjoy your treat, and I'll be right back."

You would wait patiently for him to return. The cookies had been your favourites, do doubt Quinn picked them up specifically for you and the thought made you smile faintly.

"What has you smiling like that?" Quinn questioned, returning from the bathroom, the orange pill container in his hand. His tone was slightly teasing, but he would return the soft expression.

"You got me my favourite cookies."

His smile widened, "Of course I did. I got them for you."

He sat back down beside you, "Here, take one of these to start. They're left-overs from when I had my lip split open. They're just a larger dose Ibuprophen, alright?"

"Okay."

"Will you be strong for me?"

With a tiny nod you would agree, "I'll try."

"Good girl, thank you," Quinn said pleased, and handed you the large white pill. "Take that, and you should feel better soon enough. If nothing else, it should take the edge off."

It was a struggle, but you got the pill down. You hated taking medication, but if Quinn said you'd get some relief, then you'd believe him fully.

"Now, how about you get a little rest and I'll wake you up for dinner?"

You expression and saddened, "Okay."

"Why are you sad, sweetheart?"

"I don't want to say."

"Why not?"

"Because it's silly."

Quinn put two fingers beneath your chin and tilted it upwards carefully. "Nothing that makes you sad is 'silly'. Please, tell me."

"Would you stay with me?"

He smiled, "Like until you fall asleep?"

"Yes, please," you said meekly.

Quinn would give your thigh a slight pat before getting up. "Would you like to watch something?"

"Do you want to?" You asked him, as he kicked off his shoes near the closet and changed into a pair of black joggers.

He'd catch you looking at him, and you'd avert your eyes quickly. "Are you bashful all of a sudden? Upset you have to wait to be with me, princess?"

Words failed you, and you prayed he wouldn't ask you to use them correctly. You just sat there patiently --quietly-- while he crawled into bed with you.

Quinn put his lips to your ear, "Because I miss being with you. I would never force myself on you in this state. Your health and comfort will forever be worth the wait."

"Thank you."

"Absolutely," he said, a kiss placed to your temple softly. "I love you."

"I love you, too."

Slowly, you'd lay back on your left side, wrapping you hands around Quinn's arm, his muscles tensing under your touch. You were thankful he allowed you these moments, mostly because you figured he had more important things to do than babysit you. However, this was where he always wanted to be: next to you, getting you anything you needed, no matter how miniscule the request might have been. You were his world, his everything, and no one, or nothing, would get in between his ability to have you by his side. You were his.

No one else's.

[blxxmingrose]

as hans slowly slid the coat off june’s shoulders, he couldn’t help but realize that he was so out of practice in all of this. having no other adult presence in the home to help shrug off heavy coats, all he had practice with was sunny, and her small frame was decidedly nothing compared to the one standing in front of him now. 

he felt his hands shaking slightly, some semblance of nervousness creeping in as he wondered if he was doing it right—not that there was some coat police who would yell at him, though, he reassured himself as his fingers brushed against june’s arm, a quiet gesture that was enough to steady his shaking hands as he handed over the coat to its owner. “thank you, thank means a lot,” he spoke softly, his voice filled with tenderness at the compliment. “you are always welcome in this home. i want you to feel at home here too.” 

his gaze drifted to follow june’s eyes to the kitchen counters, where the bags were waiting undisturbed, a rather curious sunny waiting eagerly to be reunited with her treats.

he laughed as june’s words materialized in his mind, sunny’s small hands reaching into the bags but instead of putting them away, she would take all of them into the couch and set up camp. “we certainly can’t have that, can we?” he nodded with a small smile, taking the first few steps to the kitchen and reaching into the first bag for some toiletries he had picked up. “sunny’s good at putting these away, you know. she knows where to put the snacks—right, sunny?” as she nodded along, he threw a conspiratorial look at june, enlisting sunny’s help while keeping her on task. 

there was something quiet, something peaceful in the way the three of them set out to put away everything, as if this was a routine they had already become familiar with. and though hans sometimes needed to open a drawer or cupboard when he saw june questioning where each item went, even that felt natural. as if they were always meant to be a team helping each other out. 

when everything was finally in their rightful place— including them, hans thought to himself—he straightened up and gave an exaggerated stretch of his limbs. “this is really why i wanted you to be here, to help me put away the groceries,” he joked, his eyes full of mirth. “seriously though, thank you. we’re supposed to be making you feel at home, not putting you to work. though i suppose we all do some work when we’re at home…” he said with a grin. 

with a satisfied sigh, hans looked around the room and at sunny, who already had a bag of snacks set aside, eagerly waiting for what she had been promised. hans looked at her with a reassuring smile, then to june with an even bigger grin. “now, who’s ready for a movie?”

june stood quietly for a moment, the warmth of the house wrapping around him like a soft embrace. he hadn’t realized how much the chill outside had settled in his bones until it was gone. his eyes flicked to hans, who had already moved toward him, arms outstretched, cheeks flushed. june felt rooted in place, his breath catching. it wasn’t just the gesture, though that alone was enough to make his heart stutter. it was the casual intimacy of it, the quiet offer of care in the simplest form. it felt new, but it also felt.. right.

he smiled, a little shyly, and stepped closer. “you don’t have to,” he murmured, though he let his hands fall to his sides, making no effort to remove the coat himself. there was something tender about letting hans do this — something june wasn’t ready to interrupt.

as hans gently slipped the coat from his shoulders, june shifted his gaze to the counter where the bags of groceries sat, trying to ground himself in the ordinary task of unpacking. but even as he focused on the mundane, his mind drifted back to hans’ earlier words in the car and his chest ached — not in a painful way, but in a way that reminded him of how much he wanted this, too. how much he wanted to be that steady presence in hans’ life, the person he could glance at and feel comforted by.

when his coat was finally off, he turned back to hans with a soft smile, his voice quiet but steady. “thanks,” he said, his fingers brushing against hans’ for just a moment as he took the coat from him to hang it up properly.

he glanced toward the kitchen, where sunny’s coat was already hanging neatly on a chair. “you’ve got a good thing going here,” june said after a moment, his eyes drifting back to hans. “this home. it’s the kind of thing people spend their whole lives trying to build.” he hesitated, unsure if he was saying too much, but the words were already tumbling out. “and you’re sharing it with me. that means more than i can probably explain.”

there was a pause, a brief moment of vulnerability that june let hang between them before he shook his head lightly, breaking the tension he felt building in his own chest. “anyway,” he added, his tone brightening, “we’d better unpack before sunny starts pulling everything out herself.” he moved toward the counter, giving hans a quick glance and a crooked smile.

[myjjongie]

۶ৎ SWEET, SWEET, SWEET, KISS ── s. jaeyun

IN WHICH: you've never had your first kiss before. who better to help you out with that problem? your lovely boyfriend jake of course!

PAIRING: bf!jake x gf!fem reader GENRE/WARNINGS: fluff, established relationship, skin ship, kissing WORD COUNT: 1.2k ₊⊹♡ EVIE'S NOTE: this was posted way later than i intended, sorry about that :P but here it is whaaat !!?? also yes its lowercase intended i'm sorry i'm crazy </3 and lastly hope yall like it !! <3

it had been a month since you confessed to jake sim. before he became your boyfriend he was your hallway crush. yes, you may have had mutual friends but he was never really your friend. so when the words “i like you too” came out of his mouth it was a shock. well more so a life altering shock. for once a guy you like finally liked you back. there were both pros and cons on the situation.

pro, you were dating someone who actually liked you back. con? you’ve never been in a relationship… so anything that had to do with a relationship was entirely new to you. that meant holding hands, cuddling, dates, long phone calls, and last but not least… kissing. as a college student the mere thought of not only never being in a relationship but also never having your first kiss was mortifying in a way for you. so for the first month of your relationship, you did everything you could to not kiss jake.

in hindsight it was honestly ridiculous. you avoided kissing your boyfriend for a whole month all cause you didn’t know how to kiss to begin with... anytime you felt jake lean in for a kiss you’d find any excuse to get out of it. from turning away to look at something else, letting out a nervous laugh, or even pretending to check a message on your phone. you always felt bad for avoiding it.

but now here you were sitting on jake’s couch in his apartment. his face was leaning in as he was getting ready to kiss you once again. with no hesitation you stopped him before his lips could touch yours.

“oh have you seen that new movie that came out on netflix?! what was it called again?” you laughed nervously trying to move jake’s focus onto something else.

jake was just too observant for his own good. one month into the relationship and he already knew you like the back of his hand.

“yn you’ve been weird lately.” a pout began to form on his face. his brows also furrowed in worry as well.

“i won’t lie. i’ve noticed anytime i try to reach in for a kiss you’re immediately dismissive of me. did i do something wrong?” now his soft pout deepened into a frown. the hurt expression he had pained you. thinking that jake felt he did something wrong made the feeling in your chest tighten up. jake was never in the wrong, it was you for letting your nerves get the better of you.

“no. no! it’s not like that jake. i just…” taking in a deep breath you let out a sigh. you couldn’t let this continue on any longer. it was now or never to tell jake the truth.

“ugh. just. just promise me you won’t laugh…” your voice faltered a bit as you mustered up the power to spill the truth. your eyes looked into his to see his eyes reflect a serious expression.

“of course.”

biting your lip nervously you finally say the words that you hoped to never share. “i’ve never had my first kiss!” your voice came off a bit loud as you spilled out your confession. you closed your eyes not wanting to see the reaction on jake’s face.

it was silent for a moment. then a small stifle of a laugh was heard in the room. jake was laughing. opening your eyes you immediately opened your mouth to speak.

“you said you wouldn’t laugh!” now you were the one with a frown on your face.

“i know i know. i just. i didn’t think you were gonna say that.” jake could barely form the sentence letting a few laughs out.

“babe is that why you were avoiding my kisses all this time? it’s okay if you haven’t had your first kiss yet. did you think i would judge you for it?” his fingers softly grazed your cheek as he gently tucked some hair behind your ear.

“well no. i just…. i didn’t wanna kiss you badly… is all..” your cheeks let off a soft red color at the creeping embarrassment.

“hey now. that’s why i’m here. if you think you were gonna do badly, you have me to practice with.” jake couldn’t help but finish off his words with a cheeky smile.

you roll your eyes slightly whilst giving him a gentle punch to his arm.

“what? i’m being serious. how about we learn now? is that okay with you? i’m not overstepping am i?”

you found it adorable the minute he backtracked on his statement. jake unconsciously wanting to make you feel comfortable and safe made your stomach do flips. he truly was a perfect boyfriend.

“yes jakey that’s fine.” your voice came off more calmer as your nerves slowly subsided.

without anything more to say, jake changed the way you and him sat on the couch. you were both now sitting there, both your faces in front of each other. his arm rested on the back of the couch while his other hand was gently placed on your knee. you sat there with crossed legs slowly feeling nervous again, you fidgeted with your fingers in your lap.

“okay to start off. don’t think too much about the kiss. i promise you it’s easier said then done. when you’re in the moment you won’t be thinking about it. we’re gonna jump right into it so just try pressing your lips onto mine. okay? and don’t be nervous. it’s just me yn.”

still feeling shy you quickly peck jake’s lips. the contact between you two was no more than 2 seconds or even less than that. you looked up to jake to shyly ask “like that?”

your eyes had a gaze of innocence making jake feel slightly flustered.

“fuck… you’re way too cute yn.” jake murmured under his breath. without a second to spare jake’s lips gently brushed against yours. his lips now locking with yours felt different then the quick peck you gave him mere seconds ago. you froze unsure of what to do next, but jake didn’t rush it. his movements were gentle and attentive. his hand cupped your cheek to help tilt your face a bit. the new angle alone helped melt away the nerves in your body. then finally you got the hang of it, following his lead each movement felt more natural as the time went on.

at a certain point jake parted ways from the kiss. he couldn’t help but enjoy the way you breathed in for air afterwards. he desperately wanted to nibble at your lips but knew it would’ve been too much for you in the moment. instead he was now peppering your face with kisses. your cheeks, forehead, and jawline were not left without a kiss to them. your body shivered at the ticklish feeling of jake’s lips kissing along your jawline. finally stopping, he let out a deep sigh admiring your face before speaking.

“see that wasn’t so bad was it?” jake asked out as his thumb gently brushed against your bottom lip.

your face felt heated from all the small kisses jake gave you afterwards. you shook your head in agreement too tongue tied to find the words to speak. jake let out a soft laugh as he eyed you attentively.

“next time can i teach you how to make out?” jake teased as he fluttered his eye lashes flaunting his puppy eyes.

“hmmm we’ll see…” you replied shyly, a small smile making its way onto your lips.

before being able to even think about the future lessons. jake quickly pecked your lips, giving you that big smile that you always adored.

perm taglist ( open! send a ask to be added ) . . . @ikeulove @leehsngs @nickiminajleftasscheek

©myjjongie 2025

[blbyena]

boyfriend!Haechan x reader

Fluff - 1,398 words

-

your boyfriend haechan loves teasing you...especially about holding his hand

The cozy cafe smelled of fresh pastries and roasted coffee beans, a perfect spot for a quiet date. You followed Haechan to a booth near the window, the warm sunlight spilling onto the table. Without hesitation, he slid into one side of the booth, casually leaning back with that trademark smug grin on his face.

You moved to sit next to him, but before you could settle in, he stopped you with a teasing tone and raised eyebrow, “Don’t people usually sit across from each other? Why are you trying to sit next to me?”

You rolled your eyes but stayed put. “I just like sitting next to you, okay?” you said, slightly defensive but flustered

Haechan’s grin widened as he leaned closer. “Aww, my baby just can’t get enough of me, huh?” he teased, his tone dripping with playful smugness.

Your cheeks flushed, and with a huff, you slid out and moved to the seat across from him. “Fine! I’ll sit here, happy now?” you said, crossing your arms in mock annoyance.

Haechan’s laughter echoed in the booth, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Oh, don’t sulk, baby. I was just kidding,” he said, his voice teasing but affectionate.

You shot him a glare, though your lips twitched upward despite yourself. “You’re so annoying.”

“And yet,” he said, leaning forward with a smirk, “you love me anyway.”

The date continued with Haechan’s usual playful antics. As he talked about something funny that had happened during practice, you found yourself getting lost in his eyes. The way they sparkled when he laughed, the way his lips curved into a mischievous smile—it was impossible not to be completely captivated.

“Are you even listening to me?” he asked, breaking your trance.

You blinked, realizing you’d been staring. “Uh… yeah?”

He tilted his head, clearly unconvinced. “Were you, though? Or were you just admiring how good I look today?”

You groaned, covering your face with your hands. “Can you stop?!”

He chuckled, clearly enjoying how flustered you were. “It’s okay, babe. You can admit it. I do look pretty amazing today.”

When the date was over, Haechan stood up to pay at the counter. You held his arm, following him before he could protest. “What are you doing?” he asked, amused.

“Walking with you. Can’t I?” you said, sticking close to his side.

He smiled, clearly enjoying your clinginess. As you reached the counter, you suddenly said, “I need to go to the bathroom real quick. I’ll be back in a second.”

But before you could walk away, Haechan grabbed your wrist and gently tugged you back. You turned, surprised, just in time for him to lean in and press a quick, soft peck to your lips.

“Okay, now you can go,” he said with a cheeky grin, letting you go as if nothing had happened.

Your heart raced as you walked away, trying to hide the smile threatening to take over your face. Of course, Haechan couldn’t resist teasing you, even with something as sweet as a goodbye kiss.

When you came back from the bathroom, Haechan was leaning casually against the counter, his hands in his pockets and his gaze fixed on you. As soon as you approached, he gave you one of his signature grins.

“You look so pretty today.” he said, his tone suddenly softer, his eyes sweeping over you.

Caught off guard, your steps faltered for a moment. “What? Where’s this coming from?” you asked, feeling heat rise to your cheeks.

He shrugged nonchalantly, but his grin widened. “I just thought I’d let you know. Gotta keep my girlfriend feeling special, right?”

You rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t hide your shy smile as he guided you out of the café. The sun was warm against your skin as the two of you started walking down the quiet street, chatting about nothing in particular.

As you were mid-sentence, Haechan suddenly held out his hand, palm up, without saying a word. You glanced at it briefly but decided not to acknowledge it, assuming it was just one of his random quirks.

He didn’t say anything either, so you kept talking, though the silent gesture started to bother you. It was distracting. Finally, after a few minutes, you gave in, your curiosity getting the better of you.

“What are you doing?” you asked, frowning slightly as you stopped walking.

Haechan stopped too, turning to you with a teasing glint in his eyes. “What do you mean?”

“Your hand,” you said, motioning toward it. “Why are you holding it out like that?”

His lips curled into a smirk, and you could tell he was about to say something that would make you regret asking. “I knew you’d want to hold my hand,” he said smugly, “so I decided to take the first step. You’re welcome.”

Your mouth opened slightly in disbelief, and your face instantly heated up. “What?! No, I didn’t! Stop telling nonsense!”

But your flustered expression only encouraged him. “Oh? Then why are you blushing, baby?” he teased, leaning closer as you tried to avoid his gaze.

“I’m not blushing!” you protested weakly, turning your face away.

“Sure you’re not,” he said, his tone dripping with amusement. “But if you’re so sure you don’t want to hold my hand, I guess I’ll just put it away…” He started to lower his hand, watching you out of the corner of his eye.

“No, wait!” you said quickly, before realizing how you’d just exposed yourself.

Haechan froze, his grin turning triumphant. “Ah, so you do want to hold my hand,” he said, his voice practically dripping with smug satisfaction.

You sighed, covering your face for a moment before shyly reaching out and slipping your hand into his. “You’re insufferable,” you muttered, refusing to meet his gaze as your fingers intertwined with his.

“But you love me,” he said brightly, giving your hand a gentle squeeze.

You glanced at him, finally letting yourself smile. “Yeah, yeah. Whatever.” You said rolling your eyes.

Haechan laughed, his thumb lightly brushing against the back of your hand. “It's okay baby I like holding your hand too.”

As you continued walking hand-in-hand, the teasing faded into a comfortable silence, the moment punctuated only by the sound of your footsteps and the occasional chuckle from Haechan. You couldn’t help but think that, as annoying as he could be, there was no one else you’d rather share moments like this with.

-

This was requested by @cherryjuly2001 so I hope it's up to your liking!!