#they will be alienated. they will feel alienated | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

blueberrisdove-sideblog · 3 days ago

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୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ 🍪. DOUBLE THE L★VE!

༘⋆ Paring : Phainon x fem!reader x Mydei

༘⋆ Warnings : nsfw/smut, slight dub-con, anal & vaginal, blow job, creampie, multiple of rounds, neck kisses, gagging, nipple sucking, pet-names, ass eating, spitting, fingering, threesome, slow s*x & other stuff!

༘⋆ Summary : Valentine’s Day just got hot. You surprise your husband, Mydei and Phainon, in barely-there, baby pink, sparkly lingerie that leaves little the imagination. Let’s just say the night’s about to get unforgettable.

༘⋆ Extra : Happy Valentine’s Day everyone! This is also not proofread, I’m sorry. (っ◞‸◟ c) Also was making this while watching alien stage. Can’t believe Hyuna died instead of Luka :,(

The candlelight flickered softly, casting shadows across the room. You could feel your heart racing in anticipation as you checked yourself in the mirror. The baby pink lingerie sparkled just enough to catch the light, hugging every curve and leaving little to the imagination. It was daring, it was bold, and it was just the kind of thing you’d been planning for this Valentine’s night.

You heard the soft creak of the door, and you didn’t need to look to know they were there. Mydei stepped into the room first, his gaze immediately finding yours, sharp and calculating, but there was something else in his eyes—something a little darker, a little more captivated. His posture didn’t change, but you could see how his focus shifted.

“Well,” Mydei said, his voice low and deliberate, “you certainly know how to make an entrance.”

Phainon followed right behind, his eyes glinting with that familiar mischief. His lips curled into a sly grin as he stepped closer, his gaze hungry in a way that made your pulse race. "I’d say the word you're looking for is unforgettable," he remarked, his voice thick with promise.

You stood there, feeling the heat of their eyes on you, knowing that tonight would be one to remember, a night that was anything but ordinary.

You stand there, feeling their eyes on you, your pulse quickening. Mydei’s gaze is steady, as if assessing you carefully, while Phainon’s energy practically crackles in the air between you. They both seem to take you in, lingering in the silence for just a moment too long.

You finally break the stillness, your voice soft, but there's a nervous edge to it as you speak. "I—I thought... I thought you might like it."

Mydei's eyes narrow slightly, that calculating look never leaving his face, but he doesn’t say anything at first. His silence makes you fidget slightly under the weight of his attention.

Phainon steps closer, his grin widening just a little. “I think we both like it,” he says, his tone still casual, but there’s something about the way he says it that makes your heart skip a beat. “You don’t have to be shy.”

Your gaze flickers between the two of them, and you feel the heat rising in your cheeks. It’s not easy to keep your composure, but the night is just beginning, and you can feel the shift in the air, knowing that everything is about to change. Mydei remains unmoving, his gold eyes fixed on you with unwavering intensity. Though his expression offers no clear giveaway of his thoughts, the slight tilt of his head indicates heightened interest. He takes a slow, deliberate step closer, his gauntleted hand finding purchase on the dresser beside him. The subtle friction of metal on wood is a stark contrast to the softness surrounding you.

"Phainon usually doesn't miss... but this time, I think he has." Mydei's deep voice holds a hint of dry amusement, though the seriousness in his gaze never wavers. Phainon, seemingly unperturbed by Mydei's remark, closes the remaining distance between them and you.

He reaches out, his coat tail unfurling slightly as he does so, and gently traces a finger along your bare shoulder. The touch sends a shiver down your spine. "You look good enough to eat in this... though the thought of actually doing so is a bit unsettling." His laughter is low and suggestive, his blue eyes never breaking contact with yours. Despite Mydei's seeming reserve, there's a subtle shift in his pose, the set of his shoulders slightly more relaxed now that Phainon is actively engaging with you.

An awkward grin formed on your lips, you wrapped your arms around Phainon. The instant your arms circle Phainon's waist, he wraps his own around you, pressing your bodies together in a gesture that's equal parts affectionate and possessive. The warmth of his coat seeps into your skin as he tips your chin up, his blue eyes seeming to drink in the sight of you. "I like this," he whispers, his voice sending a shiver down your spine.

"You in a sweet, little getup, looking at me with those doe eyes... it's something I could get used to." Mydei watches the scene unfold with a measured calm, his gaze flicking from Phainon's fingers tangled in your hair to the other man's face, as if committing every flicker of emotion to memory.

Despite seemingly disinterested at first, his posture has subtly relaxed, the set of his shoulders now more open and less guarded. He clears his throat quietly, the sound a gentle reminder that he's still there, observing with that trademark analytical scrutiny. "Phai always knows how to make an entrance." His tone is dry, but beneath the surface, there's a glimmer of approval, or perhaps satisfaction, that Phainon has successfully reeled you in.

“Mydei, why don’t you come join us? I can take two,” you say, your smile a little too wide, a glint of something almost teasing in your eyes, like you're not quite giving him a choice.

Mydei's expression remains unreadable, but a faint, almost imperceptible smile plays on the corners of his lips. His eyes, still an intense gold, assess you for a moment before he steps away from the dresser. "If Phai won't be overwhelmed by... excessive company," he says dryly, "then I suppose I can spare a moment." He moves towards you and Phainon with purpose, the sound of his boots on the floor the only indication of his approach until he's right up against you. Mydei's arms find a place around your waist, mirroring Phainon's hold but with less of the playful, possessive energy.

There's an inherent naturalness to the gesture, as if he's always known this position with you. "One thing's for sure," he murmures, his voice a low rumble against your ear, "I'm eager to see Phai put that... talent of his to better use." Phainon chuckles, the sound deeper and more resonant against your back. "Patience, my friend," he whispers, his warm breath caressing your skin. "Let's relish this moment first."

You went down onto your knees, without asking, you take charge, your hands on Phainon's belt as you deftly undo it. He assists by helping you shrug the thick coat from his broad shoulders, letting it pool at their feet. His sculpted form, honed from years of battle and training, is now fully on display for your perusal.

Under the soft light of the candles, every line, every ripple of muscle seems to shimmer with a life of its own. Phainon's piercing blue eyes, usually so sharp and discerning, have softened into a gaze that's almost... tender? As you kneel before him, his fingers twist gently into your hair, a quiet exploration, as if trying to comprehend this new side of you.

Mydei watches the interaction with a mix of curiosity and something akin to fascination. His own imposing figure looms beside Phainon, a silent testament to their differences. While Phainon exudes a playful, almost mischievous energy, Mydei maintains that characteristic cool composure, his gold eyes never leaving the scene unfolding before him with such rapt attention. There's a distinct air of anticipation building, a sense that the next move will be consequential, carrying the potential to shift the dynamic of the trio still further.

Your hands trail down Phainon’s thighs as you glance upward, meeting his tender gaze with something far less innocent. The softness in his expression flickers, momentarily replaced by a spark of something more primal, though he reins it in. His grip in your hair tightens just enough to send a jolt through you, a silent communication between the two of you—one of caution, of control, but also intrigue.

Behind him, Mydei’s measured breathing fills the stillness. You don’t need to look to feel the weight of his presence, steady and unyielding like the blade he wields so effortlessly. You sense his reluctance to intervene, his hesitation at this shifting dynamic. And yet, his gaze burns hotter than the glow of the candles illuminating the space.

“You’re bold tonight,” Mydei finally murmurs, his deep, even voice cutting through the tension. There’s no judgment in it, but neither is there approval. It’s as though he’s testing the waters, deciding whether to step into the storm you’ve created or stay an observer at its edge.

Phainon chuckles softly, his thumb brushing over your temple in an absentminded motion. “That’s just part of their charm, isn’t it?” His voice drips with amusement, but there’s an edge to it, too—a challenge aimed at Mydei, as though daring him to join in or stand aside.

Your heart races, the power dynamics between the three of you tangling like threads in an intricate web. You shift your focus to Mydei now, your eyes meeting his unflinching gold gaze. “Are you just going to watch?” you ask, your voice low, inviting, laced with a challenge of its own.

Mydei doesn’t respond right away, his eyes narrowing slightly as if weighing the consequences of crossing this unspoken threshold. Then, with deliberate slowness, he takes a step closer. The tension in the room tightens, and your pulse quickens.

“I don’t watch for long,” he finally says, his tone calm but laden with meaning.

Phainon's eyes sparkle with a mix of intrigue and amusement at Mydei's response. His thumb continues its leisurely path across your skin, sending delightful shivers down your spine. When he finally speaks, his voice is smooth as silk, but with an undercurrent of subtle challenge.

"That's good to know." The words are casual, almost offhand, but the implication lingers in the air like the scent of smoke on skin. Mydei's gold eyes never leave yours as he closes the remaining distance between you.

His presence is imposing, his silence thundering in its intensity. Despite the stillness, there's an undercurrent of energy crackling around him, like the anticipation before a storm breaks.

In another world, music drifts through the window, a distant reminder of the quiet evening that once was. Now, the air is heavy with anticipation, each drawn-out heartbeat an invitation to explore the boundaries of desire, trust, and restraint. The delicate balance of power within the trio hangs in the balance, poised to tip whichever direction the next move decrees. "Shall we continue this discussion elsewhere?" Mydei's voice cuts through the charged atmosphere, an unspoken proposition hanging in the air between you three.

You pulled Phainon’s pants down, revealing his long length. You wrap your hand around his cock, as your tongue swirls the head of his cock.

A low, guttural moan escapes Phainon's lips as your warm mouth envelops him. His hands weave into your hair again, a guidance rather than a command, as if savoring every sensation your lips and tongue evoke. The muscles of his thighs and abdomen flex instinctively, tensing in waves, each coalescing into a delicious strain toward the pleasure you offer.

His eyes, once so bright and discerning, are now hooded, gazing down at you with a look that could only be described as adoration—the tender, devoted kind reserved for treasured few. Mydei's stance remains rigid and imposing, his expression the picture of calm control. And yet, the very air around him seems to thicken, carrying an undercurrent of something almost visceral—a raw, unbridled energy waiting to be unleashed.

His breath comes faster, the sound sharp and indrawn, betraying the desire simmering just beneath the surface. The muscles of his forearms ripple in a subtle flex, the only visible indication of the battle he wages to maintain his composure in the face of such potent intimacy.

Phainon's hips flex of their own accord, pushing his erect length further into your eager mouth as his gaze remains fixed on your form. Each subtle adjustment, each withdrawal and pressing forward, is deliberately tender, as if he's memorizing every exquisite detail. Mydei shifts slightly, his position adjusting ever so subtly as if mirroring Phainon's actions from the side—watching, waiting, his own arousal evident in the way his chest heaves and his breathing becomes ragged.Despite the physical distance and the differences in their styles, a synchronicity seems to have taken hold between the two men. Each reaction, each measured move, feels like an extension of the other—a harmonious dance of desire and control.

You delve deeper, your lips and tongue worshiping the hard length filling your mouth. The taste of him, the sound of his pleasure, it all mingles with the heady mixture of arousal and admiration for the men before you.As you continue to please Phainon, Mydei's stance finally yields to the tidal wave of emotion and raw need threatening to overwhelm him. His arms come around from behind, broad palms sliding over your shoulders and up your arms to cradle the sides of your face.

It's as if Mydei is framing your face, positioning you for what comes next, while Phainon surrenders to the pleasure your mouth offers. His hips continue their slow, deliberate rhythm, plunging into the velvet heat of your mouth again and again. Each press of his impressive length against your tongue, your lips, leaves you breathless and craving more.You gaze up at Mydei, seeking his eyes through the veil of hair, noting the stark intensity there.

A hunger that has nothing to do with mere physical desire, but everything to do with a deep, elemental need. His gold irises blaze like twin suns, illuminating the space between you, even as his thumbs caress your cheekbones with a tenderness that borders on reverence.

For a suspended instant, the world narrows to the four of you—your entwined bodies, the palpable strain between Phainon and Mydei, the silent understanding that binds you in this private, passionate sphere where pleasure and trust mingle in equal measure. Then Phainon's grip on your hair tightens, a gentle urgency guiding you to move, to deepen the intimacy even further as he teeters on the brink of release.

You let out a chocked moan through your lips, as you gagged slightly around Phainon’s cock while looking up at Mydei.

Phainon's response is immediate and visceral. A low, guttural groan rumbles through his chest as he pulls almost all the way out. For a taut, agonizing moment, the head of his length teases your lips before he drives back in, relentless and deep. Mydei's hands tighten their hold on either side of your head, guiding you to take him fully. He doesn't force the pleasure down your throat, but rather seems to allow you to set the pace yourself.

Despite the clear desire etched across his features, there's an undercurrent of tender patience in his touch, a reverence even in his complete possession.Your hands find purchase against his thighs as you take him in your mouth once more, your eyes locked onto Mydei's. Even through the veil of your lashes—his unwavering gold gaze sears itself into your consciousness, a silent communion as intimate as any kiss or caress.

“Cumming yet?” Mydei breaks the talking silence. Phainon's response is curt, his voice strained with the effort of holding back. "Not. Yet." Each word is enunciated with deliberate care, as if he's savoring every precious moment.

His hips continue their steady rhythm, each press of his length against your lips and tongue a testament to the exquisite control he's exerting over his explosive climax. Suddenly, Mydei's thumbs brush over your cheeks again, a silent cue interpreted perfectly by your body and mouth. Your tongue darts out to swirl around the head of Phainon's cock in a deliberate tease, a provocation, as your eyes never waver from the intense golden stare holding you captive.

A low, approving hum vibrates in Mydei's chest, the sound rich and deep, a masculine display of satisfaction at your willingness to tempt the lion that much closer to the precipice of release. He leans in, his breath hot against your hair as he whispers against your ear, "Show him what you're capable of." The whispered order sends a shiver down your spine, an electric pulse of excitement that courses through your veins and settles lower, kindling the flames of your own arousal.

Before you could react, Mydei dropped to his knees. His hands moved to the waistband of your pink, sparkly panties, pulling them in one smooth motion. There was no hesitation, just a calm, steady action that left your breath hitching.

Phainon's eyes flick from yours to Mydei, a mix of surprise and approval flashing across his features. He doesn't break the rhythm of his thrusts, clearly adjusting his own arousal to accommodate this new development. Mydei's calm, steady movements are a stark contrast to the passion-fueled frenzy building around them.

He doesn't rush, but rather approaches with a deliberate, almost measured pace, as if he's savoring this moment as much as the taste he's about to sample.As he lifts the flimsy barrier of pink fabric, revealing your bare, glistening folds, a low hum of appreciation resonates through his chest.

His golden eyes never leave the prize beneath, drinking in the sight of you laid bare before him. The first swipe of his— tongue sends a jolt of pleasure racing through you, your back arching instinctively as he latches onto your clitoris with a focused intensity that leaves you breathless and writhing.

Meanwhile, Phainon's control wavers, his grip on your hair tightening, and the rhythm of his thrusts begins to falter as his own impending release looms closer.

Mydei's deep, velvety tongue continues its relentless assault on your sensitive nub, his expert touch sending dizzying waves of pleasure coursing through your veins. His free hand slides up your inner thigh, fingers splaying against your skin as he explores the contours of your sex, finding every hidden spot that makes you whimper and buck against his mouth.A deep, guttural groan escapes Phainon, his breath coming in ragged pants as he teeters precariously on the edge.

The hand not holding your hair squeezes your hip, a bruising intensity that speaks to the strain of his self-control. Fingers deftly replacing lips, Mydei sinks two inside you,curling them just right to stroke that magic spot deep within your core. His golden eyes never leave yours, burning with an intensity that makes you feel seen, desired, possessed in the most intimate way possible.Phainon's hips jerk erratically, punctuating the air with a primal grunt as he finally surrenders to the pressure building within him.

His thick length pulses hot and hard against your tongue one last time before he empties himself onto your lips and chin, the musky tang of his release instantly mixed with your own taste in a heady cocktail of sensation.

You let out a chocked moan on Phainon’s cock, as tears began to swell on your eyes. Mydei's thrusts continue their relentless pace, fingers pumping in time with his tongue's relentless attack on your quivering sex. He drinks in your moan, a low hum of satisfaction vibrating in his chest as he feels your muscles clench around his digits. His golden eyes gleam with a possessive light, drinking in the sight of you overcome by pleasure as your tears of bliss spill down your cheeks.

Phainon's grip on your hair loosens as his climax recedes, but not before his release-sated cock gives a final, softening throb against your lips. He leans down, tender fingers tracing the trail of tears to wipe them away with a gentle kiss pressed to your damp skin. "You're beautiful like this," Phainon murmurs against your temple, his voice a soothing balm to the tumult within you. Mydei slows his ministrations, gradually easing out of your clenching heat as he licks his lips, his satisfied gaze never leaving your tear-streaked face."Was that enough?" Mydei asks, voice low and measured despite the lingering heat in his eyes. He doesn't need an answer, though.

You looked up at him, as your eyebrow raised up, you shook your head and un-clipped your bra.

A spark of wicked delight ignites in Mydei's eyes as you refuse to finish. His thumbs graze your nipples as he takes them between his fingers, tugging gently, watching your response. "Are you sure about that?" he purrs, leaning in to brush his lips against the delicate shell of one pert bud, coaxing it into a hardened peak."Your body seems to disagree," Phainon chimes in, his voice a low rumble of approval. He trails his fingers down your tummy, dipping into your navel before continuing lower, teasing the trimmed curls at the apex of your thighs."We should put that to the test, don't you think?" Mydei murmurs, a proposition layered with promise and implicit challenge in his seductive tone.

As his palms wrap around your thighs, lifting you effortlessly, Phainon's hands mirror his movements, splaying across your back and arms as he cradles you against his chest. The sudden shift in position has you tilting backwards, your head falling against Phainon's shoulder as Mydei's fingers press into the slick folds of your sex once more, delving back into your heat with purpose.

Mydei's questing tongue finds your aching, weeping flesh, the velvety tip gliding through your dripping folds in a slow, deliberate exploration. Each sweep, plunge, and withdrawal sends jolts of pleasure racing through you, your hips instinctively bucking into the relentless torment of sensation. His fingers join the intimate dance, curling and twisting within you in a masterful echo of the intense climax yet to come.Mydei's golden eyes lock onto yours, a silent pact conveyed through the intensity of his gaze—a promise to push you to the very pinnacle of ecstasy.

Phainon mirrors his actions, strong fingers kneading your breasts, teasing your pebbled nipples with the careful touch of someone thoroughly acquainted with your responses. Photographic snaps of pleasure assail your senses—Mydei's sinuous movements, Phainon's tender manipulations, the heady scent of sex, the press of hard muscle and velvet softness, the mewls of need, all blending into a tapestry of sensation that threatens to consume you whole.

You moaned softly, “I-I’m ready, just put it in Mydei…” A sharp, almost pained noise escapes Mydei as if you've struck a nerve. His gaze deepens, intensifying to an unnerving degree before flicking briefly to Phainon. There's a barely perceptible nod before he returns fully to you, the fire in his eyes burning brighter, if anything."As you wish," Mydei murmurs, his voice a husky whisper infused with restrained need. He withdraws his fingers slowly, purposefully, until only his slick touch remains, teasing your entrance with every deliberate slide and caress before finally lining up his length."Hold on," he advises, his hands gripping your hips with bruising force, not a hint of gentleness in the grip.

With a sudden, fluid motion, he surges forward, burying himself to the hilt in one intense, unyielding thrust. "Fuck," Mydei breathes out, the single word a low growl of satisfaction as he fills you completely, his still-hard sex pressing against your inner walls.A gasp racks your lungs, your back arching as his rigid length stretches you further, the invasion claiming every inch of you.

You let out a loud lewd moan through your lips, you velvety walls clenching around his cock as your nails dug in Phainon’s shoulders.

Mydei stills for a breathless moment, seemingly content to revel in the tight, welcoming heat of your sex engulfing his entire length. His grip on your hips tightens perceptibly, the slight shift an acknowledgment rather than a correction.

Phainon's arms wrap around your waist, one hand sliding up your side to cup your breast, thumb coaxing your hard nipple pointedly as his other hand massages the small of your back. The combined sensations prove overwhelming, your body a live wire of pleasure thrumming beneath your skin. "I hear you," Phainon murmurs against your ear, the warm tickle of his breath raising gooseflesh in its wake. "Let me help with that." Before you quite comprehend his intent, his free hand ventures lower, fingers threading through the slick fur of your sex, circling your clit in deliberate strokes. The touch is simultaneously firm and featherlight, a masterful echo of Mydei's technique, designed to keep you teetering precariously at the edge of oblivion.

“Uuhgh! Daddy!” You whimpered, your eyes rolling the back off your head from pleasure

A deep, rumbling chuckle emanates from Phainon, the vibration passing through your coupling and making you shiver. "That's my good girl," he praises, the husky cadence of his words sending shivers down your spine as he continues his expert ministrations on your sensitive nub.

Mydei's hips flex of their own accord, a slow, rhythmic pump beginning as he searches for that elusive, perfect angle to hit your deepest, most sensitive spots. His fingers dig into the supple flesh of your thighs, anchoring you in place as he leans in to murmur against your ear, "You always surrender so beautifully, princess."

The softness of his tones belies the unmistakable hunger in his voice, a sensual growl that speaks to the primal possessiveness driving him forward. Phainon's hand trails higher up your spine to the nape of your neck, his fingers tangling in the silken strands of your hair as he tugs your head back, baring the expanse of your throat. His lips trace the corded column of vessels, leaving damp kisses in their wake, each touch a testament to his unrelenting desire to claim every inch of you.

Gummy walls clenched around Mydei’s cock, as you moaned out loud. “I-I think I’m going to cum…”

Mydei's eyes narrow, pupils constricting to pinpoints as his grip on your hips tightens to the point of aching pleasure. "Let us help with that, sweetheart," he rumbles, pitching his hips with a deliberately slow, measured rhythm.

Each careful glide seems aimed at stoking the embers of your climax to a raging inferno.Meanwhile, Phainon's fingers dance across the damp skin of your lower belly, tracing the lines of your hipbones before drifting to the apex of your thighs once more. He teases your engorged, dripping sex, circling your clit with deliberate precision before applying just the right pressure to coax out the first electric sparks of your release.

Mydei's movements become more forceful, his thick length burying to the hilt within you, stretching and filling you to your limits. Your walls convulsate around him in anticipation of the impending earthquake, the pressure at your core reaching a fever pitch. "Give it to us, beautiful," Mydei urges breathlessly, his lips brushing against your ear as he drives into you relentless, unrelenting, each powerful thrust coaxed forth by Phainon's skillful stroking. "Let us feel you unravel."

The torrent of your climax is unrelenting, a tempest of ecstasy that crashes over you with merciless force. The contractions of your rippling sex squeeze Mydei's length tightly, the intensity of your passage drawing guttural moans from him. Your inner walls flutter wildly, a frantic dance of pleasure that wracks your body with waves of sensation.

Mydei's movements become erratic, his control cracking as the exquisite vice of your climax rips him from reserve to a desperate, all-consuming hunger to fuck you through this storm together.

With a few more savage thrusts, he sinks into the tumult, his own orgasm triggered by the sheer abandon of your surrender.Phainon's touches become a blur of sensation, his fingers working your clit with unrelenting intensity even as he continues massaging your breasts. The combination of the rhythmic pulsing of Mydei's cock, your clenching sex, and the relentless stimulation of your sensitive nubs sends shockwaves of bliss through you, threatening to shatter the last vestiges of your awareness.The trio's bodies move as one now, lost in the primal dance of pleasure and carnal need.

Mydei's release is a guttural roar, a primal sound torn from the depths of his being as the pent—up pressure of his climax finally explodes. His thighs tremble, the muscles straining with the force of his thrusts as he buries himself deep, his rigid length throbbing against yours. He grinds against your spasming walls with a desperate hunger, seemingly determined to milk every last spark of pleasure from this electrifying moment of coupling.

The rhythmic flutter of your clenching sex, still riding the aftermath of your own intense climax, provides an irresistible trigger for Mydei's own impending release.

With a last, savage plunge that seems to reach the very core of your being, he empties himself into you in a hot, velvety flood of release. His hips jerk and twitch, his fingers digging into your hips as he rides out the waves of the most elemental, unfiltered pleasure a male can know. Phasion's hands remain on your curves, his touch an anchor of constant reassurance even as their breathing gradually steadies.

“A-Another…please…” you pleaded at the both of them. Phainon's eyes gleam with intrigue, a slow, hungry smile spreading across his lips as he processes your request. "My pleasure," he murmurs, his voice low and husky with want. His hands slide from your curves to grasp your waist, large palms pressing against your skin as he leans in to nip at your earlobe. "Relax for me, darling. Let me make you feel everything."With deliberate slowness, Phainon guides you onto all fours, providing himself with unobstructed access to the offered treasure of your ass.

His fingers make short work of preparing your rear, exploring with deft precision until he finds the particularly sensitive ring, rubbing the delicate muscles with just the right pressure to coax out eager signs of submission.

Mydei steps back just enough to allow Phainon a clear path before he returns to claim his designated spot once more. His cock, still partially hardened from their previous coupling, bobs eagerly as he positions himself between your thighs. Reaching forward, Mydei cups your sex, his middle finger probing the still-damp heat of your pussy, seeking out the perfect spot to stroke and stoke the embers of your arousal all over again.

Phainon spat on your pink hole, A low, approving rumble emanates from Phainon as he watches his saliva begin to mix with your body's natural lubricants, easing the way. His fingers probe deeper, teasing the entrance to your anal canal with deliberate slowness, stretching your tight rear passage inch by tantalizing inch.

Each careful thrust stretches your passage open just a bit more, the initial tight resistance giving way to a gradual relaxing of your body around his intrusion. "You'll take us so well," Phainon praises, his husky tone infused with sinful anticipation. "So deep... So tight..." As he continues to prepare your ass, Mydei leans in to claim your lips in a searing kiss. One of his hands slides up to card through your hair as the other presses insistently, coaxing your thighs apart to grant him unhindered access to your dripping sex. His fingers find your clit at once, teasing the swollen nub with a few quick strokes before he sinks deeper, thrusting two fingers into your slick passage at once. Mydei's cock—twitches against your hip, clearly affected by the sight of Phainon's meticulous ministrations to your ass.

You moaned out loud, as you nuzzled your head against Mydei’s neck and nibbled his skin. Mydei's breath hitches as your teeth graze his neck, the nip sending a jolt of pleasure through him that has his cock twitching in anticipatory response. His arms encircle you, pulling you closer as he presses in, his kiss deepening as he explores the warm recesses of your mouth with a languid, sensuous dance of tongues.Meanwhile, Phainon continues his ass-prepping, fingers now curling to stroke your sensitive proclamatory ring as his other hand grips your hip to anchor you in place.

The combination of the subtle stretch and the sinful sights he's making has him rock-hard, his length throbbing in time with the steady rhythm of Mydei's fingers pumping your slit. Mydei slows his ministrations to your clit, his fingers dragging along the hypersensitive flesh before he sinks back into your warmth, teasing your G-spot with deliberate precision.

The dual stimulation has you panting against Mydei's skin, your arousal reaching a fever pitch once more. Withdrawing his slick fingers, Mydei aligns himself with your entrance once again, gripping your hips to hold you steady as he prepares to sink back into your welcoming heat, fully intending to satisfy your primal thirst for their combined pleasure.

Phainon did the same, he took out his fingers from your stretched hole as he positioned his cock to your hole. With a confident, possessive smirk, Phainon grasps his thick, pulsing length, rubbing the broad head against your waiting rear entrance. His eyes, dark with lust, lock onto yours, the unspoken promise in their depths sending a thrill of anticipation coursing through your body. Mydei's hand at your hip grips tighter, a reassuring presence as he waits for Phainon's signal to move. He nuzzles your ear, his breath hot against your skin as he whispers encouragement. "Give them what they want, beautiful. Claim us as yours." The knowledge that you're the focal point of their combined desires sends a surge of power through you.

With newfound confidence, you reach back to grasp Phainon's hips, pulling him forward as you push your hips back against his cock.With a smooth, fluid motion, Phainon sinks into your waiting heat, his engorged tip breaching your anal ring before he slowly begins to fill your receptive passage. His lips capture yours in a fierce, dominating kiss that echoes the primal connection of his bodies with yours.Sensing Phainon's deep penetration, Mydei aligns himself once more with your twitching, dripping sex.

With a steady, deliberate ease to his actions, Mydei thrusts into you once more, stretching your passage with his thick cock as he sinks deep. The sensation of being so utterly filled by both men is almost overwhelming, the dual pleasure and pressure threatening to short-circuit your senses. "Pfft, phew... They're insatiable," you mutter, panting heavily as Phainon finally bottoms out inside your ass, his cock buried to the hilt. The tightness is maddening, your body struggling to accommodate the combined girth of their manhoods.

"A perfect fit," Phainon murmurs, grinding his hips to stimulate your sensitive innerwalls. "Just as exquisite as I imagined. "Mydei mirrors his movements, their thick cocks pistoning in and out of your slick heat in a syncopated rhythm. The room fills with the slick sounds of their penetrations and your breathy moans, punctuated by grunts of pleasure. You toss your head back, letting loose a ragged cry as the exquisite friction and delicious pressure overwhelm you. "Ah, gods... Keep going, don't stop, please!"

The two men's relentless drives for your pleasure seem to know no bounds, their bodies moving as one in their pursuit of claiming every inch of your ecstasy. Phainon's hands slide down to grip your hips, his fingers digging into the soft curve as he pistons into your ass with wild abandon.

Each powerful stroke drags against the ridged walls of your passage, the lewd slapping of skin on skin mingling with your wanton moans to fill the space with primal lust. Just inches beneath, Mydei's thrusts are no less vigorous, his muscular form a blur of motion as he sheathes himself in your dripping wetness.

His fingers come to join Phainon's on your hips, all four hands working in harmony as they take you relentlessly to new heights of pleasure. The heat and tension building inside threatens to spiral out of control, the intense sensation of being filled and used by both powerful men pushing you toward the brink and far beyond. Your mind hovers on the cusp of oblivion, the sharp sting of your approaching climax building in your very core.With a guttural growl, Phainon leans in to ravage your neck with teeth and lips, marking you as his own in the heat of the moment.

“Aughh feels sooooo good!” You whimpered, as your lips pressed against Mydei’s who was underneath you. "Mmm, take it, sweetheart," Mydei groans, responding to the urgent kisses and whimpers pouring from your lips. His hands slide up your back to cradle the nape of your neck, fingers tangling in your hair as he deepens the hungry connection.

The slick slide of his tongue against yours mimics the slick glide of their cocks sheathing in your hot, welcoming depths, the erotic dance of sensations threatening to consume you whole.Once again, the primal rhythm of their thrusts and your desperate whimpers fall into sync, an unholy chorus of lust and passion that echoes through the space. Phainon sets a bruising pace, each power-driven plunge—hammering against your inner walls with ruthless precision, determined to drive you to the pinnacle and beyond. Mydei follows his lead without faltering, his own thrusts matching Phainon's intensity as he claims your mouth with fervent abandon, the two of them lost to the basest of pleasures and deepest desires.Suddenly, the storm breaks, your climax crashing over you in a torrent of pure, unadulterated bliss.

Your body arches as the overwhelming ecstasy rips through you, a broken, incoherent cry spilling from your lips. Mydei and Phainon don't miss a beat, their relentless rhythms refusing to waver, pounding into you unrelentingly through the aftershocks as your sheath clenches spasmodically around their cocks.

The combined sensations of their cocks drilling deep and the frenzied pace of their thrusts prove too much to bear, your pleasure peak building to an incandescent crescendo.With a guttural moan, Phainon sinks deep one last time, his cock spasming as he finds his own release in a torrent of heated seed. Mydei follows suit, his thrusts growing erratic before he hilts within you, his own release a symphony of pulsing flesh as he empties himself into your spasming heat.

The three of you remain intertwined for a moment, the residual pleasure buzzing like static electricity in the air as you struggle to catch your ragged breaths. With tender concern, Mydei gently strokes your hair, murmuring softly against your temple, while Phainon's arms envelop you in a warm embrace, soothing kisses trailing along your neck and shoulder.

As the pleasure-tinged haze begins to dissipate, you slowly come back to yourself, nestling deep into the combined warmth and security of Mydei's and Phainon's arms. The men's tender attentions are a balm to your oversensitive skin, each gentle caress and soft murmur speaking volumes of their satisfaction and adoration for you.

Mydei carefully lifts you down from your lofty perch, supporting your limp, satiated form effortlessly as he guides you to a plush spot on the bed.Mydei's concern is evident in the way he gathers you close, wrapping his strong arms around you like a cocoon to shield you from the world. "Rest, beautiful," he coos, his tone gentle as he drapes a throw blanket over your chilled skin. "We've earned our nap, don't you think?" Phainon, ever the perfect gentleman, looms over you with a lazy, satisfied grin, dark hair slightly mussed and stubble dusting his chiseled jaw. He extends a hand, gently cupping your cheek in his palm before tenderly brushing a stray lock of hair away from your face. "A well-deserved respite for you, my love."

© 2024-2025 blueberrisdove-sideblog all rights reserved. pretty please, do not steal my dividers, translate and plagiarize any of my works, or either repost my works in any other platform without asking, thank you!

#blueberrisdove #honkai star rail #hsr x you #honkai star rail x reader #mydei x you #mydei smut #honkai star rail mydei #mydei hsr #hsr mydei #mydei x reader #mydei #mydeimos #mydei x y/n #phainon x y/n #phainon x you #phainon x reader #phainon #honkai star rail smut #honkai sr

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ithurielkeepsgettingkidnapped · 2 days ago

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is it a coincidence that so far wiege is the only fully korean song with no english. persumably first taught in anakt garden (artificial creation, ingenuine from the start- but the closest thing they have to it). the way that english is an imported language worldwide and you learn a lullaby from your mother. the way we're seeing things from luka's pov in the present timeline and we can infer that this is what he's thinking; the mv the shared headspace of hyuna and luka and how they're respectively symbols of anakt and the human rebellion. the way we start and end with hyuna's voice. how she is symbolic of how the past molds itself and wriggles its place into the present yet dies, still, for it. for the future and the now, yet leaves ripples still, wiege her eulogy.

the way alien stage is about colonisation and exploitation, and when you look at it with korean history in mind. do you get me. do i have to spell it out. before all else we are sang to sleep by our mother's tongue. do you get me.

#alien stage #alnst #meta #<- feels a little disrespectful to call this incoherent ramble a meta analysis but wtv #alnst wiege

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bluemoonscape · 2 days ago

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I’m overanalyzing Melissa as a character, but listen, the toxic yuri is calling.

Obviously Melissa and Shauna as a ship is pretty surprising, seeing as Mel hasn’t had very much screen time at all—even Shauna was shocked and appalled to find out she has a personality—but I do like it. A lot. It provides a catalyst for Shauna finally confronting her sexuality in a direct manner on screen and is presumably going to have some lasting effects on the adult timeline too. It’s a Jackieshauna win, at that, because this all but confirms Shauna had feelings for Jackie, and I’m relatively (cautiously) confident that it will be delved into more throughout the season to make it clear? Either way the implication is there.

Melissa herself has a chance to be so interesting in this season now. In S2, we learned very little about her as an individual at all. She was with Gen a lot, we know that. She was one of Lottie’s followers like many of the girls. Now in S3, she’s incredibly drawn to Shauna. Shauna is a powerful figure among the girls—while Nat is their group leader and Lottie is their spiritual leader, Shauna is the girl that you do not fuck with.

Her being surprised by Melissa expressing her opinions and joking around is a funny sort of fourth-wall breaker, but if you’re really delusional like me then there can be more layers to that! Melissa is one of the lesser known girls. She’s quiet and has pretty shy/anxious tendencies these first 2 eps of S3. Of course, most of what we see of her is her with Shauna, so that’s probably amplified by Shauna’s presence in those scenes—but bottom line, Melissa isn’t a powerful figure in the group. She doesn’t have an important role. She’s not one of the big dogs.

But Shauna is.

And notably, Melissa acts on her feelings for her the moment Shauna holds a knife to her throat:

She’s not just drawn to that power, but she actually physically lusts after it. Mari seems somewhat similar based on how she’s seemed to rise in the ranks and butt heads with Shauna between S2 and S3, except Melissa doesn’t push against Shauna to gain that power, but pulls her in with the allure of acceptance.

And Shauna, wow. A major facet of her character and character arc as a whole is her strong tendency towards envy. She had it for Jackie and now she has it for Nat in Jackie’s absence. She always feels inferior to someone and has to exert herself over them in some way to make herself feel better. Equal. Important. Her strategy has thus far been alienation, what with her telling Jackie she might as well leave the cabin, and now trying to oust Nat as the leader and turn the other girls against her.

But now here’s Melissa who subconsciously desires the force of Shauna’s will, is seduced by all the things that make others see her as frightening. Shauna suddenly has control over someone like (or so she perceives) Jackie had control over her. And, like Sophie Nelisse said in this interview, she has complicated feelings for Melissa because she yearns for the acceptance, but also has motive to manipulate Melissa and use her to help her turn the girls against Nat:

So Melissa makes Shauna stronger against Nat and as an individual within the group by backing her as she is in all of these photos, and Shauna makes Melissa feel more empowered, i.e. her telling Melissa “don’t” when Mari tells her to bring her a drink. Telling her “you don’t have to do that, don’t listen to her.” Except Melissa needs somebody to listen to at all times, so it’s not that she’s becoming independent, it’s that she’s turning away from serving others and choosing to serve Shauna instead.

And there’s the fact that Shauna is very likely going to project Jackie onto Melissa whether she realizes it or not BUT that remains to be seen I won’t talk don’t let me talk

Point is, I really like the unhealthy power dynamics that have already been established in Shauna x Melissa (shaulissa? shaunalissa? or just. shaunahat) and I think it’ll be a hell of a toxic yuri ride. Melissa, get behind me, I’ll protect you from the haters

#yellowjackets #yellowjackets s3 #yellowjackets season 3 #yellowjackets spoilers #shauna shipman #melissa yellowjackets #shaunalissa #shaulissa #shaunahat #jackie taylor #jackieshauna #shauna x melissa #my post #yellowjackets meta #yellowjackets analysis

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pragretti · 3 days ago

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💗

Valentines Cards for an upcoming Alnst event!!!

#how we feeling for tomorrow?#alnst #alien stage #alnst mizi #alien stage mizi #mizisua #alnst sua #alien stage sua #alnst till #alnst ivan #alien stage till #alien stage ivan #ivantill #valentines day #i just learned its Ivans birthday on Valentines day???

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therealjosephcranor · 3 days ago

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Congrats to Alien Stage for being the shortest piece of media to reduce me to a sobbing mess. The love mattered. Their lives were so cruel and miserable and cut so short but the love mattered regardless :( and you have to keep living anyway. Forgive yourself

#alien stage #alien stage spoilers #wiege #alnst #I did not expect to be crying like this right now but i can't BREATHE good lord #also visually i think this is the best yet? and the animation...the character acting...god. i feel ill

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novelistwriter · 1 day ago

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The Misunderstanding

DP x DC Prompt

Parents who have a child in the Infinite Realms are dangerous beings. They will do anything to protect their children, even fighting ones stronger than themselves to do so.

Danny, the Ghost King, is in a meeting with JLD. The members of JLD are informing him of what he's to expect to encounter in this Realm and prepare him for the other meeting he has with the JL.

Dani, the Crown Princess, tagged along and didn't let Danny keep her from coming. But her obsession is preventing her from staying in one place for too long (She's already bored, and it's been 2 and a half hours since arriving in this new dimension). Danny did let her explore and told her to stay out of trouble (But with Fenton Luck, that won't happen).

Dani had been exploring a big city, just enjoying the new things to do. And then she is caught up in some magic related things, which causes her form to be monstrous looking while retaining the basic humanoid qualities except for proper communication, and to top it off, her powers aren't working properly, which then causes the people around her to think she's a new hostile alien planning to destroy the world.

The JL was called in to deal with her, not knowing that she's harmless and is trying to get back to Danny, her dad.

In the middle of the "fight" the JL are in with a creature that was reported to be causing trouble to a city, another more human looking being had appeared between the JL and the creature after the creature managed to make a strange whining sound. When the human looking being turned to face them after it checked up on the creature, the Justice League could only feel an intense pressure on them, the human looking being had eyes full of hate towards them before they morphed into something truly monstrous and began to attack them.

Some time later, the JLD make it to the area, where they see the JL being thrown around like nothing by the Ghost King in his Eldritch form. Wonder Woman tied up with her own Lasso of Truth, Superman lying unconscious with multiple wounds, Flash in ice with his head being the only unfrozen part of his body, Captain Marvel, or rather Billy Batson, hiding because the Ghost King sealed his transformation, Martian Manhunter in the middle of a ring of green flames, Aquaman fighting Ghostly Sea Animals of various species and losing, Green Lantern unable to use his ring, and Batman about to be sent to the Nightmare Realm through the giant maw of the Ghost King.

#danny phantom #dp x dc #dpxdc #dcu #ghost king danny #dp crossover #dp x dc prompt

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seospicybin · 1 day ago

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TASTE.

FINAL CHAPTER: TASTE.

Lee Know x reader. (s,a)

TASTE MASTERLIST

Synopsis: When Minho is hired as the head chef of Farfalle, a prestigious Italian restaurant, expectations are high for him to elevate its reputation and bring it to new heights. However, no one anticipates the drastic changes he implements in the kitchen—including his strict rule that that there'll be no women and no romance in his kitchen. (10,2k words)

Author's note: Can't believe it's the end already. Thank you so much to each and everyone of you for following Taste series ♡

Taste. /teɪst/ (n) 1. the sensation of flavor perceived in the mouth 2. a brief experience of something, conveying its basic character.

The first thing Minho ever learns about taste is balance.

A dish can be technically perfect—each ingredient measured with precision, each technique executed flawlessly—but if it lacks harmony, it falls apart. Too much sweetness, and it becomes cloying. Too much salt, and it overwhelms. Too much bitterness, and it alienates the palate.

The key, Chef once told him, is knowing when to lean into one over the other. To understand how the sour sharpens, how the sweet soothes, how the bitter lingers, grounding everything in something real.

Minho spends years mastering that balance in food. He doesn’t realize, until now, that he has never quite mastered it in himself.

The sharpness of ambition pushes him forward, the bitterness of disappointment keeps him guarded, the salt of hard work keeps him steady—but he has never truly let himself indulge in sweetness. Not until you.

And now, as he watches everyone in the kitchen, his chest feels both light and anchored.

For the first time, he isn’t just chasing balance. Minho has found it.

He moves through the kitchen with sharp eyes and precise steps, watching every station like a hawk. The air is thick with heat, the clang of pans and the rhythmic chopping of knives forming a symphony of controlled chaos.

A new order spits out from the machine, and Minho grabs the slip without missing a beat. He barely glances at it before his voice cuts through the noise.

"Two risottos, one sea bass, one osso buco—fire it now!"

A chorus of Yes, Chef! echoes back as he moves.

"Hyunwoo, take the risottos. Seungwan, the sea bass is yours. Seojun, on the osso buco. Felix, where’s my agnolotti?"

"Coming up now, Chef!"

Minho barely nods before his gaze lands on you. "Hurry up with that basil pesto."

"Yes, Chef!"

The kitchen hums, bodies moving in perfect rhythm, but Minho doesn’t let up. He paces through the space, watching every detail, catching the smallest missteps before they happen.

“Are you all tired yet?” he asks, voice loud enough to cut through the frenzy.

No one answers. They know better. A slow smirk tugs at Minho’s lips. He stops between Hyunwoo and Felix, arms crossed. “This is all your fault.”

Hyunwoo glances at him, amused. “Yes, Chef?”

Minho nods toward the packed dining area beyond the kitchen doors. “All of you. It’s your fault the restaurant is bursting with customers.” He shifts his weight. “It’s your fault that expectations are through the roof.”

Hyunwoo grins. “Yes, Chef.”

Minho continues his path to the entrée line, sharp gaze flickering over the plates in progress. “If anyone screws up, you're all dead.”

Instead of intimidation, the response is instant, almost teasing. "Yes, Chef!"

Minho strides back to his table just as Seojun, Seungwan, and Hyunwoo present their dishes for final inspection. He leans in, taking in the plates, the precise plating, the balance of color and texture. He picks up a fork, slicing into the tender osso buco before taking a bite. A smirk tugs at his lips.

“First-place winners, indeed,” he mutters. Then, louder— “Pass!”

The three of them beam before rushing back to their stations, pride radiating off them.

Minho exhales, just slightly. The chaos, the heat, the relentless push for perfection—this is what a kitchen is supposed to feel like.

It’s exhilarating. Exhausting. Satisfying.

Because this kitchen? It’s his now.

Minho steps out of the restaurant, inhaling the crisp night air. The warmth of the kitchen still clings to his skin, the adrenaline from dinner service not yet fully faded.

He glances up at the restaurant’s facade, eyes landing on the banner draped proudly across the entrance—Congratulations to Farfalle’s Seojun, Park Hyunwoo and Choi Seungwan. Winners of the New Chef Culinary Challenge!

A quiet chuckle escapes him. It's ridiculous, really, but he can't deny the swell of pride in his chest. They earned it.

Shaking his head, Minho turns toward the parking lot, his pace unhurried. He doesn't expect to see anyone waiting, but the moment his eyes land on you, leaning against his car with that familiar, knowing smile, he feels his pulse stutter for a fraction of a second.

You were waiting for him. Your lips curve just a little more as he approaches, the kind of smile that tells him you’ve already decided how this night is going to go. Minho stops right in front of you, gaze flicking down as you reach for the front of his jacket. Your fingers curl into the fabric, tugging him closer—close enough that he can feel the warmth of your breath when you finally speak.

"The contest is over," you murmur, voice low, teasing. "You're done helping the team."

Minho tilts his head slightly, watching you, feeling the heat of anticipation coil low in his stomach.

"Which means…" Your fingers tighten ever so slightly against his jacket. "Tonight, I'm taking back what's mine."

A smirk ghosts over his lips. The thrill of competition, the rush of victory—none of it compares to the way you look at him now.

Minho isn’t sure what’s going to happen next. But he can’t wait to find out.

The second the door clicks shut behind you, Minho barely has time to react before you shove him backward. His back hits the sofa, a low chuckle escaping his lips as he watches you climb onto his lap, your eyes dark with intent.

You waste no time, crashing your lips against his, the kiss hungry, urgent. Your hands are already working open the buttons of his shirt, fingers quick, almost impatient, as if you've waited too long for this moment. Minho lets you take control, but his own hands aren't idle—they move instinctively, sliding over your waist, your back, gripping and tracing every inch of you he can reach.

It’s been weeks. Weeks of late nights at the restaurant, weeks of stolen glances, of tension thick enough to cut with a knife. And now, finally, there's no more waiting.

Minho exhales sharply against your lips, tilting his head to deepen the kiss as his fingers tighten on your hips. He can feel the heat radiating off you, the way your body presses so perfectly against his.

God, he missed this. Missed you. And now, he’s not holding back.

Minho groans into the kiss as your fingers finally push his shirt open, sliding over the exposed skin of his chest. His hands tighten on your waist before gliding up your back, pulling you even closer until there’s no space left between you.

Your lips move hungrily against his, tongues tangling, breaths mingling. He tilts his head, deepening the kiss, his fingers trailing down your spine, reveling in the way you shiver under his touch. His grip grows firmer as he shifts beneath you, the heat between you both rising with every second.

You break away just enough to catch your breath, your forehead resting against his as your fingers lazily trace patterns on his chest. Minho smirks, his hands slipping under your shirt, fingertips teasing over your skin.

“You’ve been waiting for this, huh?” he murmurs, voice husky, his breath warm against your lips.

“Tell that to yourself,” You teasingly respond before pressing another kiss, slower this time, but just as intense. Minho groans softly, his hands exploring, savoring the feeling of you, the way you melt into him so effortlessly.

The night is just beginning but Minho’s hands are impatient now, his fingers slipping beneath your clothes, rough and eager. You gasp against his lips as he tugs at your shirt, pulling it up and over your head in one swift motion before tossing it aside. His eyes darken as he takes you in, a smirk curling on his lips.

“God, you're perfect,” he murmurs, voice thick with want, but you don’t give him a chance to say more—you crash your lips back onto his as your hips beginning to move, grinding on his growing bulge.

Minho groans as your hands explore his chest, nails scraping lightly over his skin. His own hands travel down your back, gripping you tight as he shifts beneath you, his body pressing insistently against yours.

You grip his shoulder as you grin harder, your heating core making friction with his crotch. The heat between you is undeniable, every touch electric, every kiss more desperate than the last.

You slow down as you drag your lips down his neck and before he knows it, you get up from his lap. You stand in between his spreading legs, your eyes locked in a steady gaze as you unzip the zipper of your skirt and then letting it drops, pooling around your ankle before you kick it aside.

You bend down and put your hands on each of his knees, leaning in until your lips meet his in a rapturous open kiss. You let go of his lips only to continue making a trail of hot kisses down his body and then, before he knows it, you drop to your knees.

You look through your lashes as your fingers move to his belt, tugging it free with a satisfying snap. Minho flashes you a sly smirk as you slowly pull the zipper down and then roughly pulls the front of his jeans.

“Impatient, are we?” he teases, though his own hand is just as eager as he grabs you by the neck.

You pull his cock out of its confine, you gasp at how hot, how stiff he is in your hand. You slowly stroking it, once in a while, your gently rub the head with your thumb before giving it the gentlest of kitten lick but it's enough to make Minho gets hot all over. His ear, his chest, parts of his body reddening as desire makes his skin flushed.

His other hand reaches for your jaw, he tilts your head toward him and then shoves his thumb into your mouth. Your lips automatically wrapped around it, sucking and twirling your tongue around it. It gives him an idea what your mouth feels like and it gets him impatient.

Minho roughly pulls his thumb out of your mouth, sending a string of saliva dripping down your chin but instead of wiping it off, you grin at him and open your mouth wider. Then slowly, you bring your head lower as you aim his cock into your mouth.

“Think you can take it, mmh?” his voice is dripping with condescension.

You take him little by little. You take a second to adjust yourself before taking more of him. You pull away when it gets too much and doing it all over again.

Minho can’t decide which one is hotter: Watching you pleasing him with your mouth or how eager you are to please him.

He grabs the stray hairs covering your face and gathering it at the back of your head, one hand holds firmly holds it, forming a makeshift ponytail. That way, he can watches your lips wrapped so beautifully around his cock.

“Come on, you can take a little more,” his voice is low, husky and assertive.

You tilt your head a little to the side and take him up on his challenge, taking more of him until Minho feels nothing but the back of your throat. Your hand compensate the rest you can't take.

“Now, let's see what that pretty mouth can do,” he sighs, tugging at your hair a little harder.

You sync your mouth and hand movements and eventually finds the rhythm that makes Minho’s eyea fluttering shut, intoxicated by the way your mouth feels around him. Low grunts spilling out of his slightly parted open mouth. He must admits that you're too good at it.

You stop when he's close enough to the edge and gasp for air, you don't bother with the saliva dribble down your chin so Minho wipes it for you. Then without hesitation, he plants a kiss on your open mouth.

He pulls away but he keeps cradling your head in both hands and mutters, “You look pretty like this.”

He helps you get on your feet and wastes no time tugging his fingers on the elastic band of your underwear. He looks up at you but his hands are pulling your underwear down your legs. He then lifts your leg, resting the sole of your feet next to his thigh.

He begins by placing fluttering kisses on your inner thighs and not stopping until his mouth meets the source of heat. Gosh, you taste so sweet, so intoxicating that Minho buries his mouth deeper in your wetness.

You moan with your head lolling to the side, your hand is tangled in his dark locks while the other is gripping at his shoulder. In no time, Minho succeed on making your legs trembling that you end up on his lap again.

You prop your knees on the sofa, giving you the space to align his cock with your entrance before you slowly lower yourself on him.

“Oh...” your moan is low and sultry, it goes on until you take all of him.

Minho plants a haste kiss on your neck and then presses his mouth close to your ear. “You feel so fucking good,” his voice strained, as if overwhelmed by what he's feeling physically.

He slumps lower on the sofa, allowing you to drop your hands on his knees and plant your feet on the sofa. That way, you're free to move against him, bouncing on his cock and at the same time, giving him the best view of his cock slipping in and out of you.

“Keep going,” he sighs in between his breathless grunts, “You’re fucking me so good. Don't stop.”

You keep going for a few moments until you tire yourself out and you're settling down onto his back. Minho immediately wrapped his arms around you tightly as he starts bucking his hips down from under you.

The world narrows down to just the two of you—skin against skin, breath mingling in the space between kisses. Minho’s hands grip your waist, guiding you, his touch firm yet reverent, like he’s memorizing every part of you. The rhythm is unspoken but understood, each movement drawing you closer, deepening the connection between you.

And then, in the midst of it all, something shifts. A sudden rush of emotion wells up in your chest, raw and overwhelming. Your hands find his face, cupping his cheeks as you slow down, locking eyes with him. Minho’s gaze softens, the heat in them replaced with something deeper, something that steals the breath from your lungs.

"I love you," you whisper, voice barely audible but carrying all the weight of your feelings.

For a moment, Minho stills. His expression changes—something flickers behind his eyes, something unguarded, completely open. Then, his lips part, his voice hushed yet firm. "I love you."

His hands tighten on your hips, not possessive, but grounding, as if anchoring himself in this moment. He pulls you down into a kiss that’s different from the ones before—not rushed, not desperate, but filled with something far more intimate.

The movements between you grow softer, slower, every touch lingering, every breath shared. It’s no longer just about the heat or the need—it’s about this, about the way you fit together, about the way your hearts seem to beat in sync.

And as Minho presses his forehead against yours, whispering your name like a prayer, you know—this moment, this feeling, is something neither of you will ever forget.

There’s no space between you now, nothing but heat and breathless laughter, the two of you tangled together, lost in the moment as the world outside ceases to exist.

The warmth of Minho’s body lingers against yours as you lie tangled together on the sofa, skin still burning from the passion of moments before. His lips trace lazy, playful kisses along your neck and chest, his soft laughter vibrating against your skin as he intentionally tickles you with them.

You giggle, half-heartedly pushing him away. “Minho, stop,” you murmur, breathless.

He only chuckles before relenting, his eyes gleaming with mischief. You take a moment to simply look at him—his tousled hair, the sharp yet delicate angles of his face, the way his lips curve into the slightest smirk even when he isn’t trying. Every detail of him is unfairly beautiful. You’ve always thought so, but in moments like this, when he’s bare before you, when his body is still marked by the traces of your touch, you can’t help but admire him more.

Minho is sculpted like something divine, every line and ridge of muscle seamlessly carved into perfection. The sharp planes of his collarbones, the expanse of his chest, the flex of his abdomen as he shifts beside you—it’s mesmerizing. And his face… god, his face. Even when he’s teasing you, even when he’s looking at you like he knows exactly how much power he holds over you, you can’t bring yourself to look away.

You reach up, running your fingers along his jaw, and suggest, “Wine?”

Minho pecks your lips before pulling away. “I’ll get it,” he offers, and without a second thought, he gets up, not bothering to cover himself.

Your gaze follows him, utterly shameless as he walks toward the kitchen. You could watch him for hours—the way the light catches his skin, the strong lines of his back, the easy confidence in every step he takes. He is a masterpiece, and you drink him in like he’s the finest piece of art you’ve ever seen.

Minho glances back and catches you staring. His lips curl into a knowing smirk. “Stop staring, you perv!”

You grin, shaking your head in defiance. “Never.”

He scoffs and turns away, busying himself with picking a bottle of wine from his collection. You sit up, pulling the quilt from the other end of the sofa to wrap around yourself, and in the process, your elbow knocks something off the coffee table. A soft thud follows, and when you glance down, your eyes land on a large brown envelope. Your stomach drops.

Italy. The address on the front is unmistakable.

A sinking feeling settles in your chest as you reach for it, your fingers trembling slightly. You don’t need to read much to understand what it is. A contract. Minho’s name in bold. An offer from Paolo’s, the world renowned Italian restaurant.

Which only means that Minho is leaving.

Your heart clenches painfully, but you quickly put the papers back into the envelope just as Minho returns, a bottle of wine in one hand, two glasses in the other. His eyes flicker to you immediately, and for a second, the room feels heavier. He sees you putting the envelope back, and you know that he knows.

Forcing a smile, you reach to take the glasses from him. He says nothing, just watches you as he removes the cork, the rich scent of wine filling the air. But it’s not enough to distract you.

As he pours the deep red liquid into your glass, you keep your voice light, casual. “Paolo scouted you, huh?”

Minho doesn’t hesitate. “Yeah, he wants me in his kitchen.”

You take a sip before asking, “Does that mean you’re going to Italy?”

Minho brings his own glass to his lips, pausing before replying. “Do you want me to go?”

The weight pressing against your chest is suffocating. You inhale slowly, steadying yourself. “As your girlfriend, I wish you wouldn’t,” you admit softly, keeping your grip on the glass firm. “But as a chef… you should go.”

Minho smirks, lips curving just enough to taunt. “Ah... You want it both ways.”

A breathy, shaky chuckle escapes you. “I guess I do.” Then, barely above a whisper, you ask, “So… that means you’re going?”

Minho takes another slow sip before nodding.

You knew this was coming. You expected this. But still, the confirmation stings like an open wound. You force a smile, hoping it hides the ache beneath. “If I were you, I’d go too.”

He watches you carefully, his gaze unreadable.

You swallow hard and meet his eyes. “You have to be good to me until then.”

His smirk returns, but there’s something softer in his expression. You add quickly, “And I’ll be good to you too.”

He nods, but as you look at him, the weight of it all—the inevitable goodbye, the time slipping away—becomes too much. Your eyes sting before you can stop them, and the first tear escapes, sliding down your cheek. You quickly brush it away, rough and careless, but more follow.

Minho moves closer, his hands reaching for you with the gentleness that always undoes you. He tilts your face up, his thumbs sweeping away the tears with careful strokes. His voice is quiet when he says, “Don’t cry.”

You nod quickly, even as more tears slip free. You offer a small, trembling smile. “I’m just happy for you.”

And you are.

But your heart… your heart is breaking.

Minho sets the last plate down on the dining table, the smell of freshly cooked breakfast filling the kitchen. Everything is ready—the only thing left to do is wake you up.

He walks toward the bedroom, but as he reaches the doorway, he stops. You’re still curled up on the bed, bundled in the duvet, your breathing soft and steady in sleep.

Last night’s conversation replays in his mind, the weight of it settling heavy in his chest. The next second, his jaw tightens when he remembered the one thing that nags at him.

“She didn’t even try to stop me from going,” he mutters under his breath, voice low and bitter.

A scoff leaves his lips before he strides toward the bed. He grabs your foot, giving it a firm tug, just enough to jolt you from your sleep. Your head slumps down against the pillow, and a sleepy murmur escapes you as you stir. Slowly, you blink your eyes open, meeting his gaze.

Minho’s voice is cold. “Wake up. Breakfast is ready.”

Without another word, he turns on his heel and leaves the bedroom, heading back to the kitchen. The moment he steps away from you, he exhales sharply, as if the air in that room had been suffocating him. He pours two mugs of coffee, the steam curling up in delicate wisps, but his expression remains tense.

It’s only after a short moment that he hears your footsteps. You emerge from the room, wearing his shirt, the fabric hanging loosely around you. Minho doesn’t react, even as you step close and press a quick kiss to his cheek before murmuring a soft, “Good morning.”

You take a seat at the dining table, and the sight of the breakfast spread makes you gasp. “Wow,” you say teasingly, picking up your coffee. “What’s the occasion?”

Minho settles into the chair across from you, leaning back slightly. His tone is casual, but there’s an edge of something unreadable in his eyes. “You asked me to be good to you,” he says simply.

You chuckle at that, taking a careful sip of your coffee before setting the mug down. As you pick up your fork, you glance at him and say, “I just remembered that I have to go somewhere today.”

Minho lifts an eyebrow but doesn’t let his curiosity show. Instead, he keeps his tone indifferent. “Eat your breakfast before you go.”

You take a moment to chew, then look at him again. “Why don’t you come with me?”

Minho tilts his head slightly, pretending to be disinterested. “Where?”

“I’m looking for apartments.”

His fingers tighten around the handle of his coffee mug. He still doesn’t look at you. “Why?”

“Chef Sara is moving out soon,” you explain, setting your fork down. “And I can’t afford the rent by myself.”

Minho’s next words come out without much thought, his voice calm, almost nonchalant. “You don’t have to worry about the rent if you come with me to Italy.”

Silence lingers between you. Then, you smile—small, knowing, a little sly. “Come on. Just come with me,” you say softly.

Minho exhales through his nose, eyes flicking up to meet yours. He doesn’t have anything better to do today anyway. “Fine.”

Minho lets himself be dragged through yet another apartment viewing, barely paying attention as the property agent talks through the details. He already knows you’re not going to take it—your face gives everything away. The moment you saw the kitchen, your enthusiasm faded, your disappointment barely masked by the polite nods you kept giving.

Then, the property agent, oblivious to the way Minho is barely tolerating this whole ordeal, suddenly comments, “It’s a little small for two people.”

Minho barely has time to react before you loop your arm around his, leaning into him with a sweet, practiced smile. “It’s fine,” you say smoothly. “We’re in love, so the small space doesn’t matter.”

Minho stiffens slightly, caught off guard by the sudden declaration, but the property agent only smiles bashfully, nodding in agreement. “Ah, of course. Love makes everything easier.”

Minho resists the urge to roll his eyes.

When the agent asks if you’re interested in any of the places he showed you, you respond with yet another polite smile. “We’ll take our time considering it.”

Minho bites back a sigh of relief when you finally part ways with the property agent, the two of you walking back toward where his car is parked. As you keep your arm linked with his, Minho glances at you, narrowing his eyes in suspicion. “You’re dragging me around so I’ll lend you money, aren’t you?”

Your eyes widen in exaggerated surprise. “How did you know?”

Minho scoffs, shaking his head. “Unbelievable.”

You hum, as if you’re genuinely considering it. “Should I look around Taesoo’s neighborhood instead?”

“It’s all the same,” Minho mutters.

You suddenly stop walking and let out a dramatic pout. “Then I don’t think I can afford anywhere else.”

Then, just as Minho is about to remind you again that you don’t have to, you turn to him, your voice casual—too casual.

“I think I’ll go to Italy with you.”

Minho freezes. His breath catches slightly, but his expression remains neutral. He blinks at you, processing what you just said before responding. “What?”

You give him a small, knowing smile. “At least in Italy, I can stay with you. Right, Chef?”

Minho’s heart stutters in his chest. He doesn’t want to react too quickly, doesn’t want to get ahead of himself—so he asks, voice steady but probing, “Do you really mean that?”

You hold his gaze for a second, then, without a word, you slowly let go of his arm. Then you shrug, nonchalant as ever, and turn away, walking off as if you hadn’t just dropped a bomb on him.

Minho’s eye twitches. “You—stop right there.”

You don’t. Instead, you keep walking, laughing under your breath.

Minho doesn’t think. He just starts chasing after you. “Why do you keep changing your mind?” he shouts, exasperated.

You don’t answer, just laugh again, quickening your pace.

Minho curses under his breath but can’t stop the small smirk forming on his lips as he picks up his speed, determined to catch you.

Once the dining hall is finally empty, you allow yourself a moment to relax. Sitting at the coffee station, you stack your hands together and rest your head on top of them, sighing deeply as you let the exhaustion of the day seep out of you.

A while later, Minho joins you, settling on a stool just one seat away. You lift your head, smiling despite your fatigue, and in your most professional tone, you tell him, “You did a good job today, Chef.”

Minho scoffs, eyes flicking away from you. His voice carries a quiet bitterness as he mutters, “I’m going to leave, and you don’t even seem to care.”

You bite back the urge to tease him, watching him sulk like a child. Instead, you soften your expression and say, “I do care about you.”

Minho looks at you for a second, as if assessing the sincerity of your words, before looking away again, unconvinced. You lean forward against the counter, tilting your head as you ask, “Do you know when I first started caring about you?”

Minho’s curiosity piques. He turns his head slightly toward you. “When?”

For the first time ever, you decide to reveal it. Meeting his gaze, you say, “It was back in culinary school, during one of our earlier classes. You helped me French trim a lamb rack.”

Minho frowns, visibly confused.

You smile at his reaction and continue, “That’s how I fell for you.”

Minho's eyes widen slightly, but he says nothing.

You lean your elbow on the counter, propping your chin in your palm. “All the other guys kept telling me I was doing it wrong, but you were the only one who actually showed me how.” A small, nostalgic laugh escapes you. “I was so nervous, I couldn’t even look you in the eyes.”

Minho’s lips twitch, the corners threatening to curl upward. He props a hand under his chin and asks, “So… was it love at first sight for you?”

You nod, smiling.

Minho's smirk deepens, the amusement clear in his gaze. “Really?” he presses, as if trying to tease a different answer out of you.

“Yes.” You nod again, this time more confidently. “That’s when I started caring about you.”

You pout slightly, feigning disappointment. “But you don’t even remember that day. You only started caring about me recently.”

Minho opens his mouth, but before he can say anything, a new voice enters the conversation.

Chris slides onto the empty stool between you and Minho, effectively cutting off your moment. He swivels to face you, giving Minho his back. “So,” Chris starts, his tone light and playful, “should we do something fun this weekend?”

Behind him, you hear Minho scoff, but Chris ignores it. “Is there anything you want to do?”

You think for a moment, then shake your head. “Uhm... not really.”

Chris hums, unfazed. “Then, maybe there’s somewhere you want to go?”

Minho lets out a sharp breath before finally breaking his silence. “Hey, Chris—Manager Bang,” he calls coldly.

Chris finally turns to face him.

Minho stares at him, unimpressed. “You seem rather pleased that I’m going to Italy.”

Chris shrugs. “You’re going to work at one of the best Italian restaurants. Of course, I’m pleased.” Then, with a grin, he adds, “And while you’re gone, I’ll take care of her for you.”

Minho’s expression darkens, irritation clear in his posture. Without another word, he gets up from his stool. “You two go ahead and talk. Do whatever you want,” he mutters. “Leave me out of it.”

Then, just before leaving, he shoots you a glare, as if blaming you for the entire conversation.

Once he’s gone, Chris leans back slightly, exhaling through his nose. “It’s not like him to leave us alone.”

You let out a dry chuckle and rest your hands on the counter again.

Chris watches you for a moment before sighing. “You’re right, though. I like that we don’t feel awkward around each other… but it must be different for you.”

You shake your head, quickly denying it. “It’s not that. It's just... I don’t get Minho sometimes.”

Chris gestures for you to lean in closer. Without questioning it, you do. Lowering his voice, Chris says, “I bet he’s not actually going to Italy.”

You blink, pulling back slightly. “Huh?”

Chris nods toward the direction Minho walked off in. “He hasn’t been acting like himself. It’s obvious to me.”

Your forehead wrinkles in confusion. “He doesn’t seem that way to me.”

Chris lets out a small chuckle before draping his arm around your shoulder, pulling you close until your heads are touching. “If it were me, I wouldn’t want to go either,” he murmurs. “I wouldn’t want to be far away from someone I love.”

The way he says it makes sense, but at the same time, it’s Minho. Who knows how his mind works?

Chris suddenly grins and holds his hand out toward you. “Come on. Let’s bet on it.”

You roll your eyes but ultimately shrug and take his hand, sealing the bet.

You don’t notice Minho carrying anything until the two of you step out of the car, and you see a paper bag in his hand. He doesn’t mention it, and you don’t ask, leading the way to your dad’s house instead. Letting yourself in, you call out for your dad from the foyer. When no response comes, you sigh and drag Minho inside with you.

Turns out, your dad is in the kitchen, busy preparing food. “Dad?”You call for him again, and this time, he finally looks up—first at you, then at Minho.

Minho quickly straightens, offering a polite nod and a greeting. “Hello, sir. How are you?”

Your dad doesn’t bother replying, only narrowing his eyes at you before grumbling, “Why are you just standing there? Make yourself useful.”

You roll your eyes but move to help, expecting Minho to follow. Before he can, though, your dad gestures for him to sit instead. You suppress a laugh at the way Minho hesitates, clearly uncertain, before reluctantly taking a seat at the dining table.

While you work, you sneak glances at them. Minho shifts uncomfortably in his seat before finally handing your dad the paper bag. “I brought this for you, sir,” he says. “It’s supposed to be good for your health.”

Your dad eyes the gift before scoffing. “I heard you're going somewhere?”

Minho’s gaze flickers to you, just for a second, but it’s enough to make you feel guilty. You never told him you mentioned Italy to your dad. He nods politely. “Yes, sir.”

Your dad sets the bag aside, uninterested. “And what about the two of you?”

You cut in, setting the first dish on the table. “We’re still working together in Farfalle, dad,” you say quickly.

Your dad ignores you, keeping his focus on Minho. “So, you’re breaking up?”

You and Minho exchange an uneasy glance, but before either of you can answer, your dad presses further. “If you’re breaking up, why’d you come here?”

Minho clears his throat and forces a polite smile. “We aren’t completely breaking up, sir,” he answers carefully.

Not liking where this conversation is heading, you hurry to set the rest of the food on the table and put an end to it. “Let’s have dinner first,” you say firmly, patting Minho’s thigh under the table as a silent reassurance. He softens slightly, but his posture remains stiff, and you have to bite back a laugh.

Your dad nods. “Let’s eat.”

Minho, still tense, mutters a quick, “Thank you for the food, sir.”

Your dad doesn’t respond. Instead, he watches Minho intently as he takes his first bite. Minho chews carefully, clearly aware of the scrutiny.

Your dad leans back in his chair. “Should I cook it again?”

Minho’s eyes widen slightly, and he swallows quickly. “No, sir. It’s fine.”

Your dad clicks his tongue. “You can just say it.”

Minho shakes his head, taking another bite. “No, really, it’s good.”

Your dad smirks. “You can say no, but you can’t say it’s delicious.”

Minho chews faster, then swallows hard. “It’s delicious, sir.”

Your dad raises a brow. “So, did I pass your test?”

You groan, reaching over to squeeze your dad’s arm. “Dad! Can you stop?”

Desperate to shift the mood, you grab the wine and fill everyone’s glass, hoping it’ll help things settle. But of course, your dad isn’t done yet.

Halfway through dinner, he turns to Minho again. “What’s better about you than my daughter?” he asks bluntly. “Besides being a chef.”

Minho straightens slightly but doesn’t answer right away.

Your dad continues, “She’s going to be a chef too, eventually. And when that happens, you’re out.”

You sigh, rubbing your temple. “Dad, please—”

Minho speaks up before you can stop him. “Not everyone can be a chef, sir.”

Your dad scoffs. “If everyone else can, why can’t she?”

Silence.

Your dad clicks his tongue. “I sent her to Italy to become a classical pianist, and what did she do? Went to culinary school behind my back. And now, after all that, she still can’t be a chef?” He shakes his head. “Pathetic.”

You stiffen, barely daring to look at Minho. You clasp your hands together under the table, feeling embarrassed with what your dad has just revealed to Minho.

Your dad chuckles humorlessly. “She didn’t have a problem not contacting me for years. I doubt she’ll have a problem being away from you.”

You glare at him, but when you finally sneak a glance at Minho, he’s already looking at you—sharp, unreadable.

Your dad sighs dramatically and gestures toward the liquor cabinet. “Bring me the bottle of liquor.”

You cross your arms. “You shouldn't be drinking, dad. It's—”

Your dad scowls. “Just do what I said.”

Not wanting to argue, you push yourself up from your seat and make your way to the cabinet, grateful for the excuse to hide—for just a little while.

It’s only been—what, five glasses? Maybe six? Minho isn’t counting, but he knows he’s one drink away from crossing the line into being properly drunk. Before that happens, he pushes himself up from his seat and mutters, “Bathroom.”

You glance at him before pointing down the hall. “End of the hall to the left.”

Minho nods and makes his way there, feeling the slight unsteadiness in his steps. Inside, he leans over the sink, twisting the tap and letting the cold water run over his fingers before splashing it onto his face. He exhales sharply, gripping the edges of the sink as he stares at his reflection. His head is buzzing, and he needs to clear it.

A few minutes pass before he leaves the bathroom, but just as he’s about to step into the living room, he hears your voice—low and sharp.

“You shouldn’t be drinking that much.”

Your dad scoffs. “Why do you care?”

Minho freezes in the hallway. He doesn’t mean to eavesdrop, but then your dad’s voice lowers, his words slurring slightly.

“If you love him so much,” he mutters, “why are you letting him go?”

Minho’s fingers twitch at his sides. He should walk in. He should make his presence known. But he stays put.

There’s a pause before you reply, your voice quieter now. “Why? Do you not want me to lose him? Is that it, dad?”

Your dad lets out a dry, humorless chuckle. “You’re not exactly a great catch.”

Minho frowns.

Your dad sighs heavily. “Someone has to take care of you when I’m gone. Who else would do that? Who else but Minho?”

Silence.

Then, your voice—soft, wounded. “Why would you say that, dad?”

Your dad exhales, long and tired. “I don’t know,” he finally admits. “I just… I miss your mother so much.”

Minho swallows, his chest suddenly tight. If he steps out now, he’ll be interrupting something—something raw, something unspoken between you and your father. So he lingers a moment longer before quietly making his way back to the living room.

The moment you see him, you straighten, forcing a small smile. “I’ll get my dad to bed,” you say.

Minho glances at your dad—head slumped, completely knocked out—and shakes his head. “I’ll do it.”

He carefully lifts your dad, guiding him to his room. By the time he returns, you’re already clearing the table, stacking plates onto the counter. Without a word, Minho joins you, gathering the empty glasses and wiping down the dining table.

You move on to the dishes while he puts the leftovers into containers. The kitchen is quiet except for the sound of running water and the occasional clink of plates. There’s an understanding between you, a rhythm in the way you move together, no words needed. But Minho speaks anyway.

“So...” he murmurs, mostly to himself. “You weren’t exactly slacking off.”

You don’t turn to him, but he catches the small smile on your lips. “Yeah,” you say. “I was juggling between music school and culinary school back then.”

Minho exhales, leaning against the counter. “And the guys everyone thought you were dating?”

You shake your head. “Friends from music school who helped me practice for recitals.”

Minho nods slowly, taking in the weight of these small revelations, these pieces of you he didn’t have before. He slides these pieces into place and it's all clear to him now.

Once the food is stored away, he steps closer. Without thinking, he slides his arms around you, pressing himself against your back. He dips his head, pressing a soft kiss to the side of your head before murmuring, “Are you okay?”

You don’t answer right away. You just nod. But Minho knows better. Your silence says more than words could, so he tightens his arms around you, lowering his head to place another kiss on your neck.

You stop washing the dishes abruptly. The water continues running, but your hands are still. Then, in a voice so quiet he almost misses it, you whisper, “I can’t leave my dad... again.”

Minho doesn’t say anything. He just holds you. And in that moment, he finally understands.

Minho stirs awake, his eyes still heavy with sleep. The room is dim, the early light barely slipping through the curtains. He blinks up at the ceiling, exhaustion weighing on him—not just from lack of sleep, but from the thoughts that kept him awake through the night.

You’re curled up beside him, lost in dreams, breathing softly against his arm. He watches you, taking in the peaceful rise and fall of your chest, the way your fingers are lightly curled against his sheets. And then, like every night before, the same question echoes in his mind.

Am I really going to leave this?

Just the thought of it makes his chest tighten. His arm moves before he even thinks, wrapping around you, pulling you close as if holding you tighter will somehow anchor him here, keep him from drifting away. The idea of losing you—it’s unbearable.

Minho exhales, pressing a soft kiss to your lips and in that quiet moment, he makes up his mind.

With another lingering kiss to your bare shoulder, he carefully untangles himself from you, slipping out of bed. He pulls on a shirt and pads barefoot into the living room. His eyes land on the envelope lying untouched on the coffee table, the same one he’s been avoiding. He picks it up, running his thumb over the edge before taking a deep breath and stepping outside.

He stops at a door next and presses the doorbell. It takes a moment, but soon, the door swings open, revealing Sara. She blinks at him, then offers a soft, knowing smile. “If you’re looking for her, she didn’t come home last night.”

Minho smirks. “I know. She’s with me.”

Sara flashes him a knowing smile and Minho doesn’t give her time to tease him before handing her the envelope. “Here. You should go instead of me. You'll be better at it,” he says simply.

Sara glances down, recognizing the weight of what he’s holding out to her. Her brows furrow, and when she meets his eyes, there’s disbelief in hers. “Paolo’s? Haven't you always wanted to work there?”

Minho shrugs. “Not anymore. I think I like Farfalle better than world-famous restaurants.”

Sara exhales a short chuckle, tilting her head. “Because of her?”

Minho’s answer is immediate. “It’s far more than just her.”

Sara shakes her head slightly, pressing the envelope to her chest. “Minho, I don’t think it’s a good time for me right now. Not when I'm... like this.”

His brows knit together. “What do you mean? Like this?”

Sara’s fingers tighten on the envelope. “Like this. All broken up.”

Minho scoffs. “What’s broken? Your hands? Your tongue?” He nods toward the envelope. “As long as your hands and tongue are fine, what more do you need as a chef?”

Sara lets out a quiet laugh, but it’s tinged with something fragile. “I should at least be better than what I am right now.”

Minho gestures toward the envelope. “Then be quick about it. This spot won’t open and wait for you forever.” He holds her gaze for a beat longer, a silent challenge in his expression, before turning and heading back to his apartment.

Minho feels a lot lighter because it's all up to her now. Whether Sara takes it or not, he believes she'll make the right decision.

The moment he returns to his apartment, warmth settles in his chest. He walks into the bedroom and finds you exactly as he left you—still curled up, still lost in dreams. A small smile tugs at his lips as he sits on the edge of the bed, brushing a few strands of hair away from your face.

He tenderly cups your jaw, his thumb gently rubbing your cheek and suddenly, your eyes flutter open. The moment you see him, that familiar softness fills them, the warmth that makes everything else fade away.

“Morning,” you mumble, voice thick with sleep. You lean into his touch and close your eyes for a brief moment.

Minho only smirks in response, but he keeps cradling your face like it's a fragile object.

You stretch slightly, then give him a lazy smile. “Breakfast?”

Minho raises a brow. “Are you asking me to cook breakfast?”

You shamelessly nod and grin, your fingers lightly tracing the evident vein on his forearm.

He scoffs. “Are you saying you'll never cook for your boyfriend?”

Still drowsy, you playfully reply, “Why should I cook when I have a boyfriend who's a chef?”

Minho huffs, amused, but the smirk on his lips softens as he leans down. He kisses you—slow, deep, lingering. A kiss that says everything he hasn’t put into words yet.

Then, with a sleepy smile, you murmur, “Not just a chef. My boyfriend is the best chef in the world.”

You don’t even seem to notice the way he falters. You just keep looking at him, all warmth and certainty, like calling him the best chef in the world is the simplest truth.

He exhales sharply, shaking his head as if trying to brush it off. “Yeah, yeah,” he mutters, but there’s no real bite to it.

You grin up at him. “I mean it. The best chef.”

Minho doesn’t know why that gets to him the way it does. Maybe it’s because he’s spent his whole life proving himself in the kitchen, fighting for recognition, never feeling like it’s enough. But you—you say it so easily, so sincerely, like you’ve never once doubted it.

He swallows, unable to stop the way his body softens against you. Instead of a snarky remark, instead of brushing it off with an eye roll, he just looks at you, something unbearably tender in his gaze.

And then he kisses you again. Slower this time, deeper. Like he’s sealing this moment, like he’s trying to make you understand that he’s here, he’s staying, he’s yours.

When he finally pulls away, he lingers, his lips ghosting over yours as he whispers, “I’ll cook breakfast.”

And just like that, he knows—there’s nowhere else he’d rather be.

Minho raps his knuckles against Chris’s office door before pushing it open, stepping inside without waiting for an answer. Chris barely glances up, finishing the last strokes of his signature on a document before setting his pen down and gesturing toward the chair across from his desk.

"Have a seat, Chef," Chris says, standing as Minho lowers himself into the chair. Instead of staying behind his desk, Chris moves to the single sofa facing him, his posture more relaxed than usual.

"I was just about to bring this up with you," Chris begins. "We need to start looking for new cooks."

Minho nods, his voice calm. "I’ll take care of it."

Chris tilts his head slightly, a sly smile creeping onto his lips as he leans back against the cushions. "Are you only going to hire men this time, Chef?"

Minho barely reacts, only giving a dismissive glance. "I told you, I’ll take care of it."

Chris hums, but there’s something sharper in his expression now, something more observant. He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he studies Minho. "Does this mean you've decided not to go to Italy?"

Minho doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he lets a smirk play on his lips—subtle, but just enough.

Chris catches it immediately. His grin widens, and he leans back again with a muttered, "I win the bet."

Minho’s eyebrows pull together slightly. Of all the reactions he expected, Chris being happy wasn’t one of them. He tilts his head. "Did you just say something?"

Chris waves him off with a flick of his hand. "Nothing."

Minho eyes him for a second longer, but Chris shifts gears, settling back into his usual professional demeanor. "Chef, I know you have the authority to make the hiring decisions," Chris says. "I trust you with that. But I’d like you to keep me updated now and then."

Minho raises an eyebrow, waiting for him to continue.

Chris exhales, resting an ankle over his knee. "I know the kitchen is yours, and I have no intention of interfering or challenging you. This is purely for the sake of the restaurant. From now on, let's be open about what kind of strategy you're running back there."

Minho narrows his eyes, arms crossing over his chest. "Since when did you get so interested in what happens in the kitchen?"

Chris smiles—not his usual smug smirk, but something softer. "Since it became clear to me that people are more important than money."

Minho watches him for a long moment, weighing his words. He finds, much to his own surprise, that he doesn’t immediately feel the usual irritation toward Chris.

Instead, he nods, just once and maybe, just maybe, Chris is not as annoying as he thought.

The kitchen is alive with movement, the clang of metal against metal, the sizzle of hot oil, the rhythmic chopping of knives. Heat radiates from the stoves, from the bodies moving in sync, from the sheer force of effort that everyone is putting into the final push of the night. Minho reads the orders, his voice sharp and clear above the chaos, but beneath it, there's something deeper—something that makes his chest tighten as he shouts encouragements, urging them to finish strong.

The last dishes land on the chef’s table. Minho stabs the final ticket onto the board. The printer hums softly for a second, and then he turns it off. Silence washes over the kitchen—not complete, but significant. He looks around, at the people who have worked beside him, sweated through long hours, fought through exhaustion, and created something brilliant night after night.

"This is it," Minho announces, his voice carrying through the space. "This is our last order of the day—and the last in this kitchen for some of us."

His eyes find the entrée line—Seojun, Seungwan, Hyunwoo. Soon, they'll be gone, off to Italy to study, to chase something bigger. Minho lets that reality settle for a moment before continuing.

"Before we close for good tonight, I want everyone to prepare their final dish for our VIP guests." He looks at each of them, his gaze firm but full of meaning. "Make it your best."

A chorus of voices rises in response. "Yes, Chef!"

The energy shifts—not somber, not sad, but determined. Minho calls out the orders, listing the best of what they can offer, then gives the signal. "You may start!"

And just like that, the kitchen comes alive again.

This time, as Minho walks through the stations, it feels different. It’s not about control or perfection—it’s about seeing them, about feeling the weight of everything they’ve built together.

He stops by Felix’s station, watching as he twirls fresh pasta in a pan with practiced ease. "Looking good," Minho comments.

Felix grins, focused but pleased. "Thank you, Chef."

At your station, he watches you work, the effortless way you shake the frying pans, flipping the ingredients with precision. You meet his gaze, and he gives you an impressed smile. Before he can say anything, Taesoo, watching you in awe, blurts out, "Chef, can you teach me to shake frying pans like that?"

Minho raises an eyebrow at him. "That depends on you."

Taesoo groans. "Just say yes or no!"

Minho flicks his forehead hard enough that Taesoo yelps in pain.

You chuckle at Taesoo’s pout, murmuring, "Don’t worry, I’ll teach you."

Minho moves on, observing Seungwan carefully garnishing a tuna salad, Hyunwoo pouring clear soup with the kind of care most people reserve for handling delicate glass. At Seojun’s station, he pauses. "I’ll help."

Seojun shakes his head. "I got it, Chef."

Minho doesn’t budge. "Let’s do it together."

For a second, Seojun hesitates—then he shifts, making room. Side by side, they cook in unspoken understanding.

Seojun murmurs, "The beef is good today."

Minho smirks, seasoning his own cut of meat. "It is."

And just like that, the dishes are sent out. The kitchen exhales, the weight of the night lifting. The finality settles in.

Minho lets out a breath. "We’re officially closed for business today."

Taesoo starts clapping, and soon, the entire kitchen follows. It’s not just for the hard work tonight—it’s for everything.

People scatter, exchanging hugs, handshakes, pats on the back. The air is thick with something bittersweet, something profound. It’s an ending, but it’s also a beginning. The entrée line will leave. Minho won’t work with them in this kitchen again. But they’re going toward something greater, toward dreams they’ve worked for.

As the kitchen quiets, Minho turns to them. "Good luck on your studies."

Seojun steps forward first, surprising him. He extends his hand. Without hesitation, Minho grips it firmly.

"Thank you, Chef," Seojun says.

Minho nods, a rare softness in his expression. "You’ll do well."

He moves to Seungwan and Hyunwoo next, shaking their hands, exchanging quiet words of encouragement. When he lifts his head, he sees you watching him from across the room, a fond smile playing on your lips.

And for the first time, as he stands here, surrounded by the people who have built this kitchen with him, Minho feels it—this is where he belongs.

You step into the locker room, not expecting anyone to still be there. But there he is—Seojun, standing by his locker, his fingers grazing the nameplate on the door with a wistful look in his eyes. He doesn’t notice you at first, lost in thought, but when he hears your footsteps, he turns and smiles.

You hesitate for only a moment before stepping closer. You didn’t get a proper chance to say goodbye earlier, and now that you have him alone, you take the opportunity. “Good luck on your studies, Sous-chef,” you say sincerely.

Seojun turns fully to face you, his smile widening.

“You should travel a lot while you’re there,” you continue. “Don’t just stay at school. Go beyond the fancy restaurants—find the small pasta shops tucked away in alleyways. There’s so much to learn from the locals, from the people who’ve been making pasta their whole lives.”

His eyes brighten, as if he’s already imagining it. “I’ll remember that. Thanks.”

Then, as if something just occurs to him, he reaches up and tugs at his sous-chef necktie. In one swift motion, he pulls it free and extends it toward you.

You blink in surprise, staring at the fabric in his outstretched hand. It takes a moment to register what this means. When you finally take it from him, your fingers curl around it carefully, reverently.

“Chef will decide on the new sous-chef,” Seojun says, “but I’m giving my vote to you.”

Your heart swells. You’re proud of him, proud of everything he’s accomplished, but you’re also deeply grateful. The weight of his support, of his belief in you, settles warmly in your chest. You look up at him, smiling brightly. “Thank you so much, Sous-chef.”

Seojun waves you off lightly. “You deserve it.”

He turns back to his locker, reaching for the door handle—but then he pauses. A second later, he pivots to face you again, something unreadable in his expression.

“And oh, you must be happy.”

The words catch you off guard. You frown slightly. “About what?”

His lips curve into a knowing smile. “That Chef is staying in Farfalle.”

Your breath stills.

It’s news to you. And what’s even more surprising is that you’re hearing it from Seojun rather than from Minho himself.

You manage a small nod, masking the mix of emotions swirling inside you. “Please, tcare of yourself, Sous-chef,” you say, shifting the conversation back to him.

Seojun smiles, giving you a final nod before turning back to his locker.

You move to the other side of the room, gripping the sous-chef tie a little tighter as your thoughts drift elsewhere. Minho isn’t going to Italy.

You should be upset that he didn’t tell you first. But that feeling is eclipsed by something else—something impossible to ignore.

Minho is staying.

The dining hall is packed, the room filled with chatter and laughter as the cooks and staff gather around long tables. The scent of freshly prepared food lingers in the air, plates and bowls scattered across the tables in a feast prepared with care. Tonight is a farewell party for Seojun, Hyunwoo, and Seungwan—the three chefs who will soon be leaving for Italy.

They sit together at a table near the front, joined by Minho and Chris. You’re seated nearby with Felix and Taesoo, the three of you sharing quiet conversation between bites of food. In the crowd, you spot familiar faces—Minji and Yura, who must have been invited for a reason.

A sharp clink rings through the air as Minho taps his wine glass with a spoon. The noise settles as everyone turns their attention to him. He remains seated, but his voice carries through the room with ease.

“Before we begin the party, I’d like to propose a toast,” Minho announces. “To the people who made this feast with their utmost care and skill.”

A round of applause erupts as everyone cheers for the three departing chefs. Seojun, Hyunwoo, and Seungwan nod in acknowledgment, their expressions a mix of pride and gratitude.

Minho shifts his gaze to them, his tone steady yet sincere. “Good luck. Take care of yourselves. Let’s all meet again in better shape, okay?”

“Yes, Chef,” the three of them reply in unison.

Satisfied, Minho sits back down, and Chris takes his turn to speak.

“I have another announcement to make,” Chris begins, his voice brimming with anticipation. “Since a part of our kitchen family is leaving for Italy, it’s time to welcome new members who will be filling those empty spots.”

At his words, he gestures toward Minji and Yura. “Stand up, you two.”

Minji and Yura exchange confused glances before slowly rising from their seats.

Chris continues, “After careful consideration—and after consulting with Chef—we’ve decided that no one would be better suited for these roles than you two.” He smiles, then extends his hand toward them in invitation. “So, Minji, Yura—please accept our offer to work at Farfalle, starting next week.”

All eyes shift to the sisters. Minho raises his glass slightly, watching them expectantly.

Minji and Yura share another look—this one filled with silent understanding—before Yura breaks into a wide smile. “We’ll be ready next week, Chef!”

A satisfied nod from Minho while Chris grins in reaction. “Then it’s settled. Now, let’s enjoy the feast.”

Cheers rise again as glasses clink, laughter spilling into the air. The party resumes, but as you glance back at Minho, you catch a flicker of something rare in his expression—contentment. Maybe even pride.

Minho has been searching for you all over the restaurant. The locker room, the kitchen, the back entrance, even the steps where he always finds you when you need a moment alone—you’re nowhere to be seen. He exhales sharply, pressing his tongue against the inside of his cheek in mild frustration.

It’s only when he’s walking toward his car that his phone buzzes in his pocket. A message from you.

Meet me at the bar.

Minho doesn’t need to ask which one. He already knows. It’s the same bar where he first met you.

When he arrives, he spots you immediately—sitting in the exact same seat as that night. The memory surfaces effortlessly, but Minho pushes it aside, stepping forward, approaching you from behind. He leans in close, just enough for his breath to ghost over your ear, and murmurs, “That’s my seat.”

Slowly, you glance over your shoulder, meeting his gaze. “So what if it is?”

Minho smirks, sliding onto the stool next to you. He gestures to the bartender and quickly order a drink. But as he waits, he reaches for your drink instead, taking a slow sip before setting it back down.

You watch him with amusement. Then, without a word, you pull something out of your bag, holding your hand out to him.

The sous-chef tie.

Minho’s eyes flick to it for a second before he looks away, feigning indifference. “What’s that?”

You bump his shoulder, playful yet insistent. “You know what it is.”

Taking back your drink, you sip from it before tilting your head toward him. “Now that I’m a sous-chef, I want to go back to the pasta line.”

Minho lifts his own glass, taking a sip—and immediately gasps at the aftertaste. He glances at you. “Who says you’re a sous-chef now?”

You pout at that, eyebrows knitting together in protest. “Sous-chef Seojun gave me his vote. Now I want yours, too.”

Minho clicks his tongue and daringly gaze into your eyes. “How dare you argue with your chef?”

You narrow your eyes at him, boldly. “How much more do I have to prove to you, hug? What else do I have to do?”

He leans back slightly, meeting your gaze with that unreadable expression he always wears when he’s making you work for something. “Be good at everything.”

You groan. “And when do I get to be good at everything?”

Minho shrugs. “Why are you asking me? That’s up to you.”

You huff, pressing further by grabbing his arm and make him looks at you. “So what’s it gonna be?”

Minho watches you for a moment before he simply says, “You’ll find out tomorrow.”

Your lips part, ready to argue again, but this time, Minho smirks. The way you’re whining, the way you’re pressing him for answers—it reminds him of how he met you. How things have unfolded ever since.

So he leans in, close enough for your noses to almost brush. “Let’s do it.” His voice drops slightly, lower, more deliberate. “Go out with me. Date.”

For a moment, there’s silence. Then, instead of answering, you take him by surprise—pressing your lips against his in a kiss so sudden that he barely has time to react.

Minho is still for only a second before instinct takes over, and his hand comes up to cup your jaw. The first kiss is hurried, almost clumsy, but when you start to pull away, he stops you. Fingers curling against your skin, he brings you in for another kiss—this time, slow and deep. Proper.

When he finally pulls back, he lingers there, eyes fondly gazing into yours, flickering with something unreadable, something softer than before. The years of tension, the push and pull, the battles fought in the kitchen and beyond—they all led here, to this moment. A quiet certainty settles in his chest.

Minho has always believed that food tells a story. Every dish holds a memory, every flavor carries a feeling. And if love were a taste, he thinks it would be something like this—bold yet familiar, unexpected yet deeply satisfying. Something that lingers long after the last bite.

His lips brush against yours as he mutters. “You know, I think you might be my favorite dish after all.”

You scoff, rolling your eyes, but he catches the smile you try to hide. “That’s the worst line I’ve ever heard.”

“Stay. Have another drink.” His thumb grazes over your cheek, his smirk unmistakable. “Let’s see where this goes.”

Instead of answering, you smile before leaning in for a gentle kiss and then reach for his hand. Your fingers brush against his, a quiet gesture, warm and certain.

For once, Minho doesn’t have anything clever to say. He just laces his fingers with yours, holds on, and lets the moment settle.

Tomorrow, the kitchen will still be loud. The work will still be demanding. The challenges will still come. But tonight, there is just this.

A beginning wrapped in an ending. A promise folded into a touch.

And for Minho, that is more than enough.

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

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my-smial · 3 hours ago

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tag quoting myself because now I've been thinking about Avatar 2 The Way of Water all day and actually I am more mad.

#Yeah agree with mornyavie#Avatar 2 The way of water is very bad#I wish they had used their tech to make a 4 hour fake nature documentary instead#The only good parts were the sweeping setting shots but as said you could barely enjoy those because#For a movie theoretically about the evil colonizer ripping up wildlife it's also so weirdly colonial#It hits all the worst elements of the modern sequel boom#The plot is Plot 2: Plottier Morier#It pulls a Somehow Palpatine Returned *twice*#Once via weird Jesusy virgin birth!#Kills characters in a way that feels bad#Jake the protagonist is made a pretty crap dad in ways where I am sometimes unclear the story notices he's being controlling#And top it off there's ANOTHER plotline of a kid being kidnapped by his abusive father but the narrative *really* wants you to accept that#They will just naturally love each other if only given the chance#It sucks!

Literally, there are probably just two things anyone knows about Avatar I. 1. the visuals are pretty good. 2. If you are at all plugged in to movie criticism, then you've seen a discussion of how the surface-level environmentalist and anti-colonialist messages are hamstrung by still centering a white man and by the Alien Pocahontas aesthetics. We have firmly established that if you would like to make anti-colonialism land, you should be direct. Or at least put much more work into your metaphors.

So TEN ENTIRE YEARS of this discussion later, the team behind Avatar II has the opportunity to engage more deeply with its own themes, and even, with movie 1 ending with humans jettisoned back to Earth, the prime opportunity to write a powerful story involving no humans at all.

NOPE. they apparently did no thinking at all about the one thing anyone can say to critique their movie and instead they brought the humans back for another half-baked attempt at making a statement! These movies have SO MUCH WORK put into them, the visuals and worldbuilding and language, and it's all wasted by being the fluff setting for the world's worst and most confused storyline. I am offended on behalf of everyone who got to work on it.

What would you guys consider the worst movie you've ever seen? Not something that's fun to make fun of, nothing you ironically enjoyed, I mean just an absolutely miserable moviegoing experience that you paid for, hated every second, and wish you had walked out of and asked for a refund.

For me, no joke, Madagascar 3: Europe's Most Wanted. It did not even feel like a real movie to me. It made me see red! I was SEETHING with anger and annoyance throughout the entire thing, and I cannot for the life of me articulate why. I saw it once in 2012 when I was 15, I remember almost nothing about it now, but it struck a nerve with me like no other movie ever has before or since.

Tell me in the tags, which movie makes you disproportionately angry just thinking about it?

#sorry im just really mad #for no reason

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aakaneeee · 2 days ago

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Wiege is not about Luka and Hyuna.

I mean, it is. But not fully.

Wiege is about a cycle.

"Wiege" means cradle - it's been told many times. A cradle.. the ANAKT garden, protecting the children, keeping them safe. But a child can't walk out of a cradle.

In Wiege, both Luka and Mizi lost everything they had, except that for Mizi, it took so much time, gradually suffering, building up more and more, while for Luka, it took a second, a blink, and his whole sky dawned on him. He's seen Hyuna, was in her arms.. and then he was left alone, again. Forever, this time.

But this isn't their sorrow alone.

The generations after them will have an unlucky winner that will be left alone as well.

So will the after.

And the one after.

And again, again, again.

Luka and Hyuna represent the pain of a couple that had the courage to branch out: Hyuna escaped, Luka won. And guess what: they cycled back to the same place. They can never escape: in this Universe, humans cannot escape. Even when they try to find their own Gods, the aliens demolish whatever idea of escapism they had.

And so they have done before this season, and before that.

It's never ending - even when someone feels safe, something intervenes.

Alien Stage never ends well. No matter how plausible it seems for something to go the characters' way, it never happens. Because it's not according to what they want. It's all directed by the creatures that have taken over their free will, rights, and transformed them into pets. I've recently started to be almost unwilling to call them pets; even animals shouldn't be treated the way they are.

In Wiege, little Luka kills his clones, in cold blood, it seems, only then realizing what he's done. The aliens approach him without weapons or hostility: that's what they wanted, isn't it? In my mind, that's how I interpreted it. Him being forced to show his superiority, by killing, essentially, himself. By killing his personality. I think that's the moment where it went wrong for him.

And I think we all know how Sua was treated like a doll, an ornament, how Till was thrown around, beaten up, and then used. Mizi and Ivan are just 2 lucky ones between probably billions of pet humans. In the end, even if Mizi was lucky, her owner still only called her "Creature."

So, Wiege isn't only about the misfortunate couple that withered today: but about every misfortunate couple since the beggining, whose plans were crushed.

In the Modern AU we were shown Luka and Hyuna being engaged, happy, leaning in for a kiss. In the actual Alien Stage, Hyuna was everything Luka had left. Emphasis on had.

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ghost-proofbaby · 1 day ago

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I love the idea of Eddie having an especially grueling day at work his friend (they have mutual feelings but nothing has been said) offers to give him a massage. Eddie is genuinely grateful but also vv flustered by the end!!

listen. LISTEN. i know this got out of hand. i know i said these were going to stay short n sweet. i know what i said and promised. but. listen. you can't hand me a prompt that is just so delicious, with so much potential to sprinkle in a light dusting of angst, and to give me the chance to garnish with a beautiful open ending full of promise, and not expect a monster of a product to come from it. you just can't. i'm sorry. i hope you enjoy this, regardless. even if it's not quite bite-sized.

warnings: seemingly unrequited love that turns into clearly idiots in love. eddie gets shirtless. that's all.

wc: 4.4k+ yikes

It had started off as an innocent, well-intentioned offer. You swear it did.

When Eddie had called you right after pulling a double at the garage, begging to come over and simply relax at your apartment, you’d set up to allow him to do just that. You’d cleaned up a little bit, lit a candle that normally gave you a headache if it burned too long but that Eddie loved, prepped a selection of movies for him to choose from, pulled out the menu for your favorite take-out – you’d gone the whole nine yards for your best friend.

Someone might even point out it wasn’t just best friend behavior at this point. Steve and Robin alike had certainly called out your behavior at times, coining it as “girlfriend behavior on a best friend salary”.

You didn’t care. You were well aware of what you were doing, and you didn’t care.

You’d spend the rest of your life on the best friend salary, as the two dinguses had so lovingly called it, for the look of sheer peace on Eddie’s face right now.

He’s leaning back on the opposite end of your couch from you, knees spread and chin facing the ceiling as he sighs in bliss. Take-out containers are scattered about the coffee table, and his movie of choice of Return of the Jedi is about halfway over on your TV.

You both had already chosen a second movie – The Lost Boys. The plans for the night were set in stone.

You tuck both knees up beneath your chin, side-glancing your best friend for a second and ignoring the flutter of your chest as you watch him sink deeper into the cushions, “We can talk about it, y’know.”

“Hm?”

“Your day,” you adjust a bit, turning your body to face him fully, “If you wanna talk about it, I’m all ears. We’ve already seen enough Jabba the Hutt to last a lifetime.”

That earns a smile from him, slowly crackling over his cheeks as he rolls his head towards you, “I dunno. Is there such thing as enough Jabba the Hutt?”

You toss a piece of your sour watermelon candy at him, and despite it landing on his shirt, he still grabs it to pop it into his mouth.

You try not to think too hard about how that shirt had been sitting in your drawers, clean and neatly folded, occupying space as if that might be normal. As if everyone has some of their best friend’s clothes at their apartment that they can change into after a long day at work.

As if everyone has occasionally used said shirt as pajamas on nights they particularly miss the scent of their best friend’s cologne.

“Shut up,” you finally snicker, dropping your knees from your chin, sitting criss-cross now, “We don’t have to talk about your day if you don’t feel like it. By all means, if you wanna keep drooling over an alien slug, be my guest-”

At your teasing, Eddie moves quickly to grab one of your ankles, pulling your feet towards his lap before you can register what he’s doing. You gasp a little, and it’s definitely not because of the feeling of his warm palms wrapped around your bare skin. Totally not at the rush of warmth that travels up your body, head to toe, when you feel his rings pressing into you so eagerly.

Absolutely not. You gasp, because anybody would gasp in this scenario. Because you’re just best friends. And best friends do stuff like that.

“I am not drooling over a slug,” he chastises, grinning recklessly as he wiggles his fingers menacingly, mere inches from the bottom of your foot, “Take it back, or pay the price, baby.”

Has he ever called you baby before?

Certainly not, if your roaring heart has anything to say about it.

“Don’t you dare,” you squeal – genuinely squeal – as you try and tug your legs out of his grasp. It’s a useless effort; he’s too strong, even after his long day, and your body isn’t even sure if it approves of taking his hands off of you. “Edward Munson, I swear to God-”

It’s a mess of flailing limbs, painful laughter, and high-pitched screams from there. Squeaks from your own mouth, and a few from Eddie, mocking you all in good fun as he continues to persist for you to take it back. For just a moment, it feels like this is the normal – you’re living in a space where Eddie comes home from every day, grueling or effortless, to you. Where the two of you always end up on the couch together, bodies touching in any way they can. Where there’s always background noise on the TV as his focus is solely on you, smiling foolishly at his antics that were really just a simple effort to hear your laughter. Where your laughter is the only thing he really wants to hear at the end of the night, and it’s the greatest thing he’s ever heard.

A world where he tells you as much.

A world where after this, he’s reaching the knob of your shared bedroom door rather than the front door of your lonesome apartment.

A world where you aren’t existing on a best friend salary.

“Had enough yet, sweetheart?” he quips, just as breathless as you are from the struggle. This time, the nickname he uses is normal. It took you off guard during the first few months of friendship, but now? Your weary heart could handle it, cherish it even, and not let your stupid little crush get in the way of appreciating it. “All you have to say are the magic words.”

“Are the magic words, you’re a dickhead?”

“Hm,” he pretends to ponder thoughtfully for just a second before shaking his hand, “‘Fraid not. Try again?”

Instead of verbally replying, you give him a gentle kick in the stomach. Not the magic words he had in mind, but they sure do the trick.

He lets out a soft oomph, one arm cradling his midsection as though you actually hurt him. You take it as your cue to remove your legs – his dramatics quickly come to a halt to prevent just that.

It’s probably meant to be subtle, the way both his arms fall down over your calves and keep your feet in his lap, but it has the capability to implode your entire world.

“I can’t believe you’re being mean to me after the day I’ve had,” he whines, and all you can focus on is the way his thumb is rhythmically stroking the ball of your ankle now, “Me, your best friend, has had the most awful day and you-”

“Now you wanna talk about it?” you laugh a little, rolling your eyes at him.

“Absolutely.”

“After you’ve just tortured me?”

“Well, yeah. When else would I talk about it?”

“I’m rescinding my offer to listen,” you continue to joke, making one more good faith offer to slip your legs from his lap. And, once more, he won’t allow it.

He whines out a long, drawn out no, starting to lay his entire body across your legs this time. More direct, more to the point. Subtleties have been forgotten, you suppose.

You don’t know if it’s more for you, or for him. You just know you like it. You like existing within a sneak preview of a girlfriend salary.

“You never answered me, drama queen,” you murmur as the joking lean across your legs becomes a bit more heavy, and Eddie is more genuinely collapsing his figure into your lap. He doesn’t even have to ask, or gesture – your fingers find home within his hair, and you can feel his hum of content against your thigh as you scratch along his scalp, “Do you wanna talk about it?”

All joking pretenses slip away from him as he mumbles out a muffled, “Not really.”

And you can work with that. You swear, you can.

If you’d been so ready to lend a listening ear, then you can offer him this peace and quiet. A simple head massage as he leans into you, cheeks pressed to the top of your thigh as you think he returns to watching Return of the Jedi.

His eyes might be closed, if his heavy breaths are anything to go off of. You’re just not sure.

You just keep up your massage, sluggish strokes, clement scratches, deep breaths to match his own-

And then, an idea hits you.

“Eds,” you whisper, your hand in his hair traveling to his shoulders, shaking him a bit, “Eddie.”

Only a grunt in response.

“Eddie, seriously, get up,” you stress, overeager, “I have an idea.”

“The apartment better be on fire,” he grumbles as he finally raises his head, face imprinted with the lines of your shorts in rolling hills of soft indents.

Definitely was sleeping. Definitely wasn’t watching Star Wars.

But even with his shoulders wrapped with dreary slumber, you’re still excited about your idea, motioning him to sit up fully. You let him take his time, of course, only after he swats your hands away sluggishly a few times.

Once his back is straight, you lift one finger in the air, and draw a circle – motioning for him to turn his back to you without saying a word.

His eyes narrow to slits at you, “Are you about to pull a prank on me? Because-”

“I’m not,” you assure him, reaching for his shoulders, nearly turning him yourself, “Scout’s honor.”

He listens to you. Despite it all, despite his seeming mistrust, he turns his back to you. More specifically, he turns his shoulders to you.

He’s still mumbling on about how you better not make his day worse, getting a little bit snappier when you gather his hair up to lay out of your way and claiming his scalp was extra sensitive today.

You pay his attitude no mind. He’s just grumpy. It doesn’t particularly phase you after years of close friendship.

“Listen, I know you like braiding my hair, but-” he continues with his protests as you grin behind him, shaking your head as you settle yourself closer to him. Knees bumping his hips, back straight for the time being. “I’d rather just nap right now. And I was really comfy, and really getting my rocks off to that damn alien slug-”

All his words cut off when you finally put your plan into action. Your palms fall atop his shoulders, fingers curling around the tense skin, and he’s melting before you’ve even begun.

“I- Oh,” he jumps a little at the first squeeze, but quickly returns to being pliant in your hold, “Oh… That’s…. That’s nice.”

You continue your massage, gently squeezing, thumbs and fingers digging into any knots you find to work them away as you jeer, “Is it now?”

He nods, the smallest of movements as to not interrupt your work, “It is. ‘S real nice.”

His head rolls with each pinch of your fingers, posture loosening as he leans back into your touch further.

You take it a step further, biting back nerves when you slip your hands beneath the collar of his old t-shirt. You feel the shiver begin before it races down his spine at the press of your skin directly on his now.

Your warm hands work dutifully, determined to bring as much relaxation to your best friend as possible. Definitely not enjoying yourself a bit too much at his smooth skin under your palms. Definitely not enjoying yourself just as much as he is. Certainly not.

The shirt constricts you, though. Prevents your hands from traveling fully over sore spots you can feel the edges of. Catching your wrists, limiting the full potential of your movements.

You’re glad he can’t see you as you suddenly request, “Take your shirt off.”

“Hm?” he can’t form a proper word at first, not startled but simply sunken too deep in his relaxation, “What was that?”

“I need your shirt off, Munson.”

You try to sound brave, nonchalant, as you repeat yourself. You don’t want him to hear the fluttering of your heart – you don’t want him to hear the shake of your hands as you remove them from him.

You only want him to hear the totally reasonable request from a friend, who is simply trying to offer the best massage possible to their best friend who’s had a bad day.

“Oh?” he looks over his shoulder, and you can see the edges of his raised brows through messy bangs, “Damn, sweetheart. If you wanted me naked, you just had to ask.”

Can ribs break from a heart beating too fast? Is that even possible?

“I did ask,” your voice is flat as a trade off to avoid any quivering to filtrate it, lips pressing tightly together as you swallow your heart, “So get to it.”

He leans forward, putting a bit of distance between you two before he reaches back to grab the center of his shirt. The fabric comes off with a flourish, and all you’re left face to face with is the bare expanse of his back.

You silently beg him not to look back over his shoulder, if only for just a second.

You’ve seen Eddie shirtless plenty of times. At pool parties with the entire group, on rare lake days that always ended sun drunk and giddy, that one time he’d answered his door right after a quick shower and you’d seen a lot more than you’d bargained for. He was your friend. After a while, it would have been weirder to not have seen Eddie shirtless at least once.

Something about this time feels different.

He has freckles – not nearly as much as Steve or Robin, but they still exist. Small markings across skin glowing warmly in the dim light of your living room lamp, spattered without rhyme or reason. One on the back of his left shoulder, another slightly off-centered at the base of his neck. He has a light scar towards the bottom of his right shoulder blade – a memory from his childhood he told you once when you’d first seen it at the lake. Everyone else was out splashing about the ten-degrees-too-cool water, and he’d joined your side on the shore. Laid on his stomach as you laid on your back, offering you conversation in the form of stories about every blemish across his skin. The intentional tattoos, the unintentional scars. Everything.

Even that day doesn’t quite compare to the intimacy of him being here now, being shirtless in your apartment, just the two of you.

Maybe there was something extra in your coffee this morning, making you feel so delusional.

“I don’t have any lotion or oils,” you finally clear your throat, trying to joke about as the two of you had been before, “But that doesn’t matter. You ready for the best damn massage of your life, Munson?”

“Yes, please,” he groans, and something deep in your stomach clenches at the sound, “Want me to lay down or something?”

Your brain short-circuits for a second, because you know where that leads.

If he lays down, there’s only one way to continue to comfortably give him the massage. If he lays down, you’re about to bite off more than you could chew on a best friend salary.

“Sure,” you choke out, damning yourself in the process.

It’s all robotic mechanics as you two shift to assume the position; you stand up, and he sprawls out. And you swear, in the process, you catch a smothering of pink slow creeping across his chest and neck.

“Can I…” you start to question, finally growing a bit shy as you stare down at the dip of his lower back. Two dimples on either side of his spine, looking so inviting and yet daunting.

He finishes the sentence for you, saving you the embarrassment, “Sit on me? Yeah, go for it, babe.”

There it is again. An unfamiliar nickname that falls so effortlessly off the lips for him. Another pet name to send you into a tailspin as your breath catches and your heart races, as though needing to catch up after the fleeting endearment.

“Thanks,” you whisper out.

You’re starting to regret all your choices, but it’s too late to back down now. You just want to help him relax – that’s all this is.

Stop making this more than it is.

You’re exceptionally careful as you crawl over Eddie, placing a knee on either side of him, hovering for just a second as you take deep breaths to hype yourself up to do the inevitable.

He twists a bit, startling you enough for you to balance yourself with a palm on each shoulder blade, “C’mon now, you’re not going to crush me. You should know this by now,” his eyes glitter, and you know he’s referring to that time you two made a bet he couldn’t carry you bridal style while drunk. He could, “Sit your pretty ass down and get to work, Masseuse.”

You weren’t imagining the pink across his chest and neck. It’s climbed up now, tendrils tickling his cheeks. The bridge of his nose nearly looks sunburnt from this angle.

It’s a good look on him.

“Masseuse?” you snort as you shove him to be fully laying down once more, needing to get his eyes off of you for just a second, “That’s an awfully big word. You been reading without me or something? Becoming a secret genius?”

Fall back into the normal flow of things. Try not to think about the heat of him between your legs as you sit half your weight down.

“That is not a big word,” he chides.

“Spell it, then.”

“I-” he cuts off as your hands smooth back over his skin, no more restrictions.

He never finishes his sentence, never complies with your request. All that falls from his lips are soft sighs as you begin the massage again.

There’s an occasional twitch below his muscles as you knead away, slowly but surely becoming more comfortable with it all. Becoming more mesmerized as you can now see his skin moving with you, occasionally letting up when you skirt past freckles and scars alike, fingertips merely tracing them as he shivers under your delicate touch.

You do exactly as you set out to do – you relax him. And then some.

You’ve never really gotten into the art of massages, something about it always feeling a bit too intimate. You’d never consider yourself a professional at it by any means – if anything, you’ve been on the receiving end rather than the giving end more often than not. And even those occurrences were rare.

But when it came to Eddie, it seemingly came naturally.

Not all of your movements are conventional. You pass back and forth between the usual squeezes of skin you’ve witnessed on TV and from others, and gentle tracing of your fingertips. Drawing shapes, painting pictures that vanish without ever having existed in the first place. Words, sentences, secret messages for just you two.

When you trace out the endearment of idiot, Eddie seems to catch on, lazy grin peeking up past his curtain of hair covering the cheek almost facing you.

In another place, where you make that coveted girlfriend salary, you’d trace out three little words on the tip of your tongue.

You almost do it, too. It’s when you trace out idiot, in fact. You start, entirely subconsciously, with the i. A long pause, a space between words.

And then you trace an l. One long line down the center of his spine.

Your finger is already rotating for the o, ready to trace it in the center as the other two letters had been, a signalling it wasn’t a part of that last simple line.

And then you divert. And you rush to finish out with the i, the o, the t. He laughs a little, the rush of air felt below you as he lets it out soundlessly, and you catch sight of his smile.

A seeming endearment to Eddie, a hidden scolding for yourself.

Maybe one day you can find the nerve to properly trace it out – or better yet, say it. Speak your truth outloud and handle whatever consequences come from it. Because you do – you really, really do mean it – and those feelings for Eddie can’t seem to change. Something carved into your very soul, unchanging as the years pass. If anything, the carving only digs deeper into you with each month you spend with him.

One day. But not today, not when Eddie’s had a bad day. It should be a good day when you say it, lessening the blow of rejection, hopefully.

You almost lose your balance a few times. Each time having to adjust your position of sitting on him, shifting his hips right along with yours. And each time, you notice the catch in his sighs. The way they almost transform into moans, tense noises that seemingly tear from his throat, only dampened by poor attempts to conceal them. Even the back of his neck has grown flushed now, the tips of his ears vibrant when you see them poke through his hair.

Sometimes, you lose your balance from his shifting, even.

The air is sticky with tension as you finally finish up. It could have been ten minutes, it could have been an hour – you weren’t keeping score, more focused on continuing on until Eddie’s entire body has gone boneless beneath you.

Pretty, and pink, and pliant. Entirely slackened beneath your touches.

It takes more to encourage yourself to climb off of him than it did to climb on originally. Your body protests entirely, knees not caring for the ache forming, inner thighs happy to be bracketing his hips. But you do it. Because you’re just a friend, a best friend, helping your friend relax.

You stand, towering over him, looking down to find him hiding his face just a bit. “Well?”

“Well, what?” his voice is entirely muffled by his mouthful of couch cushion, and you furrow your brows.

“How was it?”

He lifts his face strategically. He probably hopes you don’t notice, but you do, “Oh! Oh, it was, uh- It was fucking great, sweetheart. I… I swear, your hands are fucking magic.”

Why is he tripping over his words like that?

He can’t even look you in the eyes, line of sight darting anywhere but you.

Why is he flushed, head to toe?

“Yeah?” you cross your arms, and subtly lean to block the TV now displaying credits that Eddie found terribly interesting, “Would you consider it the best massage you’ve ever had?”

He nods, and you catch the bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallows before squeaking out, “Oh, yeah! The absolute best I’ve ever had,” his eyes widen at his words, as if he’s made a terrible choice that you’re unaware of, “I mean, you know, I just- you should really consider becoming an actual masseuse.”

That’s when it hits you; Eddie is absolutely refusing to sit up. To remove his hips from your couch.

He’s blushing, and he’s stuttering, and he’s definitely hiding something.

There’s a twist in your gut that you can’t reveal. A satisfaction you know better than to celebrate right now.

Instead, you decide to play with him just a little bit more.

“Good,” you nod, stepping towards the end of the couch you’d originally occupied. Where Eddie’s knees are stiff against. “Maybe I will consider a career change. But for now – move, Munson. I’m just exhausted.”

“What?” he looks at you, frightened, only moving his neck to keep his hips flush and hidden away.

“Get your legs out of my seat,” you laugh a little, leveling him with a daring stare.

You know what he’s hiding. You’re a bit proud of it, too.

“Oh, yeah,” he says slowly, and you can see him going over his options in his head. A million excuses he’s probably conjuring, a hundred different escape plans he’s grasping at. “Yeah, of course.”

And, just as you’d suspected, he doesn’t go with a single one to save his dignity.

He moves quickly. Tucking his legs up and twisting himself into an upright position in the blink of an eye, and immediately grabbing one of your throw pillows that two of you had tossed off into the floor amidst the original movie night plans.

He’s fast, you’ll give him that. But not fast enough for you to not catch sight of the tent in his pants.

You don’t let your eyes linger too long. Swallow down any drooling threatening to begin. Tamper down any desire flaring in your chest and between your hips.

Best friend salary, you remind yourself even as you grin a tad bit too salaciously for your current cover. Best friend salary, not girlfriend salary.

You plop down on the seat still warm from Eddie’s legs, sinking back in self-satisfaction. Maybe you had been wrong. Maybe it doesn’t have to be another time, or place, or Universe to get what you want. Maybe all your delusion, that wild imagination of yours, wasn’t so misplaced after all.

Best friend salary, your mind whispers. For now.

Eddie makes himself comfortable right along with you, still seeming in a much better condition than when he’d first arrived, even if his cheeks had bloomed into a rose garden. He presses that throw pillow of yours protectively over his crotch, and once more focuses on the screen in front of you two.

“Say, Eddie,” you drawl, almost radiant with your grin. A fire now lit inside both of you. “Think you could be a doll and pop in the next movie for me?”

It’s a little evil, you’ll admit. But he kind of deserves it for underpaying you over the years, when it’s so clear you’re due for a promotion. Sometime soon, you hope.

Both your heads turn to each other at the same time, wildly different speeds. Eddie’s neck snaps in disbelief, while you take your time to make eye contact.

All it takes is one knowing look exchanged, and the illusion fumbles on its stilts.

“I…” his embarrassment, all that flush, slowly morphs as he catches the truth behind your intentions. The hand pressing down on the throw pillow alleviates just a bit, stiff shoulders relaxing as they should have been after your massage as he reflects back just as evil of a glint in his eyes as you had, “Sure thing, baby.”

It’s probably going to be a long night. Surely, the promotion of best friend to girlfriend is going to involve some paperwork. Or an interview, to prove your capability and experience first hand, of course.

But, well, he never did put his shirt back on, did he?

#ghost's stories #v-day party #eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #stranger things #you know what? i'm not sorry #**he never put his shirt back on DID HE?**#i did what i did. i stand by it.#the smut in a part 2 that will never exist would go so hard #imagine these idiots getting their hands on some oil goddamn

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