#the mall au just makes me so happy

[wreckrinho]

remember my Apocalypse tawog au? i did a "redesigning" thing ab rob in this au(?).. it looks like shit, really, i prefer the old design, but i just...i just cant draw.

You wanna now whar? Whatever Whateve rwharrver whatever whatever uugghhh

If you want, there are more things about the au below, I just...I'm tired so..yeah, ugly ass drawings

Rob and Penny are super friends. Penny even considers Rob like a brother and Polly loves Rob very much too. Penny helped him cut his hair in a way that covered the static on his cheeks (it worked amazingly, but he's really uncomfortable with the hair on his face)

he is trying to find a way to make a vaccine for those infected (The apocalypse is about the void) and wants to try to save everyone

Rob, during the time he stayed with the survivors (including Gumball), ended up falling in love with Gumball, Which is sad because Gumball thinks Rob is one of those to blame for the apocalypse...

He tries his best to save and find some survivors, infected or not. However, most people were afraid of Rob being another infected person or a zombie because of the glitches and static, so Rob became very insecure and even started hiding the static on his body.

[muzzlemouths]

Helloooo

Curious dead mall dare au question, back when the superstar mall was open did sun or moon have any revisiting/regular human friends or was it always just the two of them?

A reason to talk about NPCs who will (mostly) never become relevant to the current story beyond the occasional flashback or mention? Don't mind if I do~

Sun and Moon had many friends, but three always stood out.

Douglas, a middle aged shift manager promoted from a bottom of the barrel mechanic position after years of service and gaining the boys' trust, eventually becomes the only person they are comfortable being worked on by. Though they retained an amicable relationship, Douglas was always a little weary of the boys and kept a polite distance between them — like a friendship between neighbors. Though, it's hard not to form attachments when you're seeing them most days.

Gwendolyn (Gwen), a self proclaimed fashion icon in her early 20s with a bright personality and something of a shopaholic habit. She'd spend 3-4 days out of the week just skipping between shops or spending time with Sun and Moon — on more than one occasion, the mall's manager had to (gently) ask her to relax a little, as she was taking their attention away from other customers. She considered them to be besties.

Jamie, the child of a shop owner. They remained at the mall for all twelve hours of every day and busied themselves with free arcade coins (employee perk) and as much time in the playground as they wanted. It got boring after a while, so they eventually started following Sun and Moon around. Both boys have a soft spot for kids, but they were particularly fond (and protective of) Jamie. Never seeing them again was perhaps the most heart breaking of all.

[amourcheol]

agrodolce

❝Because you cannot create perfection without a little tension.❞

rivals to lovers! au | fluff | 27.5k words

s u m m a r y : one would expect being a dessert chef to be a life filled with sugary goodness, but nothing is sweet when working alongside boo seungkwan. when the two of you are forced to create a special dessert for the winter menu together, you think the restaurant will burn down. late night planning, shopping mall snooping, and a simple dessert might just save you from your expectations.

c o n t e n t : dessert chef! mc, dessert chef! seungkwan, rivals to lovers! au but i kept it tame so i didn't lose my mind, head chef! jeonghan who terrorises his employees, seungkwan is leading the sassy man apocolypse, flatmate! julie from kiss of life who wants to be santa, lots of mentions of italian desserts, lots of geographical London referencess, lots of bickering, little bits of tension, making out but no smut because im fearing god again, fluff obviously and overall just very winter-esque!!

p l a y l i s t : candy by seventeen || chocolate by seventeen || daawat-e-ishq by sajid-wajid || strawberry sunday by dojaejung

t a g l i s t : @hyuckworld @ourkivee @syluslittlecrows @ye0ppl @markhyuckbest @uhdrienne

a u t h o r ' s n o t e : this is not edited properly and for that i am sorry...so tired i fear but she is FINALLY done!! thank you @camandemstudios for inviting me to participate in this collab, i've enjoyed every moment of yapping and fighting over pixel cats <33 to alice and addy for listening to me complaing about this fic but seungkwan deserves sm love so i had to do my bit !! i hope you all enjoy and happy new year !! <3

back to masterlist

BEING BERATED BY A SUPERIOR WILL ALWAYS BE A HUMBLING EXPERIENCE.

Whether that be in school, when you are scolded for forgetting your homework, or gaining detention for arguing with your teacher. In the working world, it could be insufficient effort in a team project, perhaps your boss simply being a prick and wanting to make your life difficult. 

Never did you think you would be sitting in front of your Head Chef, remnants of food stuck in your hair and clothing, a sheepish look plastered upon your face as you faced his imminent wrath.

You knew it was over for you—the man at the head of the office sat, sleeveless arms crossed, eyebrows knitted in rage at your dishevelled appearance, his feet tapping viciously under the desk. You never really considered your superior to be a particularly scary figure of power, but, in this light, if he made any sudden moves, there was a slim possibility you would scream.

You wondered whether begging for forgiveness was still on the table.

“Remind me, _____,” he finally said, sighing the words out, “How old are you?” 

A part of you wished to remind him that he was not legally allowed to ask you that. You did not even know why he was asking such a question. Head Chef Yoon Jeonghan had known you for a long time now. He realised it too, but for another reason entirely. “No, scratch that. You’re an age where your brain has developed fully, right? I’m not wrong in assuming that you’re capable of knowing what’s right and what’s wrong?”

“Of course, Chef,” you answered, trying to find some self-assuredness in your voice. Difficult, in all honesty, when you were covered with salted butter and vanilla extract. 

That seemed to be the wrong answer. “Then tell me why, _____,” he asked, agitation rising, “I caught you with your hands full of whipped cream, throwing it at a fellow chef.”

You attempted an explanation. “In my defence, Chef, you weren’t meant to see that.”

Jeonghan was not amused. “I’m surprised the entire restaurant didn’t catch your antics. If this incident happened during open hours I shudder to think what our customers would think.”

Reining in a sigh, you did not respond this time, positive that another dry quip from you would have your unemployment confirmed. 

It was a little unfair, though. You were not the only one who was caught. 

A drawl resounded from beside you. “I won’t be surprised if half our customers don’t already know what _____’s like.”

This particular chirp had your self-wallowing bubbling to a rage. 

No, you were not the sole culprit, because as you whipped your head to the man who decided to voice his opinion at the wrong time, you caught the shit-eating glint in his eyes and nearly screamed the office down.

You could not stop yourself from crowing out, “Let’s not forget your 2018 meltdown over multiple tiramisu failures, Seungkwan.”

That had him scoffing harshly. “Always digging up incidents from years ago because you have nothing else to bring up.” His eyes hiked up and down your ruined uniform. “I can name your screw-ups starting today.”

“Oh, so I was just pissing about with all this food by myself then,” you snapped, gesturing towards his own mess. His hazel locks had the remnants of whipped cream too, matting his hair, whilst different coloured stains adorned his professional uniform, much similar to yours. However, you noticed he was much dirtier in appearance, which made your lips quirk upward in satisfaction.

He caught on instantly, to your distaste. “You were the one who couldn’t argue properly with me,” he accused. “No wonder you had to resort to childish gimmicks to get back at me.”

“It worked, didn’t it?” A turn of your nose. “You look horrendous.” 

“You’re no sight for sore eyes either.” He reached for the thick strands of his hair, matted together with whipped cream. “Do you even know how hard it is to wash off mascarpone?”

“I wouldn’t, actually, because you missed, remember?”

“Oh, you—” 

“Enough!” Jeonghan declared, interrupting you two before any escalations occurred. “Not only were these gimmicks childish and immature, but also a huge waste on our ingredients. Mingyu’s estimated our stock for this week was cut down by 17%.” 

Your surprise was exposed through the twist of your mouth. “That’s right.” Jeonghan sighed once again, many in his arsenal. “Both of your temper tantrums have cost the restaurant financially. Aside from the fact that I will be talking to my therapist about this incident.” 

“Of course _____ wouldn’t care about the restaurant finances,” Seungkwan jeered, dusting off flakes of self-raising flour from his lap. “Nor your mental health.”

“I do care about your mental health, Chef,” you rebuked your colleague’s claim. “If I didn’t, then the stock would have plummeted another 25% at least. That’s why I didn’t touch the vintage dessert wines.” 

“You do seem to have some sense then,” Jeonghan griped, no humour in his smile, “Because if you ruined the wines on Seungkwan I would have fired you instantly.”

Not a warning—a promise. Another one of his infamous sighs exhaled from his coral lips, which he brushed with his wandering fingers in thought. “You both…you both need to stop this. I mean it.” 

“I will stop when she stops,” the man beside you asserted, glaring at you. 

You matched his venom. “I will stop when he stops.” 

“No, you both will stop, because I have had enough.” He locked his hands together, losing all amusement—as if there was any present in the first place. “Christmas period is approaching, and that means changing up the menu for the new quarter. These next couple of months will be incredibly busy, especially given the tourist season and school holidays in central.” 

Glancing at the stack of papers on his desk, he set aside a few files, sliding out a particular piece and studying the details. “As you know, the main menu has been under alteration, but the dessert menu is still the same as the summer. I have already selected the majority of the confectionery, but there is still one more dessert I wish to add to the seasonal collection.” 

He then set his sights on the two of you. “I need you to make this dessert. Hand me the plans for its creation, flavour variety, as well as its marketability in the restaurant.” 

That had you sitting up in your seat. A creation of a dessert—it was something you had concocted in larger groups, back when you were a mere apprentice under Jeonghan’s wing at Camden Market. You had done seasonal dessert preparations for the spring and summer menus, but the winter menu selection was the most prestigious amongst the luxury restaurants within your borough. With locals flocking to central London, tourists from all corners of the world flying across oceans to stay in this beloved city, they wanted nothing more than seasonal excellence. 

An exquisite dessert meant maintaining that expectation of perfection. A dessert was enjoyed at the end of the main meal, and—in your eyes—cemented the opinion of a customer on whether they would return to the establishment, or forget it ever existed. The treats you made left impressions on thousands, impressions you savoured everyday at work, and outside. 

This may just be all your hard work paying off. Finally.

Before Jeonghan could continue, you nodded, all confidence. “I will be happy to accept this task, Chef.”

A snort sounded next to you, and your smugness faltered, replaced with irritation. “You have something to say?” 

“Yeah, actually,” he said, folding his leg over the other, “I was wondering why you were piping up when Chef was asking me.” 

This time, you were the one that laughed. “Your arrogance makes you look like a dumbass many times, Seungkwan. This is one of those times.” 

He leaned in a little, nodding condescendingly along to your taunts. “Oh do I? I guess it’ll be your turn to look stupid today.” 

“Both of you are looking stupid in front of me,” the boss interjected once more. “Because I wasn’t asking a specific individual.” 

He raised his hands to the two of you. “I’m asking you both to work on this dessert inclusion. Together.” 

You halted. Stilled in the stark, yellow lights of the grand office, evidence of Jeonghan’s success. Success which you have yet to taste on your own.

Success which, unfortunately, might have died with the words that left your superior’s mouth.

For the first time in a while, there was complete silence in the office.

Even Jeonghan found the notion hard to believe. “My God,” he uttered, twisting the corners of his mouth downwards, stunned. “Maybe I should have dropped this news before the food fight.”

You could only stare at the man in pure horror. “I would rather snap raw spaghetti and serve it to you before doing such a thing!”

Seungkwan let out a groan. “Here come the dramatics,” he muttered, but you heard it clear enough. “Anything to make a fuss and delay the business.”

Jeonghan perked up. “Oh, so you wouldn’t be opposed to it?”

A smile. “I’d kill myself before working with _____.”

Your huff of laughter had the boy scowling. “And he called me dramatic.”

“Enough!” was the final outcry from your boss, who seemed ready to overthrow the desk in pure frustration. “You two…” he shook his head, raking his slender hands through his long, black hair. “I don’t care.”

The younger attempted to fight his case to the end. “But Chef, this will be a disaster—”

You chimed in for the sake of interrupting, “This will cause the downfall of your restaurant—”

“I don’t care how you two feel,” his interruption was final, his head shaking still. “I don’t give a fuck, to be honest.”

Seungkwan’s mouth parted, but then heard the fuck, and decided against saying a word. You should have followed suit, but it was against your very principle to follow his example. “Chef, please,” you tried, almost pleading to be heard out. “Seungkwan and I have completely different palettes too. It’s not even about personal differences.”

“Again, that is a setback I don’t care about.” He stood up from his seat, and almost on instinct the two of you shot up from your chairs, remnants of cooked fettuccine falling from your dampened uniform pockets. The Head Chef took note of this detail. “This…this petty rivalry between the two of you is affecting the people around you now. Both of you are so talented, yet I have seen caffeine-crazed kids behave better than you during rush hours.” 

He rested his hands on the table, his hard gaze razor-sharp. “You both have about eight weeks to hand me the final dessert plan on my table. If I receive two individual plans, or no plan at all, then I will fire you both.”

That was enough for balls to drop. You were fortunate to have none, so only assumed Seungkwan was the victim in this situation.

“Y-you can’t do that!” he exclaimed, and for the first time, you had to agree with him. A horrifying prospect. “We’re halfway through September now!”

“So?”

“You need me on desserts, Chef!” you declared, taking a more outraged stance on his statement. “What the hell will you do when there’s no one to make your amarettis?”

The man was still, face impassive. “I don’t care if you both are my best chefs. There are many big-eyed, desperate Masterchef rejects who will cut off their legs to be trained within this position.”

Whatever snide remark that almost escaped your mouth lodged itself in your throat. You wanted to feel special—like there was a place reserved only for you at the restaurant. 

Now, because of one person, that position is threatened.

“This isn’t fair, Jeonghan,” you mumbled. 

There was a pause. Then, “Don’t make me agree with _____.”

“Shut up.”

The boss took a turn from his desk, walking towards the door. “As I said,” he began, holding onto the handle, “You have eight weeks.” 

He took one last glance at the two of you, a judgement akin to the one the scriptures warned about. “Don’t fuck this up.” 

With that, he left his office with a final thud! of the door. 

And as the weight of the decision finally settled on your shoulders, its pressure making them sag, you looked to the man whose employment rested in your hands—whose hands your employment rested on too. 

The two of you scowled at the exact same moment.

If anyone was going to get fired, it would not be you.

THE RUSH HOUR OF THE UNDERGROUND TUBE SOURED YOUR ALREADY UNPLEASANT CONDITION.

The Northern line from Camden experienced a few closures, so that resulted in delays, consequently filling the already dingy underground area into a complete sardine-like squeeze. It was horrendous enough the place was like a cesspit of heat and sweat amongst all these commuters, but knowing you were going to be late was enough to worsen your mood. 

You would have complained to your flatmate, but there was no service underneath—the entire commute resulted in staring down the people who held a seat in the jam-packed tube, when you were slotted against the sliding doors of the train. Holding onto the railings for dear life, you could only hope that your colleague had experienced an inconvenience as severe as you had (perhaps tripping over his dirty laundry—maybe even a car crash on the ring road? He could take his pick). 

Once the tube finally reached Leicester Square, you could not struggle out of the train fast enough, tapping out your card and flying up the stairs in two-three steps. The Piazza of Covent Garden was not far away, but London was a city that never rested, and so the people were everywhere. Thankfully, you had mastered the art of moving out of the crowds with precision, so you arrived at your destination, only about five minutes late. 

The columns of Covent Garden’s grand building welcomed your vision. There, nestled to the side with luxury outdoor seating splayed onto the cobblestone, was the Vita di Diamante—Jeonghan’s product of blood, sweat and tears for the world to admire. The Georgian-style front was painted an emerald green, white borders of the doors and windows making the restaurant glow in the soft winter sun. Customers were already queuing, even though doors were not to open for the next two hours. You could not help a small smile forming, chest swelling with pride. 

Avoiding the front entrance, you hurried around to the side doors, this particular entrance already open thanks to Prep Cook Kim Mingyu, who offered a sheepish smile at your appearance. 

“Oh no,” you said in greeting, quickly stepping past him as he closed the door. “What’s that look for?” 

He chuckled, tightening his apron’s bow at the back. “Seungkwan’s been waiting at your station for thirty minutes.”

A curse escaped you, furthering his amusement. “How mad is he?”

“He shouted at me for the lack of ricotta in the pantry.” 

You scrunched your brows in shame, widening your lips in a line. “That’s on me. I threw it at him the other day.”

Although he shook his head, he said, “Tell me it hit his face, at least.”

“Right on target.”

Hearing his laughter behind you, you dashed to the cloakroom, quickly changing into your uniform. Tossing your bag in the small lockers, you exited, finding yourself in the familiar surroundings of the dessert station. 

From the last time you had been in this side of the kitchens, the place had been the victim of your vicious food fight with Seungkwan—stained with sauces, powdered with flour, and littered with different nuts and sprinkles from the pantry. Now, the floors and tables were spotless, all evidence of your petty rage disappeared into your memories. 

Unfortunately, the cleaners could not make the sole reason for your anger disappear. He stood, back hunched to you, like a nasty stain upon your domain, refusing to be wiped away. You could not help your glower towards his figure, a small hope that you would develop lasers for eyes and smite him off the station.

“What’re you glaring at me for? You’re the one who’s late.” 

Jerking your head back at his voice, you twisted your lips downwards, walking towards him. “You don’t know that,” you challenged, sneaking a look at what he focused on—a notebook, with scribbles written in black ink. 

“I do, because you’re glaring at me as we speak.” He glanced up at you. “See?” 

It was a little pitiful now, trying to school your face into neutrality. “Whatever,” you muttered, taking out your own notepad, setting it on the steel tops. “And for the late thing, rush hour spares no one.”

“Yet the entire staff managed to come early,” he said, a certain, condescending ease in his tone which made your glower darken. “We’re lucky that Jeonghan’s helping us with desserts in the next coming weeks, or we would have been screwed.” 

“Jeonghan’s coming?” you asked, genuinely surprised. You were aware that he was trialling a few dessert apprentices to deal with the restaurant’s rush period, butyou did not expect the big boss to turn up at the stations.

“He wants us to focus on ‘team collaboration’,” he iterated, exaggerating the latter words in air quotes, “As well as ‘building our professional relationship’.” 

“Jesus,” you could only say, dreading the near future for what it held for the two of you. Jeonghan was either the dumbest person to grace this restaurant, or enjoyed messing with his employees for work-place entertainment. 

A glimpse of the clock. “We’re due for starting up in a couple of hours, so we better start thinking up ideas now.” You looked down at the pages of your notebook, a few ideas already jotted down that needed further exploration. “Since we’re only doing one dessert, this shouldn’t take us more than a week to decide.”

Seungkwan’s mouth twisted in a sneer. “Yeah, if you’re just handing a scoop of gelato to them.”

That particular comment had you craning your head back. “You have to be braindead to take two months to come up with one item.”

“You must be putting anything in your customer’s plates then,” was his sour response, “To need only a week to create a luxury food.”

A sharp sigh escaped you. “What grand plans do you have for the public then?”

Picking up his notebook, he brushed a finger past the page. “Right…so we already have the standard tiramisu and gelato variations. We should definitely incorporate a sugary pastry since we’ve been lacking in the previous quarter.” 

“Pastry,” you mumbled. He was talking pure, unadulterated shit. Chocolate bignè was the permanent item on the summer menu—little, indulgent profiteroles that melt into the taster’s mouth. Apart from that, the generic selection of cannolis and bomobolini doughnuts were already sold at the till within the cafe section outside, so another addition of the pastry was not needed.

Perhaps your thoughts projected upon your face, because the boy was incredulous. “And what’s so wrong about pastries?”

“It’s been done too many times.” You showed him the previous menu, which he had before him. “We should do something different.” 

“And what would that ‘different’ be?”

You scoured your page, latching onto the words of strong flavours. “Stray from the sweets this time. I’ve been wanting to experiment with a few flavours, and I think that bitter amarettis will be big this winter.”

Mentioning the Italian macarons did not bode well. “Bitter amarettis? Are you insane?”

Instantly you crowed, “The Sarano branch is actually very popular ‘cause they’re smaller and easier to eat after a meal. We can flavour them with coffee or almonds.”

“No.”

The sudden dismissal was enough for you to argue your case. “It’s better than a goddamn doughnut!”

“Fine.” He clutched his notebook tighter. “Let’s drop the pastry. How about a pannacotta?”

Pannacotta—sweet cream dessert thickened and moulded with gelatin. Not your first choice, but its greatest advantage was its range of flavours that it accommodated.

You decided to try your luck once more. “We can do something with that.” You chewed the inside of your cheek, thinking of any flavours that were not simply sugar sprinkled on cream. “I’ve experimented with bay leaves before. We can add one or two to add a lime-like essence.”

The man scrunched his nose at the notion. “My God. Were you thrown against the wall as a child?”

That morbid image had you scoffing. “I had an amazing childhood, thank you. Why are you so against it already?”

“Pannacotta is a sweet dessert, _____. I’m not adding fucking leaves on a delicacy.”

“Adding herbs on certain confectionery is actually a luxury trait. You learn this in culinary school.”

Once again, the idea was immediately cut for another. “We should add cinnamon to it.” He pointed towards his notebook. “A nod towards the coming Christmas.” 

“Cinnamon?” you parrotted. “A sweet flavouring on an already sweetened cream? Do you want to rot our customers’ teeth?

“Oh, what do you suggest then?” He let out a harsh scoff. “Coffee for the millionth time?”

“Well, actually—” you were about to make an incredible point, but your partner began to groan, cutting you off. “Hey, coffee is versatile, and you know it!”

Seungkwan looked to the side, as if there was an invisible camera he could make a face to. “Here comes the anti-sweet agenda.”

Your sharp exhale was loud enough to gain his unpleasant attention. “If you had your way, all our customers would have type 2 diabetes!”

“Well sorry that I don’t want my customers as bitter as you are!” he exclaimed. “It’s beyond me how you became a dessert chef!” 

“It’s called having range, dumbass!” you shouted right back, unwilling to relent. “My skills go beyond just dumping a load of sugar and calling it a dessert!”

He slapped his notebook on the desk, leaning in. “I said to have cinnamon because it’s bloody Christmas. My bad if you like to Grinch it up every year.”

“You want to show Christmas through cinnamon, huh?” You huffed a laugh in his face. “Wow, Seungkwan, how original! I might as well put a fucking christmas hat on top of our tiramisu. Fuck it, let’s start singing a Christmas carol while we serve it since you want to be on theme so much!”

Seungkwan’s jaw clenched. “I don’t want fucking leaves in a dessert.”

You matched his anger. “Well, I don’t want you in this process, but we can’t always have what we want.” 

A tilt of his head, the locks framing his forehead sliding along. “I'm not dying to work with you either, dearest.”

Dearest. That pissed you off even further. “Then find a way to deal with it,” you seethed. 

“I could say the same thing to you.”

You pursed your lips, at a loss for words. The man stared into the rising rage of your gaze, his own agitation reflected clearly. He was watching you intently, words dying on his lips, only inhaling and exhaling sharply. Had he been a few inches closer, his huffed anger would have fanned your face, truly taste how he felt about this entire situation.

But that was the last thing you wanted, and so you could only match his displeasure. 

“I’m not losing my job because of you,” you warned.

His eyes darted all over your face before he deigned to reply to you. “And you think I want to be fired?”

The quirk of your mouth upwards had his nostrils flaring. “If you act like an asshole, Seungkwan, that’s exactly what you deserve.”

“Why do you get to be the judge of that?” he scoffed out.

“I won’t. Jeonghan will see through you soon enough.”

Oh, he was seething underneath that mask of irritation. If you had been any weaker, you would have crumbled under such a withering look. He did not have much to say anymore, thinking that knifing you with his glare would be enough to win this argument. Because he had you as an opponent, it was no easy feat—the two of you said nothing again, staring and staring with mouths parted, almost waiting for an insult to rise from their throats and strike any second. 

Something might have struck—would have occurred under the flickering lights of the dessert station. Perhaps Seungkwan would have said something to make you succumb to your aggravation. Maybe you would have finally killed him. 

“Already at each other’s throats?”

You and Seungkwan whirled your heads to the voice.

There stood Jeonghan, tapping his foot against the floor, arms crossed as he observed you two. “Standing this close, well…either you’re about to claw each other’s faces off or make out.”

The latter option had you and Seungkwan breaking out of your rageful bubble, repelling from each other like magnets of the same sides. The boy exhaled sharply through his nose, while you swiped up your notes, not even sparing your Head Chef with a glare. “You’re horrid.”

Seungkwan snorted. “I think I’d rather get punched.”

You directed that sour look back at the man who deserved it more. “You’ll have it coming if you keep at it.”

“If you both have wasted enough time fighting,” Jeonghan interjected, always the mediator, “Then let’s get on with it. I wanna hear your initial plans.”

“_____ will summarise,” The younger replied, before you could even begin. “I have to go in a minute.”

You made a face. “Where’re you running off to?”

He returned it. “Not that it’s any of your business, but I have to pick up my niece and nephew from school. They have a half-day today.”

You could have rolled your eyes at him. “Is this allowed, Chef?” you demanded. “Something as important as the Christmas menu is being discussed, and he’s doing school duty.”

But Jeonghan overlooked your valid concerns, countering, “It’s all good, _____. Seungkwan asked for the half-day a week earlier.”

The said-man handed his notes to the superior. He could not help remarking, “Perhaps if you had bothered to be on time, then we could have fought out another dessert.”

As he exited, bidding his adieus to him, you reined in the temptation to stick his middle finger out. After all, it would have only landed behind his back—the bastard deserved to see it. 

Your boss clicked his tongue at you as he walked over to where you stood. “Good to see you didn’t flip him off in front of me. At least you’re thirty percent professional.”

“Why did you give him the half-day?” This time, you could not restrain the eye-roll. “Sometimes I think he’s making those kids up.”

“_____!” He scolded, bringing Seungkwan’s notepad back on the surface. “I’ve met his niece and nephew, they’re very much real.”

“Or you could be in on the bit,” you jeered, leaning against the countertop. “Trying to piss me off on purpose.”

“Your self-importance astounds me. Not everyone is thinking about you.” A knowing look. “Even the man you happen to hate so much.”

“Well I hope he keeps my name out of his mouth. And his mind, for that matter,” you added for good measure, observing the very door the man departed from. 

Jeonghan followed your line of sight. “You seem to have a hard time keeping his name out of your mouth though.”

Your accused mouth tightened at its allegations. “Are you on my side or his?”

He raised his hands in surrender, a grin breaking free from his lips. “Don’t drag me into your petty rivalry.” Pointing towards your notes, he then changed the subject. “Now, tell me about your rough plans.”

You obliged your boss, running down your initial prospects. He seemed satisfied enough, informing you that he will ask Seungkwan as well, and reminded you to prepare for the early customers.

As you prepared yourself for the open doors, prepping your ingredients alongside the Prep Cook, your thoughts wandered to the man who escaped this menial work, and then the eventual rush.

You and Seungkwan would not be able to create this dessert. Meeting in the middle would be impossible with someone as stubborn as him. Of course you wished to be successful, because that meant Jeonghan would not throw you out into the cobblestones of Covent Garden. You wanted this to go well. 

A sharp breath exhaled from you. You could only hope that Seungkwan hoped the same, or else you would both are completely, utterly, inescapably fucked. 

“HO HO HO!” 

A sigh involuntarily escaped you. “One more ‘ho ho ho’ and I’m shooting myself in the head.”

“Hey!” The slender girl exclaimed, fixing her Santa hat upon her straight hair. “You know I need to perfect it for today.”

You looked beyond her figure to the shop, lit up with seasonal outfits on display. “You’re gonna get the role anyway, Julie, because no one else will be auditioning.”

The girl tried to push you in punishment, you narrowly dodging her dainty hand. “Go back to slaving away at Jeonghan’s restaurant.”

A mocked gasp left you. “Are you telling me to get back in the kitchen?”

“Yeah, so step on it!”

“I’m supporting you, though!” You reasoned. “There is no one in London who can pull off Santa Claus better than you.”

“And what about the world?”

You mocked a shrug. “There’s too many old white men to compete for that title, I fear.”

“See?” She clicked her tongue. “A real friend would lie to me and say I’m the best.”

Shaking your head at her antics, you could not help smiling at her. Julie Han was a fiery girl you had befriended in school, bonding over your terrible teachers in one after-school detention. Your paths had never strayed, establishing each other as flatmates when the two of you decided to pursue careers in the big city. Where you pursued luxury food, she sought after theatre and cameras, deciding to be an actress when she landed herself the role of ‘Juliet’ in Romeo and Juliet in primary school, and considered it destiny (she, however, did not have chemistry with her Romeo, because he kissed her like a ‘fish’. In her words, men who cannot kiss should not be romancing other actresses).

“I don’t get the Santa Claus obsession, though,” you wondered out loud. “There are other ways to help kids out.”

“I know, but it’s Christmas!” She waved her arms to the air, gesturing at the winter-themed fairy lights on the mall ceilings, twinkling with every ray of light that caught them. “It’s also adorable when the kids ask you for presents.”

“I think it’ll be cuter with a female Claus, too,” you pointed out. “I wouldn’t put my kid on any old man’s lap.”

“Exactly!” There was a moment of brief pause before Julie relented. “Also, the mall employees get a 50 percent discount on retail.”

“I knew your ass wasn’t feeling the Christmas charity spirit.”

The girl chuckled, looping her arm around yours. “Thank you for coming with me. It means a lot.”

“Of course!” You returned her grin with a mischievous smile. “I wasn’t gonna miss you screaming ‘Ho Ho Ho’ at every kid in M&S.”

“Shut up,” she muttered, but could not contain her laughter. “Hey, weren’t you supposed to work today?”

That made your cheerful expression falter a little. “I was, but Seungkwan took the full day off today, so Jeonghan used it as an excuse to trial out the apprentices.” 

“You know, I still need to meet this guy,” she said, glancing at the street food booths in the middle of the halls. “He’s the only man I know who genuinely makes you go batshit.”

“Don’t get me started again.” You rolled your eyes. “You know, he took his day off for his niece and nephew again. I’m telling you, he’s making these fucking kids up.”

Julie’s face twisted into concern. “Making up fake kids for a holiday is a little far-fetched, _____.”

“Keep giving people the benefit of the doubt, then,” you crowed at her, “I'm just gonna pretend you're method acting for Santa."

But she was persistent, asking, “When will you let me spread the Christmas charity to your nemesis?” 

“Never, if I can help it.” You twisted your mouth. “I’m saving you the headache.”

“Why the headache?” Julie then gasped. “Is he ugly?”

You scoffed, looking ahead to respond when you stopped dead in your tracks.

Your friend, arm locked with yours, lurched backwards, whirling her head to you. Catching your expression had her demanding, “What the hell?”

But you were not listening to her, because your eyes landed on the very man you were bad-mouthing mere seconds ago. It was insanity how you recognised him, when his face was half-hidden from his signature oversized scarf—the three-metres of red fabric which always irritated you for some irrational reason (possibly because you were always cold, and the stupid, awful scarf always seemed so warm). His black trench-coat covered his slender figure, his hair ruffled, the after-effects of a beanie situated upon them.

Those details were still not important—completely useless when the most prominent addition was a woman beside him, laughing at his quip.

Shit. You did not waste any time.

“_____?” your friend called out, only to be met with your sudden turn on your heel, as, with her ungracious yelp, you hauled her inside the nearest shop, nearly crashing into the mannequins. “Jeez, if you wanted to go inside Zara so badly, then you should have just said!” 

As you hid behind the retail giant’s new winter collection, you observed, a little further away, the two people strolling without a care in the world. You noticed how the man was carrying all the shopping—stores from high-street to designer, which had your eyebrow raising—whilst the woman was pointing towards different stores, perhaps scour all of Westfield if she could help it. 

A frown marred your lips. 

Seungkwan said he was assisting his child-aged niece and nephew—you did not remember said-niece and nephew being one adult woman. 

“He’s on a fucking date,” you seethed.

Julie, now hiding beside you, tried to find whoever it was that you were glaring at. “Who’s on a date?”

“Seungkwan!” you exclaimed, pointing at him through the mannequin’s arm. “The prick with the red scarf.” But he and his company had walked past Zara, nearly leaving your field of vision. “Wait, we gotta move.” 

The poor girl, who was once again hauled up, and now being led out of the store, tugged at your arm. “What are we doing?” she asked. “Why are you still talking about him?”

“Because he’s there!” You jerked your head towards him and his lady-friend. “Look!”

A sharp breath drew from your friend. “Oh my God! Speak of the dessert devil, huh?”

“Exactly! So we’re following him.”

That had Julie stopping the chase, thus stopping you. “Why the hell are we doing that?”

“To catch him out on his terrible excuse!” you explained, tutting at your friend’s inability to understand the drastic nature of this situation. “I need to see the look on his face when I catch him making the rounds on H&M’s winter collection.”

For some unimaginable reason, the girl did not seem so enthusiastic. “My interview’s in thirty minutes, _____.”

You scrambled for any lame excuse. “This will distract you from your interview nerves!” 

“I haven’t gotten any interview nerves.”

“Well, you should because your voice cannot go ‘Santa Claus’ deep.”

Julie nudged you with her interlocked arm, shaking her head. “Now I’m scared, so fuck you.”

“You're very welcome.” You ticked your head towards your target. “Let’s go.”

As you two began your possibly illegal, certainly socially unacceptable activity, a certain rush thrummed within your veins, as if you had taken something for the exhilaration. Seeing your colleague declare one thing to you, yet do something entirely different—and then to witness it with your own eyes—felt like a scene out of a ridiculous rom-com. He was taking this girl everywhere, offering his opinions on certain collections on display in whatever shop they passed, loud enough for you to hear. Of course, it was expected from someone as opinionated as him—you were not surprised in the slightest. 

“All the time in the world for his kids, huh?” you muttered, sporting a grin which would have had criminals running for the hills.

Even Julie was spooked. “You really are rooting for his downfall, huh?” 

“You have no idea.”

The two people you tailed went inside the White Tiger, and it was at this point as, when you made to enter the strange shop, you were stopped by your friend. “I’m gonna leave you here.” 

“What?” You tugged on her arm. “You still have fifteen minutes.”

She sighed. “If I tank in my audition, just know I’m going to your restaurant and telling this Seungkwan that you had a wet dream about him.”

Your mouth dropped open. “That’s diabolical.” 

Her growing smirk had you widening your eyes. “I’ll do you an even better one. If you don’t let me leave I’m calling Seungkwan here and telling him we were stalking him.”

That had your blood running cold. “You wouldn’t dare.” 

“You don’t think so?” She turned her face forwards, shit-eating expression furthering. 

She then parted her mouth, making your heart stop. 

“Seungkwan!” 

“What the—” You instantly grabbed her arm, aiming to cover her mouth when she waved off your hands, her grin chilling you to your bones. “Oh my fucking God—!”

“Hey, Seungkwan!” Julie shouted once more, louder this time. You knifed her with a vicious glare, but then she waved her hand, and you whirled your head to where she greeted.

Your face contorted in pure horror as you watched Seungkwan look over his shoulder, slowly turning himself. 

What you did next was completely out of your control. 

It was your legs that suddenly held the reins, dashing into the shop beside your friend, hiding behind the racks of clothing. Your heart beat as if you had run an Olympic sprint, pounding in your ears, and your mouth repeatedly cursed the girl who had instigated all this, praying she embarrassed herself in her audition—perhaps screaming Whore, whore, whore! instead of the classic jingle. You did not think of the logistics, too enraged and embarrassed to think up a solution.

Despite the chaos of customers shopping, the swishing of clothing amongst the racks, and the robotic beeping of cash registers, you peeked through the burgundy cardigans you hid behind, catching the very man you wished to avoid walking up to your friend. 

His voice could be heard from your makeshift sanctuary, clearly confused. “I’m sorry, did you call for me?”

Julie kept glancing at the shop you hid in. She tried her hardest to restrain her smile as she said, “I did, actually! This is so weird, but my name’s Julie. _____’s friend.”

You could not mistake it—the realisation striking in his eyes, as they widened, ever so slightly. His mouth parted, then the corners of his lips curled upwards, and suddenly you could have been made of dread and anguish and every fearful emotion a person was capable of feeling. 

Seungkwan was going to eat you alive. 

“_____?” He repeated, and the amusement that dripped off your name had you wishing all men perished. “Oh, it’s always a pleasure to see a friend of _____’s.”

He raised his hand out, and Julie reciprocated, shaking it thoroughly. “I wouldn’t have expected an answer like that from you, actually.”

“Is that so?” the man quirked his mouth in a side-smile, all mischief and whimsical. “Maybe I’m fixing my manners for a pretty girl, then.”

“Oh!” she brought a hand to her chest, her smiling losing all mischief, turning more genuine. “She didn’t tell me you were such a charmer.”

You had to bring a hand to your mouth, aghast. The bitch is being fooled! “I’m not surprised by that in the slightest.” He let out an uneasy chuckle. “I hope you don’t believe the impression she’s made of me.”

“I’ll try not to be swayed,” she promised, sneaking another glance at your hiding place. Although she had not caught your eye, you glared at her for being so obvious. “Though I will admit, I haven’t heard great things.” 

“I’d be shocked if I heard anything positive,” he remarked. “_____, she…” He tugged his lip between his teeth. “I won’t say it cause she’s your friend but…”

“Yeah, nothing too crazy, please,” she warned, “Because then I’d have to tell her, she’d go all ballistic on you, and then she’d complain to me. I can’t deal with this soap opera.” 

“Soap opera?” he said, scoffing. “God, I can’t even complain, it’s EastEnders everyday in that damned kitchen.”

Julie laughed. “Now I know my friend loves a bit of drama, but surely she’s not the one in the wrong every time?” 

But Seungkwan tilted his head, squinting his eyes as if considering a completely different opinion. “And yet she’s the one throwing food in my face.” 

That had your friend glancing at you through the shop window, a second-long judgement. You glared at her to turn away, she obliging with a shake of her head. “Well…I suppose I can’t defend her against that.” 

His winning smile irked you to the bone. “Exactly.” 

You knew from Julie’s sheepish scratch of her neck that there was no convincing him, and had unintentionally proved his point. A soft groan escaped you, about to hold your head in your hands. Must bully her about this later.

The need to torture her for the rest of her miserable, Santa-adoring life worsened when he looked beyond her frame, a questioning twist of his mouth forming. “Am I crazy, or was _____ here with you?”

The girl’s helpless, a million-emotions-a-second expression once again exposed the guilt Seungkwan waited patiently for, and latched onto. “Huh. So I’m not crazy.” 

“She just left,” Julie explained, looking down at her boots. “She had the whole dessert thing to think up, prepare for…you know, the reason you guys are yelling at each other.”  

“Such dedication to her work!” he praised, but even she could recognise the patronising tone, directed at you from afar. If he had caught onto the fact that you were hiding from him, you might as well throw yourself off the highest floor in this mall. 

The condescension had the girl ticking her head. “She is, though. Why else would she be fighting for her preferences?” 

Seungkwan stared at your friend, sliding his hands in his pockets. “I guess you’re right,” he relented, which had you frowning behind the clothing. Given up so easily? 

You could not ponder over it further, because the man looked over his shoulder, no doubt realising he had left his mysterious companion behind. “You must excuse me, Julie,” he said, “But it was really good to meet you, truly.” 

He held his hand out, which, surprised, your friend shook, lightening up. “You too, Seungkwan.”

As he let go, turning on his heel, you just managed to catch the smirk on his face, hidden from Julie. “You tell your friend I said I missed her here.”

And off he went, catching her off-guard, and kickstarting your irritation as he strolled back to his date. 

Once you were sure he was out of your distance, you stood, avoiding the flurry of winter clothing, keeping your head down in slight shame at knowing quite a few shoppers had seen you hiding out behind the railings. Another unprecedented consequence of knowing Seungkwan.

Quickly you hurried to your friend, who turned to you, pointing her thumb in his direction. “Oh my God.” 

“‘She had this whole dessert thing to prepare for’?” you greeted, hands on your hips. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t think he’d realise you were here!” She kept a finger to her chin, thinking over possible escapes. “I mean, I don’t think he saw you in Zara? You hid better than I thought, honestly.” 

“Shit.” You brought your fingers to your temple, scraping against your skin. “And why did he agree with you on me being dedicated?! Fake-ass.” 

Julie then raised a brow. “You’re overthinking it. I am right. Him being passionate about his work doesn’t change the fact that you’re dedicated to it too.” 

You could only grunt in agreement, glancing back to see him a mere speck amongst the sea of Christmas shoppers. 

Although it was a fool’s hope, you wished that he would not bring up this incident tomorrow. 

THE MOMENT YOU STEPPED INTO THE KITCHENS, HE WAS WAITING FOR YOU. 

Not that you were afraid of him—at the end of the day, he was just a man with a small apron and a bad attitude, and you were not letting him get the better of you. 

Except your heart was pounding like an echoing gong, hair standing on the back of your neck. Even your palms were sweating, you flexing and unflexing your hands in distraction. Seungkwan was behind the large commercial hob, cooking something in a pot when he looked over his shoulder, beholding your unnerved presence. 

For the first time since he started working alongside you, he offered you a smile. 

You could have taken the pot and flung the contents on his head. 

“Good morning, _____!” he chirped, the smile widening when you instantly gritted your teeth. “Well rested?”

“Morning,” you replied curtly, tying your apron behind your back. “And yes.”

“Very good,” he asserted, mixing the contents of the pot. He wasted no time in the next question. “How was your weekend?” 

“Alright.”

“Oh, was it? Go anywhere?”

Shit. “Shopping.”

“What a coincidence!” he exclaimed, as if you had revealed the secrets of the universe to him.”I went shopping too.”

“So does everyone and their mothers on the weekend, Seungkwan,” you monotoned, hoping he would take the hint.

He took the hint, of course, but chose to disregard it completely. “My weekend was excellent,” he insisted, tapping the wooden spoon against the pot’s rim, draining out the residue. Making caramel, then. “I went to Westfield yesterday. Very fun, I’ll say.”

I bet it was, prick. “Is that so?” 

“It was so,” he parroted, like the bastard he was. “I actually happened to meet your friend there!” 

Your sigh could have had a laugh rasping out of him. “Which one?” you merely asked, feigning innocence still. 

A snort. “Don’t pretend you have more than one friend, _____.” 

Ouch. “Don’t pretend to know everything about me,” you huffed. 

“Fair enough. I happened to meet Julie.” Satisfied with the slow melting of the sugar and butter, he finally focused on you, leaning against the hob. “Lovely girl, by the way.”

“I know.” You shot him a look. “So?”

“She told me that you were with her this entire time!” 

It took every atom of your strength to not react to that statement. “I was.” 

“Then tell me…” He made to walk towards you, the only boundary between you two being the huge island tabletops. “How come I was so unlucky to miss you yesterday?”

You clenched your jaw. “I left before she saw you.” 

“Left?” he inquired, hand resting on the countertop. “You see, I remember it more as running away the moment she called after me.”

A Jesus Christ slipped out of you before you could help yourself. Instantly you repelled from his walking figure, hurrying to check the sizzling which had increased. The sauce was forming. “What’d you need this for?”

“Caramel Budino. Don’t dodge the question.” You could feel his gaze on you. “Why did you run away from me?”

You took the spoon set on the side, stirring. “I didn’t run away.”

“Yes you did,” he countered immediately. “I saw you bolt into Zara as if they had a closing down sale.”

“Maybe I was excited about their Black Friday deals,” you asserted, sparing him an irritated glance.

His accusatory stare had you looking back at the pot. “Don’t bullshit with me, _____,” He finally stepped past the countertop. “My God. You were stalking me, weren’t you? You and your friend?”

“What—no!” you denounced. “How can you think that?”

He was not four feet from you now. You tried not to look at him; somehow, in the most bothersome of ways, his eyes were unnerving you—as if you had committed some crime, and were now caught red-handed fleeing the scene. Well, you were caught fleeing the scene, but you thought you had escaped the consequences. 

But you had not escaped shit, and now you had to shrink under this bastard’s malicious, victorious scrutiny. 

“Then why did you run away?” he asked you, all quiet. 

The strange hush of his voice had you blurting out an unexpected response. “Because I think you’re a bloody liar.” 

Finally, you mustered the strength to face him—his confusion had you continuing. “You took the day off yesterday, right? For your niece and nephew? Well I didn’t see these so-called nieces and nephews, but a woman I had never met, or seen, even!” You then scoffed. “I was lucky to catch you red-handed, actually, because I was going to work the closing shift!” 

As Seungkwan took in your sudden accusation, craning his head back the further your words attempted to strike true to his pride, he found himself trying to contain a smile. His self-respect was completely intact from your attacks—the more you spoke, the more he was abashed, not quite believing what he heard from your mouth.

He caught onto what you considered the most irrelevant detail from your outburst. “You…you thought I was on a date?”

“Yes!” you snapped. “And you lied about it!”

But he began to chuckle, and you swore you could have seen red. “Why would I be lying?” he merely asked, hand on his white-cottoned chest. 

“To—” but then you stopped yourself. Not everyone is thinking about you. Even the man you happen to hate so much. You pursed your lips, Jeonghan’s words striking your mouth shut. 

Seungkwan, of course, would not let you keep him in such suspense. “To what?” he demanded, lips parted. “The one time I don’t want you to shut up, and you go mute on me!”

That was enough for you to explode. “To get out of working with me!” 

That had him jerking his head back. He squinted his eyes slightly, genuinely stunned, and you knew then and there that you had assumed completely wrong. 

Shit. Shit, shit, shit. “Jesus Christ, _____,” he began, and the beginnings of his god-awful, self-pleasing laugh was back, aching your ears and flustering your attitude. “You thought…you thought I was avoiding you? Like, some kind of bullied victim?”

You instantly rebuked him, stammering, “W-well, that’s not what I meant—”

“You really are self-centred, aren’t you?” he mocked. “You believe that all you want, sweetheart, but you don’t scare me like that.” 

“I didn’t mean scared, asshole,” you sneered. “I meant hate.”

He put a hand to his hip, leaning against the hob. “Hate?”

“Yes, hate!” you clarified sarcastically, but you did not know why you began to sound absurd. Suddenly, you were the child, and he was the adult playing along to your antics. “Isn’t that what this all is?”

Slowly, ever so slowly, he dared another step towards you. The shuffling of his clothes against the countertop were the only sounds in the room—that, and the sizzling of the caramel. “Do you…do you really hate me?”

Your brain screamed at you to step away from him. Who was he to come this close to you? Who was he to ask you questions that were meant to stay unanswered?

He seemed hell-bent, however, to break unspoken rules. “I asked you a question, _____. Do you truly hate me?”

Although his mouth twisted in a hard smile, almost condescending, his eyes revealed a completely different sentiment. It was strange, so incredibly unsettling, that you knew the difference between what his words spoke, and what his face exposed. You were not meant to understand him like that.

But you did, and that scared you. 

“Do you?” you muttered, barely audible. If he was not so close, he would not have heard you. 

His gaze flickered all over your face. Your inquisitive eyes, your flared nostrils, your mouth, now parted, inhaling, exhaling. His own lips broke, you catching the grit in his teeth, as if mulling over the options—as if there were options to consider. 

Your breath shuddered. “Seungkwan?”

He was not answering you, still staring. What was on your face that fascinated him to this extent? You were not so sure, but still, he did not say a word, merely choosing to relish in your agitated features. Your skin thrummed at his stare, the close proximity of his body. Why was it so hot? 

The air around you, that is—not his body. Not that you were thinking of it—the forearms that were exposed from rolling his sleeves, the sliver of his collarbone from two buttons undone at the top of his shirt. 

“Yes?”

Back on his face—his mouth. "I, uh…" you got out, trying to remember how to speak. "I asked you something.” What was the blasted question again?

A slight, minute dip of his head. “I know.” 

He had to stop. What you should have done was leave the room—cease this madness. 

You only prolonged it. “Do you hate me?”

Another silence, and you were going to die. Collapse in this goddamn kitchen, and this creature of a man would be your only witness. 

He then ghosted the slightest smile on his lips, and you hung onto its movement. “I would have loved to…” 

He dared a little closer—any more and he would brush your mouth. “But then I realised you don’t.” Your change in expression had his ghost-like smile sparking to life. “So I can’t either.”

You did not know why the answer pissed you off. “How can you be sure of that?” you seethed. “I can hate you as much as I want.”

“Hmm, no, you can’t.” His eyes were not boring into yours—only at your mouth, too damn close. “Because you don’t know me well enough to hate me.”

You tilted your head back, enough to gauge—or at least attempt to figure out the undecipherable expression on his face. This close, you understood why the customers stared at him, even double-taken at every peek they could manage through the kitchen windows.  

The man was a little beautiful this close, and this realisation haunted you. 

Your mouth tried to release something, a refusal to his claim, but any counter died on your tongue. How well did you really know him? Sure, you were certain that he was a pain in your arse, but what of the man behind the sordid comments, the constant judgement? How much did you know of the man outside of the boundaries of Vita di Diamante? Hell, your lack of information had you second-guessing whether he even was lying about the kids.

(Though you refused, even now, to give him the benefit of the doubt. For all we know, the kids are either a long-running joke, or Seungkwan’s demons).

Despite all that, his truth was inescapable—solid and present and impossible to deny. You despised him for the entirety of your acquaintance, but did not even bother to know your supposed nemesis. 

Somehow, even after yesterday’s shitshow, this realisation was far more embarrassing than anything you had ever experienced. 

The supposed nemesis watched you discover these revelations, the corners of his lips curling upwards. It was so awful how he understood perfectly, and was now basking in this victory. 

The realisation stunned you so intently you did not grasp the screech-like crackling right next to you. Once the smell of the burnt caramel engulfed your nose, you blinked back, turning to the pot which now looked like brown, volcanic magma after it loses its colour. Instantly you turned the switch off, turning on the exhaust, the smell of the burnt sugar, after realising its presence, now making you ill. Seungkwan only watched you fumble at the stove, finally taking a step back. With that, you were able to breathe. 

Your ammunition was ready. “Look at the mess you’ve made.” 

He took it surprisingly well. “I’ll clean it,” he said, taking the pot and setting it to the side. “It is my fault, after all.”

You raised your eyebrow at him. “You’re taking responsibility for your actions?”

A glimpse towards you. “I told you, didn’t I? You don’t know me.”

That had you shutting up immediately. 

Seungkwan looked at the clock, realising that the restaurant was about to open. Then his eyes settled on you. “I still can’t believe you stalked me.”

You made a face. “That was not stalking. Well, not the scary kind,” you clarified, which did not make your case any stronger. “And anyway, you still haven’t denied the whole date thing, which means you were lying.” 

Dusting away at his apron, he made to walk to the backdoor, about to call for Mingyu to help with ingredient preparation. You thought he was going to outright ignore you, but then he faced you, a certain smile on his face that you could not unravel.

“I guess you’ll find out soon enough.”

And he was off, leaving you even more baffled than you were the first time you accused him. 

ANOTHER WEEK PASSED AT THE RESTAURANT, AND YOU WERE GOBSMACKED TO SEE A SEMBLANCE OF PROGRESS.

One would think that the strange incident in the kitchens would have been talked about further, but Seungkwan made no mention of it—and him making no mentions meant you would cut off your tongue and turn it into a French delicacy before talking about it either. 

Though you wish he had at least made one comment. 

Never before had you felt so…you did not know how to interpret it, but it was clearly something awful. The man had been an entity you had hated, but you wondered whether the emotion was rendered useless after such a heated conversation. It was so stupid, absolute insanity how you could not stop thinking about the proximity of his frame, his breaths fanning your lips, his questions that turned your entire opinion of him on its axis. 

You don’t know me well enough to hate me.

“Damn it,” you muttered under your breath.

Though you were cursing yourself, Seungkwan—who was beside you, experimenting on a particular chocolate pudding—took some offence. “What’re you mad about this time?”

Whirling your head to him, you were ready to give him a piece of your delirious mind when you caught the scene before you.

You were already aware he was creating a variation of the Bonet—chocolate, coffee, and rum, mixed and whipped to perfection alongside the core ingredients. He opted to swap the coffee for cinnamon, much to your exasperation. He had already heated his mixture in a not-burnt-to-a-crisp caramel sauce, cooked in a bain-marie—a process of melting chocolate-like mixtures under another pot of boiling water. 

His almost-dessert done, he only had the sprinkle of cacao powder to add to the final product, standing in perfect confidence in front of him. You admired the chocolate excellence, mouth already watering at seeing the soft, textured edges of the pudding. The amaretti macarons at the top contrasted the glaze of the darker chocolate, reflected the lights of the kitchen, and you had to stop your work for the customers, simply admiring the dessert your partner had created. 

Sometimes you forgot that Boo Seungkwan was a born chef. 

He was also a born pain in the ass. “If you can eye-fuck my Bonet, _____, then you can compliment it, too.”

Snapping out of the awe-filled haze, you twisted your mouth. “I suppose it’s not the worst thing you’ve made in this kitchen.”

“You’re right, actually, because the worst thing in this kitchen was made by your hands.”

Boo Seungkwan—the man who, despite your conflicting thoughts over last week, still managed to rile you into a frenzy. You could have cursed him outright, but this week’s apprentice, Wen Junhui, rushed into the room, bearing the role of Kitchen Porter. “There’s more orders for tiramisu!” He informed hurriedly, bringing a further three-dozen eggs upon the busied countertops. 

You looked up to the poor, clueless man. “You do realise you don’t have to take orders, right? That’s the waiter’s job.”

“Jun, here.” Seungkwan patted to the space next to him. “Help me whip some eggs.”

The apprentice obliging instantly, he began cracking eggs on the side of the bowl, setting himself to work. The man in charge with you focused once more on his creation, adorning a proud smirk as he brought out a long spoon next to him. “We should do a Bonet for the final dessert,” he suggested, cutting a small corner. 

“Of course you’ll say that now,” you said. “Oh, and just so you know, I’m never accepting it with cinnamon.”

You watched him raise the spoon, assuming he would take a bite. He then paused, flitting his gaze to you. 

He then changed direction, swinging the spoon ever so slightly—offering it to you. “Go on.”

You looked at it as if you had never seen a spoon before in your life. “You take a bite first,” he clarified. “I need to stamp out this anti-cinnamon agenda once and for all.”

“I’d like to see you try,” you challenged. Taking the spoon from him, avoiding his fingers, you observed the spongy portion before bringing the cutlery’s bowl to your mouth.

The moment the Bonet touched your tongue, it was chocolate heaven—chocolate bliss of the highest order, the cacao flavour merging along with the rum, sparking your senses to life. The most surprising factor was the dreaded cinnamon, spreading its infectious, sugary goodness along your taste buds. It was a small bite, but the chef had packed the sweet universe into a few millilitres, showing you a world where a life could be good and beautiful without any semblance of bitterness. 

Seungkwan watched your reaction, his smug smirk widening. Bringing the spoon out, you could not help the hum that escaped you, and it made him bite his lip, restraining his chuckles. “See?” 

Even still, you attempted to crush his spirits. “I hate it?” you offered, not even convincing yourself. 

The leash on him snapped, huffing out a round of laughter that had you setting the cutlery down. “I suppose you’ll not want another bite, then,” he said.

“Nope,” you lied. You found a clean spoon on the table, offering it to him. “You finish it off.”

The new offering was rejected. “Just give me yours.”

“But I used it.” A tilt of your head. “That doesn’t bother you?”

He jutted out his lip, shaking his head slightly. “Just more dishes to clean. A waste, no?” He gestured with his hand to beckon the old one back. “Pass the other one over.”

“Oh-kay,” you dragged out, handing over the original. With that, he scooped a bite from the Bonet, this time incorporating the little amaretti alongside. 

Your focus trained on him, you watched as he brought the bite to his mouth, his lips closing over the spoon. His reaction was more subdued—unsurprising since it was your first time trying his variation, but nonetheless satisfied as he hummed, closing his eyes. Your eyes took in the sight of him sliding out the spoon from his mouth, his tongue gliding over the silver to lap up the remnants of the chocolate, stubborn to remain. Your cheeks burned at the sight, almost as if you should not be watching. The moment he bit into the amaretti, the crunch against his teeth had you hitching in a breath, as if his mouth, his teeth, had grazed over your mouth, sunken into your skin. 

You blinked back. 

Seungkwan, who had finally opened his eyes, the sensations now subsided, caught your dazed out countenance. He knitted his brows. 

God, you were losing your mind. “Your slobbering was horrendous,” you mocked instead. 

He only shrugged, setting the spoon back on the table. “I don’t waste a thing,” he said, licking his lips—wiping any remnants of chocolate left.

You watched that too—his tongue, which now slid back into his mouth. Another rush of blinking, a sharp sigh, and you caught the ghost of a smile on him. “You should focus on the orders.”

Bastard. “Y-you focus on yours! Instead of wolfing them down!” you exclaimed pathetically. You shot up from where you leaned at the countertop, focusing on the three rounds of Tiramisus ordered. 

Hearing his chuckling behind you had you souring further, face akin to a bonfire, but your mood was soon distracted from the last-hour rush of orders. With Junhui helping the two of you, the round of desserts being created were more effortless, plates of every kind of pudding, gelatos and cakes and pastries leaving your kitchens. The final thirty minutes were more subdued, potential customers understanding that this was no longer the place to dine, and must find sustenance elsewhere. 

Once the time was out for the restaurant’s closure for the day, you thought to close up, already commencing to help the apprentice tidy away the remaining ingredients. Then Jeonghan entered the station, a new, clean apron wrapped around his out-of-work attire. He was set on Seungkwan, pointing towards him. “You,” he began, beckoning him over. “You got a special guest.” 

You narrowed your sight on the man, but his face instantly lit up. That only added to your confusion. Special guest? “Tell her to sit at the reserved table,” he only said, washing his hands off the flour and butter. “I’ll be right over.” 

Watching him rush his usual clean ups, even leaving out a few objects for dessert preparation, you walked up to him, hands on your hips. “Who’s this special guest?” you inquired, his back to you. 

Looking over his shoulder, he shook off the excess water from his hands. “You’ve seen her before.” 

“Huh?” you could only get out, but a moment of thinking had you sucking in a breath. “Wait, you brought your date here?!”

A scoff escaped him, shaking his head. “It’s about time you see the woman who’s bothering you so much.”

“What?!” You glanced at the long, open window of the restaurant layout, where you could spy the seating. “I can’t do that! You’re making this much weirder than it needs to be.” 

“Well, why not?” He stepped past you, grabbing hold of a tea towel. “And remind me, who stalked me for this very information?”

“That was—!” You attempted, but then quietened, realising you could not win that argument. “Piss off.” 

He huffed out a laugh at your response, jerking his head towards the entrance to the main hall. “Come on,” he merely said, walking towards the door. “You can weasel your way out of it to her.”

You wanted nothing more than to lock yourself away from this entire situation—Seungkwan was exploiting his position to use the restaurant as his date-place, and you had managed to trap yourself into this precarious position. 

Despite that, you let your curiosity get to you—yes, it killed the cat, but you were different. Better than that stupid creature. 

Hesitantly, you followed behind as he left the kitchens, weaving his way around the dozens of tables. You caught sight of the mysterious woman, her back to you, but it was not her voice that greeted you first.

Two voices yelped out instead at seeing Seungkwan—voices which were shrilled, higher-pitched, as if they belonged to children. 

You stopped walking as the surprises revealed themselves. 

“Uncle Seungkwan!” 

Two young children—a boy and girl, no more than 11 years old—came running towards your colleague at full speed, nearly bumping against the furniture without a care in the world. You did not see his face, but he must have been smiling, because a delighted oh! escaped him, and his arms were out. He barely had time to raise them before the two kids collided against him, making him stumble back, balance shaky, and you instinctively took a step back, in case he bumped into you. Everyone was laughing in that strong hold, the man’s arms wrapped tightly around them, and your eyes softened without realising.

This was a different Seungkwan. A Seungkwan you had not witnessed—perhaps not been allowed to witness, possibly by your own accord. 

So engrossed by the heartwarming sight, you did not realise the initial woman you planned to see had gotten up from her seat, walking over to the group. “All of you hugging as if you didn’t meet two days ago,” she remarked, a hand on a nearby chair. 

“Don’t get mad because they like me more,” he crowed, glancing at her before ruffling the children’s hair. “Isn’t that right, kids?” 

“Yes!” they both exclaimed in agreement, causing the woman to shake her head. 

She then noticed you behind him, perking her head up. “Oh, I’m sorry!” she stepped past the group, a glance at him. “I didn’t realise you were there.”

That had you scratching the back of your neck—perhaps curiosity made points killing the cat, cause you felt the great urge to die on the spot. “Yeah, I’m sorry, I’m—” you cleared your throat, a slight suspicion about this whole situation rising in the crevices of your mind. 

Seungkwan chipped in for you, realising your mouth was not working. “This is _____. The partner,” he clarified, and you paused at seeing a knowing look on the woman’s face. “And this….”

He then looked at you. “This is Jinsoul. My sister.” 

Oh. Good. God. 

His introductions extended to the two children. “My very real niece and nephew, Sohyun and Sojung.” 

Your mouth parted at the comment, completely abashed. You were not given more time to ponder on his audacity, because his sister—God, his fucking sister, all this time— held her hand out, immediately greeting you with a smile. “It’s so good to meet you!” A glance at him. “I feel like I know you already.”

“Is that so?” you chuckled out, nerves now rising. 

“Of course!” She let go of your hand after a hearty shake. “Seungkwan talks about you all the time.”

The said-man gaped at her, instantly souring at the reveal before chiding, “Your antics have reached my family’s ears, yes.”

You would have glared at him if you were not still humiliated. “Then I don’t know why you’re being so nice to me,” you admitted.

“Well, why wouldn’t I?” She leaned on the chair. “I just assumed it was Seungkwan’s fault.”

The apparent culprit huffed. “If you wanna side with her so badly, she can make your free dinner.”

But the woman only shrugged, leading her children over to you. “Alright then. Nobody wanted your ass cinnamon rolls anyway.” 

“Hey!” Seungkwan twisted his lips into a frown. “Aren’t you supposed to be on a date?”

With their mother’s encouragement, the children waved their hands in introduction. “Nice to meet you!” the two chirped in almost-unison, the boy who said it a second too late looking away in embarrassment. You could not help waving back, smiling at them. 

Once done with that, she finally answered him. “I am, actually—” a glance down at her watch, inhaling through her teeth— “And am running late, shit.”

“And you said we couldn’t use that word,” the boy—Sojung—grumbled, fixing his beanie. 

“Well I’m a mother in a hurry, sweetie,” Jinsoul reasoned. She faced her brother. “We’ll try coming here, but if we run a little late, then you come ‘round, alright?”

“Yeah, don’t worry,” he only said, giving her a quick side-hug before waving her off with a flick of his hand. “Now go away.” 

“Alright, damn.” Pressing a kiss to her children’s cheeks, she offered you a beautiful smile—a striking similarity to her brother’s. “If these kids are being a bother, this big ass one included—” a shove towards him— “You let me know.”

You could not help it, returning her mirth. “I’ll steal his phone and call you.”

Her smile was positively mischievous. “I like you already.” 

With that, she bid her goodbyes one more time, you stunned from her little declaration—her words, and why that had your heart swelling. With Jinsoul leaving, you tried to focus back on the niece and nephew, who were not Seungkwan and Jeonghan’s running joke, but real and alive and in front of you. 

The former, who was watching your shock, snapped you out of it as he focused on the youngest. “Right, you two,” he began, pointing towards their seats, ”Tell me what you want.”

“What’re you making us this time?” Sojung asked, instantly settling himself down, already giddy at the prospect of food. 

“Don’t listen to Mum!” Sohyun chimed in, following after her brother, sitting on one knee as the other leg dangled over the seat. “We’ll have the cinnamon rolls.” 

“Seungkwan’s family and their cinnamon,” you murmured.

The family you mentioned, however, had razor-sharp hearing, and three heads turned to you. “What’s wrong with cinnamon?” the girl asked, 

“Don’t you worry about _____, here, sweetie,” the eldest mock-consoled, “She doesn’t like to have anything sweet.” 

“That’s not true,” you immediately said, but the kids caught onto their uncle’s words quicker than yours, and their shock had you almost embarrassed.

“No way!”

“How do you live your life?”

“Uncle Seungkwan, why didn’t you change her mind?” 

Their incessant questions only had you chuckling nervously—you were sure sweat was breaking out, and that only worsened when the man beside you thoroughly enjoyed you squirming. “Your uncle is exaggerating,” you could only offer them, but you could tell they were not satisfied with your answer.

“Leave it to me,” he only said, winking at the children, “I’ll sort her out soon enough.”

That had you looking at him unconvinced. “You’ve failed for the past year, so I don’t know what’s changing.”

The children began oooooh-ing at what they believed was an insanely sick burn towards their uncle, who scoffed in response. “You’ll find out,” he merely said, then turned his attention to those fanning the flames. “And what happened to backing me up unconditionally?” 

“We’ll support you when you give us some food,” Sojung reasoned, which had you chuckling. Negotiating for a luxury treat? You had to respect them. 

“Alright, alright,” Seungkwan conceded, about to turn on his heel. “You lot stay here, and I’ll whip something up.”

As you watched him begin to leave, you narrowed your eyes at the workspace, separated by the windowless-frame. You focused on the children, an idea hatching. “Hey, you guys wanna come inside?”

Perking up at you, their eyes danced at the prospect. “Could we actually?” Sohyun asked, darting her head between you and the man beside. “Wait, are we even allowed?”

Seungkwan pondered over it, as if genuinely thinking over the restrictions. “So what?” you said, smiling at them. “We’ll make it allowed.”

Your answer was all the children needed, excitement almost reverberating off them. You ushered them out of their seats, pointing them towards the kitchen entrance, and they dashed off before you could offer any general warnings, fighting to contain your smile. 

As Seungkwan watched, following after his niece and nephew, he took a cautionary glimpse at you. “If they break any health code violations, then you’re taking the sack.”

Walking right beside him, you opened the door to the station. “I’ll just say they’re your responsibility, and Jeonghan will finally have an excuse to fire you.”

But he was snickering softly at the claim, close at your heels as he stepped inside. It could have been the lowering of his voice, the slight octave down—perhaps the proximity again, which might have been purposeful on his part. 

“You’re not getting rid of me that easily,” he muttered, and you had to blame the chill from the open windows for the shivers down your neck. 

By the time you both entered, Sojung and Sohyun were already exploring the premises, marvelling at the professional equipment, the grandeur of the stainless steel. It was as if the stations were a long, forgotten historical site, and the children were archaeologists, brushes at the ready to inspect, marvelling at anything they had not seen before. The half-eaten Bonet latched onto their fancies, and they would have eaten the dessert with their bare hands had Seungkwan not tutted, pointing at the clean spoons on the countertop.

“I was expecting the kitchen to be really messy,” Sohyun commented, eyes straying from the pudding to observe the surroundings once more. “Wouldn’t it get so busy in here?”

“Super busy,” you admitted, “Especially during this time. Mind you, sometimes there’s no room around here, there’s so much ingredients to take care of.”

As he tried to find said-plethora-of-ingredients, Sojung said, “I bet you could have such a good food fight in here.” He glanced at the Bonet, and then at his sister. 

“Don’t you dare,” she warned, raising her cutlery as a legendary weapon. 

But you did not fixate on their conversation to the end, because the mention of the food fight had you glancing at the man who you had actually thrown food at. It was not as if it was that long ago—hell, Seungkwan would have only just rid himself off the mascarpone from his hair. 

You even remembered how it all began—the fateful incident which brought down Jeonghan’s wrath, and ultimately this dreaded assignment. It was like any other prep day for the restaurant, Mingyu helping alongside you two as you prepared the ingredients on the countertops, finalising the desserts which were to be offered that night. It had to be stressed—it was a completely normal day. 

Except Seungkwan had already sparked your irritation alive from the initial disagreements on the flavour variations of the Cassata Siciliana—a layered cake of sheep ricotta cheese, chocolate, candied fruit, all topped with marzipan. The blends of the cheese usually worked wonders, but the idiot suggested substituting the traditional ricotta for mascarpone, apparently enriching the dessert to its fullest extent. You knew his scheming was simply to have a sweeter grand dessert on the menu, but you refused to fall for his antics. You instantly rejected his attempts, and that only fuelled his anger, insisting that the specialised cream be used for the Cassata or he would refuse to add your additions. 

You did not know whether it was that warning, or the notion that he had no power to even say such a warning. Whatever the motivation, it was enough for you to ask him a simple question, hands straying to the ingredients. 

“You wanna know where mascarpone cream would look best?” 

Forever the fool, he asked, hoping his condescending nature would rile you up. 

And because you were a greater fool than he was, you only scooped the cream and flung it on his face, he yelping as it stuck to the perfect curls of his brown hair. Reeling back from the mess, he touched the remnants on his cheeks, his locks, gaping at it until he set his stare on you. 

It was then the chaos began. The pandemonium that followed, food flying everywhere in places you never thought it would reach, a pitiful waste of ingredients and emotions as the rest of the crew scrambled to mediate between the two of you. Even Jeonghan had difficulty at first, but one guttural roar had everyone pausing. Everything afterwards was history. 

Looking at him now, though, imagining the chaos of it all…it brought a strange fluttering within your chest. You did not think there was anyone else you could have thrown food at. 

With the way he returned your gaze, his usual sharp glower softened as the memory flashed within his own eyes. He could not help himself, the corners of his mouth tugging upwards the more he delved into it, the verbal lashings the two of you received afterwards.

It was there, in the kitchens, with the children stealing glances at the stillness of their guardians, the faint scent of cinnamon still in the air, that you smiled at Seungkwan without an ounce of ridicule laced in it.

His eyes widened. His slight surprise had you smiling a little wider, but before he could say anything, he was duly interrupted. “Uncle Seungkwan, when are we getting any food?” 

Sojung joined in. “Stop staring at Miss _____ here!” 

The accused immediately composed himself. “Jinsoul really needs to discipline you both…”

Fidgeting with your rolled-up sleeves, you resorted to helping your partner. “Right, you two,” you asserted, clapping your hands together, “What do you want?” 

Sohyun dug the toe of her boot further into the floor, all sheepish. “We were hoping Uncle Seungkwan would make us the usual.”

“The usual?” A side-glance at him. “Anything special?”

“I didn’t think so,” he admitted, a finger at his chin as he thought about his ingredients’ whereabouts. “They can’t have enough of it, though.” After another moment, he turned to the direction of the pantry. “Hey, there’s still vanilla gelato leftover right?”

Once you nodded, he was off, heading towards the other entrance, promising to come back within minutes. With the common man gone, you looked at the two children, whose curiosities still seemed unsatiated. 

You decided to question them first. “What’s your uncle making you?”

The boy answered before his sister even opened her mouth. “It’s so good! It’s what Uncle Seungkwan makes us every time we come here.” 

“All I know is that Sojung always makes Uncle Seungkwan add more ice cream than mine.”

“Now you’re just lying!” he rebuked, aching to push her off the countertop. “She always gets more biscuits in hers, so she can’t complain!”

You chuckled at their antics, speaking over them to settle their bickering. “Biscuits and ice cream is it?” 

“No, no, it’s like…” the girl imitated with her hands, describing the shape of an odd-looking mug. “You put ice cream first, then hot chocolate, and then Uncle Seungkwan adds more stuff I can’t remember.”

“It’s amazing,” Sojung promised, his face serious and persuasive, as if he was a politician promising a controversial policy. 

Impressed by his words, you, the hesitant voter, decided to believe him. “You’ve convinced me, little man.” You glanced over your shoulder—at the other entrance—before focusing on the boy, whispering, “Your Uncle Seungkwan does make a killer dessert.”

“Why’re you saying it like that?” Sohyun asked, matching your hushed tone. “Do you not like him?”

You contemplated the question. It was simple enough—they were not expecting a Tolstoy-saga timeline of your unstable partnership with their uncle. A couple of weeks ago, the answer would have been easier.

Situations, however, had changed—shifted indefinitely, throwing your viewpoint off its axis. You both were rivalling teams, always rooting for each other’s downfall, and now you both played for the same side, and it was…you did not know. Well, you did know, were very aware of how it felt, but it was something you could not voice out loud—not even to yourself.

So you merely said, “He’s alright…your Uncle Seungkwan,” and hoped to anything that resided above that it was enough.

It seemed so—then, Sojung, forever curious, thought to be more personal than his sister. “If you don’t like him, then who do you like?”

You were astounded by how nosy children were, but realised they were related to Seungkwan. Checks out. “I’m afraid I’m too busy working to have workplace crushes.”

As you made your declaration, you heard the man on a mission return, door swinging open with his foot as he held the ingredients. Walking over to the counter, he dumped the contents, you observing what he brought: a box of fresh vanilla gelato, a 4-pint carton of semi-skimmed milk, and a few small pots, labelled as almonds, hazelnuts, amarettis. 

“Is she telling the truth?” Sojung asked his uncle, you gasping at the notion. Since when did children require witness confirmation for your half-lies?

Seungkwan snorted as he brought out a pot from the side of the hob, setting the base upon the bottom right stove, sparking the flames to life. Without even looking back, he grabbed the milk carton, unscrewing the cap. “She’s lying to you guys,” he confirmed, pouring the contents inside. He set the half-empty container beside him, sparing you a mischievous glance. “She’s too busy arguing with me.”

“Hey!” The children began to laugh. “I only argue with him when he’s provoking me.”

Snickering knowingly, he walked to the metal cupboards settled in the corner, opening them up to procure three elongated glasses, small, circular handles on their sides, narrowing at the bottom. Setting them before his esteemed customers, he replied, “I’ll have you know, _____, you’re the one who starts most of our arguments.”

“Since when?” 

Usually, his stare would have been incredulous, unamused. This time, though, his eyes were dancing. “Did you know, kids,” he began, voice deepening as if regaling a fantasy tale, grabbing the tub of luxury hot chocolate powder, “That _____ and I had a real food fight here?”

“No way!” Sohyun gasped. “Did you guys get in trouble?”

“Oh yeah,” he said, sighing through his teeth as he poured two heaped teaspoons within each glass. “Our punishment was to work on a dessert together.”

“Uncle Jeonghan has a weird way of punishing someone,” the girl commented. 

“You’re telling me,” you muttered, Seungkwan also murmuring in agreement as he started the kettle, the water heating at lightning-speed and ready before you realised. Picking up the kettle from its base, he poured a little into each cup, mixing the powder within the water to rid himself of the textured cocoa forming. “Hot chocolate?” you inquired, watching his every movement—his setting the kettle back, all the while grabbing the milk off the stove, pouring three-quarters full of every glass, stirring simultaneously whilst he drained the pot off its boiling contents. 

This was second nature to him—he did not answer, engrossed in his work, because this was him in his element. He was a born creator, thriving in the atmosphere of nourishment. The scent of hot cocoa and vanilla, amplified when his nephew cracked open the container, delighted your senses, mouth watering at the notion of trying this beverage. 

The girl beside you responded for him as he set the empty pot to the side. “It’s more than hot chocolate,” she said, as she grabbed hold of a spoon, hoping to take a bite but stopped when her uncle shot her a disapproving look. “Please, just one bite!” 

“You and your brother won’t leave us with any when you’re done,” he scolded, holding out his hand. Caught red-handed, she begrudgingly gave him the spoon, which he put away, instead bringing out an ice cream scoop. Checking the open container, he brought the scoop down, the soft gelato curling luxuriously within the curve of the metal. He was generous with his serving, the gelato fighting to stay on the scoop as he dropped the first into the hot chocolate closest to him, quite low to avoid any chocolate spillage. He added another to the glass before repeating it several times for the other two cups, giving in to the children’s request for more in their serving. 

You realised the product was finished when, before Seungkwan could declare it himself, the kids yanked their cups further away from him, excitement radiating off their features. “Thank you, thank you!” they both chirped in harmony, instantly sipping on the hot chocolate and groaning in approval. 

The esteemed chef took hold of your glass by the handle, walking over to where you leaned forward at the counter. Straightening yourself, you judged the final product, him leaning back before it. “Voila,” he said, “Or whatever you call it in Italian.”

“It’s the same, actually.” You pulled the cup closer, admiring the chocolate-to-milk gradient, the vanilla ice cream slowly melting within the glass. “Not bad.”

He ticked his head to the side, furrowing his brows. “Um, I think you meant to say it looks exquisite.”

“What even is it?” You turned the glass around. 

Seungkwan watched you inspect the contents. “It’s, uh…it’s a drink I’ve always made for them, back in my apprentice days.” He brought a hand to his torso, smoothing down his apron. “I’m sure you’ve heard of it, but I changed it a little���made it more kid-friendly.”

“Kid-friendly?” A glance at him. “What the hell was the original drink?” 

He scoffed out a chuckle. “It’s nothing like what you’re thinking. The original beverage had liquid espresso, and I thought it’d be too bitter for them.”

“That’s fair.” Taking a spoon from the pile of cutlery, you began stirring the ice cream, melting it within the milky hot chocolate. Taking a sip, you slipped the spoon in your mouth and hummed. “Oh…woah.”

“Use your words, _____,” he merely said, earning a second-glare from you. You could not retain it though, instantly digging in.

“This is nice, actually,” you had to admit. Seeing the man try to bask in your half-assed compliment had you adding on, “But I will say, I would have liked the espresso. I know what you mean about the kid-friendliness of it all.”

“I can make it if you want.” He glanced at the equipment—the barista-standard machines, more portable coffee-machines, the like. “There’s a french press thrown in the cupboard somewhere.”

You looked at him, slightly disbelieving. “You just made me this.”

“So?” He shrugged, twisting his lips to the side. “It won’t be hard.” He took a step back, watching over the children. “You two want a snack or something?”

“Do you even need to ask?” Sohyun demanded, sipping the last of the drink. 

“I wonder where they got their attitude from,” he grumbled, grabbing their empty glasses and bringing them to the sink. 

You could not help your snort, scooping out half-melted ice cream. “I’m looking right at him.”

“I hope the hell you’re not looking at me right now,” was his warning, turning on the faucet and letting the hot water fill the dirtied glasses. 

He made sure you were not, but you were never one to follow orders. You watched him as he brought out a french press from the cupboards beside the machines. “This won’t make the best espresso, but I can’t be arsed to fire up the machines right now.”

“Wow, such high-class customer service!” you shrilled, slowly walking over to the fridges on the opposite side and opening the door, finding the airtight Bombe Calde doughnuts sitting daintily inside. Deciding to take all eight displayed, you closed the fridge, setting them before the table. 

The children jumped on the treats at once, Seungkwan tutting at their sheer gluttony. “You’re gonna get sick, and then your mum is gonna beat me up.”

“Noshewomt,” was the boy’s coherent answer, mouth too occupied with the chocolate doughnut to bother clarifying.  

Turning the kettle on once more, the man obtained the finely-ground coffee beans, adding a couple teaspoons within the french press and waiting for the water to boil. “Pass me one, will you?” he asked, and you decided to comply, taking one from the plate—noticing half of them have been wiped out—and holding it out to him. 

He held out his hand, fingers brushing against yours as he accepted the treat, your own hand still in the air between as he brought it to his mouth, taking a bite. You did not realise your fingers were still holding out the outline of the dessert until the switch on the kettle ticked off, snapping you out of your daze. Curling them into your palm, you set your hand to the side, sighing sharply. “You don’t have to make this.”

Luring the jug to the open press, he poured the water, the fine coffee instantly darkening the liquid. “You don’t want it?”

“Well…” you trailed off, watching him as he took the plunger, pressing the lid shut upon its glass and began pumping the water and coffee together. He was quick, up and down and repeating the gesture, creating a more bitter colour. “It’s not that…”

Finishing, he chose to not to respond then, only taking a new glass from the cupboard in front of him. “Sohyun, the gelato.”

His niece obliging, he deposited two scoops of the ice cream, one after the other. Then, assuming this was the final touch, he poured the espresso inside, assuring that the ice cream was drenched in the bitter flavour, until the french press was drained. 

Perhaps your partner was correct—the bitterness of the drink, even the mere scent of coffee in your nostrils had you exhaling in satisfaction. Seungkwan caught it, smiling a little in reaction. 

It was then he chose to respond. “I wanted to make it for you.”

“Oh.” You chose to admire the dessert-beverage he made—for you only, you thought. “Does it have a name?”

A nod. “It does.” You could feel his eyes on you. His fingers grazed the glass’ base, curling—close to where your own fingers wandered, nail scratching against the curves of the cup. “It’s called an affogato.”

You looked at him. “An affogato? I’ve had a few of these before.” Taking your spoon, you cut through the gelato, making sure you scooped enough of the espresso. Once you dared a taste, you instantly hummed, the bittersweet mixture of the ice cream and the coffee enlivening your taste buds. “Oh, Christ, this is the one.”

“I knew you would enjoy the original recipe,” Seungkwan remarked, watching you lap away at the dessert. “I will say, though, the french press doesn’t do the espresso justice.” 

“Yeah, you use the proper machines for it, right?” Another bite taken. “This is insane, though.” 

“You think so?” When you nodded, he dipped his head, acknowledging your approval. He blew air from his mouth, a deep sigh which had you tilting your head. “I used to make it a lot, back in the day.” 

“Your apprentice days?” you parrotted, just as he did earlier. 

He only squinted his eyes, an effort to keep your teasing in check, but found himself chuckling. “Yeah, back in Jeju. My dad loved to make them…he, like, would always add different flavoured ice creams in the espresso, maybe add hot chocolate if I wasn’t feeling too good with coffee…”

“Your dad made you these?” You sipped on the drink, careful of the ice cream. “That’s really sweet.”

“I know.” Taking a bite out of the bambe calde, he continued, “Yeah, he’s really supportive. My mum, too, but it took some time for her to accept that I wasn’t gonna be a doctor.”

“You’re better off for sure,” you remarked, stirring the contents. “Imagine your ass trying to do surgery on someone…you’d get the hospital sued.”

“First of all, fuck you,” he started, but quickly stopped when his niece and nephew gasped at the curse. “Sorry, sorry! I promise she doesn’t mind.”

“Don’t say sorry to us, too, say it to _____!” Sojung ordered.

“You’re being mean, Uncle Seungkwan,” Sohyun huffed next.

“Yeah, Uncle Seungkwan,” you chimed in, earning a berating glower from him. “You’re being rude.” 

“Well I’m so sorry, _____,” the man chirped, and you had to keep drinking to stop yourself from laughing. “Now, you two, get back to stuffing your faces.” 

As the kids happily obliged, you released a satisfied exhale as you finished off the espresso, half-melted ice cream left in the glass. “I still mean it. You would have been worse off as a doctor.” 

“Yeah, yeah, we get it. I’ll kill off my patients because I wouldn’t know the difference between a scalpel and a butter knife.” 

“No, not like that.” You turned to him. “Seungkwan, you were meant to create desserts.”

He looked at you then, not quite believing his ears. “Do you really believe that?” 

“Of course.” Your eyes flickered to the remnants of the affogato. “There’s a reason Jeonghan kept you…hell, there’s a reason I still haven’t managed to get rid of you.”

There was a pause, felt enough that you snuck a quick glance as you watched over the conversing children. 

“Do you want to?” he asked. Your gaze stuck, and he furrowed his brows, clarifying, “Get rid of me, still?”

He looked at you, and you found yourself a little lost in his eyes. There was one certainty you could rely on, and that was his gaze—whatever he felt, he always exposed it, whether he wanted to or not.

Tonight was different. Tonight, with the children nearby, you still stirring the melted gelato, you could not comprehend them. What his eyes offered this time was tenderness—a certain warmth you had never been offered by him since…since ever. Since as long as you had known him. 

So you held up the cup, finishing the rest of the dessert—the dessert he had made with his own hands.

You decided to say something else instead of answering his question—something better. “I think we’ve found our dessert, Seungkwan.”

The man’s warmth morphed with confusion. “The affogato,” you said, holding out the glass. “We should make it for our Christmas menu.” His stance had you carrying on, setting the cup to the side as you focused on him. “Look, I know what you’re thinking, but hear me out. You said it yourself, you can make this with various flavours right?” His nod had you continuing, “And obviously, we’ve seen that you can change around the drink bit, too.”

“Hmm…” That had him thinking, and you could see it, the cogs within his head turning at rapid speed. “Wait, you know what…my dad also added liqueurs in the drink, which gave a little fire to the dessert. I liked it a lot, but obviously you can’t give hard alcohol to kids, so…”

“Very responsible,” you deemed it. “And it’s so easy to make! I mean, you whipped it up within minutes for me.” 

He was straightened up now, watching you intently as you thought about it further, the entire prospect of it. “It could be quicker, too, you know. The french press takes more time, but if we made it on the machine, then—” He cut himself off, thinking and thinking, walking towards the countertop. “Wait, this could actually work.” 

“What can work, Uncle Seungkwan?” his nephew asked, curiosity prompting his question. 

“Something really special, Sojung,” he replied, scouring the table for his notes, but realising he left them at the changing lockers. “Shit. Shit.”

“Language!” Sohyun chided, but her dear uncle wasn’t really listening, whipping out his phone and typing ferociously.

You did not realise what he was doing until he pressed the phone to his ear, pointing at the kids to wash their hands. “Hello? Yeah, Jinsoul, hi, you guys back from the date?” A pause, as he started a pace, back and forth in the kitchen. “Hmm, yeah, don’t care about all those details, listen—” He turned a sharp corner, finding the words, “Is it alright if I could drop the kids back right now? Something urgent came up.”

As he listened to his sister, his eyes flickered to you. “Yeah…it is. We thought of something perfect.” 

You avoided his gaze then—a cowardly choice, you knew—but, perhaps for the first time, his stare was a little too intense. “Yeah, don’t worry about that, I’ll do it,” he said, “I owe you. For real this time.”

As the man ended the call, the nephew pulled a face. “Do we have to go back already?” he whined, licking the sugar from his fingers. 

“Afraid so, buddy,” was his response, pocketing his phone. “Come on, you two, I gotta take you back to your parents.”

“But what about _____?” Sohyun asked, watching you intently as you began to clear away the dishes. 

“I’ll get going, too,” you replied, cleaning the rest of the dishes, setting them on the side. “Or else my friend will think I’m overworking myself.” 

“Julie?” Seungkwan asked, and you nodded. “How is she doing, by the way?”

Dusting away at your hands, you gave him a look, untying your apron. “How do you know her name?”

“I talked to her when you ran away from me, remember?”

“I didn’t run away,” you muttered, but that did not stop the pompous twist of his mouth, threatening to sour your mood. 

Another ten minutes, and the rest of you were sorted, clothing and other personal items extracted from your locker and donning your coat. You let Seungkwan and the children exit first, making sure all the entrances were locked save for the one you were leaving from.

The chill of the London winter nipped at your face as you left from the backdoor, a slight shiver cluttering your teeth as you locked the premises. You witnessed the man firmly wrapping his huge red scarf around the girl, whispering to the boy at the same time to don his gloves—yes, even if they don’t let him use his phone.

As you walked over to the group, you were about to start when he beat you to it. “I'll drop Sohyun and Sojung off, and then I’ll get to the planning. My dad will be up around this time, so I’ll ask about his preferences.”

“I’ll do some research back home,” you offered. “Jinsoul wasn’t mad, right? I think you disturbed her date.”

“She’ll live,” he said, rolling his eyes. “We’ve got more important things to do, anyway.”

Nodding, you then leaned forward, smiling at the children. “You two should come again.” 

“Oh, we will!” Sojung promised, smirking. “I don’t know why Uncle Seungkwan was hiding you from us.”

The accused ruffled the boy’s hair. “You’re running your mouth too much today.”

“He always runs his mouth too much,” Sohyun muttered, causing her brother to stick his tongue out at her. 

Giggling at their antics, you looked to Seungkwan, who sighed slightly as you released another shiver. “You know I need you alive for this dessert report.”

Hugging yourself tightly, you remarked, “Who would have thought Boo Seungkwan wanted me happy and healthy by his side?”

A snort, misting in the cold air. “Don’t put words in my mouth. I said alive. Barely is fine by me, too.”

You shook your head at him, restraining the urge to let your lips quirk upward. “Goodnight, Seungkwan.”

As you swivelled with a last goodbye to his niece and nephew, you left for the underground, not two minutes away. 

Sohyun was the first to break the night silence as you finally turned the corner, away from their sight. “I like her, Uncle Seungkwan,” she declared, walking ahead of the group. 

“Me too,” Sojung agreed, following after his sister in hopes to tread on her boots. “I hope we see her again.”

The man did not listen to their petty arguments which soon replaced their praises of you, holding onto their first confessions. And although he did not voice them out loud, his thoughts were an answer, left unsaid.

You will see her again—whether I want to or not.

THE NEXT WEEK BROUGHT ANOTHER CHANGE WITHIN YOUR RELATIONSHIP WITH SEUNGKWAN. 

Mostly because what you and your partner had actually was a relationship now. The intense months, before the Christmas menu was even established, where you and him had argued and screamed the kitchen down had soothed into a kurt understanding of the dessert you were about to create. At last, after months of your victories, your losses to him, the disgruntled progression into stalemates, you two had achieved the unachievable.

You both had decided on a dessert.

Jeonghan could not believe his ears when you first informed him, and immediately booked himself a special Specsaver’s hearing test—you forgot how far he would go for a bit, but at least it was not your time he was wasting. He asked Seungkwan for confirmation, and, sure enough, when the latter agreed, your boss may have experienced shell-shock akin to war veterans. Of course, you wanted to be offended, but you had no right—at the end of the day, Jeonghan had only ever seen violence brewing between you and the dessert chef. Any semblance of toleration was considered a breaking-news event.

The two of you tried not to let Jeonghan’s shock distract you from your planning—Seungkwan received a wealth of information from his father, and learned that the most classic form of the affogato is the one he created for you—the vanilla gelato, and hot espresso poured on top. Although it was delicious, it was deemed too plain for Christmas menu, and opted for more flavours. 

Seungkwan first offered the idea for whipped cream, but you rejected it. “Whipped cream and gelato seems excessive,” you explained, looking over your research notes. “The cream might offset the gelato’s flavour.”

“How do you feel about chocolate shavings? It could work well with smoothing out the bitterness of the espresso.” 

“But the gelato’s doing that,” you countered. “I don’t mind it, but I’d want something stronger for the first choice.” 

“Hmm…” He skimmed his father’s ramblings for a moment, then handed it to you. “This is what Dad used. He’d swap certain things around.”

Reading through, the first thing you noticed was the neat writing—Seungkwan’s, undoubtedly. He had categorised different gelato flavours in one column, espresso or other coffee variations in the second, liqueur choices for the third, and the last, larger column was reserved for toppings. “He certainly has range,” you commented, looking up. “How come you missed learning it?”

“You’re the only one blind to it,” he disputed, crossing his arms. “It’s a wonder you’re not turning down the affogato as we speak.” 

“You never know!” you chirped sarcastically, in hope to keep him on his toes. “Did you try out all these variations?”

“Yep. I was a picky eater.” He exhaled through his nose at your incredulous look, reminiscing. “Shocking, I know. Aside from the alcohol, he tried every single one of those flavours. All of them are approved by child-me, teenage-me, and today-me.” 

“I see,” you said, reverting back to the notes. You had to admit, his father did take liberties with what he deemed Italian for an Italian drink. As you kept reading it over, glancing at the man’s peaceful recollection, you did not think that mattered. 

This was someone’s efforts to keep their child full. This was a father’s testimony of ensuring his son’s happiness. 

You smiled at the notion, offering the pages back to him. “I personally like the biscotti the most out of all these options. If we chop the biscuit finely enough, it’ll have a nice crunch in the dessert. It’ll keep the espresso’s essence as well, while also maintaining the sweetness of the ice cream.”

His slight surprise had you pulling back. “What? Oh, is this your turn to reject me now?”

But then he smiled a little, catching you off guard. “No, the opposite actually. I’m just surprised you chose that one.”

“Why?” You groaned, getting up from your seat. “It’s the worst one, right? Baby-you threw up after having it, I’m sure.”

“No, actually.” He paused. “The biscotti was my favourite topping.”

Oh. “So…you’re good for its almond flavouring?”

He nodded, taking the papers from you. “Yeah, I am…why are you asking?”

“It’s just…I don’t think we’ve ever agreed to a decision so…cordially.” 

Seungkwan scoffed. “Well, obviously we weren’t gonna argue when you agreed with me.”

You instantly checked him on this. “I was the one who suggested it.”

His counter was immediate. “You picked it from my notes.”

A click of your tongue. “Your dad’s, actually.” 

He opened his mouth, eyes narrowing, but then realised you were right, and clamped his lips together. The action within those sudden sequences had you offering him a smirk. “And I thought we were past all this,” he whinged, exasperation clear. 

“Don’t think I’ll let you win so easily,” you warned, widening your shit-eating smile as you walked over to the espresso machines, regarding the fine steel in its all shining glory. 

“I never win easily with you,” he grumbled, stepping beside you. 

“It should be kept that way,” you only said. “Now, how do we work this shit?” 

Seungkwan turned away from you, hiding his bemused smile before clearing his throat and explaining the rules. This was the way you two worked now—a smidge of back and forth bickering, but never truly rising to the surface where you threatened ultimate violence. 

It was strange, you had to admit; never before had you felt a tolerance, even an acceptance of his presence beside you. He would offer assistance of some kind, bring forth new suggestions, and your first instinct was not to cuss out his ancestors for suggesting such gullible ideas. Even the man who worked alongside you would not provoke your rash temper, and day by day you found yourself wondering why, after the entirety of his acquaintance, you had never simply got on with him. 

You did not care to investigate the origins of who was at fault. All that was left, in a sense, was to salvage whatever strange alliance you both had created, and hope that was enough to finish the final dessert. 

The preparations, the testing of the machines continued into the restaurant’s opening, and Jeonghan assisted, as promised during the beginning of the process, in helping with orders, teaching Junhui of the more luxurious, complex desserts during that time. Thankfully, the restaurant was quieter that day, so the Head Chef was relaxed, carefree enough to try provoking you and Seungkwan into a disagreement, but to no avail. 

The trialling carried on well into the night, the only people left in the restaurant being you two and Jeonghan, who was arguing with his accountant loud enough to hear it through the dessert stations. You ignored him, tasting the newly created vanilla gelato, liquid espresso and biscotti pieces sprinkled. Seungkwan brought out the last touch, pouring a half-shot of amaretto liqueur into the long, slender glass. 

And as the two of you tasted the dessert, your spoon first, and then passing it onto him, you realised you may have made something great—perfection can take a while, you both understood it, but what you two created was something bigger than yourselves. Realistically, it was just a beverage, but it was not just a beverage—this was peace, scooped up within the containers of the gelato, an acceptance peeking out within the chopped biscottis. This was—could you say it—respect, poured from his very hands, staining the glass of your relationship with him. 

Even as the two of you shared a look of understanding, finishing the singular affogatto together, you knew circumstances had shifted—something was different. 

Seeing as the boss was stuck with working out his finances, you decided to head out, letting Seungkwan finish with the cleaning up, lest you make a sound and he made you carry out your dishwashing. You made a head start towards your belongings in the other room, taking out your bag and jacket as the man walked to his lockers. Donning your layers, he slid out his satchel, coat and that long-ass scarf, snapping the square door shut. 

“I think we can send the report to Jeonghan any day now,” he said, sliding his arms through the coat holes. 

You began to walk to the back door, watching him follow slowly. “You think so?” 

He caught up, wrapping his scarf around himself—three loops round his neck, almost hiding half his face. Pulling down the fabric with a finger, he settled his chin over the scarf, nodding. “We’ve done almost everything…I mean, there’s a bit of paperwork left, but I’ll write that tonight when I’m at Jinsoul’s.”

“You’re going to your sister’s?” you asked as you grabbed onto the door. “Don’t tell me you’re interrupting the poor couple again.”

“So what if I am?” he demanded. “That’s on them for establishing a relationship between me and their kids.”

“Fair enough.” Opening the door to the outside world, you instantly shivered at the sheer temperature drop from the past few days. London’s winters were unpredictable, but you forgot its cruelty too. The chill of the midnight winter seeped through your too-thin jacket, and you had to stop yourself from shivering out of your bones.

Your teeth would have chattered more had Seungkwan not spoken again. “She was asking about you, by the way.”

“Oh,” you could only say—courtesy of the cold, and the teeth. “She was?” 

“Why’re you so shocked by that?”

A lazy shrug. “I don’t know…I thought you would have talked shit about me.”

He narrowed his eyes at you. “Now why would you think that?” You returned the gaze, and then he let out an understanding noise. “Oh, yeah…yeah, I did that the other day actually.”

“Hey, now!” You would have nudged his elbow, but were too cold to do so. “I haven’t pissed you off this past fortnight.”

“I know, I know, I just…” he sighed a little, which frosted into the air. “I mean…I’ve mentioned you. In passing.”

“In passing?” You parroted, hugging yourself. A frosted scoff escaped you. “You can’t help being obsessed with me, huh?”

“Shut up,” he grumbled, which had you chuckling—the soft laughter was cut off by your teeth once more, chattering to the point of catching his notice. “You knew it was gonna get cold, you idiot.” 

You returned his observations with a glare. “I didn’t actually know that, which is why I’m cold right now…you idiot.”

The condensation from your mouth was enough evidence of the chill—that, and of course, your bated breaths. “Yes, I’m the idiot that’s so nice and warm,” Seungkwan sang, irritating you further. 

When you did not deign to respond to him, the cold weather conquering your meagre layers, nipping at your skin, he stopped the next dig, at the tip of his tongue. He then observed your countenance—the rubbing of the arms, the groans you tried to contain at the discomfort taking over. The man veiled his mouth with the bunched-up scarf, narrowing his eyes. Sighing a little, the heat of his breath curled against the fabric, kissing his face, and the slight warmth that welcomed him did not bring him the comfort he relished mere minutes prior. 

He looked at you, hugging yourself tightly. The moment your eyes flickered to his, remnants of displeasure in your eyes, his own widened slightly.

Shit. His hands grabbed onto the scarf before he realised what he was doing. Shit, shit, shit, was all he could think, as, with hands unwrapping the long piece of clothing from his neck, he seethed a little at the chill that welcomed his exposed skin.

Before you could realise what he was doing, he brought the length of the scarf around you, both his hands holding each of the ends at your sides. “Wh-what are you doing?” you got out, your hands instantly stopping his. “Wait, Seungkwan—”

“Save your bickering,” he cut you off, merely waving your hands away as he wrapped the first loop around you, the scarf still too long on one side. “Talking will only make you colder.”

But you were already opening your mouth, ready to counter him when another loop of the scarf masked half of your face. Your surprise was shown only through your eyes, but he ignored it completely, wrapping the length around one last time. The scarf had almost shrunk you, your head buried in the layers, and Seungkwan had to pause for a second, unable to contain his smile. 

What are you smiling at? you asked, except the scarf had mumbled your speech, and he could not hear a thing. He could understand very clearly the irritation, though, rising in your gaze, and that only broke the seam of his lips, grinning at you. 

“Wait, hold still,” he said, reaching to the top of the neckwear. He leaned in, fingers folding down the fabric, slowly and gently, and you blinked back at the proximity. You had a feeling he had not noticed at first, but then your eyes bore into him, and his fingers slowed. His knuckle brushed against your jaw, and a soft shiver escaped you, finally catching his attention. Only then he stole a glance, realising just how close he was to you. 

His pupils were darting all over your face, as much as he could take in from the closeness. You could not help it either, mouth parting, watching his bated breaths condense upon your face. God, he was close to you, and it was out of the ordinary, unfamiliar territory. If he leaned in any further, his lips would caress yours, solving the problem of this chill. You were not cold though—not anymore, with your cheeks burning every second spent under his scrutiny. 

You should be pulling away—should be taking a step back. He felt the same. Once again, the two of you were in sync; always denying how similar you both thought, but confronted with that fated truth. 

Seungkwan could see it—the truth, reflecting in your gaze. “There,” he whispered, fingers brushing against the scarf. 

The scarf. His scarf. “I can’t have this,” you said, but your voice was barely there. “It’s yours.” 

“I know.” A ghost of his raised brow. “It’s not like I’m giving it to you forever. I will take it back.”

You twisted your mouth. “Way to ruin a moment.” 

He parted his mouth, both brows raising. “Was there a moment to ruin?” 

“No!” you gasped out, craning your head back. You saw his smirk rise, and it was agonising, how your speech stuttered. “No, no, no. No moment here! You’re thinking it all up.” 

“Hmm,” was all he got out, gaze skimming over your face—pausing at your mouth. “If you say so.” 

With one last moment (because yes, there was something, and there was no denying it anymore), he stepped away, admiring the scarf wrapped around you. “Maybe I should let you keep it.”

This time, you had to look away. “You can have it back tomorrow.” Glancing over the time on your phone, you cleared your throat, fidgeting with the fabric. “I’ll see you in the morning?”

He nodded, hands sliding in his pockets. “We’re so close, _____.” 

Choosing to avoid his eyes, you instead focused on the locks of his hair, the lapels of his jacket. It was unavoidable—he was beautiful, and he was smiling. A celebration of the coming victory, so near that you could taste Jeonghan’s approval. 

So you smiled back. “We are, Seungkwan.” 

JEONGHAN TURNED ANOTHER PAGE OF THE FINAL DESSERT REPORT. 

You waited anxiously, one leg folded over the other as your eyes focused intently at the head chef, reading over the analysis. He was silent for the first time in a while, no sarcastic quip over the explanations. No questions were thrown at you, catching you off—all you were tested with was complete quiet, which, in a weirder sense, unnerved you more. 

Your partner was there, too—in the same seat he always claimed on your right, bouncing his leg in anticipation, eyes trained at the same target as yours. He, on the other hand, could not deal with the silence which permeated the office. “I think you’ve read this section for the third time, Chef.” 

But Chef ignored him, choosing to spend another ten minutes staring at the same pages, an effective enough punishment for being bothered. You would have thrown him an irritated glare had you not been so exhausted from the final trials.

The affogato dessert report was finished after another week of testing. 

You and Seungkwan had spent half of the nights within that week at the restaurant, bouncing ideas off each other, finalising the rest of the toppings, the beverage variations. The two of you must have had fifty hours of sleep combined for the past six days, but it was worth the wait. It was worth the restlessness, the countless drafts of writing and rewriting…it reached a full completion at two in the morning, when you and your partner took one look at each other and knew you had done it.

Bothering Jeonghan at that time would have gotten you both fired, so you resorted to running back home for six-odd hours before trudging back to the restaurant. You saw Seungkwan at the entrance, identical eye-bags to yours, his frown a default feature on his sleep-stricken face. Still, the clear fatigue seemed to clear when he caught sight of you, leaving the door open to let you in. 

It was here now, with you two anxiously waiting, that Jeonghan snapped the file shut, the slap of paper against paper jolting you both alert. “I hope that’s woken you up.” 

The man beside you groaned, his leg ceasing the bouncing. “Jesus,” he could only say, because cursing his boss only fast-tracked him to unemployment (not that Jeonghan would have sacked him—in honesty, he was hoping one of them would call him a dickhead and storm out).

“It did,” you answered, trying your hardest to not knife him with your gaze. “Now are you approving the dessert?” 

He observed the front of the report, jutting out his lower lip. “Well, I am impressed with the details…I don’t think any of you have put this much effort into a dessert report in your entire career.” 

“Don’t say that!” You immediately exclaimed. “My granita dessert report last year was top-notch and you agreed with me!” 

“Yeah, but that was last year, so it doesn't exist anymore.” He waved off your counters, continuing, “Anyway, this report is brilliant. I can see how much effort the two of you have put into this process.”

You nodded along to his comments, locking your hands together. There was no denying it, of course—you and Seungkwan had carved out your hearts and mixed the remnants within the affogato. What was appreciated was Jeonghan witnessing it with his own eyes. 

“Before I officially start advertising the final selection, I do need to ask you one thing.” He set the report to the side, setting his chin upon interlocked fingers. “Now I know how you both felt about working together for this project…obviously I didn’t care about your opinions because of the disruptions, but recently, there’s been a peaceful environment at the station.” 

His eyes darted between his dessert chefs. “Should the opportunity arise…would you work together on specific projects again?”

The dreaded silence was back, but it was not the head chef which instigated it this time. 

It took almost every nerve in your system to restrain the muscles in your body, which would instinctively turn your head towards the man beside you. Biting your lip, glancing down at your hands once more, you thought the question over, echoing slowly in your mind.

If you were asked this question a couple of weeks ago, you would have laughed in Jeonghan’s face. You still remembered the evening in this office, when your boss doomed the two of you with the dessert project. You had not forgotten the snide comments, the back-and-forth bickering, even the fated confrontations—the night with the burnt caramel which had your entire viewpoint spinning on its surface.

What you did not comprehend was the change; the slow shift in every interaction, the anticipation of his family’s interactions, wondering whether his sister had asked for you again. That was the jackpot moment, you thought. At the end of the day, Seungkwan had not changed—you simply bothered to know him.  

And whatever you had learned, you did not despise. 

You chose not to admit any of this to the group. Instead, you remained in your silence, waiting for any of the men to shatter it.

Seungkwan stepped up to the quiet and broke it. “I dreaded doing the project.” You looked at him. He continued, staring at Jeonghan. “It was hard, I’ll be honest…what with our constant fighting and that.” 

It was after a while he spoke again. “However, if you force us together in the next quarter, then…” He turned to you, and you swore there was a glow radiating from his face. “I wouldn’t mind it...being forced together with her again.”

You parted your mouth. You could barely hear Jeonghan’s scoff, humming at the implications. No, you only stared at him, your partner-in-crime, your—your friend? Something different, another term entirely. 

Your mouth ran on its own, disregarding your sense of thought. “I wouldn’t mind it either.” 

This time, you heard the boss’ huff of laughter enough to snap out of your stunned daze, watching him rise from his chair. “Does this mean my customers won’t hear you both arguing over their moonlit dinners?” 

Truly, you wanted to frown at him. “As long as Seungkwan keeps quiet,” you said, glancing at the said-man.

His smile was mischievous when you caught it—you had to look away. “I’m not promising a damn thing.”

You only heard Jeonghan’s laughter then, vanishing only by the closing of his door as he left, approved report in hand. 

Perhaps Seungkwan wanted to say more, but you hurried out of the office under the pretense of opening the restaurant. He chose to play along to your excuses, helping you alongside Mingyu and Junhui for the ingredient prepping, and soon business took over priority, the rush of the customers even in the late morning. 

The bustling environment of the restaurant did not calm until its closing, you cursing the customers for not offering a single break during your long shift. The entire time consisted of egg and sugar whipping, the sounds of caramel cooking, espresso steaming and curt orders thrown around by you and your partner in the station. Because the stress of the dessert menu had faded, though, a great level of pressure had subsided, as if the summer sun had cleared through London’s winter storms. 

Nighttime cloaked Covent Garden, stars scattered across the black sky, twinkling at the thousands upon thousands, in and out of the entrance columns. After seeing the last family off on their merry way, you turned the banner to Closed, sighing after a long day’s work. 

Mingyu and Junhui were already packing, informing you of their plans together, so you let them leave earlier than anticipated. Seungkwan was the sole chef left, save for Jeonghan—though he could have fucked off without anyone’s knowing, for all you knew.

You thought he would have ran straight for his sister’s down south; it was a Friday night, which meant that Sohyun and Sojung were anticipating movie night with their favourite (and only, so you doubted how prized this title really was) uncle. Despite being aware of this, you caught sight of him whipping up the all-too familiar dessert, this time in accordance to the restaurant’s official recipe.

“Don’t you have somewhere to be?” you asked him, walking over to where he stood next to the counter. “The kids’ll be waiting.” 

“You remembered,” he pointed out, surprised. Pouring the espresso on top, he looked over to you, closing in. “Well, today I get a pass to celebrate our victory.” 

“Victory?” You observed the finished affogato, scrunching your nose. “Not to be that person, but I’ve had enough of these to last me the year.” 

“I know you were gonna say that,” he countered, holding up a finger as he stepped to the side. Lo and behold, there was a large bottle of champagne, a crisp burgundy bow wrapped around the neck. “Which is why I brought a little extra for the occasion.” 

Lighting up at the sight of the alcohol, you grabbed onto the top, studying the label. “Franciacorta. Very tasteful.” 

You set it back, searching for a corkscrew. “You sound shocked by my tastefulness,” you heard him remark, you opening the drawers and finding it amongst the disarray of cutlery. 

“Well, of course,” you said, bringing the utensil to Seungkwan’s side of the counter, waiting for him to add in the cut-up biscotti. “Let’s not forget who the classier one out of us is.” 

He clicked his tongue. “I am not getting into that can of worms.”

“All the better for your rep,” you added, earning a snort from him. 

“Right,” he began, pushing the drink in your direction as he grabbed the bottle. “How about a drink first?”

“That I can agree with,” you said, handing him the corkscrew. 

Seungkwan struck the cork with it, twisting it till he was satisfied. Then, with a little force, he popped open the champagne, fizzing from the bottle’s mouth. “There we go,” he sighed out, grabbing a couple of spare glasses, identical to the dessert’s shape, and filling them to the very tip. “I couldn’t find the proper glasses.”

“And you said you were the classier one,” you quipped, sipping the drink. 

Shaking his head, he drank up, seething as he brought the glass down. “I can’t believe we’re finished, you know.” 

“I don’t think it’s settled yet for me,” you admitted. “It was only a few weeks, but it felt like months.”

“God, I know.” Finishing off the first glass, he poured himself another. “Remember when you wanted to add leaves in the dessert? We’ve come so far.” 

“Now you know I had a whole plan for that,” you defended, shaking a finger at him as you kept drinking. “And you can’t say anything, with your diabetes-inducing sweets.”

“You’re the one who agreed to the affogato.” He twisted his mouth into a smirk. “And that was my idea.” 

You wanted to snarl at him—it had been too long since a bickering broke any semblance of peace, and although you enjoyed the lack of shouting, you swore it was enhancing his overconfidence. 

But you decided to indulge him. You did not know why. “Your idea was so personal to your roots, Seungkwan. I don’t think I could have said no.” 

Even he was stunned. “You couldn’t have said no?” he repeated in question, brows raising.

You only downed the rest of your champagne. “Nope.” 

“Huh.” That was all he could give, swirling his drink. Your insides sung at his reaction, biting the corner of your lip to stop yourself from smiling. Seungkwan’s smirks, you thought, truly had no substance the way his surprised, one-word responses did.

Another glass down, and you felt the buzz of the alcohol, bubbling through your veins, settling a little too pleasantly in your mind. The lights of the dessert station had been dimmed, too, only the lights of the hob turned on, your surroundings atmospheric. The silences may have been prevalent, but there was no discomfort. The tranquility was…in a way, it was beautiful.

There was more beauty, it seemed, in Seungkwan’s next words. “I wouldn’t have suggested it if it was anyone else, you know.” 

You straightened in your seat. “Oh?”

He nodded, you thinking that was the rest of it. But then he opened his mouth again, spilling out the confession which rested in his heart. “If it was anyone else working with me, they wouldn’t have seen the dessert, why I made it…my sister, her kids, anything like that.” He took a deep breath, about to continue, but then made sure to drink up. “And you suggested it first, which…I really appreciated.”

“Is that why I had never seen your family before?” another sip of the champagne. “Because you hated me that much?”

“I never hated you, _____,” he said, which only had you scoffing. “No, really! Sure, you pissed me off. Did Jinsoul first hear of you cause I bitched about you? Unfortunately, yeah. But!” he countered, raising a finger, “It was never hatred.”

“Well, I can’t say the same,” you mumbled, staring into the end of your glass. He grabbed your attention, filling it to the rim once more. 

His stare did not leave you. “It’s not like that anymore, right?”

You matched his gaze—a smile threatened to take over. “No…not anymore. I got to know you, didn’t I?” 

He could have gasped. 

Boo Seungkwan, for the first time in his life, was speechless. It usually took devastating news to rattle him to his core—a notion so shocking his world slips from underneath him. His pupils almost dilated, gaping at you as if you told him he had won Jeonghan’s restaurant.

And although it was endearing, truly a sight to behold, you had the nerve to raise a brow at him. “Weren’t you the one who said I didn’t?”

He blinked back at the question, realising that he was not in a trance. “That I did.” He cleared his throat, downing another glass. The alcohol was getting to him, he could feel it.  

You decided to leave the champagne for now, the bubbles successful in enhancing your giddiness. Turning to the affogato, you finally gave it some attention, digging in with a spoon. “It’s melted now,” you commented, taking another bite. 

“That’s what happens when you ignore a dessert,” Seungkwan remarked, tutting as he drank.

“Don’t give a girl such good champagne then.” 

“Hmm, or maybe you’re distracted by my company,” he appealed, watching you roll your eyes and chuckling. “Come on. We’re not throwing food at each other anymore, so you can be honest.” 

“Okay,” you said, savouring the espresso and vanilla, in perfect harmony in your mouth. “I guess you’re not the worst person to have a conversation with.” He made to celebrate, face lightening up, but you interjected, “When you’re around your family.”

“Yeah, now you’re just saying shit,” he rebuked, setting the glass down. “I’m a bloody joy to be around!” 

“And which one out of Jinsoul’s kids said that to get a doughnut out of you?”

“None of them!” he first exclaimed, but after two seconds of staring him down, he sighed out, “Sojung got four doughnuts that day.” 

“Exactly.” Another bite, a little messy—you were sure the vanilla cream left remnants on your lips. “I told you, right? I know you now.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” he only said, tilting his head on his shoulder. He had drunk enough tonight. He was not usually careless—not that he was, but he did not take his glasses into account. He did, but he was with you tonight, and you were so happy. 

He then noticed the slight gelato lining your lips, and he perked up slightly. “Affogato that good? You left behind a trail.”

“Unfortunately. Where is it?” you asked, trying to wipe it off, but to no avail. “I’m looking stupid, right?”

“The dumbest.” He pointed to his own mouth, but you would not follow. “Wait, one second.” 

He stepped closer, rubbing his hands on his trousers. With a harsh intake of breath, he reached his hand out, and you froze at his touch, brushing against the corner of his lip. His focus did not distract him from your expression, thumb rubbing off the vanilla, cream fading from his every gentle swipe. His finger was soft—softer than you expected, velvety like the ice cream he made for you. 

It was only when he finished, craning his head back just an inch, that he noticed your tensed-up expression—the breath that was caught in your throat. He had parted his mouth, the realisation striking him cold, and all he could do was watch—eyes flickering to your own, darting between one and the other, as if unable to take the full intensity of your stare. 

You caught him peeking shamelessly at your lips, where his thumb remained, a ghost of a touch. Seconds passed, none of you daring to move, and you suddenly had an inkling that he was about to do something. 

Oh God. Was he? You could not tell—he was looking at you in a strange manner, eyes heavy lidded. It must have been the alcohol. You were sure that was the reason for his daze, why his breaths were uneven.

You could not help the whisper escaping, as soft and delicate as a winter snowflake, twirling in a cold breeze. “Seungkwan?” 

The said-man blinked back at your voice—his name on your tongue. 

What you were going to do was close your eyes, brace yourself for the final distance—and then you realised you were bracing yourself for Boo Seungkwan, and the slight panic set in, striking you like a lightning bolt. 

He must have caught it in your eyes, because then his reaction reflected your own, and maybe he made the most idiotic decision in his entire life. Although every muscle in his body demanded he do the opposite, he began to pull away and then you grasped onto your mistake, realising what he was doing, and you cursed yourself for letting him slip away in front of you this very second—this devastating, crucial moment. 

And even though you did not comprehend what in hell you were doing at that moment, you caught his arm, holding onto the white cotton of his work shirt. He gaped at the gesture before setting the shock on you. “What’re you doing?” he rasped out.

“What’re you doing?” was your answer.

It was there, in the dimmed, flickering lights of the hob, that he stared at you, trying the hardest he ever had in the entirety of his life to catch your meaning. Damn him for drinking, damn his lack of restraint, because maybe if he had one less glass of champagne—

The darkening of your irises clocked any confusion in his tipsied judgement. His mouth parted, and you could have sighed with an intoxicated relief.

He knew you after all. 

“Bastard,” you could only say, catching the beginnings of an appeased grin before he leaned in, any semblance of doubt erased as he pressed his lips to yours. 

The first touch of his mouth was indescribable. 

Never did you think you would find yourself in this situation, closing your eyes, a soft hum as he moved against you, finding the rhythm upon your lips. His own were so soft, a shocking twist in the tale—all those hard, condescending quips, but you supposed it should have made perfect sense. Your arguments were bitter, your collaborations tensioned, but there were no remnants of the past in his movements. He was as soft as the gelato you had indulged in, as velvety as the espresso coating his affogato gift. 

Your breaths were caught in your throat, caged by his mouth, which delved deeper as the man’s hands cupped your face. His fingers were warm, shaking as they tilted your head to enhance the kiss. Your senses were alive before, but they were bouncing off the kitchen walls now, darting from the stove to the countertop, out of the doors and into the city as the sheer pleasure took over. 

It was in that moment you realised that Boo Seungkwan was not only a great dessert chef, but an excellent kisser. The way he moved his lips with yours, syncing you along with him, was unfathomable in any other situation. You, following along, even bothering to hear him out, here now, trailing after his movements? You could not help yourself, though, when he was good, he knew this like he knew the affogato—familiar with its recipe, its methods, how to create it, nourishing it to perfection. 

And because every dessert creation needed patience, Seungkwan was slow, careful as his tongue slid against the seam of your lips, trialling, testing. He succeeded in the first attempt, you opening up to him, and the feeling of his tongue slithering along yours had your stomach somersaulting within, unable to contain yourself. You could not contain the soft groans, lodged deep within your throat, and you could have sworn the bastard smiled against you, closing his mouth as he sucked on your tongue. 

This was it. In the Vita di Diamante, under the lights of a luxury restaurant’s dessert-kitchen, your hands crept up his arms, locking behind his neck, and you snuffed out any distance, the countertop edges digging slowly into your side, dutifully ignored. Any sense of discomfort was replaced by the mountain of pleasure, boosted by Seungkwan’s fingers on your face, then your neck, his lips taking yours prisoner, threatening to roam, and his body, pressing against your own, his weight like a welcome cage, engulfing your entire presence. 

This was nothing short of intoxication, a spark of a drug which would spiral into an addiction. You had kissed many others before your supposed rival, this uncertain friend, but you were sure of the ecstasy he offered, given to you in abundance. You had thought him selfish, narcissistic. But was this not compassion, each heated bursts of generosity he planted on the corner of your mouth, then your jaw, slowly trailing downward till he found refuge on the patch of skin, just above your collarbone? Were these not acts of selflessness, the manner in which he teethed his kisses, inciting a moan loud enough to have your entire face alight?

It was that particular noise that made him realise his place, a burst of pride igniting inside him before he noticed the hob lights glistening your face. “We shouldn’t—fuck—” Seungkwan cursed out, breathless, and your stomach fluttered at the mere curse, spewed out countless times before. When did you become so affected—no, rattled by whatever this man did? “W-we shouldn’t do this here.” 

Yet he was peppering you with open-mouthed kisses, and you could have screamed at him for making it so hard to answer him. “Then maybe…” you were rasping out your breaths, mind a complete daze. “Maybe you should stop.” 

Pausing, he dragged his mouth, skimming along to your neck, only pulling away to lock your heavy-lidded eyes with his own. The lust swirling within them was the final, perfect garnish to the dessert of his desire—the same desire which worsened your hunger. “Do you want me to stop?” 

Instinctively, you licked your lips, swiping up the remnants of Seungkwan’s efforts, relishing the residue of the champagne. When he caught the mere action, he hoped with the very marrow of his bones that you did not refuse him. 

When you narrowed his eyes, lips twisting in a sneer, his fervour paused. “Are you fucking stupid?” you spat out, and he gawked at you—only for a second.

But a second was still too long, because you grabbed onto the collars of his shirt, colliding your mouth against his, and he could have sighed with relief. He furrowed his brow as matched your hunger, sliding his tongue back into your mouth, and this time you let the moans free, a symphony to his ears. He was all over you, moreso when his hands now tugged at your sides, pushing you further into the counter. You did not catch onto his intentions until, with one swift swipe of his hands, he lifted you upon the countertop, chasing your lips still, refusing to break away. He pushed between your thighs, caging himself in your presence, and it was embarrassing how quick your body responded, wrapping your legs around his waist. 

Seungkwan was delirious, you were frenzied—Seungkwan was out of his mind, and you were out of your soul, the sounds of your mouths and tongues colliding in a destructive understanding, a heated combination that would have been impossible mere weeks ago. What had happened, how did it all equate to this very situation? Fate always worked in strange ways, but you had to work out how you ended up in this passionate scene—shameless as your whimpers grew louder, his arrogance growing with them, swallowing them with his mouth. 

Maybe you both would have created something grander than any dessert in this station, sweeter than the damned cinnamon Seungkwan campaigned for at every given chance. With the soft moans darkening, breaths rasping out in slight desperation, you would have shown this restaurant a harmony never witnessed in your work. 

But at this precise moment, Yoon fucking Jeonghan sauntered into the kitchens, ready to share some good news to you both when he took one look at your colliding figures.

The sharp, shocked scoff that escaped his coral lips had you and Seungkwan stopping dead in your heated tracks. 

“How many more health and safety regulations are you two gonna violate?”

It was comical, how you both whipped your heads at the slender figure, smirk so conceited and pompous you wondered whether you were bickering at the wrong chef this entire time. “I knew one day you were gonna eat each other’s faces off,” he continued, catching onto every sudden movement of Seungkwan’s fingers tightening at your waist, your arms loosening around his neck. “But did it have to be in my goddamn kitchen?”

“Shut the fuck up,” was the younger’s reasonable response, earning him a huff of laughter from his boss. You could only stare and do nothing, so ashamed of being caught you restrained the urge to hide within the crook of his shoulder. 

“Hey, hey, don’t be angry at me!” Jeonghan waved his hand over to the door beyond the further walls. “Personally, I think the pantry’s a better shout…more privacy, you know?” Close enough in front of you, his grin lop-sided. “Unless, of course, you wanted to give me a show—”

“Please, Jeonghan!” you cried out finally, as, with an aching decision, you pulled away from the man’s arms, the absence duly noted. “God, don’t you have a life outside of this place?”

“Well, if I did, then I wouldn’t have a restaurant,” he countered, smug as his eyes darted between his employees. “And my dear dessert chefs wouldn’t have a love shack to fuck in.”

That horrendous statement had you jumping down from the counter, dusting yourself off as you glowered at your boss, risking termination. “You need to talk to someone other than your accountant.” 

A melodramatic sigh left his lips. “You’re right, which is why I was taking a few other calls. That’s why I came down here, to let you both know that there will be some very important people coming in for the new menu’s christening.” He then raised his hands in surrender. “But then I see you guys have much more important shit to cover!” 

Perhaps telling your boss to get floored under a Northern line tube was cruel, but the threat stayed rooted on your tongue. He could sense it for sure, because he looked at his watch. “Now I have to go soon, which means I want you going home.” He glanced up at the post-makeout scene, another chuckle rising. “So who’s place are you continuing this shit in?” 

“Go away, man!” Seungkwan demanded as you groaned, only left with Jeonghan’s laughter ringing in your ears as he left the scene, bidding an adieu with wiggling brows. 

With the silence falling on you both, the tension, so rampant beforehand, had all but crashed disastrously after the interruption. The complete absurdity of it all brought a sigh out of you, Seungkwan humming in agreement.

“How do we get Jeonghan fired?” was the first question asked in the kitchen—courtesy of your venom.

“You think a bullying allegation would cut it?” the man suggested, but you clicked your tongue. “Nah, you’re right, it’s child’s play in this business. We’d be deemed cowards.” 

“Couldn’t he have come later?” you mumbled, rubbing your eyes. God, you were tired. The tipsy stupor had morphed into fatigue. 

And although Seungkwan felt the lethargy too, he chose to latch onto your words. “Later, huh? Didn’t want to be disturbed, then?”

You almost rolled your eyes. “You know exactly what I mean.”

But he was back to being a grade-A asshole, so he crowed, “No, please, indulge me…what did you mean?” 

You meant to glare at him, but his eyes were dancing, and you remembered his lips on you all over again. You resorted to silence, clamping your lips together, finding a little comfort in the smile he curled at your quiet response. 

The two of you found yourselves collecting your things, Jeonghan the final man left in the restaurant so there was no concern for locking up. Your paths were shared up until Leicester Square's Station, ten minutes away from the restaurant, where your destination was. 

“You didn’t have to walk me here, you know,” you said, turning to him as you fished for your travel card.

Seungkwan nodded lightly, “I know…I wanted to ask you something, actually.” 

You looked at him, anticipating. There were still crowds, even at this time of night, rushing in and out of the popular station, but you did not notice them, not now. Not when he was gazing at you, an indecipherable emotion flickering in his features. 

He licked his lips, intaking a sharp breath before asking you. “You didn’t…regret it, right?” 

You knew what he meant, of course. Because you were a piece of shit too—only a little—you took a step closer, tilting your head at him. “What do you think?” 

He narrowed his eyes. “Don’t make me answer that,” he said, “Whatever I’ll say you’ll just say the opposite.” 

A chuckle. “Smart man.” 

Which is why you refrained from speaking the opposite—did not say anything at all as you leaned in, holding his face in your hand as you kissed him.

It was an unexpected phenomenon for him—exactly what you hoped to achieve. Still, it was welcomed, as Seungkwan moved his lips against yours, opening his mouth upon you to let a soft moan escape. The rush of London was no more—no tourists with their loud cameras, no locals with their grumblings of said-tourists. It was you and him, and this moment, captured in your lips in harmony with his.

Which is why it was difficult to break away, breathing heavily at the sensation as you watched his eyes flutter open, completely breathless. The sight had your heart constricting. 

“Is that enough of an answer?” you asked him.

The smile he offered you was enough. 

“WHEN ARE WE GONNA MEET SANTA CLAUS?” 

The age-old question. You scanned the constant wave of local and international shoppers, twice the size of the groups you and Julie dealt with weeks ago. “It won’t be too far now, dear,” you reassured the boy, who was frowning the further along you walked. 

“We just have to find the big Christmas tree,” Sohyun explained, looking back as she led the pack. “And we would if we actually hurried up.” 

The eldest within the group let out an overly dramatic sigh, raking his hands through his hair. “The Christmas tree is not going anywhere,” he commented, “I don’t know what this rush is for.” 

“Just because you don’t care about Santa,” Sojung huffed, crossing his arms. “Maybe you’ve become old, Uncle Seungkwan.”

Your laughter could not drown out the scoff that escaped the accused-hag’s lips. “I’m gonna tell on you to Jinsoul.”

But the way the boy only chuckled, blowing mischievous raspberries at his dear uncle, cemented how seriously he took that threat. You watched him catch up to his sister, smiling the entire time. 

Seungkwan caught onto that. “Don’t encourage him.” 

“What?” your smile turned playful. “Scared he’s getting your attitude?”

“Uh, excuse me!” he started, “Firstly, I’d be the happiest man alive if he became like me. This sass is more from his mother.” 

You scoffed. “That was textbook Seungkwan behaviour. You’re just too conceited to realise.” 

“Conceited? Big words today, _____.”

You, however, were terribly unimpressed. “That is a normal, everyday word, Seungkwan. You should probably read a book.” 

“Enough now,” he said, raising a hand, “I’m goofy, not stupid.” Your hesitance in instantly agreeing with him had him gasping. “Oh my God, you think I’m an idiot!” 

“The fact you just clocked this proves my opinion even more,” you restated, shrugging to dig the blow deeper. “Sorry, buddy.” 

“Don’t ‘buddy’ me,” he immediately refuted, and you glanced at him, a slight irritation in his features. “I’ve made out with you enough times to deserve a better term.” 

The too-casual mention of it had you quickly scanning over the children, then glaring at him once you were satisfied by their ignorance. “Why did you say it like that?”

“What?” His earlier complaint had softened, slowly morphing into a smugness which made your lips twist, and—unfortunately—made your heartbeat quicken. “Did we not?”

You thought of the week when you first kissed him at the restaurant—the gentle touch of your lips against his, the remnants of vanilla gelato and victory prevalent on your tongues. Then, your mind caught onto the different webs of your memory, flashes of heated moments after that fateful night, mouths colliding and hands wandering in more appropriate times, in more private places. No nosy flatmate caught you two in your house, and no nosier boss disturbed you in the pantry room (thank you, said-nosier boss). Yes, you would have died if your past self learned of this newfound situation, but the bastard was good, and he knew how to make you breathless—through heated arguments and frenzied kisses. 

So yes, you did make out with him more times than you would like to admit in front of him. But amongst those nights, you found yourself enjoying his company outside of your workplace, and the two people who capitalised the most out of it were his niece and nephew. When they heard that you knew of a Santa who can hand free Cadbury bars out to them in Westfield shopping centre, they jumped at the idea—as if Christmas had arrived much early. 

The Santa they sought was finally seen, when, walking past another wave of shoppers, there she was, in all her stuffed-suited, fake-bearded glory, asking questions you could not hear as she shook their hand, or gently let them sit atop her padded lap. Santa caught sight of you and your group, and she smiled, quickly slipping the child she tended to a chocolate bar and waving them off. 

“Ho, ho, ho, motherfuckers!” was the beautiful greeting Santa offered in her unusually low, forced baritone, and you could not contain the slight crease of your shoulders as the parents nearby whirled their heads at the words. “Oh, damn, forgot other kids were waiting too.”

“I wonder how you got the job,” you mock wondered, which had the girl underneath the costume almost whacking you on the shoulder. Not very Santa-like, thus proving your point. 

Your bickering was cut short when Sohyun and Sojung appeared from behind you, looking at Julie with a growing anticipation. “You’re the Santa giving out free chocolate, right?” the former asked. 

“Ho, ho, ho! Yes, I am, kids!” your friend dug into her brown sack slugged beside her, fishing out the larger, classic flavour of the Cadbury bar, holding it out for the children. “Merry Christmas!” 

As Sohyun thanked her, taking the chocolate, Sojung only glanced at her, confusion staining his little face. “Hey, I thought Santa was a man.”

Julie, taken aback by the statement, fixed her beard, which began to slouch. “Anyone can be Santa!” 

“Yeah, but Santa’s an old man,” Sojung reasoned, crossing his arms. “You sound like you’re in your thirties.” 

“Thirties—” the girl’s usual chirp cut through, but then she coughed, realising she was about to argue with a child. Lowering her voice, she merely held out the Cadbury. “Just take the chocolate, little man.”

Seeing the treat was enough to quench his burning questions on Santa’s gender identity, quickly digging into the sweetness of the chocolate bricks. Julie threw you a look, which had you snickering, sneaking closer to her. 

“That was it?” Seungkwan asked, glancing at the line your friend had evoked. “People’ll do anything for free food—” 

He stopped, realising that Julie was trying to sneak you three Cadbury bars in your bag, and the sight of you feigning any sense of stealth had him clamping his lips together, trying to contain his laughter. 

“Have fun on your babysitting date,” she whispered to you, and you stuck your tongue out at her before turning to the said-date—because yes, this was supposed to be a date, but the children caught wind of their uncle meeting you, and begged him to talk to you. 

“Three?” he inquired, animating the number with his fingers. 

“Inflation’s hit us hard,” was your only excuse, but it was a measly one. Being a dessert chef meant possessing an infinite amount of chocolates in the pantry, ranging from every flavour created in the Italian peninsula. 

He said so himself. “You create desserts for a living. You see chocolate puddings more than your own parents.” 

“You can never have too much,” you sang out, and the children beside you hummed in agreement. “See? The council has spoken.” 

“I can’t disagree then.” Seungkwan turned to the council. “Now, Sohyun, Sojung…where do you guys want to go?” 

“Can we go to the toilet first?” Sojung clutched his stomach. “I think I ate the chocolate too quickly.” 

“I told you to eat it slowly!” Sohyun scolded, clicking her tongue. 

“You think you know the way?” his uncle asked, to which he nodded. “Sohyun, you walk with him. I don’t want you two running off alone, okay?” 

“We’ll be fine,” the girl said, waving off the concern. She clutched her brother’s arm, whose face twisted in pain the more time passed. “Come on, you idiot.” 

“Keep your phones on!” The man called after them as they walked to their destination, which, as the digital maps exposed, was not too far. 

As the children disappeared, you watched, concern rising. “I hope Sojung’s okay.” 

“He’ll be alright.” A roll of his eyes. “Unfortunately, the pigging out on things which’ll make him sick later is a trait he got from me.”

“So all the bad habits he has are from you then?” 

“Only some of them,” he admitted, which had you shaking your head. “Spend enough time with them, and they’ll learn your terrible ways, too.”

“Speak for yourself,” you snarked, “I am a perfect role model.”

“Role model, huh?” He took a step closer—as if he was not close already—and roamed his eyes over you, over a particular item of clothing. “Perfect role models don’t steal from their dates.” 

Your hands instinctively clutched the scarf—the red scarf which you had not returned since he engulfed you with its warmth weeks back. “It’s not stealing,” you said, lifting your chin in defiance. “You’re the one who pretended to be a gentleman and gave it to me.”

“Okay then, I’ll give up the pretence.” Another step closer—a foot’s distance from you. “I’d like my scarf back.”

Realistically, you would have handed his precious scarf back without a fight. After all, it was his possession.

But today was cold, and the scarf was snug—warm. As welcoming as it had been when your head was wrapped around it. “It suits me more, though, don’t you think?” you taunted, fingers holding both ends of the fabric, the long, fringes dangling. “I rock it better, you have to admit.”

The man stared at you, taking in the words, washing over him. His hands reached out, snaking around your waist, and you had to calm your heart from beating out of your chest as he pulled you closer. 

If this was the beginning of the winter, he would have chosen cruel words, shatter the fantasy he thought was forming in front of his eyes. This was not a fantasy, though, far from it—you, who had been a thorn at his side since the moment he stepped into the restaurant, had blossomed into a flower, flourishing before him in a newfound light. 

He played along—not because it was not true, but because he believed the words that left his lips. “You do everything better than me.”

A sharp breath escaped you.

Never did you think a confession like that would ever come from Seungkwan. 

His pride was his great strength, but also a formidable weakness. It was his self-confidence, his arrogance, even, that contributed to his successes, and—most importantly—his long-lasting rivalry with you. His belief in his perfection, his being the best out of all, was what made him who he was. 

You guessed that he did not believe in it. Not anymore. 

Still, you did not accept it. “A very touching statement,” you began, sliding your arms around him, “But I’ll do you one better.” 

He shook his head. “God forbid you agree with me.”

You tilted your head back, gazing at him fully. “We’re equals, Seungkwan.”

He stared at you, widening his eyes as you continued. “Equal partners in our work, equal chefs in our creations…what I do, you do the same. It’s why we argued, and never won. One could not defeat the other…no matter how much we tried. Maybe we were meant to stay in this stalemate, you know?” 

You smiled at him—your partner in the kitchen, your partner-in-crime. “It’s our losses in the restaurant, I believe, that brought us together in the end…and that, for me at least, is a win.” 

Seungkwan felt his very nerves spark to life. 

Come alive with a veracity akin to a rocket ship blasting fire from its ends, firing off to the universe beyond. He had experienced appreciation, passion, perhaps even tenderness—what you said to him in a shopping mall in a corner of London was extraordinary.

He tightened his grip at your sides, his expression starry-eyed. “You really think that?” 

You melted into his hold, sneaking closer. “If I didn’t think it, Seungkwan, I wouldn’t say it.” 

His heart ballooned in his chest, threatening to burst at the seams of his skin. He could not help himself, leaning in to press his lips against yours, and you welcomed him with open arms, closing in around him. You were unable to stop, curling your lips upwards at the sensation because happiness swirled in your stomach, fluttering uncontrollably, moreso because it was Boo Seungkwan who caused it—Boo Seungkwan, who was the catalyst to your butterflies. 

Before he could go further, you remembered where you were, breaking away from his lips. His sudden murmur from the pull-away had you giggling, cheeks tinged rosy from the confession. 

Your laughter, like little wind chimes singing in a spring breeze, had him speaking from the heart. “I couldn’t do this job with anyone else, you know…working together, what’s come out of it…” His stare had your heartbeat uneasy. “You’re the only one I trust.” 

Although your face warmed at the words, you grinned cheekily at him. “Of course you would. Who else would you rely on? Jeonghan?” 

“...a very fair point.” 

Chucking, his hold on you strayed, one hand remaining. “Now, ______,” he began, sliding his hand over to your own, interlocking his fingers. “After the kids come back, where do you wanna eat? I’m starving.”

“I’m down for anything,” you said, tapping your fingers against the back of his hand. “But if I have to eat another Italian dessert for the next week I’m causing a massacre in the restaurant.”

“So the usual tiramisu with whipped cream on the side, then?” he offered, which had you squeezing his hand. “What? I’m not ungrateful like you. I like to eat anything.” 

“Says the one who said he’d shrivel and die if he had to eat almond amarettis for the second time.” 

“That’s different!” he tried to explain, “I nearly choked on one doing the trialling.” 

You swung your intertwined hands. “All I hear is weak-ass excuses, Seungkwan!” 

“At least I’m not advocating on adding grass to my pannacottas,” he muttered, starting to walk forwards.

You halted him, furrowing your eyebrows. “For the last time, they’re bay leaves!” 

“Yeah, which shouldn’t be on my desserts!” 

“Okay, don’t add them to your shitty sweets, then,” you crowed, “Cause I’m suffocating my pannacottas in them.”

His eyes began to glimmer, and you realised that he successfully baited you into irritation. “Maybe I spoke too soon on trusting you with my life in the kitchen,” he teased, but you groaned, prying your hand from his. “Hey, hey, okay, maybe bay leaves aren’t the worst garnish known to man!” 

“And maybe I’m going back to counting and laughing at your losses,” you snapped, but Seungkwan was laughing, and your cheeks were burning. “One more laugh out of that big mouth of yours, and I’m throwing mascarpone cream at you. Maybe this time we’ll finally be fired.” 

He stopped in your tracks, making you pause your stomping away. “I’d like to see you try,” he dared, and when you looked back at him, the challenge rising in your gaze, he felt his soul come alive. 

You knew it too. “Don’t tempt me, Seungkwan. I’ll win this time.”

And as he leaned in, crossing his arms and staring you down, you held your ground, providing no room to give in. His proud smirk had you remembering the old days—and not grimacing. “Famous last words.”

A scoff was the rest of the conversation, but the showdown of your eyes, locked with his, was not over.

Yes, you both may have grown a mutual respect, even developed a fondness—but you were you and Seungkwan was Seungkwan. Perhaps battling it out with a man you rather liked would consequently make shouting at him a little easier.

As you mirrored his arrogant expression, the two of you knew that the kitchen had yet to see more battles. 

Well—there was always the spring menu. Let the petty rivalry (laced with just a slight touch of affection) begin once more. 

[morganbritton132]

Steve Has Older Siblings AU: Robin Edition

In an ideal world, Steve’s family life is completely separate from everything important. But in an ideal world, monsters don’t exist so, you know.

1. Technically the first of Steve’s siblings that Robin meets is Jason because he came into Scoops Ahoy to be an asshole. Robin liked to see King Steve knocked down a peg or two more than the next person but not by a forty year old (he’s 32) loser who has nothing better to do on a Tuesday afternoon. Robin sees him knock Steve’s hat off his head and then informs him that they had a zero tolerance harassment policy (they don’t) and they can and are denying him service. “So leave, now.”

2. The first time she is aware that she’s meeting one of Steve’s siblings is after Starcourt burns down. They were drugged, tired, and Russians took Steve’s car keys so it felt like a good idea to just lay back on the hood of the Beemer and watch the smoke swirl in the air until they come up with what to do.

They never think of anything, and she is startled awake the next morning hungover and dehydrated by someone laying on their horn. Robin looks at the car and then at Steve, and then asks, “Is that your dad?”

Steve - looking somehow worse than yesterday - just blinks in the direction of the car like, “Richie?”

“Get in the car,” Richie practically seethes, barely lets them get in before he starts asking questions like, what the fuck and are you high, right now?”

“I don’t dooo drugs, Dad,” Steve spat out annoyed and Robin, in the backseat, felt compelled to adds, “Drugs do me.”

They both start giggling and can’t stop even when Richie tries to lecture them.

3. Robin meets Jason again when he attacks her.

She doesn’t remember much about the car ride back to Loch Nora or how Steve convinced Richie not to take them to the hospital, but she remembers flopping face first onto Steve’s cloud of a bed. She remembers him taking her shoes off for her and pulling the covers up.

Then she is rudely woken up by a hand yanking her out of bed and big arms wrapping around her head. They’re barely there before Steve is shoving them off her like, “Fuck off, Jason.”

“Carver?” She asks but, no. It’s the dick from the mall. She is ignored while Jason prattles on about how it’s not his fault that Steve looks so much like a girl that he confused him with one. Then he’s whistling about how Steve has a girl in his bed and how surprising that is to them considering they all thought he was a queer.

Robin stiffens beside him. New queer ally, Steve Harrington, not wanting her to be uncomfortable, blurts out, “What if I am?”

And the room goes quiet. Steve’s quiet. Jason’s frozen. Richie, coming in through the door, wasn’t moving. This family doesn’t really paint a picture of unconditional love and acceptance so Robin throws her entire (unsuccessful) theater career into use and slugs Steve in the arm with a snort like, “Yeah, right. With all the girls you flirt with? Ha!”

And everything comes back to life. The hospital conversation comes up and morphs into an argument immediately. Robin is just happy to fade into the background and observe.

4. Robin probably should’ve met Claire that day too but the hospital was an apparent disaster. She actually meets Claire randomly at Family Video.

She sees a woman who’s kinda cute come in and peruse the shelves. She comes to the counter where Robin is on register and Steve is stocking candy right next to her.

She’s carrying The Muppet Movie and makes small talk about watching it with her kids, and never looks twice in Steve’s directly. She’s not in the system and just laughs, “It’s probably under my maiden name, Harrington.”

Robin gives her a tight smile and finishes the transaction. Claire leaves with barely a ‘bye’ to her brother and Robin decides right there that she hates them all.

[moomine]

Dad swansea and reader x daisuke established relationship

black friday | daisuke

author's note: this is based on the q&a where the devs said swansea was a sneakerhead lol. i love love love the concept of dad-swansea sm!! it actually maybe sorta kinda has me brainstorming another series.. thank you for the request! (cover image credit)

summary: (daisuke x f!reader) (modern au?) The semester is over and winter break has just begun. You and Daisuke met on campus and have been dating for a while now. When it's time for him to finally meet your dad, Swansea, he insists on getting him something for the season.

word count: 2,661

warnings: no trigger warnings (all fluff here)! all characters are 18+

now playing: Drugdealer, Kate Bollinger - "Pictures of You"

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

The mall was a bustling hellscape. Packed like sardines, people pushed and shoved as they tried to meander from place to place. The line for the shoe store wrapped around the corner, down a long, wide hall, and into the food court. You stood side by side with Daisuke, your coat rustling as you hugged yourself. A cold draft blew past as other customers came and went through the grand entrance, each time causing a shiver to rake through you harshly. Daisuke, who was previously twisting his silver rings out of an anxious habit, stopped and began running his hands up and down the length of your arms. The friction of his hands sent waves of much-appreciated warmth throughout your body. You looked up at him, a grateful smile tugged at the corners of your lips.

“Thank you,” you said, breathing a sigh of relief.

“Of course. It won’t be so bad once we get ‘round the corner.” Daisuke peeked over your head and past the line, peering ahead to see how much longer it would take. It was moving at a snail’s pace, and all he could think about was empty shelves. In the nightmare of worst-case scenarios running rampant in his mind, the sneakers he had been keeping a watchful eye on for months were already sold out. Daisuke’s brows furrowed as he caught his bottom lip between his teeth, chewing at the soft skin absentmindedly.

“Maybe we should have gotten here earlier,” you observed, glancing around at the line of people as it only grew larger. You turned back to your boyfriend with a sympathetic expression, features softening as you reached out and placed a hand on his shoulder. “You don’t have to do this. Y’know that, right? My dad will be happy just to meet you at all.”

“That’s where you’re wrong. I absolutely do.” He laughed nervously, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and using his now free hand to run his fingers through his hair. “You’re, like, the most important person in my life. Your dad has to like me, he just has to. If he doesn’t I might straight up disappear. POOF! Daisuke’s gone, vanished into thin air.”

“You gotta relax. He’s gonna love you, I know he will,” you replied, leaning into him for a little extra warmth.

Daisuke held you tighter and shook his head apprehensively. “I just gotta make sure. I really, really want to make a good impression.”

“And you will! You wanna know how I know?” you asked, shifting under his arm so you were facing him. The line moved up and so did the two of you.

He nodded, eyes filling with admiration as his gaze fell from the line before you two to your face. God, he loved your face. No matter how hard he tried, he could never understand how a guy like him got so lucky. Daisuke knew he was a pretty good-looking guy, but you were gorgeous. Must have been his charming personality and impeccable sense of style.

“I know because you’re kind. ‘Cause you have a good heart and you care so much. My dad’s a good judge of character, he’ll see that.” Daisuke opened his mouth to protest, but you raised a finger and pressed it to his lips before he could. “Hey, I’m not finished. So what you don’t know what you want to be yet? You’re ambitious and talented, and you’ve got time. Don’t stress about that, ‘kay? He won’t care, I promise.”

“Can I talk now?” Daisuke asked, your finger still pressed against his lips. 

“You may,” you replied with a playful grin, your hand dropping to your side once again.

“I know I technically don’t have to, but I’m gonna get these shoes and impress the pants off your dad,” he stated, all proud until he had the chance to process what it was he had said. “That didn’t come out right…”

You laughed, taking another step forward as the line continued to move up.

-

A couple of weeks had passed since Daisuke bought those sneakers. Finals season came and went, ushered out by the frantic wrap-up of the fall semester and the introduction to winter break. It was early December when the two of you finally drove back home, meaning it had finally come time for your boyfriend to meet your parents. 

The entire way there Daisuke was a nervous mess. That anxiety only intensified the moment you were leading him to the front door of your family’s home. On top of the gifts he was already carrying, Daisuke had insisted on still carrying the bulk of your luggage inside as well. With one hand he held his presents to your folks, and in the other, he used to pull your suitcase behind him; your backpack was slung over his shoulders. He said it was about chivalry or something like that. As you stepped onto the front porch an onslaught of barking erupted from just beyond the door. 

“Lucy! C’mon, old girl, that's enough!” your dad, Swansea, shouted from inside the house.

You turned to smile at Daisuke only to notice his attention was busy elsewhere. He looked down at the gifts in his arms, biting at his lips. After a moment he noticed you had stopped and his gaze drifted back to you, offering you a timid smile of his own. You reached out and placed a hand on his shoulder, keeping it there as you began to rub small, comforting circles against the wooly fabric of his coat.

“It’s gonna be okay,” you whispered in a soft tone.

Daisuke looked down at the gifts in his hands, then back to you with a quick nod.

Now with his approval, you unlatched your keys from your belt loop and unlocked the door. As it swung open with a familiar groan, Lucy, your elderly border collie, came stumbling up to the doorway as she barked an excited ‘hello’. The dark patches of her fur were speckled with long, white hairs and her eyes held a little gray in them. She breathed heavily from her mouth, panting with her tongue hanging out. She looked from you to Daisuke, just as excited to see his new face as your well-known one.

“Hi, mama.” You knelt to her level, petting her head with one hand and scratching her chin with the other. “I’m home!” you shouted into the house.

The smells of garlic and onion wafted from the direction of the kitchen. Daisuke closed the door behind him, looking around the entryway with a curious eye. It dawned on him at that moment that he was standing in your childhood home. Over the course of your life, you had walked in and out of that very entryway countless times —going to school, coming home from your first job at that local coffee shop, leaving for prom or practice. 

“Took you long enough,” Swansea called back as he made his way from the kitchen to the two of you. “I was startin’ to worry you wouldn’t make it in time for dinner.”

Swansea stood in the doorway of the kitchen, a red apron that read ‘Kiss the cook’ tied loosely around his torso —one of the many stupid Father’s Day presents your mom had gotten him over the years. You stood up quickly, racing to him with open arms. He eagerly took you into a tight hug, his clothes and skin smelling faintly of 3-in-1 soap and motor oil.

“Haha. How about a ‘welcome home’ or ‘I missed you so much’?” you said sarcastically as you pulled away from him.

“Welcome home, kid. I missed you.” Swansea’s normal gruff tone of voice was much softer as he spoke to you.

Daisuke stood awkwardly by the front door, still carrying your belongings as well as his own. You glanced over your shoulder with a wide smile and motioned toward him. “Oh! Dad, this is Daisuke. Daisuke, this is my dad.” You took a step back, allowing the two of them to get a better view of one another.

His eyes shot from Lucy, who was now lying at his feet, and toward your dad. Almost too quickly, Daisuke let go of the suitcase and took a long step toward Swansea. He extended his hand, ready to shake, and adorned a toothy smile. The gifts along his other arm wobbled as he reached your father, which he clumsily saved from falling at the last minute.

“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, sir. I’ve heard a lot about you,” Daisuke said.

“That so? Looks like you got a lot on your plate, son.” Swansea took his hand, holding it firmly as he shook it. Daisuke did his best to match his grip, almost squeezing too hard. Swansea motioned with a nod to your luggage still on Daisuke’s person, along with the gifts in his arms.

“What this? Nothing I can’t handle,” your boyfriend replied, almost smugly. “These are actually for you. Well, and your wife.”

“I think we’re gonna go take my stuff upstairs,” you butt in, looking between the two with a slightly worried expression.

“All right then. Your mom’ll be home soon, dinner’s on in fifteen. I’m makin’ paella.” Swansea turned around with a skeptical look. “Sound good?”

“Sounds perfect. Thank you, dad!”

-

Once the two of you were upstairs, it became incredibly clear that Daisuke’s anxiety had intensified greatly. As the two of you walked through the threshold into your room, he let out a quiet sigh —both out of relief and distress. Over the semester, your room had become closer to a memory and now, as you returned to it exactly as you had left it, it had become an almost nostalgic sight. It was exactly as Daisuke had imagined. The pale blue walls were littered with band posters and pictures of you with friends from high school. You had everything you’d expect in a student’s room. In one corner, snugged away and smothered in soft blankets and pillows, was a full-sized bed. In another were a mismatched desk and dresser. Daisuke could easily see you sitting at that desk, engaging with one of your many hobbies or finishing up some assignments. The visual managed to make a small smile creep onto his lips, but it faltered quickly when he heard Swansea on the phone with your mother just downstairs.

“He hates me, I can already tell,” Daisuke said. He carefully set down your luggage as well as the gifts, tucking them away nicely on your desk.

“You don’t know that. My dad’s just like that with everyone at first, but he always warms up eventually. I promise.” You sat on your bed, pulling your shoes from your feet and tossing them in different directions.

To keep himself from pacing, Daisuke took a seat beside you before flopping back into the comforter. The plush blanket quickly engulfed him as he rested an arm over his eyes. With a little laugh, you laid down on your side next to him, caressing his face with your hand. It felt soft against his skin as you cupped his cheek. His arm fell back to his side as he leaned into your touch, letting out a content sigh at the comfort that alone brought him. His eyes trailed over your face with that same lovesick adoration he normally harbored while looking at you —a stare that said more than he ever could with words. He knew he would never get tired of looking at you. 

“It’s going to be okay,” you finally said, pressing your forehead against his. “I love you.”

His eyes fluttered shut as he tried to melt into you. Like it was second nature, Daisuke tilted his head ever so slightly to the side and closed the gap between the two of you. Sparks of electricity tingled against your lips as he kissed you softly. Abandoning their posts, his hands found their proper positions —one on your hip and the other along the back of your neck— and pulled you closer. You couldn’t help but smile against his lips as he kissed you, your chest becoming light at his touch.

Reluctantly, he pulled away, keeping his forehead against yours. “I love you too,” he breathed, sounding far more relaxed than before. “So much.”

His gaze met yours once more, and it looked like he was going in for another kiss. Just as you felt his breath against your cupid’s bow, there was a knock at the door, followed by the sound of Swansea clearing his throat.

“C’mon, get your asses up. I’m makin’ you set the table before your mother gets home. I want it to look nice for her, understood?” Your dad looked between the two of you with that questionable face Daisuke was starting to become accustomed to. He then turned around, shaking his head from side to side.

-

Dinner was a surprisingly quick affair. To nobody’s surprise, Swansea’s paella was a hit —other than a couple of gripes from your mother who had grown sick of the dish. She fell in love with Daisuke from the first second she saw him, and she only loved him more when he got comfortable enough to talk. After everyone was finished eating, Daisuke insisted on helping clean up and he did so happily. While your mom stepped outside to smoke a cigarette, Swansea, Daisuke, and you sat in the living room as your dad began to open his gift.

Swansea tore into the wrapping paper, eyes going wide when he saw the brightly colored shoebox beneath. He looked up from the present in his hands, and his gaze fell to Daisuke with an expression of pure disbelief.

“Son, I-” he started before promptly getting cut off by you.

“Just open it, dad.”

Daisuke shifted beside you as Swansea discarded the rest of the wrapping paper. He leaned forward, elbows resting on either of his knees as he bit at his lower lip. Swansea ran his hand along the top of the box and slowly opened it. After lifting the tissue paper and getting a proper look at the sneakers underneath, Swansea turned to your boyfriend again.

“These aren’t easy to come by. How on earth did you get them?”

“I, uh- well, we camped out for them. [Name] told me you had been checking out a pair online for a while, and I thought I’d save you the effort,” Daisuke responded, running a hand along the back of his neck. “It was totally worth it. I got a super good deal on ‘em and everything.”

“Thank you.” Your dad just nodded with the faintest smile on his face. Although his words were simple, cut, and dry, it was obvious to you and Daisuke alike that he was truly grateful.

“Of course. I’m really happy you like them,” Daisuke said. He was practically glowing, beaming with pride as he looked from Swansea to you. He mouthed an oblivious ‘hell yeah’ in celebration.

Later that night while you were getting ready for bed, Daisuke ventured down the upstairs hallway toward the bathroom. Along the way, he passed your parents' room. Through the crack in the door, a narrow stream of light illuminated the otherwise darkened hall. Daisuke froze in place as he overheard your mom and Swansea talking from inside.

“So, what did you think of him? He’s just a delight. Isn’t he, hun?” Your mom questioned.

“Who? Daisuke?” Swansea replied. The springs within the mattress groaned as he eased himself into bed. “The boy seems like a good man. I like him for her. She needs someone who’ll help her loosen up. Poor girl is too damn high-strung.”

Realizing he probably shouldn’t eavesdrop, Daisuke rushed to the bathroom with a look of pride on his face. Your dad liked him. Better yet, Swansea thought he was good for you. That was a better gift than anything he could have hoped for.

[hitomisuzuya]

zombie apocalypse au. scaramouche x fem!reader. smut. cunnilingus. fingering. feral!softdom!scara.

i would like to give a big, big thanks to @pxndxzdx for letting me use this idea to help my writers block and having a lovely conversation with me yesterday. i hope i did okay 😅

life is a bitch and then you die. millions of people discovered that first hand all over the world when the fabled zombie apocalypse hit. and it made scaramouche wonder if people thought it was such a cool thing to talk, and fantasize about now.

reality has a big hand to bitch slap someone in the face with. although, he couldn't exactly say the zombie apocalypse didn't give him a chance to work out some long simmering frustration with humanity.

a few months after the world blew itself to hell, he discovered you in an abandoned mall looking for supplies. he'd seen you around school, having a few mutual friends between you.

scaramouche fucking swore it was love at first sight seeing you bashing a zombie's head in repeatedly with a baseball bat, yelling at it about how you just wanted to find supplies in peace. he took you back to his hidey-hole, a very efficient shelter with pretty much all the works that are now considered rare, food, hot running water, medicine, and electricity.

it really would've been a shame to him if the world cruelly swallowed up someone delicate like you. the zombie apocalypse seemed to have an affinity for bringing capability out in people they didn't know they had.

scaramouche could barely handle himself right now. having just gotten out of the shower, the scent of your body wash and shampoo fresh on the air, standing in front of him wrapped in a towel. "sorry, my head was in the clouds and i kind of forget to bring clothes to change into with me. let me just grab them real quick and-" you said shyly, hastily looking through the drawer.

"no, you can just change in here. it's fine," scaramouche cut you off, very reluctantly turning his head away. the blush on his cheeks is infuriating to him. the curves of your body being teased to him by a towel that only covered about less than half your thighs. the peek of your chest over the top. needless to say, he had to turn the rest of his body away from you to.

"are you sure? i mean, i can just go back and change real quick," you said and fuck you are so cute when you fret shyly like that.

"i said it's fine," he scoffs, he didn't want certainly walking back out into the hallway were other people would undoubtedly leer at you. you are his precious treasure damn it, not their's.

"just hurry up because i am getting hard," he mumbles, shifting restlessly on the bed a little.

"huh?" he mumbled so quietly you could barely hear him. "look, i know i am not much to look at but i didn't think i was that bad."

scaramouche stiffens and grits his teeth at your response. he couldn't believe the drivel that just came out of your pretty mouth. did you have any idea how much his eyes linger on you? how often he'd been awake at night, fighting the urge to stroke his cock while he thought about you? how much his cock aches to be buried to the hilt inside you?

a delicate girl like you deserves to be bred.

"i said hurry up because seeing you standing there wrapped in a towel is making me hard. fucking hell," scaramouche snaps, turning to look at you. "please, get dressed before i lose my self control."

that should say a lot.

maybe life wasn't up to bitch slapping him that much now because with that, he had you on your back on his bed, the towel discarded on the floor, and his head between your thighs. if he has to die anytime soon, he could now die a happy man having gotten to taste that pretty pussy of yours.

he, as well as his cock are on cloud nine.

his tongue parts your folds as a shiver of anticipation goes to straight to his cock. he instantly muffles a groan into your pussy, licking long, agonizingly slow stripes. "my pretty, do you know how fucking long i have wanted to do this?"

"y-you have?" you said shakily, blushing at the sight of him slowly lapping at your pussy. you writhe on the bed a little as his pierced tongue sweeps up to your clit. the consistent wagging and swirling of the ball of his piercing making your clit throb unbearably. a strangled moan tears from your throat as your hips rock up into his mouth.

he chuckles feeling you shiver as his thumbs skim across your inner thighs. "so sensitive, so responsive," he hums approvingly, scooping your abused clit into his mouth to suck on.

your hands clutch at the sheets before putting them on the back of his head. pressing his mouth down on your pussy, eagerly chasing the delicious friction from his tongue piercing. you open your mouth to form words, however instead his ears are met with moans and little whimpers that sound way too sweet.

"you sound so fucking cute, kitten," scaramouche releases your clit, prodding his tongue into your dripping hole just in time to feel it clench at his praise. "be a good girl while i devour you," god he wants to reach down and fist his cock, but he couldn't bear to let go of your thighs.

his tongue is fast overwhelming your senses, rubbing and licking on sensitive parts you didn't even know you had. tears well into your eyes as you grind your pussy on his mouth, shameless moans fueling his fire. "i..i have always been in love you!" you cry out, whimpering as the ball of his tongue piercing bullies your clit.

scaramouche got harder hearing your words. "adorable. i am tongue fucking you so good that you confessing your love for me. you are all mine now, dollface," he moans, drunk on the taste of you. "fuck you are gonna cum so hard i can taste it."

you gasp in pleasure as he pushes two fingers inside of you, desperate to taste you cumming. he flicks his elegant fingers into your sweet spot in a way that makes you see stares, focusing his tongue on your clit as he scissors your walls apart.

his fingers are absolutely soaked, squelching wetly in and out of your pussy. hooking into your sweet spot with calculated accuracy. whining, you tug on his hair as he coils the knot of your orgasm up tight. his tongue lapping at your pussy like a starved dog.

"oh god, please, scara! make me cum!" you cry out, your legs shaking as you grind on his mouth, your pussy eager to suck his fingers in.

"don't fucking need to tell me twice," he groans, drinking in your fucked out state. he adds a third finger, sending your body to quake with pleasure as he further stretches you apart. "fuck yourself on my mouth pretty, i welcome it," his eyes roll into the back of his head as your pussy clenches hard on his fingers.

pleasure burst white behind your eyes, your orgasm practically being ripped out of you. you shake as your pussy gushes on his fingers, flooding his tongue with your taste while you cum hard. "don't.. don't stop, please," you plead so sweetly as he nurses his tongue on your clit through your orgasm.

scaramouche couldn't help it. his cock emptied in his pants, your desperate cry for him leaving him hard again. "sh, sh, it's okay," he cooes, stroking your hips, "I'll take care of you, relax," he wasn't going to stop until the sun came up.

[paddockletters]

You need to do it | charles leclerc (twitter au)

paring: charles leclerc x reader summary: you and charles' fans are tired of his broken phone so you'll do something about it. warnings: none author's note: I'm back after many months, I hope you liked this story because I enjoyed writing it and I've been wanting to write about it for a long time because I thought it was so funny how people were complaining about Charles's phone, well, as I always say... english is not my first language so pardon me if there are mistakes —feel free to tell me—

"So, Char… we're going shopping today," you said to your boyfriend as you sat next to him on the couch.

"What do you mean when you say 'we'?" he dropped his phone and turned his attention to you.

"Obviously you and me."

"Love, you know I love spending time with you, but I just don't feel like it today. Why don't you ask Gemma?" he said as he tilted his head.

"Baby, it's been a while since we've hung out. It would be nice to do it to distract you a bit, please," you said as you climbed onto his lap and pouted, trying to convince him.

"Y/n." "Charlessss, please."

"Alright, come on," he finally said, and you squealed with happiness. He couldn't resist not saying "no" for so long; he always or almost always gave in.

The whole idea had appeared after a few weeks when you were on your phone scrolling through Twitter. You found many fans laughing and complaining about Charles' broken phone, which had been like that for two months. It seemed that every time it was cracking a little bit more.

Arriving at the mall, you started to walk around, entering some clothing shops for you and some for Charles. Regardless of the goal you wanted to accomplish today, you loved going out with Charles anywhere, but shopping with him was great because it was like going out with your best friend. He would help you pick out clothes; he would tell you how you looked —to him, everything on you looked amazing. "You look beautiful, mon amour, it looks like everything you try on is made for you." So yes, you loved shopping with him.

You did the same with him. You would try to help him find clothes that matched, and he would buy them, but he always seemed to forget how to match them because his outfit in the paddock indicated that.

"Charles, I'm hungry." The idea is that near the food court, there was the Apple shop, so "casually" you would walk in there.

"Yeah, me too, let's see what we can find."

Right, your plan was working.

"Char, we can go into Apple; I think I need a new charger because mine doesn't work anymore."

"But, you didn't have…?" you pulled him towards the shop without letting him finish his sentence.

You started walking around the shop a bit until you decided it was a good idea to suggest a new mobile phone.

"Baby, don't you think it's time to change your phone? I mean, it works, but… at some point, it won't, and…"

"You too? My fans keep making fun of it," he said, pretending to be offended.

"Charles, your phone is broken as… I don't even know how you can still use it…" "Because it still works," he cut you off.

"You literally can't even see the full screen, the text, and even the memes you try to show me. I can't even see them because of how broken it is," you said, laughing, trying to make him reason.

And certainly, every time he wanted to show you a funny tweet, you couldn't even see it, so you didn't understand how he was still laughing at something he DIDN'T SEE.

"Besides, you have to change it because you will lose all your photos, videos because you told me you didn't pay for iCloud so you say…" you said as you headed to the checkout to pay for the charger which of course you don't need but could be useful at some point.

That's when Charles started to think about the cons of not changing his phone. Even though it was broken, it still worked, but eventually, it would stop working, and as you were right, he would lose all his photos, which included photos of the two of you, and that would hurt, so….

"See, it wasn't that hard to do. You see, it wasn't that hard to do it. 'Don't worry, I'll help you set it up quickly,' you said, smiling, as you hugged him by the waist and gave him a kiss on the cheek.

"I can't believe you convinced me; you have power over me…" "We all know that, now let's go home. We might need our first pictures with your new mobile phone."

[scrompsautobotsrchives]

Amica Endura

Part 2 of the rewrites, Hopefully I can remake the magic. Word count:1.4K

Amica endura is a cybertronian word for one's only best friend. The person you stick with for years, and intend to stick by for years to come, and for bumblebee's case, It's y/n.

It's been nearly a year since that faithful day when you got him out of the dealership and you have proven yourself otherwise, he liked you a lot, and you were a perfect friend to him... But only a tiny problem... More than likely he needed permission from a prime, the prime being Optimus, but where was he ??

So late at night when you were asleep, he drove out and took the roads to hopefully find him, just a hint... anything... Soon after almost an hour of driving...

"Ca... ll... Au...ts" A signal was picked up, Bee froze in his place and began to adjust his signal to hopefully hear the message better.

"Calling all Autobots, If you can hear this, meet me at these coordinates" The prime's familiar voice flooded his ears !! Yippie !!!

And soon he sped his way to the location of the signal, oh god it's been ages !!

Optimus transformed at a nearby hill and tried to boost the signal range, Please hope his crew is alright... He looked down sadly before hearing the familiar rev of his faithful companion.

Bee whirred in excitement as he transformed and stumbled in front of him happily as he found him. "Oh captain, My captain !!" His radio scratched. "Glad... to... see you again"

Optimus looked down and gave a gentle nod, he was so goddamn happy. "Bee... good to see you too"

After a bit, Bee started to shift from side to side a little nervously "I can... say something ??" He finally said.

Optimus raised an optic brow. "Go on then" Fully turning to his comrade, giving him his full attention.

Bee stood there for a little bit before opening up his chest cavity to reveal his spark, Optimus looked down at him, and a moment passed before he seemed to understand. "Who is it ??"

He started to grow more nervous, oh god this was it. "Human..."

Optimus blinked again. "A human... You've been mingling with humans" He said firmly, he was only worried.

Bee nodded

"Impossible, It won't be happening" Optimus looked out into the open. Immediately abrasive of the idea.

"They are my friends..." Bee whirred angrily, kicking the ground before going on a rant. "They didn't... See me... as... junk... they helped... me find... my voice !!"

"No... we cannot trust them, the humans will protect what is there's, we can only trust our own kind"

Bee gave him the softest eyes. Now come on, who can't say no to them !! "They... mean a lot"

Optimus looked back out into the open after a while. "If they mean so much, bring them here"

He beeped softly, but you were at work tomorrow, he can't just say before you leave.

But before he could say, Optimus picked up another signal from a familiar rev head. Bee beeped again, he has an idea. "Let's go to the mall..."

The next night, you were leaving work and making your way to the bus station, But you didn't make it until a car started to rev in front of you. But the fear slowly dissipated once you realized what car it was

"Porsche 911 Carrera" You looked around it, holy flipping cow... you then noticed on the steering wheel a familiar logo that Bee also had on his steering wheel, was it... one of them ??

The car revved again, clicking open the door. You frowned, So hesitantly you hopped in, knowing that is what it's likely asking... the car feels nice... And before you knew it, the door slammed shut, the engine roared and sped off down the road.

"Woah Woah WOAH !!" You held on for dear life.

The car revved again and went faster just to tease you a little bit, it wasn't long before the police got involved from all the stunt's its been performing.

"Pull over !!" One officer managed to get next to you.

"I'M NOT DRIVING !!" You screamed out.

They flicked the lights on and tried to speed up, but not on this autobot's watch, he has a few tricks up his sleeve.

He swirled around and started to drive in reverse, first blinding the cop and soon rearranging with you safely in back to front. The cherry on top was then he started to make clones of himself and you, You looked to your left to see a clone of you flipping off the cop, and on the right, the clone of you gave a thumbs up.

The car swerved onto an offramp while the cop was distracted, making him crash into a guard division, You were getting to your final destination, speeding off into an abandoned warehouse.

"Yo yo yo slow down !!"

The car skidded along the ground, flinging you out as gently as it could, and soon beginning to transform.

"Woohoo !! That felt good !! Get some oil pumping you know ?? Damn. I've been cooped up forever dude, I can't tell you how old it gets. 'Mirage, stay hidden. Mirage, don't draw any attention to yourself. Mirage, Big is just a movie, you'll never be a real boy.' But that was fun man, your fun dude"

You were just rushing off from the adrenaline, looking up at him with slight fear.

"Oh right, this is probably a lot for you huh ??" He smiled softly as he kneeled to your height.

You scrambled up and grabbed a nearby pole, ready to defend yourself. "Back up !!'

"Hey woah woah, what's with the aggression. I thought after the car chase we were cool ??"

"What are you, some kind of possessed car ??"

"Nah, that's not real man, I'm an alien"

"Like... Like ET ??" Now where did that come from.

"ET !! The little ugly guy in the basket ?? Look at this face !!" He pointed to his adorable face before then holding out a fist for you. "The name mirage !!

You were a little hesitant.

"Come on, give me a little... give me a little... give me a little tap... give me a little tap..."

You then hesitantly fist bumped him.

"There ya go now were friends !!"

Soon you heard more revving, one light and one super heavy.

"Oh great the gang's here"

You looked behind and saw Bee driving in and transforming, Then soon back at the front, you saw a truck driving in and transforming, this one was super tall than Mirage and Bee !!

Bee quickly jumped in between you and Optimus, He knew Optimus meant well, but go easy on them ok !! Optimus stopped to look at both of you before then picking you up and getting a closer look.

"Who... Who are you ??" You frowned.

"I am Optimus prime" He looked at you firmly.

"Bee... what's going on ??"

Bee whirred softly as Optimus continued. "Who are you... Y/n"

'I... I'm just a normal kid... I found Bee in the car shop alright... I ain't even seen nothing I don't even know nothing" You closed your eyes and looked away.

Optimus looked at you firmly before you noticed his optics softened, Out of a sort of apology, before he then gently placed you back down. He still felt like he couldn't trust humans... But he is open to seeing where this will go, if this is what bee wants, he won't stop him.

"Bee ??" You looked over at him.

He whirred softly, putting his focus on you and kneeling down, Unlatching his chest cavity. "Y/n- my best... friend. Most... Important friend"

Your eyes softened when you looked at his spark, It was so bright.

Bee gave you the softest look. "I want... to be your friend- forever" Soon closing his chest cavity, you looked over at the other two.

"What happened ??"

"Dude... He just offered you ultimate friendship" Mirage chimed in, still amazed by the sight.

Optimus nodded to him and you. "Amica endura, The strongest form of friendship that a cybertronian can ever offer. An eternal oath" He explained to you.

"It's never been done with a human before, so consider yourself the first" Mirage chimed again.

Bee looked at you softly, whirring in hope.

You smiled up at him. "Your my best friend bee"

He beeped happily before scooping you up and holding you close.

Optimus didn't say anything, He didn't feel it was his place, just watching... But he couldn't help but twitch a small smile.

Be nuzzled your cheek as you held him close as well. His spark pulsing warmth against his chest, His radio scratched... "I'll love you till the day that I die"

Taglist: @callofdudes

[hai7ani]

divorced parents au / with your faves

When your daughter turned two, you and your husband had brought her to Disneyland as her birthday gift. Growing up, Umi was always fond of the 12 Disney Princesses ー more specifically Princess Belle ー and she keeps a photograph of her and Belle at a meet and greet on her nightstand. Her father's half-expected her favourite to be Ariel, given that Ariel and Umi do go pretty well together. (Ariel and the sea.)

In Disneyland that summer your baby has had the time of her life, so she starts asking for it every birthday (which slowly turned into every milestone) and up until then you both have had no issues with bringing her there. He'd told you once that if going there makes her happy then he was willing to visit again, no matter the amount of times and the slight boringness he'd have to face when waiting in line to go on rides or booths.

Today she had learned how to properly draw a flying bird in art class after failing a few times and drew flying chickens instead. When you picked her up from school, the first thing she said after showing you her art proudly was, 'Let's go to Disneyland, Mama! Let's go with Daddy!'

You would bring her if you could. You know you would in a heartbeat.

But it has been two years since her last visit to Disneyland, and you and your husband aren't together anymore.

So when he comes over for dinner tonight ー just like he has been every Friday without miss ever since your divorce ー you show him Umi's drawing of the flying bird.

"Can I bring this back with me? I'd like to frame it up." He asks. In his head he plans to hang it on the wall of his living room, right on top of his television, next to your family portrait.

You eat a piece of the orange he'd peeled. "Of course."

/

At noon when your daughter asked, you told her no. So at night she is tugging on her father's shirt with a red face full of tears and she is begging for him to stay.

"Stay here, daddy. Don't go." She cries to him at the foyer. Only one side of his shoe is put on and he kicks it away quick when she attempts to climb into his arms.

"You'll see me again on Sunday, Mimi." He attempts to console her. "We're gonna go to the mall together 'n we'll find the toy you've been wanting."

Her father scoops her into his arms and sits on the floor. She kicks her feet in the air and wails.

"But I want to go to Disneyland with you and Mama." She sobs into his arms. He pecks her crown and shushes her a little.

When your chest gets too heavy you push yourself off the wall you've been leaning against and turn your back to them.

(You've been watching the duo since the moment her father was putting on his shoe, ready to leave, and your daughter came running after him in her pyjamas with wet tears already streaming down her cheeks.)

And Umi continues to cry while her father rocks her in his arms, trying his best to console her.

While walking away from the scene, you pick on the skin around your thumb. Your nose sours and you try pinching it in hopes of soothing it a little.

"Why d'ya wanna go to Disneyland?" You hear him ask before you disappear into the hallway. It's funny how he still asks even though you and him both know that going or not going to Disneyland was never the problem.

Umi sniffles. Her father hums for her to say it.

You hide behind the door of your bedroom.

"I want Mama, Daddy and Umi together again."

Just the three of us together in Umi's favourite place.

You cry.

/

"She's asleep now."

You pause from folding laundry at the couch and look up. He's got both hands in his pockets and a soft smile planted on his face.

He's also a mess, you notice ー his shirt a little stretched and out of place from how hard your daughter had been tugging on it earlier, the fabric wet from tear and snot stains, his hair a bit disheveled (you figure he was resting beside her when putting her to sleep), and he's moving to sit beside you on the couch now.

You smile back. "Thank you. I haven't been able to calm her down easily these days."

He picks up one of the garments from the pile and starts folding it beside you. "It's fine. You know I like doing it." I like being a dad, is what he wishes to say. But he knows you know it already and he holds his tongue.

Neither of you say a thing to each other after that and he continues helping you with the laundry. He folds your bra the way you prefer and your daughter's school uniform neatly so that it doesn't crease.

You steal a few glances at him without shame while stacking his sweatpants onto his pile of clothes.

"Your hair's getting long." You comment.

"Is it?" He raises his brows, genuinely wanting to know.

"Yeah." You reach a hand up to comb through his soft strands of hair. You push them back and try parting it on the middle.

"I've been busy." He's got a boxy, kind of nervous smile on his face when he explains. "Can't really see well through the mirror anyway." He rubs his nape.

You chuckle. "Want me to cut it for you?"

"Okay."

/

You still keep a room for your ex-husband even after the end of your marriage and he's given you the house.

You like telling yourselves it's solely for the sake of your daughter, for when she misses her father a little too much and refuses to let him leave.

But both of you know that's not really the case.

Somehow it didn't feel right when he was in the process of moving out to his new apartment somewhere in Meguro, and you slowly realise that you'd be having an empty room all to yourself.

(Back then you didn't think you could cope with living alone in the house you used to love each other in ー in the house you'd both created a life in.

You still don't now. Not really, anyway.)

So you transform the room that used to be his study into his own bedroom just right across the master (yours). He didn't reject the idea when you told him so.

And because of this, you leave your bedroom door open whenever he stays the night.

Tonight you do it again, and you watch him across the hall, in his room, drying off his freshly cut hair. Your head is resting on the edge of the bed with one hand tucked under your cheek and the other playing with a plush toy he'd gifted you many years ago.

When he turns to hang his towel on the wall he sees you like this. You don't shy away when he smirks.

"Goodnight." You mouth to him. You stay like that until he leaves his door open and finally gets in bed ー until he, too, shuffles around, and dangles his head off the edge of his own bed.

"Goodnight." He mouths it back to you.

You spend some time looking at each other like that ー really taking your realities in ー in rooms across each other with heads dangling off the edge of your beds, two hearts connected by the sea, and your daughter asleep in the room next to yours.

On most nights he comes over sometime during the night and helps you back on your pillow when you accidentally fall asleep like this, and every time, you'd unconsciously tug on his arm and beg him not to go.

He stays every single time.

Tonight, however, he pads over to your room while you're still awake with a pillow clutched in one hand.

"Hi." You scoot on the bed to make space for him as he throws his pillow next to yours and lays down beside you ー face to face, heart to heart. "Hey." He sighs upon getting comfortable on the bed he'd grown to find so much comfort in.

You bring the blanket up to cover his shoulders. He scoots closer to you, sneaks a hand under your shirt, and rubs a warm hand up and down your spine. (You always sleep better when he rubs your back like this.)

And while falling asleep you think to yourself that perhaps someday you'll get to try again as lovers.

You know for a fact that you'll always love him in your heart, and you'll never stop loving him even though it doesn't really make sense anymore ー just like how he'd sworn to never love again after your divorce.

Perhaps someday the both of you would be ready to move on ー still loving each other, but ready to move on from your past, from your love.

And perhaps someday the two of you wouldn't have to argue about money or time anymore. Perhaps someday he'll find a suitable work-life balance, and you're able to trust him enough to keep himself safe at work.

But for now, he's content with rubbing your back as you fall asleep next to him in the bed you'd once shared. You're content with the flowers he still buys you from time to time and cutting his hair whenever it grows out.

For now, you know that you're not ready to move on just yet. Both of you are not, and both of you have something else in mind...

You want to try again.

And you know that trying again will not be easy, but you both also know that you're willing to start all over again with everything you have if given the chance, the opportunity.

Maybe someday.

Maybe you'll give it more time.

(You feel a nudge on your elbow.)

Or...

"Wanna go to Disneyland tomorrow?"

(You smile.)

"Yes."

...Maybe tomorrow?

(He reddens all over.)

"Okay."

You'll see.

(just some characters i have in mind) TOKYO REVENGERS RAN, RINDOU, KAKUCHO, DRAKEN, NAOTO JUJUTSU KAISEN GOJO, NANAMI BLUE LOCK SAE, RIN HAIKYUU KITA, OSAMU & your faves

(i have never been to disneyland before. 😹)

© HAI7ANI ON TUMBLR. DO NOT STEAL

[xmads-omensx]

Sorry if I'm overdoing it with yet another request.

Levi Ackerman x female reader

fluff/ one shot

Levi and Y/N are married and they have a 3 year old son. There is a visit from Santa Claus at the mall. The boy learned that his father's birthday is on the same day as Christmas. So, he demands two gifts from Santa Claus for Levi and also for himself. The boy says he also wants his birthday to be at Christmas too.

I don't know if I managed to make you understand. But the story would be fun too.

Thanks. I don't know if the same person can make another request.

DAY 21 - MALL SANTA VISIT

Word Count: 1,591

pairing: Levi Ackerman X wife!reader

content warnings: modern au, they have a child, fluff

Of course, you can send as many requests as you like! I really enjoy writing them so it's no problem at all!

Also sorry it took so long to post, I decided to use it as part of my 25 Days of Christmas <3

Hope you enjoy :)

Furlan was fascinated by the prospect of the shopping mall having a Santa Claus who could grant your Christmas wishes.

He thought Santa was only supposed to live in the North Pole, but his Aunt and Godmother, Hange had told him all about it.

She told him that Santa sometimes had to travel to shopping malls because then he could make sure he was getting everybody’s Christmas wish correct.

He couldn’t wait.

Levi was less than ecstatic when I told him about our weekend plans to visit the mall Santa that Saturday, but he went along with it to make Furlan happy.

That Saturday morning, we had been rudely awoken by Furlan’s excited shouts as he flung himself onto our bed giggling to himself.

Levi took him into his arms before placing a kiss on the top of his head and whispering a quick good morning to me.

Furlan had been counting down the days ever since Hange told him about the legendary mall Santa.

I got myself dressed whilst Levi got Furlan ready, then grabbed my handbag and jacket before heading down to the front door.

Levi had already strapped Furlan into his car seat and had opened the passenger door for me to climb into. As I got into my seat, I paced a chaste kiss on his cheek before he closed the car door behind me.

The entire drive was full of Furlan’s cheery voice singing his favourite Christmas songs.

“Hange!” Furlan shouted, pointing out the window as we pulled into the shopping mall car park. And sure enough, he was right. Next to her beat up pickup truck, Hange stood excitedly waving at us as we pulled into the parking space beside her in Levi’s sleek, black car.

Furlan wiggled with excitement in his seat as he anxiously waited for Levi to unstrap him so that he could rush to his Aunt.

“I didn’t know you were coming.” Levi huffed, secretly glad to see his friend.

“Y/N here mentioned that you weren’t quite done Christmas shopping, so I figured I would come and keep her company whilst you and Erwin finished shopping.” She explained happily, hugging me tightly as we laughed.

“Erwin?” Levi questioned, his eyebrow raising.

“Yep!” Hange exclaimed with glee, pointing at the white range rover that had just pulled into the car park a few spaces along from them.

Erwin exited his car with a big wave as Furlan giggled in Hange’s arms at his Godfather.

“So what, you’re shipping Erwin and I off while you two go to visit Santa?” Levi asked with his usual frown.

“Yep!” I exclaimed, kissing his cheek.

Erwin walked over to the group and immediately began to usher Levi into the mall to “escape the wrath of Hange” as he put it, since he still hadn’t managed to bring a plus one to the annual Christmas party.

Hange and I entered the shopping mall shortly after Erwin and Levi.

The plan was to look in some of the shops before heading to the ‘North Pole’ that had been set up outside of one of the larger department stores in the mall.

We would meet Levi and Erwin there, as Levi still wanted to take his son to see Santa, despite the fact that he was never a huge fan of the holiday, or the excess decorations that looked messy and cluttered when they were hung up in the bust shopping mall.

“So, what have you gotten Levi? Because I have no idea.” Hange asked.

“For Christmas, or his birthday?” I replied.

“Christmas, you know he only lets you get him birthday gifts.” Hange replied.

“I got him a new winter coat that he asked for, and a new teacup for his collection.” I replied. The teacup was tradition, so there was very little point in me even telling Hange that I had purchased it for Levi.

“Ugh, that’s boring!” Hange complained.

“Hey, you asked.” I defended. “And besides, you know Levi only ever asks for practical things if he really needs them, and even then he only asks me to get them for him.” I finished with a laugh.

“But seriously, I want to  get him something and you are literally his wife so give me answers!” She demanded, practically hanging off of my arm.

“Why don’t you get him some new gloves? He likes those leather ones but they have a hole in the pinkie.” I suggested, making Hange’s eyes roll. She never liked getting anyone practical gifts.

“But that’s boring.” She complained.

“But Levi will like it.” I mocked her tone.

“Ugh, why is your father so dull, Furlan?” Hange asked my son who clutched my hand tightly in his own.

“He’s not dull, he just has specific tastes.” Furlan recited to Hange what Levi often said to him when he didn’t want to get the pain sets out.

Hange and I both burst out laughing at my son’s robotic response, sounding exactly like his father.

“Okay, back to the topic at hand.” Hange began once again. “So I can’t get Levi anything for his birthday? Only Christmas?”

“Hange, you know the answer.” I began.

“I know! But I just figured that since they fall on the same day, it shouldn’t matter what I get him because they will blur together anyway.” She explained.

“You do have a point, but you know he doesn’t like his birthday.” I went on.

“I know. I guess I just keep hoping that one year he’ll change his mind and want to celebrate it.” Hange added with a sigh.

“What are you talking about mama?” Furlan asked.

“Your dad’s birthday.” I replied. I didn’t want to have to explain to Furlan why his father hated his birthday.

“Does daddy not like his birthday?” He asked. His large, round grey eyes staring back up at me.

“No, he doesn’t sweetie.” I replied with a smile.

“Why not?” He asked. Shit. There was that question that I didn’t want to ever have to answer.

“Well, kiddo, you know how I don’t like bananas?” Hange asked, leaning down to Furlan’s eye-level. He nodded his head. “Well, your dad just doesn’t like his birthday. He never has the whole time I’ve known him.” She finished, patting Furlan on the head and standing back up to her full height.

“Just get him the gloves so he can stop complaining about the hole in the pinkie finger.” I laughed after a brief moment of pause.

After much complaining from Hange, we managed to buy the gloves and head back to the agreed meeting spot.

Levi and Erwin stood next to one of the pillars by the makeshift ‘North Pole’, Erwin towering over Levi as usual.

“Daddy!” Furlan called as he let go of my hand and ran into his father’s arms.

“Are you excited to meet Santa bud?” Levi asked our son who beamed up at him, nodding his head frantically.

I took Furlan’s hand and led him over to the queue where he was to wait until it was his turn to sit on Santa’s lap.

The line went down quickly as each child took their turn to make their wish to Santa.

Suddenly, it was Furlan’s turn.

He walked up to Santa with a big smile on his face and giggled as Santa lifted him up onto his lap. I rejoined Levi and the others by the pillar.

“So, young man, what’s your name?” Santa asked Furlan.

“Furlan Ackerman!” He exclaimed with excitement, making Santa laugh.

“And what would you, Furlan Ackerman, like for Christmas?” He asked.

Furlan thought for a moment before answering.

“well… I have tow wishes.” He said timidly.

“Two!” Santa exclaimed. “Well, I suppose since you have been such a good boy this year, I can grant you two wishes.” Furlan smiled before answering.

“My Daddy’s birthday is on Christmas, but he doesn’t like his birthday, and I think that’s sad. So my first wish is that my Daddy likes his birthday again so we can all have fun and he can get even more presents!” I could feel Levi tense ever so slightly beside me.

“I see.” Santa paused for a second. “And what about your second wish?”

“I wish that my birthday was Christmas too, so that my Daddy and I can share a party and get more presents too!” Furlan exclaimed with excitement.

“Well.” Santa began. “I can’t change your birthday, but I’ll see if I can do anything about your father enjoying his birthday.”

Furlan beamed with joy at Santa’s words.

“Take this for yourself.” Santa held out a small wrapped package to Furlan, “ And take this for your father.”

Furlan took both gifts, thanked Santa before hurrying back to where we all waited beside the pillar.

As soon as he reached us, Furlan handed Levi the gift that Santa had given him.

“Open it.” Furlan demanded, sounding exactly like his father.

Levi hesitantly peeled back the red wrapping paper to reveal a small keyring with two wings on them. One of them blue, and the other white. It was an insignificant little keyring, but for some reason, it made Levi begin to tear up.

Then it hit you. Levi didn’t hate the idea of his birthday anymore, because he had his own family to re-write the past with.

Furlan’s wish to the mall Santa, made Levi realise how loved he truly was.

And that small, cheap keyring was a symbol of the love from a son to his father, which Levi would treasure forever.

[hannieoftheyear]

everybody gets horny on christmas (lsm)

santa's lap becomes the best place to sit when it's seokmin's face hiding behind the beard

✧.* pairing: santa!dk x fem!reader (check out the halloween chapter!)

✧.* w.c: 5k of pure filth

✧.* genre: smut!!!, crack, a little fluff sprinkled at the end, kinda pwp, there's barely a plot but hey (minors DNI)

✧.* content: santa d(ic)k, milfs go crazy over him, slight jealousy, everyone has a severe case of horniness again, cursing, both 'bad girl and 'good girl' are used, santa roleplay (?) just for a bit, explicit smut, service top!seokmin, pussy drunk!seokmin, fingering, oral (f rec.), multiple orgasms, bodily fluids, they do it on a chair, protected penetration (santa uses condoms✊ and so should you).

✧.* disclaimer: this is the christmas part 2 of the halloween au with the same name (linked above), it can be read separately but there's going to be a little context missing.

✧.* note: i just wanted to say that i wrote this for fun and is really truly unserious, and also apologize bc i suck at writing dirty talk :/ but hope you enjoy!

also i have a final in two days so wish me luck (and pray for me🙏)

special thanks to sabrina carpenter and her 'fruitcake' ep | link to the dividers used

The smell of baked chocolate chip cookies and freshly cut pine trees sneaks past the automatic doors every time a new family enters the mall. All of them are in search of the new hot spot in town. 

Even if the tradition of making kids sit on Santa's lap is terribly outdated, the kids lining up on the makeshift north pole on the center of the mall don’t seem to care, happy to be surrounded by the Christmas atmosphere and to meet Santa. 

The long line decreases gradually, kids leaving with the biggest toothy smile every few minutes, and their parents ready to figure out what they asked for. 

It’s the happiest season of the year, when everything seems possible, when kindness and friendship rule everyone’s relationships. That’s primarily the reason why you’re even in the line in the first place. Your friends dragged you to see the ridiculous suit Seokmin had to wear for his new job and make fun of him a little, all while showing up to support him. 

“Is it just me or is the line full of single moms?” 

Standing all the way on the back of the line, your friends are analyzing the people waiting while you’re just looking at them, eyes switching from each man to the next in a matter of seconds, tapping one foot on the ground with no patience and avoiding to look at the man working as Santa. 

“Why are you so fidgety?” Soonyoung’s the only one who’s not checking out every person in line. 

“I’m not! I’m a little tired that’s all, I don’t want to be here anymore.” 

“Surely this doesn’t have to do anything with our friend Santa Claus, right?” 

“I just don’t wanna be seen in this line full of kids. It's embarrassing.” Avoiding the question won’t work, but it’s all the defense you have at the moment. 

“No one here cares, and Chan’s right. The moms are going crazy over our Seokminnie.” 

Following Mingyu’s eyes, your gaze sits on a blonde lady standing right beside her kid, who’s already sitting on Seokmin’s lap, but the mom looks more interested in asking him questions than the little girl. 

“Yeah, I noticed.” 

The way your arms cross immediately is a dead giveaway that it actually bothers you, and by that time, your three friends are staring at you, expecting a reaction. 

“You two have been weird since Halloween.” Chan, not so innocently as it seems, brings back the topic you so badly want to avoid. 

“What do you mean? We're not being weird. Everything’s the same.” You protest.

“Yeah, except for the fact that you had his dick in your m–" 

“Oh my fucking God, shut up! There are kids around!” 

Your whisper-shout draws more attention than Soonyoung’s statement, getting you a few weird looks from the parents behind you on the line. He not only has no filter but also lives to torture you since that day. 

“Shit, I still can't believe they really did it.” Mingyu talks more to himself than to you, and that’s weirdly offensive? 

“I’m standing right here!” 

“Is it big? He never lets us see it.” Soonyoung shamelessly asks, without an ounce of embarrassment. 

“I can’t believe this.” 

Your only option is to look away from them, meaning straight to Seokmin, right when a lady attempts to sit on him “jokingly” while security –a minimum wage worker dressed as an elf, asks her to leave. 

“Bro, c’mon what the hell.” Even Chan has a limit of Soonyoung’s unserious thoughts he can hear. 

“What?”

Mingyu shakes his head in awe, not even answering Soonyoung’s question before going back to interrogating you. 

“Did anything happen after that?” 

The line moves forward, and in that second, when everyone’s focused on taking two steps, you seriously consider running away from the mall at full speed. 

“It was just a one-time thing, no big deal.” Maybe the cold wind entering through the doors can serve as an excuse for how red your face is probably getting. 

“Yeah, sure. You know, every time your name comes up and you’re not there, he starts shivering like a chihuahua.” 

“You two stay over a five feet radius away from each other at every party we go to.” 

“I saw how you reacted the other day when that girl was all over him at the sorority party.” 

“Are you all analyzing our every fucking move?” 

Maybe it’s been weird, but for them to notice even when they’re drunk means you’ve been doing a very bad job at hiding it. 

“We’re just worried about you both, that’s all.” Mingyu softly puts his hand on your shoulder, and you truly believe his words. 

“There’s nothing to worry about! We talked about it, and everything’s cool. Now, let’s leave the topic to die here, alright?” 

The silence is so loud, it’s obvious they still have questions, and it’s obvious you’re not gonna answer them. Not when the line starts moving forward again, and suddenly you’re one family away from being the next to be called on by the elf staff. 

Seokmin's eyes find yours just as the kid hops off his lap, smiling brightly at his parents and leaving the mall altogether. You’re frozen in place, and Soonyoung behind you is whistling teasingly as one of the staff repeatedly asks you to step forward. They were right. You are being weird. It is weird. But because they don’t know the whole story. 

A hand pushes your back slightly to the front, and you see yourself walking towards the hottest Santa you’ve ever seen. The loose red suit makes his frame appear impossibly broader, and he’s manspreading in a way that has your heart pounding. 

“W-welcome young lady.” Seokmin stutters in his Santa voice, forgetting his signature ‘ho, ho, ho’. 

One look back at the line, and you’re already regretting it. Your three friends are looking in your direction like you’re Ryan Gosling and Rachel McAdams on the verge of making out. But just to their right, the staff looks at you, bored and tired, almost screaming at you to hurry the hell up. 

Your legs tremble as you finally sit on Santa's lap, and the energy radiating from him is breathtaking. Something about you being visibly flustered must elevate his confidence through the roof, because as soon as you’re on top of his thighs, one hand places itself softly on your back, and the other teasing on top of your thigh, not outrageously high, but high enough that you know it’s on purpose. 

“What does this young lady want for Christmas?” 

The voice he’s been practicing comes out squeakier than he'd like, your arm wrapped around the side of his neck, causing unpredicted consequences. 

“I'd like for my friends to stop being so annoying.” Jokes are always a good way to lessen the atmosphere, right? 

“Have you been a good girl this year?” Seokmin's hand tightens on your thigh, erupting a fire on parts of your body that shouldn’t be getting woken up in public. “Only girls who behave get their presents.” 

The lower part of his face is covered by an ugly synthetic white beard, but something in the sound if his voice tells you there’s a growing smirk on his lips, hiding, teasing you in front of everyone. It would be so easy to just yank the beard off and wipe that smirk off his face, press your mouth against his until neither of you are able to breathe. 

“Santa should give presents to everyone.” It’s a miracle that you’re able to form one coherent sentence. 

A low chuckle escapes from him, and the feeling that he’s still not finished with you creeps up your spine, goosebumps appearing up to your neck as his face gets close to your ear. 

“Only the ones who didn’t behave say things like that.” 

His arm around your waist makes you hyper aware of everything around you. Or more like him so around you. 

“The guys have been asking questions.” Another try to ease the tension that quickly proves to be pointless as Seokmin seems to be on a mission. 

Your eyes don’t know where to go, staring at his focused gaze on your lips. His face gets ever so slightly closer to yours, the little hairs on your cheek perking up at the sensation, all while his hot breath fans over the side of your face, and his hand holds your jaw as his thumb grazes the apple of your cheek, brushing an eyelash with so much care, you almost melt right there on his lap. 

“Let them ask.”

At the end of those simple words, his eyes connect with yours, and his stare brings a new meaning to what he said, one that begins heating up your insides and blushing your whole face. Your brain works hard to produce any kind of response, but Seokmin has rendered you speechless. 

A soft cough drives his eyes away from you, and his hold on you shifts uncomfortably, like he’s just now realizing he’s in front of at least fifty people. The elf handling the line taps his foot impatiently against the floor, his arms crossed and rolling his eyes as both you and Seokmin look at him incredulously. 

“Come have dinner at my place.” Seokmin whispers as you motion to get off of him.

You instantly miss the warmth of him below you, sturdy and holding onto you for dear life. You can only nod with a quiet ‘okay’ as the staff rushes the next kid onto Seokmin’s lap, your friends nowhere to be seen. 

Why does your hand tremble as it reaches the door handle when you’ve done it a ton of times already? 

Seokmin had sent you a cryptic text right after the disastrous meeting that had your friends bullying and interrogating you all the way back to your home, about him leaving his door unlocked and letting yourself in, eliciting at least ten questions from your part, but he remained silent after his instructions. Now, you’re left expectant as you nervously talk yourself into opening the damn door. No suspicious noise can be heard from outside, and as you turn the handle and push the door open, the warmth of recently lit candles envelops you. 

“Seokminnie?” The smell of the promised food welcomes you in as you close the door behind you. 

The shy steps you take into Seokmin’s apartment after hanging your jacket provide you with a slightly better view of the Christmas themed dining room he’s set up, and from the corner of your eye, you catch a red human figure sitting on one of the chairs, intimidating you as you realize what it is. 

“What are you still doing in the suit?” You ask with a chuckle. 

“Come here.” 

He signals for you to sit on his lap, manspreading on the wooden chair as his body calls your name. The cheap plastic beard is nowhere to be seen, but he’s still wearing the weirdly nice fitting suit, burning red just like the fire heating up the room the closer you get to him. 

“You know, the guys are catching up to us.”  

It’s much more comfortable to be alone with him, sitting on his lap and letting his arms wrap around your waist as tight as he wants. You don’t fight the urge to connect your mouths together, not letting him reply to your statement as you press your lips against his, and he doesn’t even attempt to tease you, molding his shape to yours, holding your chest close to his with no way to escape. 

“Yeah, they’ve been interrogating me too.” Seokmin replies, half of his brain paying attention to you and the other half concentrating on squeezing your thighs. 

“We sh-should do something.” 

Getting lost in the feeling of his lips is too easy, erasing any stray reasonable thought from your mind. As his hands hold and touch any part of your body they want, be it your arched back, your chest or your thighs, and his tongue licks your lower lip like he wants you to go insane, you moan against him, and he takes it as a reminder of why he asked you to come to his apartment in the first place.

“Hmm, you’re not behaving much, aren’t you?” 

You almost let out a chuckle as he strays his face away from yours just as one of his hands creeps up your inner thigh, squeezing to draw your attention where he wants. But he doesn’t go any nearer to where you’re starting to need him the most. 

“Does that mean you’re putting me on the naughty list?” 

Nothing you say when you’re on top of him is embarrassing, you’ve learned, as Seokmin seems to like every sound that comes out of your mouth regardless. His hand trembles at your words, instinctively daring to graze the crevice of your inner thigh before moving away from your legs altogether. 

“Between us,” he says, voice low right by your ear, “I think I can give you another chance.” 

“Really? What should I do?” You don’t dare move in his hold, his thighs hard under your expecting ones. 

Seokmin refuses to let you connect your lips, drawing back with a smirk when you try. The hand that’s still on your body caresses the side of your cheek, so softly you almost hum as you lean into his touch. His fingers trace your jaw down to the side of your neck, and you have no other choice than to flutter your eyes closed and enjoy his teasing. 

“Be a good girl while I do what I want with you.” 

His lips graze your ear again, going down to leave wet kisses on the side of your neck as his hand continues to travel down the side of your arm, leaving a trail of goosebumps under his cold fingers. 

Your mouth agapes, wanting to say something, anything, but he reaches the hem of the jeans you decided to wear, and only a sigh leaves you as his fingers sneak under the fabric, touching from your back to your lower tummy as he sucks on the sensitive skin of your neck. 

“What do you want to do with me?” Your words come out completely breathless, and he chuckles against your skin. 

Wordless, his reply comes in the form of his hands at both side of your hips, lifting you up easily and sitting you down on the empty chair, his body kneeling in front of you in one swift move. Somehow, your jeans hang loose around your legs, already unbuttoned, and he yanks them down expertly. 

Seokmin’s eyes, wide open in marvel, scan over your bare legs, with goosebumps erupting from top to bottom at the sudden loss of the warm fabric. His head in between your open legs, almost naked only for him, just like your every fantasy since that first time. 

“I once promised you,” His lips graze your left knee as he speaks, hot breath against your cold skin sending shivers up your spine, “that I’d make you feel good.” 

“You’ve been very bad too.” You remember exactly the promise he had made, and remember every time you’ve been together since, never fulfilling it. “I thought you’d forgotten.” 

He shakes his head quickly as a reply. “I can make it up to you,” Seokmin’s soft slender hands massage your thighs open, slotting his torso in between them like that space was made for him, “but you have to be good for me.” 

His breath fans so close to your already craving core, he could purse his lips and they’d make contact with your covered folds, but he sways ever so slightly to the side, leaving a chaste kiss on the crevice on your inner thigh, a thousand miles away from where he knows you need him. 

“What do you want me to do?” Your fingers interlock with his as he continues groping anywhere his hands manage to go, pressing them harder against you in search for more of his touch. 

“Take what I give you.” He sneaks under the hem of your panties, barely grazing at your sensitive skin, with feathery light touches and teasing scrapes of his nails as he slips the wet fabric down your legs. 

“You’re not giving me anything right now.” 

The cold air making its way over your core contrasts with the heated blush Seokmin’s eyes erupt all over your body as he stares in awe at your wet folds. 

“So ready for me." A hum reverberates to mix with his words, and his approval sends a wave of arousal straight to your center. 

Having no other thoughts, you can only half-moan and nod at his words, locking eyes with him as he leaves a trail of kisses on the soft flesh of your inner thighs, each one closer and closer to your pulsing core, but as he's about to graze your lower lips, he skips your heat and directs his mouth to your other leg, never ending the teasing. 

Your legs open further on instinct, as if to persuade him into pleasing you once and for all. His fingers dare to spread your folds, the wet sound reaching your ears, his shy touch making you squirm on the chair. Something tells you that asking him to speed up won’t help you, so you only move one hand to the back of his neck, caressing his nape to encourage him.

The first lick of his tongue comes as a surprise, long and pointy right at your center, and the hand that was resting on his neck pulls at his hair, making him groan and sending vibrations through your whole body. 

Seokmin knows exactly when to slow down, licking your cunt up and down and sucking just where he knows you’ll like. Your insides clench against nothing, empty and leaking arousal as his lips wrap around your clit. But he drinks all of your juices, his tongue collecting your wetness like a dehydrated man. 

With his tongue focused on your hole, prodding timidly inside you as your walls beg to be stretched, your hands fly to his hair, keeping his face in place as the tip of his nose brushes your clit just right. He moans right into your cunt, enjoying the pull of his hair as you use him for your pleasure. Your throat hurts from moaning uncontrollably as your orgasm approaches at the speed of light. 

Not even in your imagination would you have pictured yourself getting so worked up so fast by a man going down on you, but that’s just Seokmin, being gentler and more skilled than most, eager to find every stop that has you squirming on top of him. 

His hands try to keep your legs open for him as you spasm with each swipe of his tongue, getting faster and faster the more he notices how close you are. And as he focuses his all on teasing your clit, you come undone at the rhythm of his moans against you. 

He makes out with your pussy mercilessly, prolonging your orgasm and making your legs tremble harder at his sides, almost closing around his head if it wasn’t for him holding them where he wants. The unholy wet sounds don’t stop and waves of arousal keep crashing down on you, the big smirk across his lips can be felt even through the filthiness of the act, and when he doesn’t move away when you start feeling overstimulated, you finally find your voice again.

“Hmm, Minnie, god.” Cracked and hoarse, it’s a miracle he even heard your words. Your hands try to push his head away, but one look into his eyes, and the motion stops immediately. 

“You promised you'd take everything.” The fingers that were holding onto the flesh of your thighs sneak to your wet, still sensitive center, collecting any remaining juices Seokmin didn’t get to drink. 

“Fuck, yes, I did.” Even a bare graze of his fingers has you breathless, ready for more in an instant. 

“Do you still want it?” Somehow, his doe eyes mix with his teasing glare, pretending to ask when in reality he knows your answer. 

“Yes.” One-word replies might be your best option to answer him, as moans and whines get stuck on your throat at the motions of his fingers, spreading your wet folds open and teasing your needy hole. “Please.” 

“Good,” without any more warning, Seokmin plunges two fingers inside you, receiving no resistance, “it’s my job to give my good girl anything she wants.” 

His hand begins working towards filling you up, molding your gummy walls to the shape of his fingers. Wet sounds fill Seokmin’s dining room, the food he prepared cold and forgotten in the kitchen, and the only other sounds echoing are your breathy moans and his occasional grunts. 

Seokmin’s tongue goes back to its place, torturing your clit as his fingers find your sweet spot, abusing it as you feel yourself getting wetter, if even possible. He thrusts harder, sharper, drilling into you and making your arousal drip onto the wooden chair. 

The red of his hair stands out tangled between your fingers as you try to press his face impossibly closer to your core. He moans in response, as if being pressed in between your legs is more pleasurable to him than to you. 

Locking eyes with him below you, the blushy filthiness of it all mixes with the oversensitivity from too recent orgasm, getting you close to another one faster than ever before. It’s too much, but you crave more, need more, and your walls clamp against Seokmin’s fingers, making it harder for him to pound them into you, but he persists, with pointy and determined thrusts that form stars on your vision. 

A whiny scream erupts out of you as he sucks on your clit, everything combined blurring every one of your senses and causing spasms all across your body as you come on his fingers.

The sinful sight of Seokmin licking his fingers clean is forever burned on your eyelids, and will hunt you even in your sleep. But before he has the chance of slipping his tongue between your folds again, you stand up and force him to sit down on your place. 

“It’s my turn to give now.” He just stares at you, brow lifting teasingly, waiting for your next move. There’s so much you could do, but the throbbing between your legs calls for only one thing, sitting in front of you. From the new angle, the outline of his very hard cock outshines the rest of his body, the thin red fabric loosely sits over the boner he doesn’t even try to hide. 

In what feels like a millisecond, you yank his pants and boxers down in one move, freeing him from his confines, but deliberately leaving the top of his costume on. 

His bare skin below yours, as you sit down on top of him, legs at both sides of his hips, feels so hot you almost don’t feel the drop in temperature in the room. His hard length springs up against your lower belly, furiously pink and ready for whatever. 

Your mouths crash in need, his hands on your back flushing you against him as your hands push his head further against you. It’s hard and needy, passionate as he always is, but somehow determined and not sloppy. 

The frenetic closeness traps his cock between your bodies, a never-ending friction as you grind against him. The top half of your clothes are still on the way, the hands creeping under the hem of your shirt indicating he wants yours off immediately, but refuses to let go of your lips. 

“Tell me you have a condom.” You manage to mumble with his mouth still gliding over yours. 

A ruffle sound echoes from your side, Seokmin’s hand searching eagerly around his pocket for what you asked. You’re not about to question if he had a condom there all day, just go on with it. 

You reluctantly separate your faces, both of you in a rush, nearing the desperate territory, to have him inside you. He throws his head back as your hands slide the condom down his length, the touch of your hands too much for him to handle. His hands grip your hips in an effort to help you lift your body, lining your entrance with his leaking tip. 

The mix of his spit and your arousal makes it easy for him to slide all the way down until you’re sitting on top of him again, his length stretching you just perfectly. You both take a second to breath as you get used to being filled completely, molded to his shape already. 

“You always take me so well.” He moans as he dares looking you right in the eyes. 

Only a smirk shows on your face as an answer, your hands moving down to open the red jacket he’s still wearing, unbuttoning it one by one and letting yourself feel his abs tensing under your teasing touch. Slowly but surely, his whole chest is finally revealed to you, but his hands refuse to leave your body, and the top half of his suit stays on. 

His hands on your ass press your body against him, inciting you to start moving before he loses his mind.

With your hands on his chest for support, you start grinding on him softly, feeling the veins of his cock dragging inside you at a tortuous pace. Seokmin knows no restrain when he’s inside you, so he groans and moans at every clench of your walls, unknowingly succeeding in making you do it more often and into speeding up the pace.

His hands eagerly creep inside your shirt, crunching it up like he desperately wants to see you bare on top of him. As soon as it’s off, his hands are on your tits, groping them as if it was his first time seeing them.

He grinds against you, following your rhythm and speeding the rush of both of your highs. Your walls tighten hard around his cock, feeling him twitching even through every move.

A loud moan gets out of you when his cock reaches that spot inside you that takes you to another dimension, and he immediately presses your lips together, a messy and wet make out that does little to muffle both of your moans.

The chair creeks below you as you test its limits, but it’s the least of your worries when he starts lifting his hips to meet you, the strength of his thighs even making you bounce on him slightly.

When one of his hands leaves its place on your chest to sneak between you and torture your clit even more, a guttural moan leaves you. He doesn’t stop, his thrusts getting as hard as possible as he chases your orgasms.

Walls already sensitive from your previous highs, and your swollen clit getting stimulated more and more, there’s only so much you can take before you start trembling on top of him.

Your third orgasm crashes over you hard, blurring any other sense that isn’t Seokmin’s cock dragging inside you.

And there’s so much tight clenching of your warm walls around him that he can take before he’s coming into the condom, twitching uncontrollably and slowly stopping his shallow thrusts.

Your lips come together once more, soft and lazy as you come down of your highs.

There’s a comfortable silence surrounding you. Even after you’ve both cleaned up and dressed up again, you find yourselves back on the same position, you sitting on his lap as he softly traces circles on your back, your breathings coordinated as you enjoy each other’s warmth.

“Do you think we should tell the guys?” Your whisper breaks the silence, the uncertain question making Seokmin’s ears perk up.

“I thought you didn’t want them to make fun of us.” His head lowers to look for your eyes, but you’re insisting on looking down.

“I know I said that but,” the sentence gets cut short, doubt and fear creeping up on your mind, but his hand comforting you encourages you to keep going, “today, you sounded like you don’t care.”

“Would it be bad if I didn't?” His sweet voice finally drives your eyes up to his, and the smile across his lips is big enough to make you melt.

“I– No, actually–“ You really try to say something that isn’t a mumble of nonsense, but it’s impossible. The matching smile plastered on your lips gives away how you feel, and he helps you gather your thoughts.

“They’re gonna be worse than ever.” Seokmin states.

You nod, holding back a cackle.

“But it’s nothing we can’t take.” He continues.

“Yeah, right.” You agree, even though a with a little doubt.

“It’s us two against them.”

“Right.”

“We can destroy them. "

“Exactly.”

“And do you want to be my girlfriend?”

The back and forth almost makes you answer automatically, and when you realize exactly what Seokmin was asking you, you freeze. Mouth agape and wide eyes, it’s not like you would ever say no to him, but he has taken a liking on taking you by surprise.

Your silence freaks him out, but as you straighten your posture on his lap and wrap your arms around his neck, you reply, “I’d love to be your girlfriend Lee Seokmin.”

His toothy smile widens impressively, his eyes curving like crescent moons right before he connects your lips again.

It’s different from before, a new feeling mixed in with the moving of your lips, welcomed fully as his hands caress your back again, with so much care you'd think he was afraid.

But that’s just who he is, who he always was. Your friend Seokmin. Your caring and loving Seokmin. Your boyfriend Seokmin.

heyyyyy happy holidays to everyone! hope you enjoyed this! ♥︎

lmk if you'd like another part! I love this couple, and I'm not opposed to writing an Easter chapter of this series :D

[wintfleur]

WINTFLEUR'S ADVENT CALENDAR ⊹

━━━ ❛ everybody come have yourself a beautiful christmas

🧦 ━━━ ‘ 𝓬heck it, 𝔀ishlist! ’ is a 𝓌intfleur christmas 𝓼pecial of a collection of blurbs & smau’s for some of my 𝓯avorite people , my oc’s , and of course 𝔂ou my 𝓁ovely readers

𝓢. you can suggest prompts from one of these 3 lists O1.☃️ O2.👛 O3.❄️ for one of my au’s or for a x reader! 𝓹lease specify which prompts you are referring to by using the emoji for the designated list , here is who I write for . . . and 𝓁astly , enjoy your beautiful christmas !

🗯️ ━━ ‘check it, wishlist!’ starting now !

𝓼eason one

season one includes smau’s of my ocs’s during christmas

OO1. SANTA TELL ME

⤷ stella hughes and rutger enjoy a christmas trip in the snowy mountains

OO2. MISTLETOE

⤷ gwen caufield and juraj slafkovský enjoy their christmas abroad

OO3. A NONSENSE CHRISTMAS

⤷ julie leclerc, mat and quinn have a romantic christmas

OO4. LAST CHRISTMAS

⤷ ophelia lazar spends her first christmas with jack and his family

OO5. UNDERNEATH THE TREE

⤷ rosa hughes is surprised when she sees her boyfriend Cole underneath the tree

OO6. I’VE GOT LOVE TO KEEP ME WARM

⤷ iris auclair doesn’t need to worry about the cold when she has her boyfriend Luke Hughes to warm her up

OO7. MY ONLY WISH

⤷ Heather Hughes and her boyfriend Joe burrow enjoy a white christmas

𝓼eason two

season two includes all of my au requests

𝓼eason three

season three includes all of my x reader requests

OO1. SAY RUDOLPH!

⤷ ‘jokingly going up to the santas at the mall and embarrassing the other one’ with 𝓆uinn 𝒽ughes

𝓻oro’s note. SOOO i originally wasn’t going to make a Christmas event . . . but i decided to try it out!! I’m going to try to get out as much as i can, but i please ask for some patience because i am not the fast writer!! i hope you enjoy it all, and if the top doesn’t make sense, basically you can just send in a request using one of these promos, it can be for one of my aus or just a x reader! . . . hehe Heather and Iris are two ocs that I’m still working on, there masterlists are not posted yet :3 so it’s a little sneak peak. HAPPY CHRISTMAS ☃️

EVENT CLOSES DECEMBER 30th

everything for this event is under #🧦 — 𝓬heck it, 𝔀ishlist! ²⁰²⁴ ⊹

m.list

˖ ་ taglist ; @lovings4turn @lesrflms @winterbarnesblog @toasttt11 @winterbarnesblog @iceflwers @cixrosie @copper-boom @partyinpitlane @c-losur3 @bunbunbl0gs @petite-potato4 @ru-kru @alwaysclassyeagle @theopenlocker @callsignwidow @willowpains

©️WINTFLEUR ; you can't copy, translate, reproduce, repost my fic, use my plot or layout.

[the-kr8tor]

Mr and Mrs Smith AU: When Jane met John

Pairing: Hobie Brown x fem! Reader

Word count: 9k

Summary: Joining a spy agency? Check ✓ Hired in said agency? Check ✓ Getting a new fancy house? Check ✓ An entire armoury of weapons at your disposal? Check ✓ A new Husband? Check ✓ wait, what?

Tags: Use of Y/N sparsely, no specific physical description of the reader (except for her clothing), Hobie and R call each other by fake names (ie: John, Jane, Smith etc), spy AU, CW suggestive, CW food mentions, TW blood, CW violence, CW vomit mention, TW death.

A/N: Happy 1k! Happy reading!!!❤️

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Buy me a ☕?

The waiting room seems like it's designed to make you extra anxious. From the bright fluorescent lights that whir above, to the carpet that smells like a very harsh citrus soap. Add the metallic chairs that's incredibly cold under your slacks— It all makes you bounce your leg from the bundle of nerves inside your stomach. The people waiting around you don't help either, they all look like they came out of magazine covers. Hair all tied up in a perfect bun, pencil skirts that cinch their waist perfectly. Button ups that are ironed until there's no crease in sight.

You bite your lip, eyes glued on the steel door, to where your last resort is, to where your entire future depends on. Looking around the room full of models, it doesn't seem like you're applying for a security job.

Maybe you should've worn that pencil skirt that's gathering dust in your closet.

Even though you technically don't know what kind of job it is, you really need to get this one, or else. Your savings could only get you so far. An old ‘friend’ of yours recommended this ‘company’. It operates at the highest security, the risk is just as high, but the pay is higher. More than what you've ever earned in the five years you've worked anyway.

Flicking your eyes above the door, the light finally turns green from red, and a chiming sound can be heard as the door clicks open on its own. You still wonder where the applicant goes after their interview since you never saw them exit out the same door. A morbid thought passes by your mind: a gun plus a bullet to the head. The image makes you grab the rubber band on your wrist to slap it against your skin. It leaves the stinging pain for only a moment, but it's enough to throw away the vision from your brain.

An applicant enters and you look down at the piece of paper in your hand— you're next.

The number, 2715 is written in Times New Roman. You can recognize that font anywhere, for it's the same font used on newer gravestones, the same font on his— you slap the rubber band against your wrist again. This time harder than the last. The stinging stays for a minute more. Your heels tap against the carpet, the clock ticks, the fluorescent whirs, someone coughs and you want to punch them in the face— you slap the rubber band against your skin again.

Your ears perk up at the familiar chime like you've been Pavlov’d by the sound after waiting for three hours on that uncomfortable metal chair that has tiny holes that you've gotten your pinky finger stuck in on hour two.

With a deep breath, you saunter your way towards the creaking door, trying to summon all the confidence in your body. They may be watching so you do your best to not look as nervous as you feel like.

As you enter the room, the large screen in the center raises a curious brow. The light from the monitor shines a spotlight on the singular office chair right in front of it. The room is dim, save for the single light. The screen reminds you of one of those mall touch screens that shows you the map of the building. There's another door on the opposite wall, now you know where all the other candidates exit, and it's definitely not from a bullet judging from the clean floors.

With a tentative step, you cross the distance. Sitting down, the chair is a comfortable welcome from the last one you sat on.

“Am I supposed to push a button?” You roam your eyes over the circular shape up top. You surmise that it's the camera.

The calming sky blue screen flashes words,

> Hihi, welcome

“Hi?”

> Insert nail clippings

A box slides out below the screen, prompting you to take the ziplock with your nail clippings from your bag. It slides back in with a mechanic hiss once you place the plastic on the drawer, and the screen blinks to a couple of questions that you answer honestly.

> What's your ethnicity?

You don't falter. Answering it truthfully.

> Height?

You clear your throat, the lump is either from the nerves or how your voice faltered when you answered.

> Are you willing to relocate?

You wring your hands together on your lap. “Yes, absolutely. Nothing's holding me back.” Then the dreaded question pops up on the bright screen.

> Tell me about yourself

“Uh, I graduated top of my class.” You scratch the back of your neck. “MI6 agent for three–no, uh four years.” Chuckling shakily, you continue. “I got high merits…w-well until the thing— but I was on the road to promotion b-before it happened.” God, you hate interviews.

> Words that people would describe you with?

You blink, sucking in a breath. “Truthfully?” Joking, the screen doesn't appreciate your humour.

> Yes

“Oh, p-people would describe me as a… someone who has initiative. Cunning…” unfeeling— you slap the band on your wrist again. Sitting up right, you gaze at the camera like your eyes could see the person typing behind it. You guess it's a person at least. “Passed all my training with flying colours, infiltration, marksmanship, hand to hand, you name it. You tell me the job and I'll do it with no questions asked.”

> Are you okay with high risk?

“More than okay.” You answer quickly.

> With a team or alone?

“I'm alright with either, but I prefer alone.”

> Why did you get fired?

“You know why.” You say intensely, eyes boring holes into the screen. For a second you thought you flubbed it but the screen continues to flash a new question.

> Have you killed anyone?

> And why?

The question turns into what you're more accustomed to. “Yes, approximately…” you inhale sharply. “Forty three. Two unintentionally, the rest with various…weapons.” You mindlessly play with the loose thread of your blazer to get rid of the flashing images in your head. “As for why, that's confidential information.”

The robot or the person behind the screen seems to accept your vague answers for it moves on with the interview.

> Favourite food?

Your eyebrows knit at the sudden turn of question. “Uh, I have a sweet tooth, ice cream. I think. But I can't resist good popcorn.” Your tone wavers at the end.

> Have you been in love?

You laugh, but the question still flashes on screen, unchanged and unamused. Clamping up, you feel for the rubber on your wrist.

“I-I'm sorry but what is this part for?”

The screen remains the same.

“—No,” you remember that they've probably already known everything about you even before you applied. So you decide to answer vaguely, that seems to work out before. “Once, just once.”

> When was the last time you said ‘I love you?’

“A long time ago.”

> To whom?

“You know who.”

—

You're surprised that you got the job even after the disastrous interview. The suitcase is light in your tightly clasped hand. The belongings you've tossed inside are sparse, only packing the ones you only need.

The large wooden door looms in front of you, the street behind you is bustling and right across your new home is an expansive park. A park that looks like you need to pay just to get inside. The neighborhood that you're situated in can be described as exclusive, rich and very suburban. The kind of setting where parents would do anything to raise their kids in. Something you've never thought in your dangerous life to live in, more so even step foot in.

With an exhale, you unlock the door. It clicks open surprisingly, you doubted the company for a second when you pushed it in. Maybe they gave you the wrong address? Maybe something went wrong in their system and your name popped up instead of someone more worthy? Someone who's a better shot, someone who isn't as bat shit insane as you.

The long hallway greets you, the low warm light brings comfort to your rattling bones. Its carpet runner is soft beneath your sneakers, red and blue threads weaved around the thick cloth. Framed art is posted on the walls, the artist's name you recognize from some pretentious reality tv about selling mansions that you once drunkenly watched alone on a friday night.

You leave your baggage in the hallway. Opting to explore the cinnamon scented home. Its rich walls remind you of chocolate that you once got for your birthday. The furniture doesn't look like it came from Ikea, the oak is sturdy under your palm, no rough surface, no protruding nails that slashes your flesh.

You snap the rubber band on your wrist for the umpteenth time today.

There's an ornate door sitting on your right, robins and roses are carved on the wood. The biometric scanner is placed right next to the door, it’s a stark contrast to the traditional home. Flipping the cover open, you place your thumb on the smooth surface of the scanner. After a half second, the door clicks open, revealing a steel elevator. The bright light above it almost blinds you.

Your curiosity makes you enter the steel cage, roaming your eyes, you spot the buttons.

“Might as well.” You say to the emptiness of the house.

As the elevator door closes, the front door opens.

There's a lack of elevator music, perhaps that's the best since you always hated the cheery chiming of it. The second the door opens, you take a peek inside. The weird smell combination of chlorine and butter hits your nose.

“Holy shit,” you mumble in disbelief at the indoor pool and theatre. “A fucking pool under the house? And a fucking theatre screen in front? Which rich fuck decided that?” Your voice echoes, bouncing off the tiled walls of the pool.

Roaming the large room, eyes wide and strides small, you marvel at the high ceilings with the same warm tone lights hidden in the coves to soften the lights. You crouch down, letting the warm water lap at your hand.

There's a handful of sun loungers on the side, tables in between them for drinks and whatever rich people put on it. A projector hangs above the pool, an electrical hazard, you thought and an image of an entire pool party getting electrocuted lingers in your mind. You snap the rubber band against your wrist.

The popcorn machine helps distract you from the intrusive thought. Opening the machine, the popped kernels are still warm against your skin. You quickly scoop up a handful of it in your palm, the butter slicking your hand and your mouth as you eat it like how a baby deer eats grass.

You've had enough of the overly decorated basement, getting back on the elevator, you finish off your popcorn with one big bite. Still chewing, you wipe your hands on your trousers to press the shiny buttons on the elevator. The doors close as you chew loudly, eyes up on the screen showing the floors of the house, you don't notice the stranger standing outside of the opened doors.

Butter on your lips, you almost smack him on his pretty face.

“Christ!” You yelp, almost choking on a kernel.

“Close, but no.” He smirks, eyes flicking at the sheen on your lips.

Your husband, the title echoes in your popcorn filled head. His smile captures your attention, a ten megawatt grin that could power the entire posh neighborhood. His piercings glimmer in the warm light, and your eyes are glued to the ones on his eyebrows. Hazel eyes, the left one seems to be lighter than the other, watercolour eyes stare back at you, scanning your features. If you stare long enough you swear you can see patches of green and gray in those expressive eyes.

“John Smith.” He introduces himself, your husband, your partner. John doesn't raise his ringed hand for you to shake, instead he nods at you, waiting patiently for you to say your name. As if he doesn't know.

Clearing your kernel filled throat, you quickly run your tongue across your teeth (with your mouth closed of course) because you don't want to embarrass yourself further by having popcorn stuck in your teeth.

“Jane, Jane Smith.” You reach towards him to shake his hand, he raises a brow at you in turn.

“I don't do that, love, sorry.”

“Shake hands?”

“Yeah,” he looks to the left of your face, his eyebrow twitches slightly— a tell.

“Are you a germaphobe?” You ask before you could stop yourself.

“Not really, I've got issues…with intimacy.” John shrugs, the metals on his leather jacket clinks together. You think he'd rather be a model or a rock star instead of a spy with how he dresses and carries himself with confidence.

You smile knowingly, “We all do, but you don't have that issue. It's our first day of marriage and you decide to lie to your wife?” You click your tongue, eyebrow raised. “Not a very good first impression, John.”

He'll never get used to being called that basic name. ‘John’ takes your hand, it's warm, searing hot under your slippery hand. You'd thought his warmth would cook your flesh, you guess the butter on your palm would work wonders. You're starting to regret snacking. The calluses on his palm matches your own, a large scar across his palm tells you a story untold. Silver rings decorate his long fingers. There's a more simple silver bracelet on his wrist, a stark contrast to the ornate rings he sports on both hands.

He's handsome, you think, rightfully so. With his chiseled jaw that rivals any greek statue and eyes that could be mistaken for stars; he's tall too, so that's a plus. You lucked out on the fake husband department. Well, there's worse men to fake marry out there. Just judging from first impressions, you're glad he's the one you have on your side,

“How'd you know?” He asks, eyes narrowed.

“I'm very perceptive.”

“Trained?”

“Nope,” you hide your bundle of nerves with your casual tone. His hand is still clasped on your own, you don't notice it. “Just very good at reading people.”

“Did you have a stint at the BAU too?”

Too? You ignore it for now. “No,” chuckling, you finally notice the heat on your palm so you let him go. “Just…natural talent, I guess.”

“What’s under the house?” John asks, stepping aside so you could exit the elevator.

“A beating heart.” You curse yourself, fingers already reaching for the rubber band on your wrist.

To your surprise, John laughs. The sound is genuine, eyes crinkling in the corners. “I got the reference.”

“I figured.”

“I saw a black box in the office, you wanna check it out?” He points behind him with his thumb.

“Why? Do you think there's a beating heart in there too?”

“Maybe.” He plays along, walking beside you. “You never know with the company, for all we know there's a head in there.”

“Morbid.” You joke as he opens the door for you.

“Says you?” John keeps reminding himself of his real name whilst he memorizes the side of your face. He already wants to tell you his real name, not the one assigned to him by the suits behind the faceless screen he has grown familiar with. He says his name in his mind again, if he accidentally blurted it out, well, c'est la vie.

“Says me,” you shrug casually, trying to keep up with his wit and charm. You already think you're losing. You scrunch your face at the painting above the mantle. It's an art of two lovers doing the tango, if tango excludes clothes and includes intense snogging.

He chuckles right next to you, an airy laugh that has you smiling too. “A very brave choice. Not my taste, but whatever floats the company's boat. What's inside is a bit better though.” Your ‘husband’ reaches towards the frame of the painting, gently pressing down, it releases a metallic click as it reveals a secret compartment full of weapons.

You hide a snort behind your hand. The cabinet reminds you of your own. Unimpressed, you flick your eyes down at the office table, the large black box sitting on top of it is just begging to be opened.

Without a second thought, you open it. Taking out the bottle of expensive looking wine, you read the card that is tied in a neat ribbon around the neck.

“‘Good luck on your first day of marriage’” you look at the man beside you. He's incredibly close to you, his elbow grazing yours, lips slightly parted whilst he takes a peek at the wine. He smells of burgundy and leather, it calms your senses for some odd reason. “I prefer coke.” You practically shove the bottle in his hands. The glass clinks against his metal rings.

“The snorting variation or the fizzy one?” He asks, placing the bottle down on the narra table with an almost silent thud.

“The fizzy one.” You take his question at face value. He doesn't question why you don't prefer alcohol. Sitting down on the plush office chair, you open the laptop in front of you. It dings, needing a password to open it. “It needs a—”

Before you could even finish the question, he gives you a scrap of paper from the numerous envelopes inside the box. The password is printed on it with the same font as the one from the piece of paper you held a couple of weeks ago.

You type it whilst he rifles through the box. The home screen pops up, nothing too fancy or out of the ordinary. Except for the single application in the corner that's only labeled as ‘S’

Clicking it, a chat box appears.

> Hihi, follow man

John snakes up next to you, the harsh light from the laptop shines on his pensive face. You return your attention towards ‘your boss’. A picture of a young blond man pops up in the chat, there's a mole near his left eye, he sports dark eyebrows. And a look that says ‘daddy paid for my college!’

> 40.748817, -73.985428

“That's downtown I think.” John pipes up next to you, and you look at him like he just said the sky is green and the grass is blue.

> Take keys, take car. Bring car here

> 51.505554, -0.075278.

“A car?” You rhetorically ask.

“Must be a very expensive car, or an important one.” John answers back as he leans further down to take a better look at the monitor. His hand is on the back of your chair, his necklaces dangle on his neck like a pretty chandelier.

You both wait for more instructions but it doesn't come.

“Hihi isn't very talkative, huh?” Your voice echoes in the awkward silence.

“‘Hihi?’”

“Yeah, I thought I'd give it a nickname.” You think he's weirded out but with an amused laugh he pats your shoulder nonchalantly.

“Cute.” You don't know if he's referring to you, or to the nickname you dubbed your electronic boss. “I've separated our papers.” John says as you still contemplate his last comment. “Here's yours.”

“Thanks.” You scan the pile in your hands. Your own face greets you as you flip through it all.

“It has everything we need. Credit card, ID's, carry permit and a passport.”

“What's that one?” You point at the larger envelope next to John's pile. A smaller black leather envelope sits atop it.

He opens the large envelope, giving you the contents of it. “Marriage certificate. And this one…” shaking the leather envelope, whatever is inside of it clinks. Taking it out, he shows you the gold bands. “...our wedding rings.” Heat rises in your cheeks unavoidably once he says it softly. “May I?” Open palm reaching out, he beckons.

You try to remember which hand wears it. With a split second decision, you place your left hand atop his own. Carefully sliding the cold ring in your marriage finger, you stay locked in on his eyes that's concentrating like he's disarming a bomb.

John pats your hand and then inserts his own ring in his finger, mirroring yours.

“Guess we're married.” You shrug casually like your heart doesn't beat against your ribcage, like it's trying to escape its confines. “It feels kind of weird?”

“We are,” he flashes you his signature smirk. “And we'll get used to it, hm, wife?”

“Yeah, I'll adapt.” You say just barely above a whisper, hands suddenly clammy.

“That's my girl.” Throwing you a wink, he walks away from a flustered you.

Yeah, you got lucky.

—

Morning comes and you had the best sleep you've had in years. Even if you slept on an empty stomach last night, you still slept like a baby on the eight hundred thread count Egyptian cotton blanket. You stare blankly at the beige ceiling, hands roaming around the soft bed sheet like you're making a snow angel. Sleep ridden eyes roam around the expansive master bedroom to which your new husband has graciously let you take.

Speaking of ‘John’, his bedroom is just across your own. Surprisingly enough, he hasn't woken up yet based on the silence in the hallway outside, you hadn't pegged him as a late riser.

Breakfast calls for you when your stomach rumbles loudly, but you're too comfortable to even move from your spot. Something taps from your window that's facing the foot of your bed. A soft tippy tap of something hitting the glass that has you sitting up. Eyes blinking rapidly, you stare off a pigeon perched outside. Its iridescent feathers shine in the early morning sun, its beak tapping rhythmically at the window.

Sliding your hand behind you, blindly grasping at a pillow, you fling it across the room to scare off the bird. The pillow hits your mark and out flies away the annoying pigeon. With a sigh, you get off your ass to get ready for the day ahead. You don't want to be late to your first day out in the field, no use in rotting in your luxurious bed if you can't keep it after you get fired for being late.

You dress for the day and for the cool weather. Spring has come but the freezing temperature has decided to stay for a little while. With a cozy turtleneck and comfy slacks, you forgo the torturous device called ‘heels’ for a pair of trainers. Staring at yourself in the mirror, you shrug with a huff. And you snap the rubber against your skin once again.

Taking the chair off the doorknob and then unlocking the door, you exit your sanctuary. Closing your door softly, you find yourself in front of John's room. Judging from the soft snores, you notice that he’s still sleeping. You might be his fake wife but it's not your job to wake him up. So you continue down the hallway and into the kitchen to fix yourself a bowl of cereal.

Bowl in hand, you chew as you walk up to the rooftop. Unlocking it, the sun greets you with a comfortable heat, and you frown at it. You keep eating whilst you explore the space. There's a bountiful garden in the corner, raised garden beds full of fresh vegetables and fruit that is ripe for the taking. An outside dining area sits in the middle, you recognize the long table from a catalog you once read to pass the time at the dentist. You remember that it doubles as a grill and leg warmer in the winter.

“Fancy,” you murmur with your mouth full of grainy goodness. Sipping the leftover milk in the bowl, you place it on the expensive table to crouch down next to a bushel of strawberries to sniff. “Almost ripe,” you figure from the softness of the fruit.

A bird flies above you, it's shadow casting over you. With the sound of fluttering wings, the bird perches on the table, black orbs staring at you, head tilting like it's observing your presence.

“Are you the same fucking bird?” You question the pigeon. It coos at you, and then pecks at the ceramic of your discarded bowl. “Motherfucker—” standing up, you have the look of someone ready to square up with the feathered creature.

“Why are you fighting an innocent bird?” John appears with a mug of tea in his hand. You forgot to make tea.

“I wasn't fighting with it.”

“He,” your partner crosses the distance, the bird doesn't fly away from the close proximity. You raise an eyebrow at that. “might be hungry.” He gestures towards the strawberries behind you with his chin. “Think you can grab us one, lovie?” You're gonna need some time to get used to that term.

“It's not ripe.”

“I don't think he's picky.”

“It's too sour, it might upset his stomach.”

“He's a pigeon, he's used to eating shit off the pavement. I think that's fine, love.”

With an awkward nod, you pick the one that's redder than the rest. Throwing it towards John, he catches it with a practiced hand. He sits down before laying the fruit in front of the bird. You watch it unfold, the pigeon hops on the table, beak pecking at the seeds. You're intrigued at their interaction.

John sips at his drink, still in his sleep clothes. Toned arms in full display from the loose tank top he sports. Pajama pants hanging low on his hips, silk bonnet on his head. He only has one sock on his feet, you tilt your head.

“What happened to your sock?” You point at his bare foot curiously.

“Hmm?” He looks down, and he chuckles like he just realized the missing article of clothing. “Don't know, probably kicked it off while I was sleepin’”

“Oh,” you blink, “you should get ready, we might miss our target.”

He fakes salutes at you, drinking casually from his mug as you leave the rooftop. He doesn't miss how you didn't take your dish with you. Sighing, he watches the pigeon eat his fill.

—

You and John arrive at a pub. It's dim inside with only a few miserable patrons sitting sparsely at different corners of the musty establishment. They all look miserable, all having expressions from different points of the human emotion. But there's only one face you're observing— your target.

He sits alone on the bar stool, back hunched, eyes red and nursing a half filled pint of beer. Holding his face in his hand, blond hair raked in between his fingers, bomber jacket hanging loosely on his form, bags under his sagging eyes. He's the picture of someone who's on the bottom of the barrel.

John guides you with his hand hovering on your back. Not touching, at the same time still close, you are supposed to be a couple after all. You slide into a booth that has the perfect view of the target, but still out of his sight and out of earshot. The leather seat is worn down, tiny bits of it are ripped, at least it's not sticky. He orders for you, and you observe how he slyly roams his eyes towards the man, looking out for the keys.

He comes back with a plate of chips and dip. “Thought it would be weird not to order anythin’”

“Good call,” you take a chip whilst your eyes only briefly leave the target's back. “Thought you'd buy me a pint.”

“Did you want a pint? This early? Do you want to talk about it?” He half jokes as he takes a smaller chip.

“No,” you scoff, “and no. I just thought you'd order it instead of this.”

“You're not the only perceptive one in this relationship.” John looks over his shoulder to quickly do a once over at the forlorn man.

“Did you see where he's keeping it?”

“Inside his jacket, right side.”

You nod, “Is he carrying?”

“Not that I can tell.” He shrugs, licking the salt off his finger. “So, why'd you join?”

“Really? We're doing that?” You watch as the man gulps down his remaining drink and then orders a new one immediately.

“Yes, we're doin' that. Won't that make us work better together? To get to know each other a bit more?”

“Fine,” you silently huff. “No one else would take me, this is a last resort, I guess?”

“Bullshit, love, I think anyone would be happy to have you in their…agency?”

“Flattery won't get you anywhere, birdman.” A small smile appears on your lips, he beams at you. “Besides, who else is hiring for someone with the specific skill set that I have?”

He hums, while turning subtly to take a peek at the target. Returning his attention to you after seeing the blonde man still hunched in his stool, John takes another chip. “True, did you get kicked out from the last one?”

“Not really,” you stare at the crack on the wooden table. “You?”

“Not really,” he shrugs and you roll your eyes.

“You MI6?” He asks casually. “This your first time in London?”

“I'm not answering either of those questions.”

“C’mon,” he wiggles his left hand, the wedding band shines in the pub light. “Husband, remember? ‘sides, I won't tell anyone.”

You place your elbows on the table, smiling sarcastically at him. After a beat for his anticipation, you grin wider. “No.”

His shoulders fall, a chortle escaping his lips. “Cheeky.” Pointing an accusing finger at you, he quickly looks behind him, only to find the target sluggishly exiting the pub. “He's on the move.”

You both follow the drunk man like gravity is pulling you towards him. Walking the streets of busy downtown London, stranger's faces whizz past you. John has his hands casually in his pockets, yet he stays close to you, eyes flicking in the corners to check on you.

“Why don't you ask me a question? Y’know tit for tat?” He waits patiently for you to answer back, hell he'll even take a grunt at this point.

“Okay,” you surprisingly start the conversation on his behalf. “Have you killed anyone?” The passing pedestrians don't seem to notice you and the morbid subject.

Your partner snorts, nose scrunched up, eyes glued on the staggering target. “Nah. Have you?”

“I call bullshit,” you dodge a distracted woman scrolling on her phone. “Anyway, I have. I'm not exactly proud of it or flaunting it if you're thinking that I'm doing that.”

“Good, once you start flaunting it like a bloody trophy, you've lost it.”

You hum in agreement, the sound of a deep rumble in your chest as you two turn a corner. “Why do you think hihi needs us to nick the car?”

“Hihi” he chuckles, you turn to him with a serious face. “There's probably a stash of confidential information in the trunk or somethin’”

“Maybe a stash of weapons?” The man in front of you stumbles. “I don't see him as the type to harbor secret documents.”

John nods, “a highly infectious disease then?”

“Christ, we better drive carefully once we get a hold of it.” You turn to him briefly. “Maybe it's a really expensive sports car and he's all sad and mopey because he's gone broke after buying it?”

“Got a whole story now, huh?” He pushes you lightly with his leather clad shoulder, and you smile softly. “You good at pickpocketing him?” Your partner gestures with his chin, said target is walking into traffic. He seems unbothered by the oncoming vehicles. John curses under his breath.

“We should do that now before he kills himself.” You speed walk across the crossing, grabbing the drunk man before a car hits him.

Arms enveloping around his bomber jacket, swiping him away and quickly carrying him to the footpath, you save him before an suv hits you both. The car honks loudly and angrily as your target groans in your arms like he's about to hurl the contents of his stomach.

John punches the hood of the car, pointing at the driver accusingly. A distraction for you to take the keys hidden in the man's jacket.

“You almost hit my fuckin' wife, you wanker!” Your partner yells, covering the sound of jingling keys in your expert hand. He plays the part well.

Surprisingly, the target straightens up in your hold, a split second after you pocketed the car keys inside your own coat.

“Y-you,” he slurs, feet struggling to keep himself upright. “Dickhead!” Slamming his fists on the hood with a loud *thunk, he joins John who gives you a look and a shrug. The drunken yelling gets louder and the driver now exits his car with an equally angry look.

John takes this opportunity to come back to your side, hand holding your elbow, he leads you away from the screaming match as more and more people try to intervene.

“Got it?” He whispers closely to the shell of your ear, sending goosebumps to rise in your arms.

“‘course I did.” You jingle the keys inside your pocket. “I'm not an amateur.”

Playing along, he laughs, hand still holding your elbow softly. “Good job, missus.”

With an awkward chuckle, you lean away from him. “Just so you know, I'm not in this for…the romance.” You bite the inside of your cheek. “I'm not looking to date my co-worker.”

John raises his hands in mock surrender. “Fine by me. if the situation calls for us to actually act as a couple—”

“We'll act as a couple, I won't fuss if that's what you're saying.”

“Good, now let's get this bloody car.”

—

“A fucking ‘99 toyota corolla?” You stare in disbelief at the rusting metal. “At least it's one of the good models.” Kicking the wheel, you expect it to tumble over like in an old timey cartoon.

John is crouched way down to check the bottom of the car. “It's clear.” He stands up fully, cleaning his hands on his jeans. You wince at his movements. “What?”

“Nothing.” You open the driver's side, the smell of alcohol and something musty hits your nose. “Nasty.” Coughing, you air it out by opening another door.

“You know your cars?”

“A little bit.” You say with your nose pinched. Sparing him a look, he stands in the parking lot like he's still waiting for the rest of the story. “What?”

“Throw me a bone here, love.” You roll your eyes. “Why do you know so much about cars?”

“I said I know a little bit.” You place your hands on your hips like an exasperated mother whose son keeps asking weird questions about dinosaurs. “I dated a mechanic.” You say flatly.

“Really? Did you date a pickpocket too? Or do you date people so you could absorb their skills like kirby?”

“Are you jealous?” You tease him with a comment you didn't have the foresight that it would backfire.

“We are married.” He says matter-of-fact with a killer smirk and eyes glinting with mischief. “And this is technically our honeymoon so—”

“Get in the fucking car, birdman.”

—

The wheel is sticky under your hands, you have an intense urge to wash your hands or to at least grab a sanitizer. Apparently your disgust shows on your face, for John chortles next to you.

“What?” You say through gritted teeth.

“Nothin’, you just look like someone shat in your tea.”

“The wheel is sticky.”

“I have a handkerchief with me, d’you want me to?” Taking out the dark green cloth from his jean pockets, he's already twisting in his seat to wipe it clean.

“Please,” you ask softly, hands sliding down to make space for him.

Your hand never left the wheel while he cleans it for you. John's seatbelt is unclasped so he could have more movement, his face is close to your vision, warmth blanketing over you. He's so close that you can smell his cologne, it's a different one from yesterday, it's more flowery with a hint of mint. You spot a hidden mole under his ear. A tiny dot that is just begging to be poked.

Without thinking, you press softly with the pad of your finger. He yelps, flinching away instinctively. Looking at you with wide eyes and mouth agape, you're ready to be called a nasty nickname, or be cussed out with a loud voice. Instead of what you're anticipating, a laugh bellows out, a rumbly laugh that makes you smile and let out an almost silent chortle.

“I think you found my mole.” John holds the side of his neck with a grin. “You let your urges get to you, love.”

“Sorry,” you keep your eyes on the road to hide your embarrassment.

“It's fine, your hand was just cold. Ask me next time, I have a few more cute moles on me.”

“Nevermind, you ruined it.” With a roll of your eyes and a smile, you park at the coordinates. “Nice acting back there, I see an Emmy nomination for you in the future.”

“Thanks, I barely remember what I said. You sure this is the place?” John peeks at the map pulled up on your phone. “Shit, we're here.”

The entire street is suburban, large colonial houses lining the sides, tall pine trees decorate the sidewalks. There's not a lot of people walking by, save for a couple pedestrians walking their dogs, the place is devoid of people.

“What now?” You unclasp your seatbelt to twist around in your seat so you could observe the neighborhood.

“Hihi told us to bring it here, so maybe we should—?” John lets out a high pitched scream that also has you yelling in surprise, not from whatever made him shriek but from the sound that escaped him. “What the fuck!”

Leaning slightly to look at what had his knickers in a bunch, you stare blankly at a bespectacled man in a bespoke suit. The man gives you and your partner an apologetic look, he points for John to open the window.

He turns towards you with an eyebrow raised. “Should I?”

“Yeah, I think you should.”

“What if he's got a gun?” He whispers.

“We also have guns, John. I'll cover you, don't worry. Maybe this is what hihi asked us to do.”

“Easy for you to say, you're not the one opening it.” He gives you a glare before rolling the window down an inch. “Hi, mate. What can we do for you?”

“The car,” the stranger points a lengthy finger at the wheel. His voice is crackly and gravelly, like he just smoked a pack of cigarettes before he went up to the car. “You're late, but that doesn't matter. How much do I owe you, folks?”

“Uh, the usual.” You say with fake confidence.

“Good,” the lean man straightens up, “mind gettin’ out of the car then?”

“Right, sorry, bruv.” John, gives you one look before exiting the car. He's nervous and so are you.

As the doors shut, the man flexes his open palms expectantly for the keys, to which you hand off immediately. He gives you bad vibes, maybe your intuition tells you to run for the hills.

“Thank you, sweetheart. I'll wire the money to the usual account.” The nickname sends shivers down your spine.

He closes the door and starts up the car. With a splutter of the exhaust, he slowly drives away. You and John watch, standing side by side in the middle of the street in confusion.

“He was weird, right? Not to mention it was too easy.” You turn your head to look at him. “Maybe they're trying to ease us in?”

“It was all weird, not just him—” A blast coming from the car interrupts him, the sheer force of it sends you two down on the rough pavement.

Your cheeks are incredibly warm from the searing heat of the bomb. The light from it blinds the two of you.

Palms skinned, trousers slashed at the knees, your ears ring loudly like an annoying buzz from a broken microphone. Coughing loudly, smoke fills your lungs, debris is scattered around the once pristine neighborhood. There's blood on the concrete, you can't hear John calling for you, your vision is blurred by the cloud of smoke. His hand reaches for you, and your instincts tell you to run.

“Fuck!” He yells, running beside you at full speed. “What the fuck!”

“Keep running!” You yell as he turns around to check on a woozy you. “I'm fine!”

Someone behind you screams for you to stop so you and your partner run faster. Knees aching, thighs burning, you don't stick around to look who's running after you. The unmistakable click of a gun’s safety is loud in your eardrums, even if your lungs threaten to give out, you sprint right next to John as he turns a corner and into a carwash.

The smell of soap and heavy pine scented car freshener hits your bloody nose. He tugs you towards the plastic curtains and inside what you presume as the employee lounge, someone yells after you but it falls on deaf ears as you and John continue your escape.

Exiting the establishment, the metal doors open to a messy alleyway. Boxes upon boxes of trash and god knows what are littered all around. The pungent smell makes you want to hurl, or maybe that's the adrenaline having a weird effect on your stomach.

You two find reprieve for a second, huffing, trying to get oxygen back in. Hands on your aching thighs, the concrete below you slowly turns crimson as your mysterious injury drips precious blood on the messy ground.

“You're bleedin’” He says in between inhales. There's rustling of fabric next to you, and you feel the warm cloth placed on your forehead.

“No shit, Sherlock.” Waving the drenched cloth away, you scoff lightly. “Don't.”

“What am I supposed to do? Let you bleed?”

You stand up straight, blood coating your lashes as you stare at him. “I've got a better idea.” Placing your palms on the source of the pain, you let your blood coat it.

“What—?” You roughly smudge the warm ichor all over his face and shirt, the plain white of his t-shirt turns a dark pink shade with your touch. Leaning away, he gives you a slow nod of understanding. “Ease us in, huh?”

“I'm rarely wrong and this is one of the rare instances.”

“Let's hope you're right about this one.”

—

You kick the backdoor open with ferocity. It bangs loud against the wall, getting the restaurant staff's attention.

“Help please! My husband!” John's limp arm is around your shoulders, your hand gripping on to his waist to add that one detail that would convince them of your innocence. “There was a bomb!” You don't let the bystanders touch you or John whilst you quickly lumber through their dinghy bathroom. There's murmurs and chairs scraping on the tiled floors as you lock the door behind you.

The bathroom is small, tiles yellowed from the years, the stench of bleach itching your nose. The lightbulb above you whirs like it's about to burst out. He leaves your side to take off his bloodied jacket, tossing it outside from the window— his exit, you presume.

“Your phone.” He holds his empty hand out to you, when you only raise an eyebrow at him, he sighs, eyes turning soft, adrenaline melting out of his system. “Please, c’mon, love, you got me sayin’ please and shit.”

“What for?” You try desperately to wipe the blood off your face.

“To contact you, just in case you need help.”

“I can handle it.”

“I know you can, how else did you get the job then? Just let me,” his voice wavers a bit but he corrects himself with a timed clear of his smoke filled throat. “Please, Jane.”

After pausing, you take your phone out from your pocket to give it to him. He enters his number after seeing your home screen of a basic mountain range.

“There.” Giving the phone back, you expected him to give his too, but he doesn't as he's already halfway out of the window. “I'll see you at home?”

You let out a chuckle, “yeah, I'll see you at home.” He gives you one last smile as he exits the small bathroom and into the streets where numerous sirens go off from ambulances and fire trucks.

—

It was a blur the entire trip home, you bought a loose hoodie from a thrift store and then promptly discarded your blood soaked coat in the bottom of a dumpster. It was a shame though, you liked that coat, it had real wool in the lining. The uber drive was thankfully uneventful, if the driver noticed the remnants of dried blood on your skin he didn't mention it. You gave him five stars for it.

An empty house greets you, John's shoes are nowhere to be seen in the hallway, nor his jacket. You worry for a second, mind rushing through possibilities. The rubber band burns as you pull it back and release it with a harsh thwack against your skin.

The water is cool as you shower, your blood mixing in and pooling around your feet and into the drain like a macabre whirlpool. You don't let your mind wonder about the man that you turned into a street pancake. Instead, you focus on yourself in the mirror.

You stare at the gash near your hairline, the skin around it is angry, leaving a throbbing sensation. There's also a few scratches on your face, especially around your chin. Your main concern is the large gash. It doesn't look like it needs to be stitched together though, which is a good thing since you don't have the energy to even tend to the tiny scratches on your palms. Cleaning and bandaging the wound, you put on clean pajamas and head to bed.

You stop in your tracks when you see John lying face down on your bed. Still in his iron soaked clothes, save for the jacket. You glare at his boot, it's off the bed but you still grit your teeth at the thought of it grazing your bedsheets.

He senses your presence, and he lifts his head up, chin helping prop himself up. “Your bed is better than mine.” His multi coloured eyes are laced with exhaustion, dull yet there's still a spark when he looks at your annoyed gaze.

“Who are you? Goldilocks?”

“Yeah, I ate your porridge too.”

“Damn, not my porridge.” Too tired to fight him, you slither into bed next to him, an arm's length away from his equally tired body. Staring at the ceiling, you feel his eyes on you. “What's up with your eyes?”

“It's called heterochromia—”

“I know what it is, I'm asking why you're staring at me like you're about to devour me.”

“I could devour you if you want.” He says nonchalantly but with the charisma of a man who knows what he's talking about.

“Maybe next time.” You blindly pat his shoulder which ended up with you patting his cheek. He hums at your touch, a deep rumble that you felt through the mattress. “Not bad for our first day huh?” Lifting your hand away, he twists on the bed to mirror your position. Now you're both gazing at the beige ceiling like it owes you money.

You're tired but for some reason you're fighting off the sandman from sprinkling sand in your heavy eyes.

“I lied back there, I've killed before.” His voice is merely above a whisper but you heard it as loud as a trumpet blaring in your ears.

“I know, you wouldn't be here if you haven't.” You answer with empathy. “If it makes you feel better, I've been to London before. Twice, on a family trip and a decade later…on vacation.”

“Glad to know.” He taps the inside of your elbow as a thank you for trusting him. “You CIA?” He blurts out above the comfortable silence.

“God no.” You truthfully say.

“And here I thought you're an alumni of the culinary institute of America.”

For the first time in years, you let out the loudest laugh you could muster. Snort and all.

Your ‘husband’ joins in with his own rambunctious laughter, the bed shakes at the loud guffaws. The happy sound fills the room, and your heart feels like it isn't as heavy as before. It's still there, the heaviness, but it isn't as cumbersome. You now realize that you've only snapped the rubber band on your wrist a couple times today.

An annoying tapping sound interrupts you both. Simultaneously sitting up by the elbows, you two tilt your head at the intruder.

“It's that pigeon again.” You actually smile at the thought of the same bird coming back to your house like a white strand of hair that keeps growing even after you've pulled it out. “I think we should name him. Something like Terry or Flanders.” You chuckle softly.

“Jeff.”

You shake your head. “Nope, doesn't suit him, what if it's a she?”

“His name is Jeff.” John turns to look at you, eyes full of certainty.

You turn to him, blinking rapidly in realization. “He's yours. He's your bird, isn't he?”

“You are insightful.” He smiles, a soft one that fills you with endearment that you haven't felt in years. “Met him a few months ago, fed him once and now he wouldn't leave me alone. I guess he followed me here too.”

“Y’know, pigeons are really smart, kinda like crows. He probably thinks you're his daddy.”

“Does that make you Jeff's mummy?”

“I don't want to be Jeff's mom.” Said bird taps on your window again, like he senses that you're currently talking about him.

“Too bad,” he raises his marriage finger, showing you the gold band. “He's our kid, love.”

You smile, hiding it with a huff and by laying back down with a gentle thump.

“Can I tell you somethin’?” His face pops up in your vision, you nod in place. “My real name is—”

“Let me stop you right there.” You sit back up, almost hitting his head with your own at how fast you sat. “There's a reason why they gave us fake names. Whether we like it or not, It's John,” You point at him. “And Jane Smith.” You point at yourself. “Until they dismiss us, that's our names. Not whatever you were about to tell me.”

“But you know it's not our names, right?”

“Of course I do. You don't look like a John, John.”

“And you don't look like a Jane. I just…” He sighs. “Just want someone to know my real name. We almost died back there, what if we stayed a minute longer inside that car? What then? I don't want to die with someone else's name written on my grave.” His words are genuine, but it sounds like he has said these words before.

Still, you sympathize with him. You've gone undercover before, taken someone’s name instead of yours for months. Those missions were so long and tiring that you almost forgot your own name. But it was…survivable because he was with you. John has no one, and this time you have no one. No one that calls your real name, no one that can identify your body if you suddenly croak in the middle of a mission.

No one else but John and Jane Smith.

So with bated breath, you give him the go ahead. “Okay, tell me. But I can't promise that I'll call you by that name.”

“Don't want to get in trouble with hihi?”

“No,” you scoff. “I don't give a shit what that robot says. I just don't want to die with a stranger's name. So fuck it, tell me yours and I'll mine.”

He smiles the same smile that he gave you before he went out of that dinky bathroom window. The smile that reassures you, a smile that tells you everything will be alright.

“It's Hobie,” Hobie finally says. “Hobie Brown.”

“It suits you better. Thought it was Jeff.” You whisper, and you give him your real name. The same name you were born with, not the fabricated ones your former agency has given you, not the ones your new company has given you.

He whispers back your name, tongue rolling off it like honey. Then, Hobie smiles again, nodding and those heterochromatic eyes bore into you comfortably like the sun's rays kissing your skin in the summer.

“You look like one. Definitely suits you better than Jane.” You smile shyly as you lose the fight against sandman.

In Hobie's mind, he hopes that knowing your real name is enough, enough to keep you alive, enough of an incentive for him to keep you safe, since you're not just a typical Jane anymore that the company randomly selected for him, no, you're Y/N L/N, and he'll do anything to protect you better. Because maybe, just maybe, knowing your real name this early would work, and you'll outlive all the Janes that he himself has outlived.

As you fall asleep next to him, he stares at Jeff the third. In that luxurious house, within those bulletproof walls, and in your room lies a deep anger in him. An anger that keeps him sane in all those years trying to pay his debt. He needs to end the cycle, not just for him but for all the agents that are in the same shoes as him. For now he lets you sleep soundly, for now, he plots the demise of the people behind the screen.

The laptop flashes a new message from the company.

> Mission complete: 3 fails remaining

> Good job, next mission?

Support banner by @cafekitsune ❤️

A/N: thank you for reading!!! Please consider reblogging if you liked it ❤️❤️❤️

[wooahaes]

the (not-so-subtle) doting kind

pairing: non-idol!mark lee x fem!reader

genre: fluff. established relationship au.

warnings: food mentions. mark being a very doting bf on his gf's bday.

word count: 2.4k~ dont look at me when u compare this one to all the other bday fics

daisy's notes: what if i want him :(

For whatever reason, your birthday wasn’t a happy day for you… So Mark resolved to treat you normally. And if “normally” involves him doting on you the way he does when you have bad days, then so be it.

He tucked stray strands of hair away from your face when he saw you begin to stir. He’d say one thing to you, just to show you that he remembered. So he leaned in, lips pressing against your own. “Good morning. Happy birthday, baby,” he said, voice still a little hoarse from sleep. “Are we still going to get breakfast?”

“Mmhm.” You drew him back in for another sleepy kiss, only to draw him closer. You snuggled in, eyes fluttering shut as you dropped your head into his shoulder. “Morning…”

He giggled. Most mornings, he’d tease you a little with some sort of “my sleepy girl,” but he settled in instead. He peppered your skin with kisses, just to hear that slightly-annoyed groan as you finally opened your eyes. His lips pressed against yours one final time before drawing back. 

“Good morning,” he said again, thumb grazing the apple of your cheek.

Despite the slight annoyance at being woken up fully now, you sat up and stifled a yawn. The moment you went to move out of bed, you felt Mark’s fingers poke into your sides. You let out a strangled grunt, playfully shoving away at his hands as he giggled. He came up behind you, pressing a long kiss against your neck before moving to search through the closet. It became obvious soon enough what he was doing, always trying to find a way to tease you to make you smile. Eventually you swatted him away from you, and he laughed that goofy laugh before getting dressed, too. He kept waiting around, watching you as you looked through your options before settling on something. Of course, it was one of the things you owned that Mark didn’t have something he could use to match with you… But he could improvise. He stood back, watching you (half-admiring, half-studying) before going into his side of your shared closet. 

When he stepped out in a patterned shirt that mainly featured the same color as the shirt you were wearing, he saw the way you gave him a little once over before going back to packing your things into a bag. “You look cute.”

Mission accomplished. Mentally, he put a little sunglasses emoji guy right next to the thought. 

After a quick breakfast out, the two of you ended up wandering around the mall for the day. He held your hand the entire time, always pointing out something cool or something he thought you’d look good in. Today was your day, which meant he couldn’t play. You wanted something? He was already getting his card out. He’d been saving specifically so that he could spoil you on your birthday, and he was intent on carrying that out.

“Don’t worry, baby,” he said with this cute smile, “I got you.” 

It always earned some sort of playful eye roll or snort as you thanked him, always drawing out the words to tease him. He was obvious, but that was fine with him. What was the point of days like birthdays and holidays if he couldn’t spoil you a little? He carried your bags for you, too, ever the gentleman. Yet he was the one who slowed down, hand holding yours tight enough to tug you back, when the two of you were outside of a toy store. He pointed out two little lion plushies right next to one another.

“Babe. Baby.” He didn’t take his eyes off of them. “It’s us.” 

You’d giggled a little over it. “Pretty sure those are two male lions, Mark.” 

He turned back to you. “What?” Then he looked at them again, fully registering the bright orange manes that both of them wore. “Right. Still… We could still find a lioness. C’mon.” He tugged you toward the entrance, only to stop. “Unless you don’t wanna—”

“We can go places you wanna go, Mark,” you said, already making your way into the store. “Let’s go find a lioness.” 

You’d been insistent on paying for and carrying that bag, and Mark let the issue drop. Gentlemanly as he was, his hand was getting a little tired carrying all your bags… and it’d be rude to turn it into an issue when it wasn’t. You did end up taking the bags from him when you stopped to get lunch, saying you would go get the table while he grabbed the food. When he asked you to pick a place, you’d just shrugged it off.

“You know what I’ll eat,” you said. “Just pick somewhere.” 

Again, he’d almost pushed back on that. Today was your day, even though you weren’t treating it like anything special. But he knew how you felt, and he bit back any disagreement. He looked around the food court, picked two places, and asked you to pick from those under the guise of him being indecisive. You hummed to yourself, genuinely considering the two options before picking, and then left him standing there as you went to snag a table for the two of you. He went off to order your food, and soon enough he was sitting across from you, listening as you rambled on about something that happened at work the other day. Eventually, you pushed the conversation onto him as you nodded along to his own stories… all while sneaking little pictures of him. He smiled for them, and eventually got you to squeeze into frame so he could snap a picture of the two of you together.

The rest of the day was scaled toward him. You would push for him to pick places to go, things to do. The bookstore the two of you frequented became one of your stops, and he saw the quiet way you bought a book he put back alongside with another bookmark for him (sometimes he lost them, but he’d always take extra care when someone gave him one) without saying a word. A few other stores, too: you’d ended up buying him a few things, insistent on carrying his bags for him with this knowing smile that told him you knew exactly what he’d been doing all day. 

Then when you were leaving, Mark saw it. The way you’d been walking a step ahead of him for a minute, talking about finding a place to sit for a few minutes before you actually went back to the car. You’d slowed to a stop outside this chocolate place the two of you had sampled forever ago, watching in the window as a tall, handsome man was making them in view of anyone passing by. The guy looked up, flashed you a smile, and then went back to his work. Mark slowly made his way over to you, watching the magic happen for himself.

“We should get a box,” he said after a moment. He looked at you, practically glowing with excitement. “We can split it, if you want?”

For a few seconds longer, you just watched the man on the other side of the glass continue to work. Then you met Mark’s gaze, genuinely smiling that same smile he fell in love with years ago, and nodded. “I’d love that.” 

The two of you went into the shop, picking out flavors for your big box of chocolates. When Mark paid this time, you didn’t push back or question or tease him. You just leaned against him, still smiling that pretty smile, and thanked him in a soft voice that felt so genuine this time around. He tucked the box into one of the bags he was carrying, pressed a kiss against your cheek, and took your hand again as you left.

By the time the two of you got home and started sorting through everything you’d bought, it was late. When Mark looked up, asking if you felt like going back out for dinner, you’d shaken your head. You had sprawled out along the couch at that point, visibly sleepy from the long day as you abandoned the work of sorting out new clothes to be washed. He just crawled over to you, pressing his lips against yours.

“You wanna go take a bath? I’ll order dinner when we get out.” He pressed another kiss against your lips. “We can watch movies,” another kiss, “and then bust into those chocolates,” and another, “and it’ll be fuckin’ great, baby.” 

You agreed to it all too easily. The two of you ended up snuggling in the hot water for a while, talking about whatever came to mind. By the time the two of you were cuddled up on the couch again, dressed in matching pajamas (“Because we’re cheesy like that, you know?” was what Mark said to you when he bought them forever ago), he’d decided to apparently kill you with a thousand more soft kisses. The jerk was giggling the entire time, too, squeezing you in his arms and he peppered said kisses alongside the side of your neck—right where you were tickling, he’d learned back when the two of you were first dating.

“Mark!” You’d squealed at one point, nose crinkling as he mumbled something about how cute he found you. “You can stop. I know what you were doing today.” 

“What?” He played dumb. “Appreciated you? I’m always appreciating you, baby,” he giggled, kissing the spot where your neck met your jaw. “I’m lucky to have you, y’know?”

With a sigh, you pulled away from him. Ah. Shit. You’d been planning for a serious talk, then. “I mean it,” you said, taking one of his hands within your own. “I know what you were doing. And… I think it was really sweet.”

Wait, what? His voice grew softer now, heart racing in his chest. “So you aren’t mad?”

“I…”  You trailed off, turning away. “I thought I would have been. But… I dunno. I think when you walked up to me and said something about buying that box of chocolates, it just kinda hit me that you weren’t just spoiling me today because it’s my birthday. You were doing it because you love me.” For a moment, you tried to blink back tears. “I mean… I know you love me. And I knew that on the birthdays before—but I always kinda pushed people away because I felt like I wasn’t worth it.”

“You are, though.” The words fell from his lips before he could even think twice. Maybe if he did, he would have apologized for interrupting you, but some things were just too vital to hold back. “You’ll always be worth it, y’know?”

The tears you’d been fighting finally ran down your cheeks, and you nodded. “You made me feel special,” you said. “And not just because it’s my birthday, but because you actually care.” 

Something ached deep within his chest at that. Did that mean you had people who didn’t…? Yet he left the question unsaid. How long had he been dating you, and he still didn’t know everything he thought he should? Not because you were supposed to bare your soul to him—never that. But because he was your boyfriend, he felt that he should have noticed sooner. You told him that your birthday hadn’t been a happy day for you in a long time, and he’d accepted it at face value without pushing. If you wanted to tell him, you would, and he would listen the same way you always cared and listened to his problems. The same way you did today when you pushed him to open up, to talk, to share the day with you so it wasn’t just him doting on you endlessly. 

“Hey…” He reached up, wiping your tears away. “I’m sorry I went behind your back to try and spoil you today.”

You stared at him. “Mark, it’s okay—”

He shook his head. “I should have asked you first,” he said. “But I like celebrating you. You know I was kind of a mess when we first met, but I wanted to be better for you. Chenle can tell you how bad this place used to be,” he chuckled, hoping that you would laugh or giggle or something too. “So I like getting the chance to celebrate how much I love you. You still make me wanna be a better guy, y’know?”

Sniffling, you dove forward to hide your face in his shoulder. He just laughed softly, rubbing circles onto your back as you cried. He loved you, and he knew how easily you could get emotional in vulnerable moments like this. Always diving forward and hiding your face because no matter how many times he told you it was okay, you’d be embarrassed that you were crying on him when you were supposed to be happy. 

“We can have more days out like this, if you want,” he said, hand cradling the back of your head. He drew you back, just so he could see your face, watery eyes and all. “Today just needed to be perfect because I think you’re perfect, even with all the imperfections we both know we have, we’re kinda perfect together.” He paused, wondering if he’d talked himself in a circle again before settling on something simpler: “I just think you’re really cool.”

That had finally earned a laugh out of you, so endeared to him and the way he spoke. “Yeah?”

He nodded eagerly. “Yeah!” He smiled at you. “You’re pretty sick. I love being your boyfriend, y’know?”

You just drew him in for a quick kiss after wiping your face with your sleeve. When you pulled back, you just smiled at him. “You’re pretty cool, too, y’know.” With a clumsy kiss against the side of his mouth, you finally drew back and out of his lap. “Thank you for a really fun day, by the way.” Snuggling a little closer to him, you rested your head against his shoulder. “I had fun. I always do when I’m with you, but you know what I mean.”

He just chuckled, turning his head so that he could kiss the top of yours. “Yeah, of course. Happy birthday, baby.” He snuggled in for a cozy night with you, head resting against your own. “I love you a lot. Let’s do something cool next year, alright?”

You just let out a soft chuckle, too. “Alright.” You shut your eyes. “If it’s with you… I’ll always be happy.”

taglist: @twancingyunhao

[pinksugarscrub]

Hi, pinkie!! This may be weird but happy birthday :D wishing you all the best things and wishes 🫶🏻

(Silly Hobie wishes you happy birthday as well)

(Look at him being silly)

Like The Movies

Hobie Brown x fem! reader (college au)

Hi my love! 🤍 Thank you so much for the well wishes. It isn't weird!! 😠 Who told you that?? As promised, "loser" Hobie to celebrate. (I love my silly little guy. I'm putting him in my pocket).

I just want to say, to everyone who asked what would happen if I didn't win ( @hyperfix-wip )- I guess we'll never know 🤷‍♀️

word count: 1,7k+

cw: dorks, the lot of them

~

The smell of butter soaked popcorn has been stuck to Hobie’s clothes for hours now. Along with a straining headache. Rubbing his temples he tries to focus on the ugly red carpet instead of the screen at the cash register.

Ten more minutes then he was home free. Excluding the quick stop he was going to make to the video game store across the mall. The missing piece for his game cube was finally in stock.

He was debating grabbing pizza from the food court too but with his roommate gone for the weekend what was the point? Hobie really wishes Ned well but he’s disappointed that he’ll be spending his time off without his best friend.

It’s times like these that he wishes he was closer to his family. Deciding and then being accepted to attend university here in New York is a mixed blessing.

He’s learning incredible things, meeting new people, and living on his own. On the other hand, he’s still new to the US and its customs.

It’s exhausting after a while and he can’t even be comforted by anything other than the things he brought with him from Camden.

A beep from his watch alerts him that his shift is over and Hobie doesn’t waste a second in clocking out and discarding the thing he calls a uniform. He’s still polite of course. Says his goodbyes and wishes everyone a happy holiday despite not celebrating Thanksgiving himself.

He must look tired because most shoppers steer clear of him. At the most he’ll receive two or three compliments on his outfit. Or maybe they’re just preoccupied with the sales and discounts going on in various stores.

He mutters an apology as he brushes past a group to step inside the brightly colored store with posters and ads for the newest game. Hobie has learned Christmas lights in November is normal. He cringes as he hears a popular pop song play through the speakers. It’s maybe the twentieth time today he’s listened to it.

“Hobie, hey! Give me a sec.” Ganke pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. Gesturing to the box Hobie presumes holds his order. “I’ll ring you up as soon as I can.”

“Course, no rush.”

And Hobie means that sincerely. There’s more than four customers in line with a dozen more circling figures and t-shirts. He may be tired but he knows well enough how demanding customer service can be.

To add a little more reassurance to Ganke’s mind, Hobie points to a random section of games. “I wanted to take a look around anyway.”

Ganke nods with a grin that never seems to fall from his face.

Hobie would consider this store his second home. He is on a first name basis with Ganke and he was even invited out by the younger boy to a flea market. They both shared a love for retro and vintage. Hobie met a friend of his too, Miles. It was the most fun he’s had since his arrival in August.

A sigh leaves his lips as the section he had planned to browse is blocked by a group of teenagers and yes, he himself is a teenager but something about American air made people lose their common courtesy.

He spins, planning to give up and just wait by the counter when something smacks into his chest. Not hard but definitely strong enough that the person who walked into him is sent stumbling back.

An apology spills from his lips and he’s met with one himself. The air from his lungs leaves his chest as he comes face to face with a girl. He knows you.

He knows because he shares a music composition class with you. He remembers because he embarrassed himself in front of the class. Hobie’s only ever written baselines so orchestral music has been a struggle for him.

“Why are you sorry?” You laugh softly. Fixing the bag on your shoulder full of pins and charms. “I bumped into you.”

“Are you ok?” You ask and Hobie isn’t sure what to do next.

He’s mortified that the only interactions he’s had with you (which are far and few) are so embarrassing.

Hobie may or may not think you’re cute. It would be stupid of him not to notice you.

It’s not like he has a chance with such a pretty girl but he can at least not look like a fool in front of you every chance he gets.

“Uh yeah,” he falters, “I’m fine. Are you…ok?”

“Me?” You point to yourself in confusion.

“Yeah,” he repeats. “Did I nick you or something?”

“Oh.” You laugh again as you take in the patches and safety pins on his vest. “I think we’re good.”

When you stand on the tips of your toes Hobie understands what you mean and his ears grow hot with embarrassment.

Hobie is aware he’s tall enough to be a basketball player but compared to you he’s never realized quite how tall he is.

You smile and think about how cute his reaction is. Hobie isn’t shy, not by any means. You’ve seen him with his friends around campus. But you can understand how being out of your element can leave you walking on eggshells.

Classical music is the soul of your being. Movie scores to be more specific, not to mention game sources. You haven’t quite decided what route to take but for now you’re content with going back to the basics and writing Bach inspired pieces.

“Hey, I really liked your presentation. Did you get a good score?”

“I did, yeah.”

Hobie thinks you must be lying to avoid making him feel bad. The professor too because he earned almost full marks.

He doesn’t understand why when his piece was so…awful. Nothing like yours or Flash Thompson’s.

“That’s great! I liked the third movement. It reminded me of um…” You snapped your fingers. “Bowser’s theme. You know, from the first Mario game?”

Hobie doesn’t mean to, he really doesn’t, but he laughs.

“What? I’m serious!” You grin as you reach for your phone. Insistent to make your point and be proven right.

“You can’t be.” Hobie almost guffaws. “It was a dumpster fire!”

“Was not!” You argue. Bringing your phone up to his ear after furiously typing.

Hobie looks at you in surprise. Stuck between your outstretched hand and your determined face. After a supportive nod from you and a smile he slowly leans down to listen.

You pause on certain points of the video. Rambling on about concepts the two of you have learned but obviously you know better.

The video takes exactly three minutes and fifty three seconds but you managed to lengthen the amount of time it would normally take to finish and soon enough he realizes you’re not just cute. You’re cute and you like games.

You weren’t trying to make him feel better you were making honest and valid points.

Now he feels like an ass for laughing so he’s quick to wave his white flag in surrender.

“Alright, alright. You win love. Has anyone ever told you you’re a bold little thing?”

“I have been called that on occasion, yes.”

Hobie hums. His lips tugging into a smile. “Don’t ever change.”

Butterflies erupt in your stomach as you return his smile. “I won’t, promise.”

“What are you in here for if you don’t mind me asking? Aside from analyzing my music.”

“I don’t mind at all,” you answer. Feeling giddy. “There’s a poster I’ve been looking for and- tada.”

Hobie chuckles at the glee on your face as you hold up your prize.

“Is that right? Congratulations.”

“Thank you kind sir,” you giggle. “I was just heading over to pay when I bumped into you.”

“Guess it was a good thing I kept you occupied,” Hobie replies. “Line is gone now.”

You turn your head. Peeking over his shoulder to see the register is indeed free now.

“It appears so.” You tap his shoulder with the end of the rolled up poster. “Thank you again. You’ve done me a great honor sir.”

You relish in how much you’ve made Hobie laugh in the last few minutes you’ve talked. You’re disappointed this all has to end now.

Hobie snickers before bowing mockingly. “After you.”

You curtsey in return before walking over to Ganke. You’ve seen him a few times. Normally you come to the mall on weekends not weekdays but with the holidays coming up you had a few days off. Best to take advantage right?

Declining a bag you wait patiently for Ganke to finish the transaction but then he interrupts you from paying.

“Wait hold on, you have a birthday reward today.”

“Do I? Huh, I didn’t know the store had one.”

“Well, now your total comes down to less than ten dollars.”

“Sweet! Thank you.”

You step aside, thankful for Ganke’s chatty behavior because it give you an excuse to stay though Hobie’s own purchase. Both boys including you in their conversation about Hobie’s soon to be fully functioning game cube. Then you’re both walking out the door.

“So…” Hobie clicks his tongue. Anxious as the plastic bag he carries weighs down his hand. “Where are you off to now? Friends waiting at that nice restaurant?”

You shake your head, pointing to the direction of the movie theater. “Nope, there’s a screening for one of my favorite movies. It starts in about…ten minutes.”

Hobie’s eyebrows raise. “By yourself?”

“Mhm, was just killing some time.”

Hobie is at a loss for words. Spending your birthday alone sounds cruel. You deserve to have cake and gifts—the whole package. However it’s then that Hobie realizes he isn’t the only one who could be away from home.

“Mind if I come with you?” He blurts out.

Your eyes widen and in your stunned silence you feel the excitement build.

“Yes- I would love that!”

Gingerly clasping your hands together you happily tug him along. Explaining what movie you had bought a ticket for. Outwardly wondering if there were still seats available.

Hobie doesn’t feel dread walking back to the theater. He isn’t even upset when he smells popcorn again. With a soft smile he keeps his eyes on you. Only getting annoyed when his co-workers whistle behind his back and make exaggerated faces.

[urdepressedslut]

You’re Mine, Sunshine ❝part nine❞

♡ Pairing: Grumpy!Bodyguard!Bucky Barnes x Sunshine!Fem!Reader

♡ Summary: After the events from the other day, you try and cope with the reality of what happened. The world is a lot less colorful than you remember. Bucky helps comfort you after you realize you have no one left.

♡ Warnings: heavy angst, flashbacks, abuse, mentions of parent death, hints to depression, reader doesn't know she has depression, anxiety attacks

Series Masterlist

Trope ⇢ Grumpy x Sunshine | Mob!Au Bodyguard!Au

Italics are flashbacks

“I don’t know… I kinda like shirts that don’t hug me too tight.” You mumbled, scratching the back of your neck.

You heard a dramatic gasp, and you looked into her eyes as she shook her head, holding up the top she had been trying to convince you to buy.

“Babygirl— why can’t you see how gorgeous you are. Anything you wear, you’d make look like a million bucks.” You Mother almost whined, and you couldn’t help the chuckle that escaped your lips from her antics.

“Ma you know that’s not true.” You argued, failing at keeping a serious expression.

“No baby— I know I’m right. That’s my secret.” She argues back confidently.

She walked closer and started combing stray hairs out of your eyes, smiling at you adoringly as she did so. Her eyes practically sparkled with love.

“What’s your secret Ma?” You asked quietly, leaning into your Mother’s delicate touch.

She cupped your chin and raised your face to her lips, the feeling of her pecking your forehead sweetly. The gesture made you all warm inside— her love filling you with so much protection.

“Mommies never lie. So you really are beautiful baby— and soon you’ll start to see that, and you’ll be breaking hearts left and right.” She spoke quietly to you.

“I won’t be breaking any hearts… because that means I’ll have to date people and well… that’s scary.” You admitted.

Your Mother lifted your chin back up, giving you another loving kiss on your forehead, stroking your cheek as if you were fragile and needed to be protected. In her eyes— you were her everything. Her little girl— she only wished you could live your life without any pain. She knew life wasn’t that perfect— but she’d do anything for her baby. She’s try as hard as she could to make her life perfect. She deserved it.

“It is scary baby, but if you never put yourself out there— you may never have the chance to meet people.” She cooed. “We learn a lot from everyone we meet, and if you don’t meet anyone— you won’t learn anything. It helps us grow into being a better person.”

You nodded in understanding, feeling comforted by her words. She believed that you could do it, so you started to believe you could. Your Mother truly did know best— she’d never put you in a bad situation. As much as you hated to admit it, she was almost always right.

“You’re so smart Ma. I’m glad I've got a Mama as good as you around.” You whispered as you hugged her tightly— forgetting that you were at the mall.

Her laugh vibrated through her chest as your head lay against her heart.

“You know your compliments always go straight to my head.” She joked and you snorted and playfully hit her hip.

“I’ll take it back.” You playfully warned.

“Please don’t— we were having such a nice moment.” She whined dramatically and you both went into a laughing fit.

The air was so cool— so breathable. Your limbs felt relaxed, your mind was at ease. Everything was so much easier with your Mother around, she truly was the light of your life.

"Okay, I'll get it." You finally gave in, pointing to the shirt that was hanging off her arm.

Your Mother eyes brightened and she smiled like the chesire cat, almost starting to jump up and down like a little kid. You forgot who was the older one sometimes. You just watched with a giggle.

"That's my girl." She ruffled your hair and headed towards the cashier.

You watched her walk away, happy that you could make her happy. Although the top wasn't what you'd usually wear— maybe your Mother was right. It was time to get out of your comfort zone— plus she was never wrong.

~

You cracked your eyes open at the sound of rain hitting your window, the peaceful ambience of a storm passing over the house. You let out a deep breath, a heavy feeling left sitting on your chest— the bittersweet memory still fresh in your mind. It was sweet because even the memory of your Mother could fill your body with the joy that you had been missing from life. Although it was bitter because they were only memories. Instead of staying in the moment with her, you were forced to be sent back into reality. Back to a world where she wasn't around anymore. That was the most painful realization you had to live through every day.

The days since her passing had been the same, but it was slightly different this time around. You were almost positive that because of the relationship between you and your Father was getting worse— had you desperately wishing to have your Mother back.

You wondered if it would've been easier to never know parental love, then live most of your life with it— then to not have it.

You hadn’t realized you had slept through the night, misjudging how exhausted your kind and body was. There was just a slight glow from outside, otherwise the sky was cloudy— the weather gloomy. The outside was currently how you felt, it seemed.

Glancing around the room, there was no sign of him. Which was the second thing that had come to your mind this morning. Bucky.

Pushing that thought to the side, you swung your legs over the edge of your bed— heading towards the bathroom. Your head felt heavy, your limbs feeling like there were wights tied to them. You overall felt like the walk to the bathroom was much harder than it should’ve been. You had hoped that a nights rest would ease the haze that covered your brain. But as you walked to the bathroom— you could still sense the thick fog within your head.

Switching on the light, you headed straight for the mirror without giving it much thought. You’d be lying if you said your reflection didn’t startle you. In fact the harder you looked— you doubted that was actually you.

Your eyes were puffy, red rimmed as they were the night before. Your lips were chapped, achey with how dry they were. All in all— it was the still irritated skin on your cheek that had you in shock. The palm sized mark had you staring without blinking— your breathing starting to come in rapidly. Almost instantly, the events from the night before began to play through your mind.

"You wonder why I don't want you around— do you not see how you act? Disrespectful fucking brat! I do all these nice things for you— I buy you a fucking house! I provide you with everything you need!"

The memory of his hand shooting towards your face had you flinching back in the space of your bathroom. The action startling you from just remembering.

You furrowed your brows, staring at your reflection in confusion. Puzzled at your body's reaction— the way you had jumped. Even though you were alone in the bathroom— you felt embarrassed. Your hand shot down to grip your thigh, squeezing the flesh until you could start to feel pain. Your nose burned again, your chest tight and uncomfortable— unable to expand fully. You gasped, almost breaking from this trance as you released your thigh— glancing down frantically at the now red and irritated skin. Your head felt fuzzy as you couldn't understand why you were acting like this. You felt like you were out of control of your body— your mind. You wiped your face harshly, drying your skin of any tears— any evidence that you had been a mess.

Without wasting another second, you headed from the bathroom and made your way downstairs— in search of Bucky.

Bucky had made himself comfortable in the grand office downstairs. The room seemingly untouched, obvious that you didn’t care for this room. That much didn’t surprise him. But what did shock him— was the stash of liquor that was kept inside the study.

Surely that wasn’t yours. He thought to himself.

He had sat by your bedside, guarding the room as you slept for awhile. After you started to mumble in your sleep— that’s when he decided to leave. He knew you’d want him to be there when you woke, but the words about your Mother escaping your lips seemed private. It felt wrong to over hear such information while you were unconscious.

He also just needed to excuse himself, needing to drown his thoughts with alcohol for awhile. His career let alone his life— was in jeopardy.

He didn’t want to fear Pierce— but he couldn’t stop the overwhelming waves of anxiety from crashing into him. Amongst everything else, you stuck out in his thoughts. Majority of his worries circled around you, the concerns about you being left alone— with Pierce. If it wasn’t his life he was worried about, it was you. He was only afraid of the outcome because if there was no him— he wouldn’t be able to protect you.

It continued to eat away at him— he knew he should do something. He let the thought pass by… I should run.

He raised the glass, downing the rest of the contents— enjoying the burn on his throat as he scoffed at the cowardly thought.

He’d would run for you… with you.

He stared at the empty glass as he attempted to digest the idea. Knowing deep down he wouldn’t be able to make a proper decision without talking with you.

“James?” You called out, grabbing his attention to the doorway.

You didn’t even attempt to send him one of your usual warm smiles, instead glancing around the room you completely forgot existed. For good reason.

“What are you doing in here?” You asked, but soon found your answer when you let your eyes drop to the bottles of liquor surrounding his empty glass. “It’s early.”

You pointed out, and Bucky lowered his gaze for a moment in shame before lifting his eyes to your face again. This was when he noticed how different you looked.

It was the little, subtle changes that no one else could distinguish. But he could— he could see it clear as day, and it broke his heart.

Your eyes were dull, missing the usual sparkle in them. Your face just seemed like it was longer, the way you didn’t even try to keep a smile on your face. He didn’t think he’d ever seen you so… not you. Lastly, what killed him the most— was the way you were standing. The way you were trying to seem so small, like you could be small enough to hide away from everyone.

“James?” You called again, breaking him from his analysis of you. It was then he realized he hadn’t responded.

“Uh… yeah guess I’m just a little stressed out.” He finally told you, not completely lying.

“You shouldn’t do that— it can cause a lot of issues.” You motioned towards the alcohol.

“I know.” He mumbled, lowering his gaze to the desk again.

“You should just talk to me, instead of drinking until you pass out.” You told him softly.

“I can hold my liquor well.” He tried to argue, glancing up and sending you a smirk.

You just shook your head, crossing your arms like you were a mom scolding her kid.

“I don’t care. You should still talk to me.” You told him sternly.

He couldn’t ignore the shock in your change in demeanor. Of course you’d be in a different mood from the events last night— but he wasn’t used to this solemn version of you yet.

“Okay.” He agreed finally, standing up to head towards another room— preferably one that didn’t hold as much negativity as this one.

You surprised him by reaching out to take his hand, holding it tightly in yours. You didn’t give him a second to show his shock— instead you held on, tugging him towards the direction of the library.

He hadn’t even talked with you yet, but somehow he already felt lighter— in a better mood. Just by your presence, let alone your touch— was enough.

Making your way through the library— hand in hand— you didn’t slow until you reached your spot. The same spot from the very first introduction you two shared. One that didn’t have that good of an ending.

The memory although had a sour end, you still looked back and wanted to smile. You two had no idea what was coming— so naive. Like you said— it almost made you want to smile. Almost.

“James, why are you drinking this early in the morning? I know you’ve got something on your mind.” You started, as soon as you two sat down in your spots.

He rolled his eyes, avoiding your stare. He knew you were right, but also he just didn’t want to have this talk. Though— he knew it needed to happen. He just wished he could have one more care free day. He hated himself for not enjoying them while they lasted.

“Doll, we know what’s going to happen.” He voiced lowly, body and mind defeated.

You flashed a fearful expression before attempting to harden your features back.

“What do you mean?” You asked him cautiously.

“I spoke wrongly to your Father— everything that happened yesterday… you know how this ends for me.” He hinted, hoping you’d understand.

You shook your head, while still glancing at him with a softened expression. You don’t think you’d ever seen Bucky so stressed, his face stuck in a concerned expression.

“You don’t know that for sure.”

“(Y/n)… your Father doesn’t give a shit about me! For all I know— he probably has a new bodyguard ready for you. I’ll be as good as gone soon!” He exclaimed, voice raising— but it was Bucky. You weren’t afraid of him like you were your Father.

“Nothing is going to happen to you— I’ll make sure of it.” You promised him, and for a second he paused and looked at you deeply.

He ran a hand through his hair, leaning back in his seat with a frustrated huff.

“I don’t really care what happens to me… I just don’t wanna leave you. I can’t… I can’t let him keep doing this to you.” He whispered, lowering his head— his emotions stealing his voice.

You felt your heart start to beat faster, the same butterflies fluttering around your stomach once more. Every time he protected you, made an effort to want to be with you— it had you speechless. You never knew you could find something like this again. After your Mother had passed— you thought the feeling was lost.

“We should run.” He spoke again, breaking the thick silence that had blanketed the room.

You swallowed at that suggestion, wondering why a small part of you still didn’t want to leave your Father. Although he had proved to really not care about you— love you. You still loved him. He was all you had left.

But maybe that wasn’t true anymore, here was Bucky sitting in front of you— willing to risk his life just so you could live your happy ending.

“Where will we go?” You spoke back finally, shocking him that you wanted to go along with it.

As he stared into your eyes, his stomach rolled sickeningly at the fear that was evident in your eyes. But it wasn’t fear for yourself— it was for him.

“Somewhere far away— somewhere he won’t find you. I have a few places in mind… but are you really willing to do this? Leave your home?” He asked, happy that you were on board— but still wanted to respect your decision.

You immediately thought of that one cheesy quote you’d read somewhere— not necessarily believing it until now. Home can be a person too.

You felt your nose burn, tears welling into your eyes and this time you didn’t fight it. Everything had been building ever since you’d woken up. The only place you felt safe wasn’t even your home anymore— it was him.

“This place doesn’t really feel like home anymore so… yeah I’m ready.” You admitted, your voice getting quiet by the end.

Bucky’s hand twitched on his thigh, the way his instinct was to touch you— to comfort you. He fought against the side of him that itched to jump over to you, instead he stayed rooted at his spot.

“There’s something else I need to tell you.” He started, not knowing if you were mentally ready to handle this. “Your Father has been keeping this from you for awhile, and he had asked me to keep it from you as well but— you deserve to know. I wanted to tell you so many times I just— I should’ve told you… so I’m sorry.”

You got up from your seat and plopped down next to him, not hesitating to reach out and take his metal hand in your two. Your held it comfortably while also using the metal ridges to fidget with.

“Hey, it’s okay. Don’t worry about what you should’ve done— you’re telling me now. That’s all that matters, so I appreciate that.” You assured him, scooting even closer so that your thighs were touching.

“Someone’s been stalking you (Y/n).” He finally confessed, and almost immediately he could feel the weight being lifted off his chest.

You didn’t speak for awhile, just staring at him like you weren’t sure if you imagined him saying those words. Your brain was having a hard time processing what he had said— someone was stalking you? You were disturbed, your skin crawling with fear. One thing stuck out to you the most— it was the fact that your Father had yet to tell you.

Bucky took your silence as a bad sign, watching you stare blankly at your lap, where your fidgeting hands stilled on his metal one. It was his turn to wrap his metal hand around your wrist, applying a gentle amount of pressure to try and get your attention.

“(Y/n)?” He asked softly, growing more worried the longer you stayed quiet.

You still didn’t know what you were feeling, it was hard to distinguish it when you were already overwhelmed with emotions today. Your brain felt burnt out— your mind wanting to shut off completely.

“How long?” You whispered, still staring at your lap.

“Awhile, and they’ve gotten close. They have left stuff on your doorstep— and I found it before you could see it.” He told you, watching you shiver from the information. “They found your Mother’s necklace in one of the boxes that was dropped off at your door.”

That had gotten your attention, your head snapping up to his— your eyes wide with horror. You immediately started shaking your head in denial, knowing where this was going. You felt like you were gonna be sick, so you tried to swallow back the bile from rising.

“No… No I— I know what you’re going to say! My Mother died from a car accident. That’s how she died.” You rushed out, your vision blurring with tears.

“(Y/n) I’m not saying whoever is stalking you was involved with her passing— I’m just saying that there’s something darker to this than anyone knows.” He assured you, watching you nod in understanding.

His heart hurt watching your body start to tremble, your bottom lip quivering.

“Do you have it?” You whispered ever so quietly.

“What?” Bucky asked suddenly, confused.

You faced him, grabbing onto both his hands now— needing him to ground you from spiraling. Bucky had to hold in the gasp that wanted to escape, from how close you appeared to be.

“Do you have the necklace?” You asked desperately, voice cracking, “My Father he… he wouldn’t let me keep any of my Mothers things.”

Bucky’s heart broke again, his eyes softening at your broken expression. The way you were trembling holding onto him, your eyes red rimmed and lost looking. He had never held such hatred for someone before— fucking Pierce.

“Doll, I’m sorry— he has it.”

You nodded in understanding but couldn’t hold back the new wave of tears. You didn’t hesitate, and threw yourself into his arms. Wrapping your arms right around his middle, feeling the bulky muscles flex through his clothes.

He didn’t waste anytime and engulfed you in his protective embrace. He willed himself to stay strong— for you. But your cries and shakes of your body were killing him, he swore he was feeling physical pain from it all. He wanted to take it all away— all your pain.

Both your legs hung off to the side, while you practically were sitting in his lap. But neither of you cared— yes, it was intimate. But it was intimate in a different way, you both clung onto each other— escaping for a little while just in each others embrace. Being so close now, feeling each other pressed up on another— it felt right. It felt like home.

You felt one of his hands lift to the back of your head, cradling your head as his metal fingers weaves through your hair— just slightly scratching your scalp. You could feel yourself melt further into him. Your body sagging into him.

“I’ve got you (Y/n), I’m not going anywhere.” He whispered soothingly.

“I wanna hate him.” You whimpered, your fists fisting in his shirt.

His heart clenched painfully, hating that there was nothing he could do besides be here for you at the moment. But every cry and whimper only convinced him further that he was doing the right thing— the right thing by running away with you.

“Does that make me a bad person— that I wanna hate him? I want to but… but I can’t!” You cried.

Bucky shook his head, before he realized you couldn’t see him. He pulled you back away from him so he could face you— that was also when he noticed how close you were to him.

“No it doesn’t. He hasn’t been a Father to you. He hurt you— It’s okay to wanna hate him.” He assured you.

He held your gaze, waiting until you nodded to make sure you understood what you were feeling was valid.

“I really wanna hate him…” You whimpered again, trying to lower your eyes but you knew Bucky wouldn’t allow it.

He didn’t know if there was anything he could say to truly make you feel better, but he hoped that his comforting embrace was helping. Little did you know— your tight hold on him was ridding him of any and all stress.

“I know (Y/n), I know.” He breathed out.

Before he could stop himself, he was lifting his hand to stroke his thumb across her cheek— letting his palm rest on your jaw.

Your eyes fluttered shut from his touch for a second, before they opened and gazed deeply into his. His eyes shined with something unusual— something you had yet to see coming from his eyes. You felt intimidated from the intensity that was his gaze— the way your stomach fluttered nervously. You felt the same urge as before, your body leaning instinctively closer to him— you felt so safe in his arms, you couldn't help yourself from wanting to sink deeper into the ocean that was him.

"(Y/n)..." His voice broke through your trance, "Maybe we shouldn't."

God he wanted to slap himself for even voicing those words, because he so badly wanted to devour you whole— loosen every thread that was tied on you— unlocking every inch and part of you that he didn't know he craved. But the sensible side of him knew it wasn't the right moment... right?

You were so vulnerable, it felt wrong for him to even steal a glance in the wrong way when your walls were crumbled before him. He didn't want you to think for even a second that he was taking advantage of you. He respected you greatly, and he was not going to allow himself to have no self restraint. He wanted you to be in full control— and even then he felt hesitant to let you continue. The kiss on his cheek from before, he felt he hadn't deserved that— earned that. He was greedy however— and took any breadcrumbs he could.

You only darted your eyes down to his lips, watching his tongue poke out to wet them— your eyes watching the pink dampen the plump flesh. You found yourself biting your own lip— a sudden craving intensifying at the sight.

Despite your desires, you leaned forward and placed another kiss to his stubbled cheek— this time letting your lips linger on the skin longer than the last. Bucky could feel the heat rush to his face, knowing his cheeks were most likely bright red. He didn't know how he held so much power, but the feel of your lips against his cheek— god he wanted to kiss you so badly.

You sent him a small smile, and he could almost see the real you finally coming to light. The sight had his heart swelling, his own lips curving up in a cheerful smile— relived to see his girl coming back.

"Thank you James— I don't know what I'd do without you." You whispered, holding his gaze with hidden devotion. "I need you."

He had to fight back the huge smile he felt approaching from your words— he tried to ignore the bubbling joy he felt from your words. The way you needed him just as he needed you.

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