#unpleasant tastes and aromas

[falseandrealultravival]

Japanese shochu is a second-class liquor (Essay)

Chartreuse

Among the alcoholic beverages made in Japan, whisky is the most highly regarded worldwide, while shochu is the least popular. Whisky is a perfect alcoholic beverage, free from unpleasant tastes and aromas. Shochu is an incomplete alcoholic beverage full of unpleasant tastes and aromas, and this tendency is extreme in shochu made from sweet potatoes.

I once brought a French liqueur, Chartreuse, to someone as a gift. As soon as this person drank it, he said, ``It tastes terrible!'' He liked drinking sweet potato shochu. ``How disrespectful to a work of art built based on the perfect liquor, brandy!'' I thought with anger. (Of course, he was also rude to me.)

People who like shochu tend to be partial to incomplete tastes and aromas as if their flaws speak for their very personality. It's not that alcohol is bad; it's an expression of the drinker's bad habits, not his personality.

As someone who loves Chartreuse, I cannot forgive that man's narrow-minded, selfish bad habit.

Rei Morishita

2024.05.26

日本の焼酎は、２流の酒だ（エッセイ）

日本で作られた酒で、世界的に最も評価が高いのはウイスキーで、最も人気がないのは焼酎だという。ウイスキーは、雑味と雑香のない、完璧な酒である。焼酎は雑味と雑香だらけの不完全な酒で、特に芋を原料とする焼酎に、その傾向が強い。

私は、以前、フランスのリキュール：シャルトリューズを、ある人のところに手土産として持ってい��た。飲むなり、この人は「不味い！」と言った。彼は���焼酎を好んで飲んでいた。「完璧な酒であるブランデーをベースに構築された芸術品に対して、なんたる無礼か！」と私は怒った。（もちろん、私に対しても無礼な態度だった）

焼酎好きの人は、雑味と雑香を偏愛して、あたかもその人の人格そのものを、この不備が代弁しているかのように思っているのであろう。それは酒が悪いのではなく、それを愛飲する人の個性ではなく、悪癖を表現しているのである。

私は、シャルトリューズを愛する者として、あの男の偏狭な悪癖たる自己愛を許さない。

[literaryvein-reblogs]

I'm trying to work on my 'show don't tell' but struggle with describing smells when tackling senses. Do you have any smelly word resources? :)

Some Words to Describe Smell

Acrid - strong, biting (e.g., something on fire)

Ambrosial - fragrant; having a pleasant smell

Antiseptic - a clean scent

Aromatic - having a strong or distinctive smell

Aura - smell surrounding something

Balm - soothing scent

Bouquet - blend of floral scents

Briny - salty

Burnt - unpleasant, smoky, sharp scent

Clean - very light scent, clean and natural

Earthy - recently dug or tilled soil

Essence - basic, natural scent

Fetid - decaying or rotting smell

Fishy - smelling of fish; pungent, strong, unpleasant

Flowery - fragrance similar to flowers

Foul - being odorous and impure

Fragrant - things, such as flowers or spices, with sweet or agreeable odors

Fresh - natural smelling, rather than artificial

Gamy - having the flavor of game; smelly

Gaseous - a chemical odorant, similar to the smell of rotten eggs

Heady - very strong aroma

Lemony - tart, piquant citrus notes

Lilac - rich floral scent combining rose with vanilla

Mildewed - soaked in wetness that has gone stale

Minty - menthol-like smell

Misty - mild fragrance, not overpowering

Moldy - damp, fungus-like odor

Musty - damp, earthy, or stale odor

Odorous - emitting a scent that has a strong distinctive smell whether pleasant or unpleasant

Overpowering - too strong of a smell

Perfumed - artificial fragrance, not natural-smelling

Pheromone - natural scents

Piney - crisp, refreshing evergreen smell

Piquant - pleasantly pungent, sharp, or spicy taste

Plastic - artificial chemical polymer odor

Pungent - strong fragrance

Putrid - stench of decay

Rancid - spoiled; food that has gone bad

Reeking - a strong or disagreeable fume or odor

Rotten - spoiled, rancid, unpalatable

Scented - having a perfumed smell

Sharp - a strong scent

Skunky - noxious smell that lingers; sulfuric (like rotten eggs) odor

Smoky - scent of burning wood

Spoiled - an unpleasant, rotten smell

Stagnant - a stale smell

Stench - stink; a characteristic repugnant quality

Sterile - a sense of cleanliness; the scent of cleaning products

Sweet - sugary smell

Tart - sharp fragrance

Tempting - having an appeal; enticing

Trace - a tiny amount of fragrance

Whiff - a fleeting scent

Wispy - hint of fragrance in the air

Woodsy - characteristic or suggestive of woods; forest-like smell

Olfactory imagery engages the sense of smell. Scent is one of the most direct triggers of memory and emotion, but can be difficult to write about. Since taste and smell are so closely linked, you’ll sometimes find the same words (such as “sweet”) used to describe both. Simile is common in olfactory imagery, because it allows writers to compare a particular scent to common smells like dirt, grass, manure, or roses.

The above are excerpts from this previous post & added definitions from Merriam-Webster and YourDictionary. More related posts you might find useful:

Some Perfumery Vocabulary

100 Sensory Words ⚜ Word Alternatives: Olfactory

Writing Notes: Fragrance ⚜ Scent ⚜ Fragrance Notes

More: Notes & References ⚜ Word Lists ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs

All the best in your search for the right smelly words in your writing :)

[seospicybin]

TASTE.

CHAPTER III: AFTERTASTE.

Lee Know x reader. (s,a)

TASTE MASTERLIST

Synopsis: When Minho is hired as the head chef of Farfalle, a prestigious Italian restaurant, expectations are high for him to elevate its reputation and bring it to new heights. However, no one anticipates the drastic changes he implements in the kitchen—including his strict rule that that there'll be no women and no romance in his kitchen. (21,1k words)

Author's note: Your reservation at Farfalle is ready. Hope you enjoy it! Don't forget to leave a 5-star review ★

Aftertaste. /ˈɑːf.tə.teɪst/ (n) a taste, typically an unpleasant one, remaining in the mouth after eating or drinking something.

Do you know that you food can taste different when it has become cold? When the food is sweet or salty in particular, its taste would change depending if they're hot or cold. That, Minho learned the hard way, eight years ago in culinary school.

The kitchen was alive with the sounds of chopping, sizzling, and the occasional bursts of laughter from students, each consumed by their own culinary experiments. Minho stood at his station, his brow furrowed in concentration as he meticulously kneaded pasta dough. The faint scent of flour and olive oil hung in the air, mingling with the aromas of freshly baked bread and simmering sauces.

Across the counter, Sara leaned on her elbows, watching Minho with an amused smile. Her hair was tied back into a loose bun, a streak of flour smudged across her cheek.

“You’re so serious when you cook,” she teased, breaking the silence.

Minho glanced up, his lips twitching into a small smile. “And you’re so distracting,” he shot back, though there was no malice in his tone.

Sara grinned, straightening up and walking over to his side. “Come on, show me what you’re working on.”

Minho hesitated but eventually relented, stepping aside to reveal a small bowl of ginseng root. “I’m making a ginseng pasta,” he said, his voice brimming with excitement. “It’s going to be my entry for the summer competition.”

Sara raised an eyebrow, picking up a piece of the root. “Ginseng? That’s bold. How are you planning to deal with the bitterness?”

Minho smirked, the confidence in his expression unmistakable. “That’s the genius part. I’m using Barolo wine to balance it out. The earthy notes in the wine will complement the ginseng perfectly.”

Sara nodded thoughtfully, placing the root back into the bowl. “Well, good luck with it,” she said, her tone warm and genuine. “You’re going to need it against me.”

Minho chuckled, shaking his head. “We’ll see about that.”

Minho and Sara were not only young and bright, both of them were passionate about cooking, they were also very much in love with each other. Their rivalry was as much a part of their relationship as their love for cooking. They pushed each other, critiqued each other’s dishes, and celebrated each other’s successes. It was why they were the top two students in their class with Minho reigned on the first place and Sara stayed closely on the second.

On the day of the competition, the grand hall buzzed with anticipation, the scent of spices and freshly cooked food wafting through the air. Minho stood confidently by his station, his ginseng pasta plated and ready to be presented. He glanced at Sara, who gave him a small, encouraging smile from her own station.

When it was his turn, Minho carried his dish to the judges with steady hands. They took their first bites, their faces revealing nothing. But as they continued, a subtle crease formed in one judge’s brow, followed by a quiet murmur among them.

Minho’s confidence faltered. He hurried back to his station, his mind racing. What had gone wrong? He quickly checked his ingredients, his heart sinking when he tasted the wine. It was oxidized, the rich flavors replaced by an unpleasant sourness.

His hands clenched into fists as realization dawned on him. He had only shared his recipe with one person.

He looked across the room at Sara, who stood before the judges, presenting her dish with radiant confidence. When they announced her as the winner, her smile was triumphant, her eyes meeting his for a brief moment.

Minho’s stomach churned as he saw the satisfaction in her gaze. She had sabotaged him.

Sara approached him afterward, her tone light and breezy. “I’m sorry, Minho. But I need to go to Rome,” she said, her smile sweet but unmistakably victorious.

Minho said nothing, his jaw tight and his knuckles white as he gripped the edge of his station. You see, even once the food is served, sometimes you don't eat it right away so the food becomes cold while you are talking or taking pictures of it but the last thing you'd remember is how it tastes before you leave the table.

And that day, his love for Sara was replaced by something colder, sharper—a lingering aftertaste that rivaled the bitterness of his ruined ginseng.

-

Today, that lingering aftertaste not only tainted his tongue, it starts pooling in the pit of his stomach, making him sick from the inside.

Minho exhales sharply, his patience thinning to a dangerous edge. His knuckles ache from clenching his fists. He stares at Chris, his gaze demanding an answer he already suspects but needs to hear aloud.

“Don’t tell me that she's already here?” he asks, his voice a low, controlled growl.

Chris nods, and Minho’s stomach twists. “She's here.”

The words barely register before the sound of her footsteps announces her presence. Minho’s body tenses as Sara steps into the kitchen. She’s every bit as he remembers—confident, calculated, and exuding a saccharine charm that feels like a slap to the face.

“Nice to meet everyone,” Sara says, her voice sweet and cutting all at once. Her gaze lands on Minho, and the playful malice in her tone is unmistakable. “I hope no one plans to chase me out of the kitchen just because someone here has… issues tolerating women in the kitchen.”

Minho’s jaw tightens further but he stays silent, watching, waiting, his anger simmering dangerously close to the surface.

Sara turns back to him, feigning sweetness. “I’ll follow your instructions, Chef. Tell me where to stand and from which stove I should work.”

Her words feel like needles, each one designed to provoke. Minho’s grip on the table tightens, his knuckles whitening.

Sara tilts her head, mock innocence dripping from her tone. “Should I pick the station myself, then?”

Then she does the unthinkable. Her hands slide onto the chef’s table—his table—as if claiming it for herself.

The last thread of Minho’s restraint snaps. He spins around, his movements sharp and deliberate, his eyes locking onto hers with unfiltered fury. For a moment, the air between them crackles, thick with unspoken conflict.

Sara doesn’t flinch, meeting his gaze with calm defiance, and that only stokes his rage further.

Without a word, Minho storms past her, his shoulder colliding with hers hard enough to send her staggering. The door swings shut behind him, the sound echoing like a final note in a symphony of chaos.

Minho storms out of the kitchen and into his office, slamming the door with enough force to make the frame rattle. The echo reverberates through the small space as he rips his apron loose, the knot giving way under his angry hands. He hurls it onto the floor, the fabric crumpling into a heap. His chest rises and falls with sharp breaths, and he begins pacing, his shoes clicking against the polished floor in a rhythm that matches the racing of his thoughts.

She’s in my kitchen. That backstabber. That audacious, smug—

His fists clench, the tendons in his forearms straining as he tries to shake off the fury boiling inside him. But it’s futile. The image of Sara standing there, smug and triumphant, invades his mind again and again.

A knock on the door interrupts his spiraling thoughts. He ignores it, his back turned to the door as he continues pacing.

A second knock comes, firmer this time. Before Minho can bark out a refusal, the door creaks open, and Chris steps inside, calm and composed as always.

Minho stops, planting his hands firmly on his hips as he turns to face him. His glare is scorching, his voice sharp and biting. “What is it that you want? Are you trying to make me leave?”

Chris closes the door behind him, leaning against it with an ease that contrasts starkly with Minho’s barely-contained rage. His calm demeanor is infuriating.

“I’m trying to revive Farfalle,” Chris says, his tone measured. “That’s all this is about. Don’t make it more complicated than it needs to be. It’s just a new menu item.”

Chris raises an eyebrow, unfazed as he continues. “You chose her dish to be the new menu and you agreed the winner gets to cook here. You signed off on that.”

Minho’s jaw tightens, and he boldly steps forward, closing the distance between them. “Do you really think this is just a trivial matter to you, huh?”

Chris doesn’t flinch, his gaze steady. “It’s still your kitchen, Chef. You’re the head chef. Nothing has changed. Ninety-seven percent of the kitchen is yours, and no one’s taking your authority away.”

Minho lets out a sharp, humorless laugh, the sound cutting through the tension. He tilts his head, his eyes narrowing as a sinister smirk spreads across his lips. “My kitchen? In my kitchen, there would never be two chefs. Ever.”

Chris straightens, his calm demeanor cracking just enough to reveal a flicker of challenge. He steps closer, their faces now inches apart. “You’ve made countless changes to this kitchen. You’ve built it into something incredible. Are you really going to throw it all away because of this?”

Minho’s breath is steady, but the fire in his eyes burns hotter than ever. He leans in slightly, matching Chris’s intensity. “If you’re making the changes, then why don’t you just take it, Chris? Take the ninety-seven percent. Hell, take it all. Make it one hundred.”

For a long moment, they stand there, locked in a silent battle of wills. The air between them feels heavy, suffocating, as if the entire restaurant is holding its breath.

Neither of them blinks. Neither of them backs down.

-

The kitchen feels like it's on the verge of collapse. The clanging of pots and pans is louder than usual, overlapping with shouts of orders being repeated and corrected. Seojun, normally composed, is frantically trying to keep everyone in line, his voice hoarse from barking instructions. Felix has just served the wrong table, and the mistake sends a ripple of frustration through the staff. Taesoo, rushing to clean up a spill, nearly crashes into Seungwan, who looks like he might collapse at any moment.

The tension is suffocating, lingering in the air like the aftermath of a thunderstorm. And you know exactly why. Minho is gone. He left. Completely abandoning his post and the team.

You feel anger simmering beneath the surface, threatening to boil over as you throw down your knife and step away from your station. If no one else is going to fix this, you will.

Without a word to anyone, you slip into the freezer, the sudden chill biting at your skin. Pulling your phone out of your pocket, you scroll through your contacts and hit Minho’s name. The ringing feels endless, each tone tightening the knot in your stomach.

Finally, he picks up, but instead of his voice, you’re met with the thumping bass of loud music. The sound is almost deafening, making it hard to tell if he’s even aware you’re on the other end.

“Hello?” you say, your voice sharp, laced with urgency. “Chef, can you hear me?”

A moment of static, then his voice comes through, lazy and sarcastic. “Wow, you sound so happy right now that I'm not there.”

You grit your teeth, biting back a sharp retort. “Where are you? The kitchen is falling apart, Chef. Are you coming back or not?”

His laugh grates on your nerves, light and dismissive. “Why don’t you come here instead?” he says, his voice almost drowned out by the music. “Don’t bring anyone, though. Just you. Come have some fun.”

Your grip tightens on the phone, your frustration bubbling over. “Are you kidding me right now?” you snap, but he doesn’t respond, his laugh echoing faintly before the line goes dead.

With a growl of frustration, you shove your phone back into your pocket and push your way out of the freezer, the warmth of the kitchen hitting you like a wave. But before you can even get back to your station, your phone buzzes again.

You hesitate for a moment, debating whether to ignore it, but curiosity wins out. Pulling it out, you glance at the screen.

It’s a text from Minho. An address.

You stare at it, your stomach twisting. A club, no doubt the one where he’s currently drowning his responsibilities in music and alcohol.

Your grip on the phone tightens as you slide it back into your pocket, your jaw clenched. The chaos around you feels even louder now, the weight of Minho’s absence pressing down on your shoulders.

You know you can’t leave, not with the kitchen on the verge of disaster. But the thought of him out there, laughing, carefree, while everyone else struggles to keep things afloat, makes your blood boil.

-

The thumping bass of the club vibrates through your body as you push your way through the sweaty crowd, your frustration mounting with each passing second. Neon lights flicker overhead, casting garish colors over the sea of dancing bodies. The smell of alcohol and perfume is overwhelming, but none of it distracts you from your mission: finding Minho.

After what feels like an eternity, you spot him on the second floor, lounging in one of the booths like he doesn’t have a care in the world. His head is tilted back, a bottle of beer dangling lazily from his fingers, and his foot taps idly to the beat of the music.

He left the kitchen in chaos for this?

Without thinking, you grab your purse and fling it at him. It hits him square in the chest, making him jerk forward in surprise. His eyes widen momentarily before recognition sets in, and a slow, infuriating smile spreads across his face.

“Well, look who decided to join me,” he drawls, leaning forward and reaching for a fresh bottle of beer. He holds it out to you. “Here. Have a drink.”

“Are you kidding me?” you snap, refusing the bottle and plopping down on the ottoman across from him. “What the hell? How could you do this—not just to me, but to everyone in the kitchen?”

He sighs dramatically, tipping his head back as though he’s the one being inconvenienced. “I’m off the clock,” he mutters, taking another sip of his beer.

You narrow your eyes. “You’re the head chef! There’s no such thing as ‘off the clock’ when the kitchen is falling apart!”

Minho groans, placing the bottle down and covering his ears with his hands like a petulant child. “I don’t want to hear any of it,” he says, his voice laced with mock annoyance.

You’re livid now. “Don’t you dare act like this isn’t a big deal! Tell me what the actual problem is, huh? Is it because Chef Sara’s a woman? Or a chef? Or is it because—”

Before you can finish, Minho shoots up from his seat and grabs your hand, dragging you down to the dance floor without a word. You protest, trying to yank your hand free, but his grip is firm.

“Let me go!” you shout over the pounding music.

He ignores you, spinning you around and pulling you close, his arms wrapping around your waist. “Relax,” he says, his breath warm against your ear. “Do you know how to relax?”

You glare at him, refusing to be distracted. “I want you to answer me.”

But Minho is relentless. He moves to the rhythm of the music, swaying with a casual confidence that only makes you more frustrated. “How could you constantly think about nothing but work?” he asks, his lips dangerously close to your temple. “Just dance with me.”

You’re about to demand an answer again when he suddenly cups your face with both hands and presses his lips to yours. The kiss is unexpected, firm yet tender, and for a moment, you freeze.

When he pulls back, his eyes lock onto yours, their usual sharpness softened by something you can’t quite place. “You’re the only girl in my kitchen,” he says, his voice low and sincere. “And that’s more than enough for me.”

Your heart skips a beat, his words throwing you off balance. But as quickly as the moment sweeps you up, you snap yourself out of it.

“Don’t think you can sweet-talk your way out of this,” you say, stepping back and crossing your arms. “You’re still at fault, and I’m not forgiving you just because you—”

“Just leave,” Minho interrupts, exasperated. His playful demeanor vanishes, replaced by irritation. “If you’re just going to keep nagging, then leave.”

His words hit harder than they should, but you refuse to let it show. Straightening your shoulders, you glare at him one last time before spinning on your heel and storming off, leaving him standing alone in the crowd.

The ache in your chest surprises you, but you shove it aside. Minho asked you to leave, and you’ll do exactly that.

-

The kitchen is eerily quiet, the faint hum of the refrigerator the only sound as you step through the back entrance. Despite your anger at Minho, you can’t bring yourself to ignore his instructions about prepping for tomorrow. Frustration bubbles up in your chest as you head straight to the kitchen, only to find Taesoo squatting on the floor, painstakingly peeling shrimp from a massive bucket. His head bobs slightly, a yawn escaping as he struggles to stay awake.

A pang of guilt settles in your stomach. You remember those long nights when you were just a kitchen assistant, exhausted but determined to prove yourself. Setting your purse and jacket on the chef’s table, you quietly approach Taesoo and tap his shoulder. He jolts awake, his eyes widening before softening when he recognizes you.

“Sorry for leaving earlier,” you say, your voice gentle. “Where’s Felix? Wasn’t he supposed to stay after dinner service too?”

Taesoo shrugs, looking just as clueless as you feel. “No idea. Either he forgot or decided not to show up.”

You sigh, shaking your head. “Alright, go take a nap. I’ll finish this for you.”

His face lights up with gratitude, and he doesn’t need to be told twice. With a quick “thank you,” he scurries off, leaving you alone with the bucket of shrimp. You slide on a pair of gloves and get to work, the repetitive task giving your hands something to do while your mind drifts back to earlier at the club.

Minho’s smug grin. His infuriating refusal to take responsibility. And that kiss—your cheeks heat at the memory, quickly replaced by anger when you remember how he dismissed you.

The sound of approaching footsteps pulls you from your thoughts. You glance up, surprised to see Chris entering the kitchen. He’s still in his suit, hands casually tucked into his pockets, looking a little out of place in the quiet, industrial space.

“Chris? What are you still here?” you ask, pulling off your gloves.

He smirks faintly but doesn’t answer your question directly. “It’s my first day as the manager,” he says. “Aren't you worried about me?”

You catch the slight sulk in his tone and can’t help but smile warmly. “You weren’t that bad for your first day,” you tease.

He chuckles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. There’s something subdued about him tonight. Deciding to lift his spirits, you stand and gesture toward the door. “Come on. Let me buy you dinner.”

Chris raises an eyebrow, his trademark dimpled grin returning. “What’s the catch?”

“No catch. I realized I haven't eaten anything,” you say, pulling out your phone. “What do you feel like eating?”

He watches you scroll through the food delivery options, his gaze softening. “You’re a chef. Shouldn’t you be cooking instead of ordering takeout?”

You roll your eyes, a small laugh escaping. “I’ve been cooking all day, Chris. The last thing I want to do is cook more.”

He lets out a mock gasp, dramatically clutching his chest. “I don’t trust you with your food choices,” he says with narrowed eyes. Snatching the phone from your hand, he starts scrolling through the menu himself.

Every now and then, he lets out an excited gasp or hums in approval at a dish he likes, grinning as he scrolls. You find yourself smiling despite the fatigue weighing on your shoulders.

The dining hall is eerily quiet, the soft hum of the air conditioning the only sound as you and Chris sit at one of the tables, takeout containers spread out in front of you. The dim lighting gives the room a serene, almost intimate atmosphere, a stark contrast to the chaos earlier.

You take a sip of your canned beer, letting out a satisfied sigh. The exhaustion of the day seems to melt away, replaced by the quiet reward of good food and company. Chris leans back in his chair, staring at the ceiling as he absentmindedly taps his can against the table.

“Do you think he’ll come back?” Chris suddenly grumbles, his voice breaking the silence. “There’s a chance he might not return to the kitchen, you know.”

You set your can down, frowning slightly. “No way. Chef wouldn’t just let go of his kitchen like that. He’s too... territorial.”

Even as you say it, you hate how easily you’ve defended him after everything he’s done tonight. Chris gives you a curious look, his eyebrow quirking. “You seem to know a lot about him.”

You wave a hand dismissively, trying to downplay it. “It’s nothing. We went to the same school, that’s all.”

Chris doesn’t look convinced, but he doesn’t press. Instead, he leans forward slightly, his tone turning more thoughtful. “Did you know about him and Sara?”

The question catches you off guard. You pause, picking at the edge of your takeout container. “Yeah, I know they dated back in culinary school. But I don’t know much about it beyond that.”

Chris hums in response, swirling his beer in the can. His gaze is distant for a moment before you decide to flip the question back on him.

“You seem close to Sara too,” you say, narrowing your eyes at him. “What’s the story there?”

A faint smile tugs at Chris’s lips, and he shrugs. “We tried dating once. Didn’t work out.”

That piques your curiosity even more. “Why not? You’re both attractive, popular... I’d imagine you’d make a power couple.”

Chris looks at you then, his gaze steady and unreadable. “Doesn't matter. I like someone else,” he says casually, like it’s not a bombshell of a revelation.

You lean forward on the table, your curiosity now fully ignited. “Who?”

Chris chuckles but shakes his head. “Not telling.”

You narrow your eyes at him, determined to pry the truth out. “Oh, come on! Who is it? Someone I know? Is it someone in the restaurant?”

Before you can press him further, a loud snore cuts through the air, startling both of you. You glance around, trying to locate the source of the sound, and eventually spot Taesoo sprawled out in one of the booths, fast asleep.

The sight is so unexpected and absurd that you can’t help but laugh. Chris’s laughter soon joins yours, the sound echoing through the empty dining hall. For a brief moment, it feels like you’re both exactly where you need to be, uplifting each other after a long, hard day.

-

Minho leans against the hood of his car, parked across the street from the restaurant. The glow of the streetlights illuminates the familiar sign above the door, casting long shadows on the pavement. His eyes linger on the name of the restaurant, the place he’s poured everything into. The memories of your question from earlier in the club replay in his mind like a haunting echo.

What’s your actual problem with Sara?

The question nags at him, forcing him to confront the truths he’s been avoiding. He exhales slowly, gripping the edge of the car.

Was it because Sara is a woman? No. That had never truly been the issue.

Was it because she’s also a chef? Maybe, but not entirely.

Or was it because Sara is his ex-girlfriend? The thought stirs an uncomfortable weight in his chest, but it’s not the root cause either.

The truth settles in the pit of his stomach, sharp and undeniable. It wasn’t Sara herself—it was the possibility of losing to her again. His ego couldn’t handle it. Back then, she had left him behind, proving she could succeed without him. The thought of her doing it again, this time in his kitchen, had twisted his pride into knots.

But standing there, staring at the restaurant, Minho realizes the futility of clinging to the past. This isn’t culinary school anymore. It’s not about winning or losing. It’s about what’s best for the restaurant. Sara deserves the chance to prove herself, just like anyone else.

He pushes off the car and climbs back inside, the engine roaring to life as he heads home.

The next morning, Minho steps out of his apartment and while adjusting the strap of his bag over his shoulder, he walks toward your apartment. He rings the doorbell, he knows he's here to talk to Sara but he's also expecting to see you open the door.

When Sara answers instead, her bright smile is a stark contrast to his composed demeanor.

“Minho,” she greets warmly, but he skips the pleasantries.

“About your menu... you can make it in the kitchen,” he says bluntly, getting straight to the point.

Sara’s eyes widen in surprise, her smile growing as she processes his words. “Really? Does that mean I’ll start working in the kitchen tomorrow?”

Minho nods, his tone even and detached. “Let me be clear. I need your skill and your recipe, nothing more. Don’t misunderstand—this changes nothing.”

Sara’s smile softens as she nods in agreement. “Understood.”

There’s a brief silence before Minho clears his throat, his voice lowering. “Where’s your roommate?”

Sara tilts her head slightly, confused. “I don’t think she came home last night.”

Minho’s jaw tightens, but he nods once and turns to leave. As he walks toward the elevator, his mind races with questions. Where could you have been all night? And why does it bother him so much to think about it?

-

It’s barely morning, and the kitchen of Farfalle is already buzzing with activity. You’re elbow-deep in prep work, chopping, blanching, and arranging ingredients for the evening’s service. The reservations for today are over 100, and the pressure is palpable. Still, you keep your focus sharp, refusing to let exhaustion creep in.

As lunchtime approaches, you finally step out of the kitchen for a breather. In the dining hall, a press conference is underway. Sara stands confidently in front of a sea of reporters, eloquently describing the inspiration behind her new menu. Her charisma commands the room, and as you watch, you’re reminded of the days back in culinary school.

She’s always been talented, but her success didn’t come from talent alone. It’s her unwavering drive and passion that elevated her career. You admire that about her, even if you’ve never said it aloud. Watching her now, you feel a flicker of determination to push yourself even harder—to be as good as Sara, if not better.

Dinner service is chaos in the best way possible. Orders for the new menu fly in nonstop, and the kitchen hums like a well-oiled machine. For hours, it’s all hands on deck, assembling full-course meals for over a hundred guests. By the end of the night, your feet ache, your hands are sore, and exhaustion clings to you like a second skin. But despite it all, there’s a deep sense of satisfaction.

The reopening of Farfalle has been a success.

Minho strides into the kitchen just as the last of the orders go out, carrying two pristine plates in his hands. He places them carefully on the chef’s table, the gleam in his eyes unreadable.

“Gather around,” he says, his voice cutting through the lingering chatter.

Everyone stops what they’re doing, curiosity sparking as they crowd around the table. Minho gestures to the plates, introducing his new menu item. He insists that everyone taste it and provide brutally honest feedback.

“No sugarcoating,” he warns, his gaze scanning the group. “I want the truth.”

Silence hangs in the air. No one moves. The tension is almost comical as everyone exchanges hesitant glances, none brave enough to be the first to critique the head chef’s work.

“What? You don't feel comfortable being honest with me here? Is that it?” Minho exhales, clearly exasperated. “Fine, then go home and criticize to your heart's content. Taste it and you are to turn in your review anonymously by tomorrow morning, understand?”

Relieved laughter ripples through the team, and forks are finally lifted. One by one, your colleagues sample the dish, their faces lighting up with appreciation. You linger at the back, arms crossed, observing their reactions.

Minho’s eyes find yours, and for a brief moment, his gaze lingers. You glance away dismissively, the sting of yesterday’s events still fresh.

Minutes later, Sara walks in, carrying her own dish—a plate of triple-flavored pasta that looks as stunning as it smells. She sets it on the table next to Minho’s dish. “Please, have a taste of mine too.”

Sara smiles then her eyes lands at Minho, silently asking if she can taste his dish. Minho subtly nods. “Have a taste.”

She picks up a fork and take a piece of the foie gras, processing the taste as she's chewing it.

“It's very good,” Sara praises, her smile genuine. “It's not too rich but refreshing and yet it retains the nutty flavor of the liver.”

Minho gives a curt nod, though his shoulders relax slightly at the compliment. He steps back, addressing the room.

“You’ve all done a great job today. Clean up and head home.”

“Yes, chef!”

After a while, Sara also excusing herself to leave. “Thank you for your hard work today, everyone!”

The team begins to disperse, buzzing with pride from the night’s success. Sara also thanks everyone for their hard work before heading out.

As you start to remove your apron, Taesoo nudges you with a grin. “You haven’t tried the dishes yet. Go on!”

Reluctantly, you grab a fork and approach the table. First, you sample Minho’s creation. The flavors explode on your palate—balanced, bold, and unmistakably his style. Next, you try Sara’s pasta. It’s equally impressive, with layers of taste that linger long after the bite.

You can’t help but smile to yourself, begrudgingly acknowledging that despite everything, they’re both culinary geniuses.

The flavors still linger on your tongue as you exchange notes with Taesoo and a few others about the dishes. The general consensus is clear—both Minho and Sara’s creations are exceptional. The team buzzes with excitement, debating which dish edges out the other, but you stay quiet, appreciating both for their unique strengths.

As you laugh at Taesoo’s dramatic reenactment of his “first bite,” a gentle tap on your shoulder pulls you out of the moment. You turn around to see Felix standing there, looking sheepish yet hopeful, his signature soft smile lighting up his face.

“Hey,” he begins, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just wanted to say sorry for bailing last night. I know I should’ve been here to help you and Taesoo.”

You raise an eyebrow but don’t say anything, crossing your arms as you wait for him to continue.

“To make it up to you,” Felix adds, “I’m buying you two drinks tonight. My treat.”

You glance over at Taesoo, who’s already grinning like he’s won the lottery. Putting your arm around his shoulders, you lean into him conspiratorially. “Drinks, huh? What do you think, Taesoo? Is that enough for all the work we did without him?”

Taesoo shakes his head, playing along. “Not even close.”

You look back at Felix, raising your eyebrows in mock expectation. “Sorry, Lix. Drinks won’t cut it. You’re buying us meals too.”

Felix groans, his shoulders sagging in defeat. “Meals and drinks? You guys are gonna bleed me dry.”

“Yup,” Taesoo chimes, grinning wickedly. “Better start saving up, Felix.”

“Alright, alright,” Felix relents, throwing his hands up in surrender. “Meals and drinks. But only if you promise not to order the most expensive thing on the menu.”

“No promises,” you tease, smirking as you turn back to the others.

Felix lets out a resigned chuckle, shaking his head as he mutters, “You two are impossible.”

Despite his faux annoyance, you catch a glint of amusement in his eyes. Moments like these—lighthearted and filled with camaraderie—make the long hours and exhausting shifts worth it.

-

The smell of sizzling meat fills the air as Taesoo flips slices of pork belly on the grill with precision. Felix leans back in his chair, watching the meat char while you mix soju and beer into an improvised cocktail for the three of you.

Taesoo serves the freshly grilled meat onto your plates, and you all lift your glasses. “To surviving another day in Farfalle,” Felix says with a grin, and you all clink your glasses together.

The first sip burns warmly in your throat, and the exhaustion of the day begins to fade. Taesoo’s dramatic gasp after his first sip makes you laugh, and soon you’re all eating and chatting between bites.

“I don’t know about you guys, but I’m still starving,” Taesoo announces, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“That’s no surprise,” you reply. “There’s a study that says professional cooks have the worst eating habits. We cook during mealtimes and then get too tired to cook for ourselves after work.”

Felix nods enthusiastically. “I thought it was just me. Sometimes even looking at a pan makes me feel sick.”

“Same with laundry,” you add, eliciting groans of agreement from both Taesoo and Felix.

Just as Taesoo starts another round of grilling, Felix’s phone buzzes on the table. He picks it up, speaking animatedly while looking out the window. His expression changes, and he waves at someone outside.

You follow his gaze, and your stomach drops when you see Minho walking through the door, phone pressed to his ear.

Of course Felix invited him, you think, sighing as you sip your drink. Minho approaches the table, his sharp gaze scanning the three of you.

He gestures for Taesoo to move, squeezing into the seat next to you. He nudges you lightly. “Mix a drink for me too,” he says casually.

You down the rest of your glass, setting it down firmly on the table. “I’m done for the night,” you announce, standing up. “Thanks for the food and drinks, Felix.” You grab your things and head for the exit, not sparing Minho another glance.

Just as you think you’ve escaped his grasp, you hear footsteps following closely behind. Turning around, you see Minho jogging to match your pace, his expression a mix of frustration and something unreadable.

“Where were you last night?” Minho’s voice cuts through the night air as he jogs to match your pace.

You glare at him. “Unlike someone, I don’t run away from my responsibilities.”

Minho flinches but presses on. “Why are you still upset about last night?”

You stop abruptly and whirl around to face him. “Why can’t I be upset when you’re playing with my feelings?”

He steps closer, his presence overwhelming. “You better shut your mouth,” he snaps, but you press on, determined to get answers.

“You don’t allow women in your kitchen, but you keep me. And now there are two women in the kitchen. What’s your game? Why do you keep confusing me?”

Minho’s jaw tightens. “I swear if one more word comes out of your mouth...”

But you’re relentless. “What am I to you? A piece of meat on your cutting board? Is that it? You’re not afraid because you’re the one holding the knife?”

His eyes darken as he leans closer. “Even if you were a piece of meat, you’re not fresh. You’ve been in the freezer too long, you’re tough, hard to handle, and take too much work to prep. After all that effort, there’s not much left worth eating. You’re not an appealing ingredient, and I would never put you on my cutting board.”

Your chest tightens, but you refuse to back down. “So you want me off the cutting board?”

“Yes,” he says firmly.

“There’s only the trash can left for me then,” you say bitterly as you wistfully look at him.

Minho doesn’t answer, but he grabs your wrist, pulling you toward his car. “Let's go home.”

You yank your hand away, turning on your heel to walk the other way. “I’m going home myself.”

“Fine! Go home by yourself then!” He shouts as you walk away.

Despite of what he said, he doesn’t let you go that easily. He follows you with relentless determination, matching your pace until you reach the bus stop. He sits down beside you, the weight of the day pressing down on both of you in the cramped space.

For a moment, neither of you speak, the only sound the distant hum of traffic and the faint music playing from nearby. Finally, Minho exhales deeply, his voice barely above a whisper. “I have so many reasons why I shouldn’t like you. If you weren’t working in my kitchen, I wouldn’t even think about it.”

You remain quiet, completely ignoring him and pretend that he's not there at all as you wait for the bus to come.

Minho’s shoulders slump slightly, the fight in his eyes dimming just enough. “Think about it yourself,” he says quietly. “Why can’t I just do what I want?”

Before you can respond, the bus arrives with a screech of brakes. You stand up, your patience worn thin. “You think about it yourself,” you say firmly, not giving him the chance to argue.

As the bus doors open, you turn to board, feeling a mix of relief and lingering frustration. Without looking back, you step inside, the doors closing firmly behind you, leaving Minho standing alone at the bus stop—his silhouette framed by the fading light.

The ride home is quiet, your mind racing with thoughts and emotions. You can’t shake the confrontation, the weight of his words lingering like a shadow. But as the city lights blur past the window, you remind yourself that you deserve better, that you won’t let his turmoil dictate your own path.

-

The familiar scent of freshly baked bread fills the cozy bakery, a comforting reminder of your childhood. The sun filters through the large front window, casting a warm glow over the wooden countertops and the assortment of pastries neatly arranged in the display cases. You stand at one of the workstations, hands deep in a bowl of dough, kneading with more frustration than precision.

Your dad walks in, a pan of golden-brown bread in his hands. He sets it on the counter, the metal tray clinking softly, and gives you a critical look. "What are you doing to that dough?" he scolds, his voice a mix of irritation and exasperation. "You're stressing it out instead of softening it!"

Before you can respond, he snatches the bowl from you, examining your work with the practiced eye of a seasoned baker. His sigh is heavy with disapproval. "Why are you still here? Shouldn’t you leave for work?"

You wipe your hands on your apron, avoiding his gaze. "I don’t want to go to work today," you mumble, hoping the conversation will end there.

He raises an eyebrow, his expression sharp. "What did you do? Did you cause any problems?"

You frown, crossing your arms. "Why do you always think it’s my fault? I didn’t cause any problems!"

He sets the bowl down with a thud, his arms crossing in a mirror of your stance. "Then why don’t you want to go? What’s going on?"

You hesitate for a moment, then blurt out, "Do you not like having a woman in your kitchen, dad?"

Your dad’s expression shifts, a mixture of confusion and concern. "What kind of question is that? Is someone looking down on you at work because you’re a girl?"

You look away, your hands fidgeting with the edge of your apron. "Not exactly," you say vaguely, hoping he won’t press further.

But of course, he does. "Listen," he says firmly, his voice carrying the weight of years of experience. "You chose this job yourself. Did you think it would be easy to survive in a kitchen? It’s tough, and you knew that going in."

His tone softens slightly as he adds, "But as your dad, I don’t like the idea of anyone belittling you when you’re doing your job right so tell me who is it?"

You’re spared from answering by the buzz of your phone. Glancing at the screen, your stomach tightens as Minho’s name flashes across it. You shove the phone into your purse, ignoring the call, and quickly grab your things.

"I have to go," you say hastily, avoiding your dad’s probing gaze.

He frowns but doesn’t stop you. "Don’t let anyone push you around, okay?"

You nod, forcing a small smile. "Bye, Dad."

As you step out of the bakery and into the crisp morning air, your thoughts are already racing ahead, dreading the day that awaits you at Farfalle.

-

The dining hall is humming with quiet murmurs as everyone lines up for the morning briefing. You find a spot behind Felix, adjusting your apron as you focus on the busy day ahead. The sound of approaching footsteps silences the chatter, and you glance up to see Minho stride into the room, his presence commanding as always. His eyes land on yours almost instantly, a fleeting moment of intensity that feels like a challenge. You meet his gaze head-on, refusing to back down, your expression calm but unyielding.

Minho’s lips press into a thin line, and he looks away just as Sara and Chris join him at the front.

Chris claps his hands once, his usual easygoing smile brightening the room. "Good morning, everyone! I’ve got an exciting announcement today. As many of you know, we have a new addition to the Farfalle family."

He gestures to Sara, who steps forward with a confident smile. "This is Chef Choi Sara. She’ll be joining us as the head of the pasta line and will oversee the execution of the new menu, including her signature triple-flavored pasta."

Sara’s posture is straight and authoritative, her voice calm yet firm as she adds, "I look forward to working with all of you. Let’s make sure this transition is smooth and that we maintain Farfalle’s reputation for excellence."

Her words carry weight, and you notice how everyone straightens up a little more. Even Seungwan, who often tries to mask his nerves with humor, looks unusually attentive.

After a moment of silence, Seungwan speaks up, voicing the question that’s likely on everyone’s mind. "So... does this mean there’ll be two head chefs in the kitchen now?"

Chris and Sara exchange a brief glance before answering simultaneously. "Yes."

Chris continues, "Chef Minho and Chef Sara will work together to ensure everything runs smoothly. This is a collaborative effort, and I trust both of them to lead the team."

Sara nods in agreement, her smile still professional but not overly warm. "We’re here to elevate Farfalle’s standards even further. Let’s focus on that."

Minho remains silent, his arms crossed as he leans slightly against the counter. There’s a tension in his jaw, his expression unreadable but clearly restrained. You can’t help but notice the slight twitch in his fingers, as if he’s holding himself back from saying something.

You shift your attention back to Sara as she continues outlining the day’s plans, though you can’t shake the nagging feeling that the tension in the room is only going to grow.

-

Minho stands at the base of the steps leading to his office when Sara steps in front of him, her gaze steady.

"Minho," she begins, her tone measured. "Don’t think of me as a woman. Don’t think of me as your ex. Just think of me as a chef."

Minho narrows his eyes slightly, watching her.

She continues, her voice unwavering. "I won’t play dirty this time. I won’t compromise my integrity, either."

There’s a pause before Minho nods slightly, his face unreadable. "Let’s try it, then," he says simply. He gives her one last look, then sidesteps her and heads up the stairs.

When he reaches his office, the kitchen staff is already gathered outside, shifting uneasily under his sharp gaze. "Get in," he orders, pushing the door open and gesturing for them to line up.

Inside, he picks up a stack of papers—the reviews they’d written about his dish. His lips curl into a sardonic smile as he flips through them.

"You all really wrote whatever you wanted, didn’t you?" he remarks, tone dripping with sarcasm. "Let’s see."

He pulls out the first sheet and scans it quickly. A dry chuckle escapes him. "This one doesn’t even critique the dish. It’s just a love letter." He reads aloud: ‘Chef Lee, you’re my idol. Chef Lee, you’re the best chef in the world.’

His eyes snap to Taesoo, who grins sheepishly.

"How did I know it was you?" Minho mutters, shaking his head.

Taesoo laughs, unabashed. "Because it’s true, Chef!"

Ignoring him, Minho pulls out the next paper. His brow furrows, then he looks up at Felix, holding the page between two fingers, showing the review says nothing but a drawing of three stars on it. "What’s this? Are you a food critic?"

Felix flashes a cheeky grin. "Your foie gras was perfect. Didn’t think you needed a critique."

Minho’s jaw tightens. "I said to critique the menu, not to flatter me. I asked for the good and the bad points on my dish. How can I improve if all you do is stroke my ego, huh?"

Felix shrugs, his grin unrelenting. "I genuinely had nothing bad to say."

Minho scowls, twisting both of their ears until they're wincing in pain. "Both of you. Out."

Taesoo and Felix exchange glances but quickly obey, leaving with amused expressions.

Minho reads a few more reviews, his scowl deepening with each. "Ah, here’s an actual critique," he says, raising an eyebrow. He glances between Seungwan and Hyunwoo. "‘Too expensive for fish liver.’ Let me guess—you two."

Hyunwoo groans. "You told us to write anonymously!"

"And yet, here we are," Minho deadpans, waving the paper. "Out. Both of you."

The room empties, leaving only Souschef Seojun and you behind. Minho leans back in his chair, crossing his arms.

"You two didn’t even bother with anonymity," he remarks, a hint of amusement in his tone.

Seojun steps forward. "It would’ve felt cowardly not to own up to it."

Minho nods. "I appreciate that. Go on, then. Tell me your critique."

Seojun doesn’t hesitate. "The ingredient isn’t easy to source. It’s seasonal and from warm waters. How will we maintain a consistent supply? How can it be a regular menu item?"

Minho considers this for a moment, then responds with practiced ease. "Flash freezing, salt preservation, smoking—there are methods. But next time, discuss it with me directly instead of on paper."

Seojun nods, satisfied. "Understood."

"Good. You're dismissed, souschef," Minho dismisses him with a wave, and Seojun exits, leaving you alone with Minho.

Minho’s eyes lock onto yours, intense and probing. He crosses his arms, his posture exuding authority. "Your turn."

You take a deep breath, steeling yourself. "Your dish tastes cowardly."

Minho arches an eyebrow. "Cowardly? Let me guess—because the chef is a coward, so the food reflects that?"

You nod, unfazed.

He leans forward slightly. "And what does a cowardly dish taste like?"

You don’t flinch. "It tastes good at first but leaves a bad aftertaste. It tastes good but the first bite is different from the last."

Minho’s expression darkens, but you press on. "It tastes good, but it gives you indigestion."

For a moment, there’s only silence as Minho processes your words. Then his voice drops, low and challenging. "Are you talking about the dish or about me?"

You meet his gaze without hesitation and the tension in the room is palpable, the air heavy with unspoken words. Minho looks like he wants to say something but hesitates.

Not wanting to give him the answer, you excuse yourself, turning on your heel and leaving his office without looking back. Let him figure it out himself.

One thing that Minho knows for sure is that you're still upset with him.

-

The kitchen is charged with pre-service energy as you meticulously arrange your station, ensuring every utensil and ingredient is in its place. You’re focused, your hands moving with practiced precision, when Sara enters the room.

Her presence draws subtle glances from the staff, but her stride remains confident and poised. When your eyes meet, she offers you a smile—a genuine, warm gesture that catches you slightly off guard. You return the smile, tentative but sincere.

Sara makes a slow circuit around the kitchen, her gaze sharp as she observes the setup. Eventually, she stops beside your station, leaning casually against the counter.

"I have to say," she begins, her tone light but genuine, "I’m surprised to see you’re still a line cook."

You blink, her words catching you off guard. There’s no condescension in her voice, only honest surprise.

Before you can respond, she reaches over and gently fixes the lapel of your chef’s coat, her movements precise and almost maternal. "It may feel far away now," she continues, her voice soft but firm, "but the journey to the chef’s table—it can take a moment or a lifetime. The difference is entirely up to you."

Her words settle over you like a soothing balm, and for the first time, you feel seen. A small smile tugs at your lips as she flashes you one of her own, radiating warmth.

"Let’s work hard together, mmh?" she says simply.

You nod, your chest tightening with gratitude. "Thank you, chef," you manage, your voice quiet but heartfelt. For the first time, it feels like someone in the kitchen might actually be on your side.

As Sara straightens up, her expression shifts slightly, her eyes sparkling with determination. "That being said," she adds with a teasing edge, "don’t be surprised if I push people hard today. I have to set the tone—it’s my first day, after all."

You chuckle, a genuine laugh bubbling up. "It’s about time they got a taste of a woman’s wrath."

Sara laughs at that, the sound bright and infectious, and for a moment, the tension of the kitchen feels lighter.

The moment doesn’t last long, though. The sharp call of the Chef signals that the lunch service is about to begin. You straighten your posture, slipping back into the focused mindset the kitchen demands, but Sara’s words linger in your mind, a quiet source of encouragement as the chaos of the day begins.

-

The kitchen hums with its usual chaotic energy, but today, there’s an added tension—something almost tangible in the air. It’s not the knives, the flames, or the hot oil; it’s the heat radiating from the silent war between Minho and Sara.

They stand at the front of the kitchen, their gazes locked, the unspoken weight of their history filling the space. No one dares to say anything until the familiar sound of the first order prints through the machine, breaking the silence.

"Table number five, four Triple-flavored pasta!" Minho shouts, his voice sharp and commanding.

Everyone springs into action. Sara moves to the stove next to yours, her movements precise as she begins preparing her new dish. You try to focus on your own station, but the tension is impossible to ignore.

Minho prowls the kitchen like a hawk, watching everyone’s work, shouting reminders, and ordering the pace to quicken. As the chaos grows, Sara moves to Felix’s station.

“You should add balsamic vinegar right before the sauce is done,” Sara says, her tone calm yet firm. “If you heat it, the sourness fades and leaves just the sweetness—it’ll balance the tomatoes perfectly.”

Felix hesitates, looking unsure, when Minho suddenly appears.

“No,” Minho says sharply, crossing his arms. “The sourness is what makes the dish fresher. If you kill that, you kill the tomatoes’ intrinsic flavor.”

Minho shifts his glare at Felix. “Don’t add it!”

Felix’s eyes dart between the two chefs before he sheepishly nods at Minho. “Yes, Chef.”

Sara sighs but says nothing, retreating to her own station. Everyone think that’s the end of it, but the disagreements continue.

Sara suggests adding egg yolks to Taesoo’s pasta dough. Minho counters with water and milk. Sara advises salting the pasta water more generously. Minho claims it will overpower the sauce.

The tension mounts with every disagreement, and you feel yourself sinking further into the inferno when their eyes land on you.

You’re midway through cooking vongole when Sara steps beside you.

“Use sliced garlic,” she says, gesturing to the minced garlic in your dish. “It’s subtler and more aromatic.”

Minho snorts. “Sliced takes too long to cook. Minced is faster and better for the clams.”

You glance between them, feeling the weight of their stares. Without a word, you compromise by adding half minced and half sliced garlic, hoping it’ll satisfy both.

As you add the clams and a splash of wine, Sara speaks again. “Lid it immediately. It’ll trap the aroma and infuse the clams.”

“Flambé it first,” Minho interrupts. “Burn off the alcohol before lidding it. Otherwise, the wine will overpower everything.”

The two begin arguing over the right way to cook vongole, their voices rising over the chaos of the kitchen. You focus on finishing the dish the way you’ve always done it, ignoring their conflicting advice as best as you can.

By the time you plate the vongole, your nerves are frayed. The heat between Sara and Minho feels suffocating and it's getting too dangerous that you feel like the kitchen is on the verge of exploding.

You step back from your station, taking a steadying breath, and glance at the two chefs still locked in their verbal sparring. It’s going to be a long day and it's just the lunch service.

-

Lunch service ends, and the tension in the kitchen dissipates like steam, leaving you drained. With your lunch tray in hand, you head to the coffee station, hoping for a moment of solitude. You pour yourself a glass of water and settle into a corner table, savoring the quiet.

Not long after, Felix joins you, plopping down across from you with his own tray. The two of you eat in silence for a while, the clinking of cutlery against plates the only sound.

Then, out of nowhere, Felix lets out a heavy sigh, setting his fork down dramatically.

"What is his problem?" Felix grumbles, shaking his head. “Why did Chef even let her work here? Like, what was he thinking?”

You glance at him, your expression calm despite the chaos brewing inside you. "What are you trying to say, Felix?"

Felix leans closer, his brows furrowing in deep thought. “I mean, with his temper, Chef should’ve quit ages ago. So why is he still here? What’s keeping him around?”

You raise an eyebrow, waiting for him to continue.

Felix suddenly sits upright, his expression lighting up as though he’s cracked some grand mystery. “Oh no—what if he still has feelings for her? That’s why he’s letting Sara walk all over him!”

You nudge him hard, your eyes darting toward the coffee counter just as Taesoo appears, holding a pot of coffee. Felix quiets immediately, his face turning red as you both watch Taesoo approach.

Taesoo sets the cups of coffee down in front of you and Felix, then leans forward conspiratorially. “I agree with you guys. It’s hell having two chefs in charge.”

You manage a small, polite smile but don’t respond, feeling the weight of too many secrets hanging in the air. You can barely eat your lunch anymore so you decide to escape for real this time. You make your way up to the rooftop, hoping the open sky will offer some clarity.

The city stretches before you, bathed in golden afternoon light. You sit on a bench, taking in the view and letting the distant hum of traffic drown out your thoughts.

The door creaks open behind you, and you sigh, already regretting your choice of hiding place.

Minho steps out, his figure silhouetted against the sunlight. He strides over to the other bench and sits, his gaze immediately locking onto you.

“You know I’m the only chef you have,” he says, his tone steady but commanding. “Listen to me. Only me.”

You don’t respond, keeping your eyes on the horizon.

The silence stretches, and Minho shifts, his impatience palpable. “Are you seriously trying to frustrate me by not saying anything?”

First you're wrong for speaking, and now you’re wrong for staying quiet too? You mumble inside your head. You sigh deeply, pushing yourself to your feet and head for the door,

Minho blocks your path, his eyes boring into yours. “You!” he demands. “Talk to me now!”

You hesitate, but his unrelenting gaze forces the words out. “I envy you two,” you admit finally. “The way you two are so certain, so right—even when you’re disagreeing with each other. You don’t care about the rest of us caught in the crossfire.”

Minho scoffs, his lips curling into a bitter smile. “You envy that? Really?”

“At least you’re communicating,” you say quietly.

“That’s not communicating,” Minho counters, his voice tinged with frustration. “That’s arguing.”

You cross your arms, meeting his gaze steadily. “For you, it’s basically foreplay.”

The corner of Minho’s mouth twitches, and he chuckles softly. His laugh lingers in the air, but you don’t join in. Without another word, you turn and walk past him, leaving the rooftop behind. The weight of envy sinks deeper into your chest, heavy and unshakable.

-

You emerge from your bedroom, adjusting your bag on your shoulder, ready for another day in the kitchen. The scent of freshly brewed coffee greets you, and you glance toward the living room to see Sara seated on the couch, a steaming mug in her hands.

“Good morning,” she says with a warm smile, setting the mug down. “I was hoping we could leave for work together.”

You blink, caught off guard but nod in agreement. “Sure.”

Together, you exit the apartment and step into the elevator. As the doors begin to slide shut, a hand suddenly presses the button from the outside, causing them to reopen.

Minho steps in.

The atmosphere shifts immediately, the air growing tense. You glance between Minho and Sara, feeling the awkwardness settle like a heavy blanket.

You reach for the button to the lobby, but before you can press it, Sara gently takes your hand.

“Hey,” she says, looking at you with a soft smile, “why don’t you come to work with me in my car from now on? It’ll be easier.”

Before you can respond, Minho reaches out and grabs your other hand, his grip firm but not forceful.

“No,” he says, his tone resolute. “You’re taking my car today.”

Sara’s smile vanishes as she glares at Minho. “Why are you doing this? You’re making her uncomfortable.”

Minho doesn’t back down, meeting her gaze with equal intensity. “I’m making it comfortable. What’s the problem with going together?”

You let out a quiet sigh, feeling their gazes burning into you from both sides. Taking a step forward, you pull your hands free from their grip.

“I’ll take the bus,” you announce, keeping your tone neutral. “I have a few errands to run before work anyway.”

It’s a weak excuse, but it’s enough to break the standoff.

The elevator dings as it reaches the lobby, and the doors slide open. Without waiting for their responses, you step out and make a beeline for the exit, eager to escape the suffocating tension.

As you walk away, you can’t help but shake your head. How did I get caught in this mess?

You arrive earlier than planned at the restaurant, despite your best attempts to stall. Determined to avoid the kitchen, and more importantly, Minho, you head straight to Chris’s office.

Knocking softly on the door, you pop your head inside and greet him sweetly, “Good morning, Mr. Bang.”

Chris looks up from his desk, a warm smile spreading across his face. “Well, this is a pleasant surprise. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

You step inside and close the door behind you. “I was wondering if we could have coffee together before work starts?”

He tilts his head to the side and slightly pout. “But I don’t drink coffee.”

You think for a second and sheepishly grin. “Tea?”

Chris leans back in his chair, nodding with a grin. “Okay. Come in.”

You settle onto the sofa as he moves to the coffee maker, pouring you a cup. He places it on the table in front of you and sits down across from you, watching as you take a careful sip.

“Thanks,” you say, the rich aroma of coffee helping to steady your nerves. But you notice Chris is still watching you, his expression thoughtful.

Tilting your head and grin, you say, “You’ve got something on your mind. Go ahead, spill it.”

He chuckles lightly, setting his mug down. “Well, I was wondering if I could ask you for a favor.”

You raise an eyebrow but nod for him to continue.

Chris hesitates for a moment before saying, “I think Sara could use some help in the kitchen. You know, since you’re both women working in the same environment.”

Your smile falters slightly. It’s not an easy favor to grant, especially considering the tension in the kitchen. “I’m not taking sides, Chris,” you reply carefully.

“I’m not asking you to pick sides,” he says, leaning forward. “But she’s fighting an uphill battle in there, and it would mean a lot if you had her back.”

You glance away, unsure how to respond. Chris leans forward further, taking both your hands in his.

“And I’ll have your back too, yeah?” he says earnestly.

You scoff lightly, trying to ease the moment. “You only say that now.”

Chris grins and pouts theatrically. “You always say yes, Chef to a certain someone without question. Don’t forget, I’m the one who signs your paychecks.”

You smirk at that, narrowing your eyes. “Are you threatening me?”

He laughs, squeezing your hands. “Maybe I am.”

You roll your eyes but smile, taking another sip of your coffee.

Chris’s tone softens, and his gaze meets yours again. “Actually, I have another favor to ask.”

You give him a wary look and slightly roll your eyes to the side. “What now?”

His eyes don’t waver. “Show me a little attention too. It costs you nothing.”

You chuckle, shaking your head while lowly chuckling. “If it costs nothing, then why do you need it?”

Chris’s smile deepens. “Because it’s nice to have your attention.”

You don’t respond immediately, instead lifting your cup for another sip, quietly mulling over his words. The warmth of the coffee lingers, along with the weight of his request in your chest.

-

Minho finishes buttoning up his chef coat, his frustration simmering just beneath the surface. He slams his locker door shut, the loud clang echoing in the empty room. Something about the way you've been acting these past few days unsettles him—ignoring him, not listening like you used to.

He mutters under his breath as he strides toward the kitchen, his shoes clicking against the tiled floor. Turning a corner, he catches sight of you stepping out of Chris’s office. The sight stirs something in him, a sharp annoyance he can’t quite suppress.

“Hey, you!” he calls out, his voice cutting through the air.

You flinch at the sudden sound, looking startled as you turn to face him.

Minho marches up to you, his brow furrowed. “What were you doing in there?” he demands. “You never come to my office unless I call you, but you walk into the manager’s office like it’s your own house. Is it your break room?”

Your eyes narrow, and you cross your arms. “Because every time I come to your office, all I get is scolded. Why would I want to go there?”

Minho glares at you, his frustration bubbling over. “You get scolded because you deserve it!”

You hold his gaze, unfazed by his anger. “Well, Chris never scolds me—even when I make mistakes.”

The comparison stings more than Minho wants to admit. He lets out a sharp laugh, more disbelief than humor. “You listen to me,” he snaps, his voice rising.

Before he can say more, you turn on your heel and walk toward the locker room. Minho grits his teeth and follows, his irritation fueling each step.

As he steps into the locker room, he sees you leaning against your locker, arms still crossed. “What is it?” you ask, your tone clipped.

Minho takes a step closer, his gaze locked on yours. “What’s with you lately? Are you braver now because there’s another woman in the kitchen? Do you like it?”

You sigh, rubbing your temple. “I’m not answering that. I’m just trying to survive.”

Your nonchalance only fuels his frustration. “Survive this then,” he mutters, stepping forward and flicking your forehead with his finger.

“Ow!” You wince, rubbing the spot as you pout. “This is exactly why I don’t go to your office.”

Minho feels a pang of something deeper than anger—guilt, maybe, or worry. But he doesn’t let it show. Instead, he takes a step back, his voice sharp. “Where is everyone?!”

He turns on his heel, pushing the door open with unnecessary force and letting it slam shut behind him.

Walking away, Minho feels the weight of something he hasn’t wanted to acknowledge. For the first time, he wonders if he’s losing his hold on you—if he’s slowly losing you.

-

Minho’s eyes scan the tickets lined up above the kitchen counter, ensuring everything is running smoothly during the hectic dinner service. His focus is interrupted when a service staff approaches and announces, “Chef, there’s a special order—one truffle tagliatelle.”

Souschef Seojun immediately protest, “That’s not on the menu.”

Chef Sara pauses her ravioli preparation, throwing in, “We’re too busy to make it. Tell the customer we can’t do it.”

The service staff nods and starts to leave, but Minho stops him with a raised hand. “Wait. Tell the customer, we'll do it.”

The room falls silent, every chef momentarily pausing their work to look at him. Minho smirks, sensing their apprehension. “Isn't it exciting to have this kind of order after making the same dishes over and over again like a bookwork?”

Sara steps forward, frowning. “Truffles are expensive. This isn’t just some experiment, and it’s not a dish anyone can make on a whim.”

Minho doesn’t respond directly, turning to the rest of the team instead. “Anyone want to give it a shot?”

Felix’s hand shoots up enthusiastically. “I’ll try, Chef!”

Minho smiles faintly but his eyes land on you. He picks up a dough roller, pointing it at you. “What about you? Want to try making it?”

Sara glares at him. “I'm telling you, we can't.”

Ignoring her, Minho points at you again, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Let's do it. You and I, together.”

Sara’s patience snaps. “I’m in charge of the pasta line. This is my responsibility.”

Minho dismisses her protests with a wave of his hand. “Go get the truffles from the freezer,” he orders you.

As you rush off, Minho grabs a pan and begins prepping. Sara, clearly unwilling to back down, steps next to him. “Fine,” she says curtly. “I’ll make it with you.”

You return with the truffles and the aphrodisiac smell wafting around the kitchen, holding them carefully. Sara immediately commands, “Peel the skin.”

“No,” Minho interjects. “Keep the skin. It adds depth.”

The crease between Sara’s eyebrows deepens as she meets with another disagreement. “The skin is too rough so it ruins the texture of the pasta. It's better to add truffle oil at the very end.”

“Keep the skin.” He doesn’t entertain further debate, instructing you instead. “Slice them.”

You nod, grabbing mandolin and delicately slicing the truffles as directed. Minho watches briefly before turning back to his pan. When you’re done, he gestures for you to add the truffle to his pan.

As you do so, Sara lets out an exasperated huff. “This is all wrong. Now, we have to do it all over again,” she says sharply, yanking a pan from the rack.

The motion is too forceful, sending the other pans on the rack crashing into others, causing a loud clatter. One pan falls onto the stove, sending hot oil splashing across the counter.

“Chef!” you call out, your voice filled with alarm.

Before he can react, you lunge forward and push him out of the way. Minho stumbles and falls to the floor. He quickly regains his balance, only to see you clutching your forearm, the skin red and raw from the oil.

Panic floods his system as he scrambles to his feet. “Are you okay?!” he asks, his voice tight with worry.

Sara rushes over with a cloth, also checking if you're okay but Minho snatches it from her, gently covering your burns. “You need to see a doctor,” he says firmly.

“I’m fine,” you reply softly, trying to pull your arm away.

“Fine?” he repeats, his frustration spilling over. “Who asked you to interfere like that and get hurt?”

You look down, avoiding his gaze. “At least let me finish the dinner service.”

Minho’s patience snaps. “Are you deaf, or do you think having two chefs means you can ignore half of what I say?”

“I didn’t mean—”

Before you can finish, Minho grabs your uninjured hand, tugging you out of the kitchen. He leads you to the locker room, his grip firm but not harsh.

Once there, he carefully examines the burns, his jaw clenching at the sight. “You’re going to the hospital. Now.”

You start to protest again, but his glare silences you. “Why did you jump in like that?” he demands, his voice softer now but no less intense.

You don’t answer, your gaze fixed on the floor as you clutch the cloth against your arm.

Minho exhales heavily, running a hand through his hair. “Go. Before it gets worse.”

When you don’t immediately move, he softens slightly. “Please,” he adds quietly.

Your hesitation finally melts, and you nod, turning to leave. As the locker room door swings shut behind you, Minho exhales sharply, leaning against the cold metal of the lockers. His heart is still pounding, the image of your reddened arm burned into his mind. He clenches his fists, replaying the events in his head—Sara’s defiance, the clatter of pans, the searing splash of oil.

It wasn’t just bad luck; it was his stubbornness.

Minho presses a hand to his face, his breath uneven. Why had he insisted on making that dish? Was it just to prove a point to Sara? To remind everyone who was in charge? And now, because of his ego, you got hurt.

The thought gnaws at him. For all his years in the kitchen, he prided himself on maintaining control. But today, he let his pride and frustration blind him, and it almost cost someone he cared about.

The realization hits hard. He’s been so focused on asserting his authority, pushing people to their limits, that he hadn’t noticed the cracks forming around him. You were one of the few people who never hesitated to follow his lead, and now even you had started to push back.

And maybe you were right to.

With a heavy sigh, he presses a hand against the locker, his head bowing. He’s always believed that the kitchen was no place for weakness. But now he wonders if his idea of strength—of control—has been wrong all along.

-

You wince as you struggle to put on your jacket, the pain in your arm making even the simplest movements unbearable. You push open the back door of the restaurant with your shoulder, stepping into the cool night air, when you hear the hurried clatter of footsteps behind you.

Turning, you find Chris descending the steps in a rush, his face lined with concern.

“I heard you got hurt,” he says breathlessly, his eyes locking on your bandaged arm. “Are you okay?”

You offer a small, forced smile. “I’m fine, really.”

But his gaze drops to your forearm, and he winces, hissing through his teeth. “That doesn’t look fine.”

“I can handle it,” you insist, trying to wave him off, but Chris shakes his head firmly.

“Nope, not happening,” he says, snatching your purse from your hand and slinging it over his shoulder. “I’m taking you to the hospital.”

You sigh in defeat, trailing after him to his car.

At the hospital, the doctor examines your burns with practiced care, cleaning the wound and carefully wrapping it in fresh bandages. He suggests an IV shot for hydration and recovery, but you shake your head.

“I need to get back to work,” you argue.

The doctor frowns. “I’ve yet to meet a chef who isn’t worn down by their work. You need rest.”

Chris places a gentle hand on your shoulder, his thumb rubbing small, soothing circles. “Just listen to the doctor, mmh?”

Reluctantly, you nod, and before you know it, you’re being ushered into a small recovery room. Chris fusses over you like a mother hen, tucking you into bed.

“Stop treating me like a baby,” you tease, grinning despite yourself.

Chris laughs softly, sitting on the edge of the bed. His expression shifts to something more serious, his brows furrowed with worry.

“I’m fine,” you assure him again, your voice softer this time.

He nods, but his eyes don’t quite lose their concern. “Get some sleep,” he murmurs.

You glance at him, raising a brow. “I can’t sleep with you staring at me like that.”

Chris chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck. “Alright, alright. I’ll pick you up in the morning.” He hesitates for a moment, then leans down to give you a quick, warm hug. “Goodnight.”

You watch as he leaves, the door sliding shut behind him. Settling back into the bed, you close your eyes, hoping to find some rest.

The sound of the door sliding open wakes you, and you groggily lift your head. Your first thought it's Chris coming back to make sure you're resting and you're about to scold him when you notice that it isn't who you thought he is.

Instead of Chris, Minho steps inside, his chef’s coat replaced by a simple shirt, pulling an IV pole beside him. His sharp features are shadowed in the dim light, but his usual smirk is nowhere to be seen.

“Why are you here?” you blurt, startled yourself by sounding so worried. “Did you get hurt?”

Minho arches a brow as he settles himself on the bed next to yours. “Do I look hurt?”

You narrow your eyes. “Shouldn’t you still be working?”

He shrugs, settling onto the bed beside yours. “What, you think the kitchen can’t survive without you?”

You let out a scoff, lying on your side and turning your back to him. Silence stretches between you, but it doesn’t last.

“Why are you lying there with your back turned so disrespectfully?” Minho’s voice cuts through the quiet.

You fight the urge to snap at him, instead replying, “Why don’t you do the same then?”

Another stretch of silence, broken only by the soft hum of the IV machine. Minho speaks again, his tone uncharacteristically calm. “Burns need proper treatment. You’ll have to come here every day until it heals. It’s not good for a woman to have scars.”

You stiffen but refuse to respond.

“I’ve seen your scars,” he continues. “From knives, I’m guessing. Are you a cook or a gangster?”

You refuse to take that bait and keep your back to him.

“You should’ve let me get hurt,” he says, his voice quieter now. “Why did you interfere like that? You’re a woman—”

“Don’t start with the ‘woman this, woman that,’” you snap, finally turning to glare at him. “I’m tired of it.”

Minho smirks faintly, but it falters when you continue.

“I’m also tired of being caught in the crossfire between you and Sara. This is the last time I’m getting involved.”

His silence is deafening, and you don’t wait for a response.

You make it final by pulling the curtain between the beds to separate the two of you, also as a gesture that you want to stop interacting with him.

Turning away again, you close your eyes, but sleep doesn’t come easily. Your chest aches—not from the burns, but from the frustration bubbling inside you.

-

Minho lies awake most of the night, staring at the ceiling. Your words from last night replay in his mind like a broken record.

“I’m tired of getting caught between you and Sara. This is the last time I’m getting involved.”

The weight of them lingers, pressing on his chest. Do you mean it? Are you giving up on him entirely? The thought churns restlessly in his head.

You’re just a bed away, close enough that he can hear your steady breathing. But even with you so near, you feel unbearably far. Sleep evades him, no matter how many times he closes his eyes. When morning finally comes, he feels heavy, his body sluggish from the lack of rest.

Then he hears your voice from the other side of the curtain. It’s soft, measured, and at first, he assumes you’re talking to a nurse. But another voice follows, distinctly male, with that irritating Australian accent that grates on his nerves.

Chris.

Minho sits up abruptly, his fatigue evaporating as irritation spikes. Without hesitation, he yanks the curtain aside in one swift motion.

You freeze mid-conversation, your arm lifted as Chris helps you into your jacket. Both of you turn to look at him, startled by his sudden appearance. Chris recovers first, his brow furrowing in concern.

“Are you feeling unwell too, chef?” Chris asks.

Minho doesn’t bother answering. He scoffs instead, his sharp eyes fixed on Chris’s hand, still adjusting your jacket. Then Chris steps back, smiling at you like it’s the most natural thing in the world, and—Minho’s jaw tightens—reaches out to fix a stray strand of your hair.

The audacity of it.

Minho crosses his arms and leans against the bedframe, his tone sharp. “Do you always stay by your employees’ sides when they’re sick, or is this just a special case?”

Chris looks at him, puzzled. “What do you mean?”

“Showing favoritism like this,” Minho says, gesturing toward you. “Is this how you treat all your employees?”

Chris pauses for a moment before answering. “Favoritism?” he repeats, as if testing the word. “Yeah, it’s favoritism.”

Minho raises an eyebrow, his irritation growing. “Why?”

“Because she’s a great employee,” Chris says matter-of-factly. “Why can’t I be good to someone who works so hard?”

Minho clicks his tongue in disbelief. It’s a good answer, but it doesn’t make him feel any better.

Chris steps closer, meeting Minho’s gaze with quiet intensity. “How about you, chef?” he asks, his tone sharper now, “how much longer does the kitchen have to feel like a battlefield?”

Minho tilts his head, feigning nonchalance. “And you think that’s because of me?”

Chris doesn’t hesitate. “Are you saying it’s Sara’s fault?”

Minho looks away, unwilling to give a direct answer.

Chris presses on. “It’s both of you. I don’t know what happened between you and Sara back in Italy, but you’ll need to find a way to work together for the sake of the restaurant.”

Minho bristles. He doesn’t need a lecture, least of all from Chris.

“And honestly, you and Sara have a lot in common. You look good together,” Chris adds, his tone light but deliberate,

“It’s because you’re so similar,” Chris continues. “You argue because you’re alike. But that also means you could be great partners. Rivals, sure, but partners too.”

The words hit a nerve. Minho’s fists clench at his sides. He can’t stand hearing it—being compared to Sara, of all people. He’s nothing like her.

You, sensing the tension rising, step forward and gently take Chris’s arm. “Let's go home,” you say softly, your voice cutting through the thick atmosphere.

Turning to Minho, you add, “I’ll call the nurse to help you with the needle.”

Minho doesn’t respond, his lips pressed into a tight line as he watches you leave the room with Chris. The door clicks shut behind you, leaving him alone.

His chest tightens, anger and desperation swirling inside him. He can’t do this anymore—watching everything he cares about slipping through his fingers. He’s done standing idly by.

Today, Minho decides, is the day he starts reclaiming what’s his. Starting with you.

-

Even with the burns on your arm, you're ready to face another day in the kitchen. You step out of your apartment and immediately freeze when you see Minho leaning casually against the wall opposite your door. His head tilts slightly in your direction as he notices you, his expression unreadable. You aren’t sure if he’s been waiting for you or if this is just a coincidence, but the moment he starts walking toward you, the answer becomes obvious.

He stops just a step away, close enough that you can see the faint shadows under his eyes—proof of a restless night. You adjust your bag strap on your shoulder, bracing yourself. With Minho, you’ve learned to expect the unexpected.

He tilts his head from side to side, his gaze sweeping over you as if you’re some intriguing statue in a museum. You stand still, waiting for him to speak first.

Finally, he breaks the silence. “I don’t like it,” he says.

You blink, confused. “Don’t like what?”

“When someone else treats my kitchen staff better than I do,” he answers, his voice firm. “Or gives them a harder time than I do.”

Your lips twitch involuntarily. “No one’s meaner to anyone in that kitchen than you are.”

At that, he steps closer, his movements deliberate, closing the small distance between you. His eyes lock onto yours, and his voice drops to a lower register. “That’s the thing. I’ll be the one who treats you better than anyone else does. And I’ll be the one who’s meaner to you too.”

You let out a laugh, the absurdity of his declaration catching you off guard. “Why would you want to do that?”

Minho raises an eyebrow. “Why are you laughing?”

“Because it doesn’t make sense,” you reply, the corners of your mouth still tugged into a smile. “How exactly do you plan to be nicer to me?”

He smirks, though there’s a sharpness behind it. “I said I’d be meaner too, but it seems like you only heard the ‘nicer’ part.”

You shrug lightly, choosing to focus on the less daunting half of his claim. “Well, you being mean isn’t exactly news. I’d rather hear how you plan to be nicer.”

Minho narrows his eyes at you, as if you’ve just challenged him. “Do you have selective hearing, or are you just ignoring the other part?”

You meet his gaze, your smile fading slightly as you study him. You know Minho well enough to understand he doesn’t say things he doesn’t mean. Still, imagining him being genuinely kind to you feels… out of character.

The thought crosses your mind before you can stop it. “Are you saying you’ll be nicer to me than Chris? I think that will not be easy for you.”

Minho’s expression hardens, his body stiffening at the mention of Chris. He leans in closer, his voice quiet but pointed. “And how would you know that?”

You hold his gaze, refusing to back down. “Because it doesn’t suit you.”

He leans in even further, close enough that you can see the flecks of gold in his brown eyes. “You’ve never even seen my nice side. So how would you know?”

For a moment, you’re silent, the intensity of his proximity stealing your words. There’s something both challenging and intriguing in his stare, something that makes you wonder what he’s really thinking. Then, before you can respond, Minho grabs your bag off your shoulder.

“Hey—” you start to protest, but he cuts you off by taking your hand, his fingers lacing with yours effortlessly.

“Let’s go,” he says, his tone leaving no room for argument. Minho glances back at you, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips. “We're going to work together.”

-

The lunch service is in full swing, and the kitchen is alive with the clamor of pots, pans, and orders being barked out. You’re in the zone, filling pasta orders as fast as you can and setting them on the chef’s table for Minho to inspect. He wipes the edge of the plate with precision, his expression unreadable as he checks the presentation.

You can’t help but think about what he said earlier about being nicer to you, and the memory makes a small smile tug at your lips.

“You have three more to do,” he reminds you, his voice firm and cutting through the chaos. Then his sharp gaze flicks to you. “What are you waiting for?”

“Yes, Chef,” you reply with a bit more enthusiasm than usual, your smile lingering as you turn and head back to your station.

You’re halfway through preparing three vongole when you realize you’re out of clams. Grabbing a container, you make your way to the freezer to restock. The cold air greets you as you step inside, and you quickly locate a fresh container of short-necked clams.

You hear the freezer door creak open behind you. The sound of footsteps echoes in the cold, and when you glance back, you see Minho entering. His eyes find you immediately, and he gestures for you to follow him to the far corner of the freezer.

Curious, you clutch the container of clams to your chest and follow. He stops near the wall and turns to you, his expression unreadable.

“Stand there,” he orders, pointing to the wall.

You blink but comply, leaning against the icy surface as he steps closer, his frame blocking your escape. His tone sharpens. “What was that smile for earlier?”

“Smile?” you ask, feigning innocence, though you already know what he’s referring to.

“Yes, that smile,” he snaps, but there’s a suppressed tug at the corner of his lips. “I’m warning you—if you keep smiling at me like that, I’ll clamp your lips shut.”

You giggle at his threat, clutching the clam container tighter. “I can’t help it,” you admit. “I’ve been waiting to see how you’d be nicer to me. Am I being obvious?”

Minho lets out a small, exasperated sigh, but the faintest smile finally breaks through. “Are you really that happy?”

You don’t answer, but the way your smile widens says it all.

He leans in closer, the sudden proximity making your breath hitch. His voice dips, quieter and more serious. “Close your eyes.”

Your eyes widen at his words, your mind racing as you try to guess his intention. “Chef, are you—”

“Close your eyes,” he repeats, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Swallowing nervously, you obey, your lashes fluttering shut. The cold air nips at your skin, but the warmth of his breath ghosting over your cheek sends a shiver down your spine.

He wouldn’t dare kiss you here… would he? And then—clamp!

Your lips sting in sudden pain as something hard presses against them. You yelp and snap your eyes open to see Minho holding a clam shell against your lips.

“Chef!” you cry out, your voice muffled.

“I warned you,” he says coolly, though his tone holds a teasing edge. “You should’ve known better than to test me.”

You whine in protest, but Minho continues, his eyes narrowing. “Do you know what will happen if people find out about us? I’ve fired people for this before, and you know it. I can’t show my face if this gets out. I’d have to leave Farfalle—and maybe the earth—out of humiliation.”

Finally, he releases the clam, and you immediately touch your lips, wincing at the dull ache.

“Does it hurt?” he asks, his tone almost mocking.

You shake your head, trying to save face. “No, chef,” you lie.

Minho smirks, clearly satisfied with your answer. “Good. Now get back to work.”

He turns and leaves the freezer, his coat billowing slightly behind him. The moment he’s gone, you groan, rubbing your sore lips. “Fuck! It hurts so much. When is he ever going to be nicer to me?” you mumble under your breath.

But then, to your dismay, you find yourself giggling softly. You hate how weak you are when it comes to Minho, but you can’t help it. With a resigned shake of your head, you grab the clams and head back to your station, still smiling despite yourself.

When you get back to your station, Chef Sara comes between you and Felix, but she looks at you as she talks. “Pasta line, gather during prep time.”

You and Felix exchange a quick, confused glance at each other before replying to her. “Yes, chef!”

-

The prep time for dinner service is underway, the kitchen buzzing with activity as everyone rushes to prepare. Felix comes out of the back with a pot of stock, placing it carefully on the counter next to you. He adjusts his bandana before standing still, his expression neutral but his posture tense.

Chef Sara claps her hands to get everyone’s attention and announces, “Starting tonight, the kitchen will use chicken stock instead of vegetable stock. Additionally, we’ll need a lighter stock for pasta and risotto.”

She turns her attention to Felix, adding, “Since you’re in charge of stock, make sure it’s prepared by dinner service.”

You glance at Felix and notice his jaw tighten. His lips press together in a line, and you can sense his irritation building. Before he can respond, you decide to step in with a polite tone.

“Chef, the kitchen’s been using vegetable stock without any issues,” you say carefully. “Changing it so suddenly feels... off. Stock is the base for most dishes, and it could affect consistency.”

Sara’s eyes narrow slightly as she looks at you. “Vegetable stock tastes clean, but it’s not as savory as what our guests prefer. Chicken stock will bring a more rounded flavor.”

Felix folds his arms and speaks up, his tone firm. “Vegetable stock can be just as flavorful as meat-based stock. It’s all about how you make it.”

Sara’s expression doesn’t waver. “The flavors from vegetables are inherently different. Vegetables have a sweet and tangy profile, but chicken adds a savory, mellow depth.”

You can practically feel the heat radiating off Felix as his anger simmers beneath the surface. He opens his mouth to counter, but you quickly glance at the pot and realize something alarming.

“There’s not much stock left,” you point out, cutting into the argument. “If we don’t start a new batch now, we won’t have anything ready for dinner service.”

Sara’s jaw tightens as she feels resistance from Felix. She looks at him, then at the pot, and without warning, grabs it and dumps the remaining stock into the sink.

The sound of the liquid swirling down the drain is deafening in the stunned silence that follows. Felix’s eyes widen in disbelief, his lips parting as he processes what just happened.

Sara crosses her arms. “There. Now you have every reason to start a fresh batch. Ten liters of chicken stock. Do it now.”

Felix’s head snaps toward her, and for a moment, he looks like he might explode. Instead, he roughly yanks his bandana off, sending his bleached hair tumbling messily around his face. His fiery eyes meet Sara’s.

“Well,” he says sharply, “if there’s no stock left, I guess my job is done for the day.” He spins on his heel and storms out of the kitchen, leaving everyone frozen in place.

Your eyes flick between Sara, who’s watching Felix leave without a hint of regret, and the door he just exited through. You can’t survive the dinner rush alone, and Felix’s expertise is irreplaceable.

“I’ll try to bring him back, chef,” you say quickly to Sara before rushing out after him.

Felix is fast—too fast. You have to jog to keep up, weaving through the back corridor and out to the restaurant’s rear entrance. You finally spot him near his car, the door already open.

“Felix!” you call, your breath hitching as you catch up. He’s halfway into the driver’s seat when you reach him, knocking on the window.

“Come on, don’t do this. We need you in the kitchen,” you plead.

Felix rolls down the window, his expression unreadable. “Get in.”

“What?” you blink, taken aback.

He tilts his head, his voice calm but firm. “Get in. I’ll go back to the kitchen if you get in.”

You hesitate, knowing you’re walking into some kind of trap, but the thought of him not returning pushes you forward. “Fine,” you say reluctantly, opening the passenger door and sliding in.

The second you’re seated, Felix starts the engine and pulls out of the lot.

“Felix!” you exclaim, twisting in your seat to look at him. “What are you doing?”

His lips curve into a sly smile as he keeps his eyes on the road. “We’re bailing dinner service, obviously.”

Your jaw drops. “You can’t be serious!”

“Oh, I am,” he says, his tone light but unshakably determined. “If they don’t want to listen to me, why should I stick around?”

You slump back in your seat, realizing there’s no reasoning with him right now. As the restaurant fades into the distance, you can’t help but feel both dread and an inexplicable thrill at what you’ve just done.

-

You're clutching your phone so tightly that your knuckles ache, your stomach churning with anxiety. Felix sits beside you, his hands loose on the wheel as he aimlessly drives, looking more relaxed than someone who just abandoned their station mid-shift should be.

“I can’t believe we’re doing this,” you mutter, stealing a glance at him. “Do you even have anywhere to go? Can we just... go back? Please?”

Felix shrugs nonchalantly, his eyes fixed on the road ahead. “Going back means giving in to Sara. She dumped the stock on purpose, and if we let her win now, we’ll be following her orders forever. I’d rather make her quit.”

Your head falls back against the headrest as you groan in frustration. “But this isn’t the right way to protest, Felix! Let’s just go back before it’s too late. Do you know how furious Chef is going to be?”

Almost as if on cue, your phone buzzes violently in your hands. The name on the screen makes your heart lurch: Minho.

You jolt upright, clutching the phone like it might explode. A cold shiver runs down your spine as you stare at his name, your mind racing with all the ways he could end your career—and possibly your life.

“Answer it,” Felix says, glancing at you briefly.

“I don’t want to answer it,” you whisper, shaking your head.

“If you don’t, it’ll be worse,” he points out.

He’s right. You take a deep breath, swallow the lump in your throat, and swipe to answer.

“What the hell are you doing?” Minho’s voice snaps through the line, skipping any semblance of pleasantries. “If you and Felix aren’t back in the kitchen by dinnertime, neither of you will ever work with me again.”

Your throat goes dry. “Chef, I—It wasn’t my idea!” you blurt, trying to plead your case.

“I don’t care whose idea it was,” he cuts you off sharply. “You walked out. If you don’t fix this, I’ll take back what I said about being nicer to you.”

That hits you like a punch to the gut. You’d rather be fired than lose that tiny shred of hope he dangled before you.

“Wait! Chef, please—”

The line goes dead. You stare at your phone, horrified, before turning to Felix and grabbing his arm. “Turn the car around! Now!”

Felix raises an eyebrow. “Relax. We’ll go back eventually.”

“Eventually?” you shout. “If we don’t go back, Minho is going to kill us both—probably literally!”

Felix sighs in protest but doesn’t argue, spinning the wheel to make a U-turn. Your phone buzzes again, and your heart skips a beat as you glance down.

It’s not Minho this time—it’s Yura. You answer, your voice shaky. “Hello?”

Yura’s voice is calm but tinged with curiosity. “Hey, we were called to Farfalle to cover. I heard some cooks are walking out. What’s going on?”

Your stomach drops. They’re replacing us. The thought sends a fresh wave of panic through you. “I’ll call you back,” you say hurriedly, hanging up before she can ask more questions.

You turn to Felix, your voice rising. “They called in other people to take our places. Do you get it now? We’re being replaced!”

Felix’s jaw tightens, and he mutters something under his breath as he speeds up. “Seriously? For leaving early one time?”

“One time?” you snap. “We abandoned the kitchen before dinner service! That’s not early—it’s a death sentence!”

Felix doesn’t respond, his grip on the wheel tightening as he pulls into the restaurant parking lot. The moment the car stops, you throw the door open and sprint toward the back entrance.

Your lungs burn as you push yourself to run faster, Felix close behind. You burst through the door, only to stop dead in your tracks when you reach the kitchen.

Yura and Minji are standing at your stations, their hands moving efficiently as they prep for dinner service.

Minho turns around at the commotion of your arrival. His eyes lock on you and Felix, fiery and intense, and you immediately drop your gaze to the floor.

“Get out,” he growls, his voice low but dripping with menace.

Felix takes a shaky step forward, his voice stuttering as he tries to explain. “Chef, we didn’t mean—”

“I said, get out!” Minho roars, cutting him off.

The kitchen falls silent, every pair of eyes watching the scene unfold. You don’t dare look up, your head hanging low as you feel the weight of Minho’s fury pressing down on you.

“Now,” he snaps, his voice cold and final.

With no other choice, you and Felix turn and leave, the sting of failure and humiliation following you out the door.

-

You sit slumped in the passenger seat of Felix’s car, nerves frazzled and stomach in knots. Felix, on the other hand, hasn’t stopped ranting since the two of you left the kitchen.

“It’s not fair, you know,” he says, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel in frustration. “Chef treats us like we’re expendable. And Sara? Don’t even get me started on her.”

You glance at him out of the corner of your eye, unable to muster a response. You’ve used up every ounce of your energy trying to wrap your head around the situation. Instead of responding, you focus on the quiet night outside, watching the back entrance of Farfalle.

Hours crawl by, each one amplifying your dread. Finally, the door swings open, and Minho steps out, a dough roller in his hand.

You jolt in your seat, instinctively shrinking back. “Oh my god, is he serious?”

Felix freezes mid-rant and slumps lower in his seat, muttering, “He wouldn’t actually…”

Minho approaches the car with a calm but terrifyingly deliberate pace. He reaches your window and knocks, his expression unreadable.

“Out,” he orders.

You and Felix exchange panicked glances, neither of you moving.

“Now,” Minho snaps, the dough roller tapping against the car door for emphasis.

Heart pounding, you push the door open and slide out, feeling like a child caught red-handed. Minho points toward the doorway. “Wait over there.”

You nod mutely, scurrying to the steps and sitting down. From your vantage point, you can see Minho climb into the passenger’s seat of Felix’s car. Through the windshield, you watch as he speaks to Felix. You can’t hear what’s being said, but Felix’s head stays bowed the entire time, his usual cockiness completely deflated. The dough roller, thankfully, remains unused, but it’s clear the conversation is one-sided.

After a few tense minutes, Minho gets out of the car and walks toward you. He points the dough roller at you like it’s a weapon, his eyes narrowing. “Sit.”

You blink, confused. “I am sitting.”

“On the steps,” he clarifies.

Scrambling to obey, you shift to the stone steps leading to the dining hall. Minho sits down beside you, the dough roller resting across his knees.

“I’m sorry, Chef,” you start quickly, hoping to preempt any punishment by putting on a pitiful look.

Minho leans back slightly, his gaze fixed on you. “You made a big mess today.”

“I know,” you reply, frowning deeply. “What are you going to do to me?”

He raises an eyebrow. “What do you want me to do? I will do whatever you want.”

You pause, sensing a trap. “That’s scarier than you just telling me,” you admit.

Minho sighs, his voice low and measured. “Because of you and Felix, I got humiliated today. The sisters worked hard to help me, but honestly? I’m scared to face them now.”

Despite the tension, you can’t help but chuckle at the thought of Minho—the infamous Head Chef—being afraid of two line cooks. You stop immediately when his glare shifts to you.

“When I was reading the orders earlier, I kept waiting for one of them to throw a frying pan at me.” He shares with a low sigh.

“You can tell them that you're grateful for their help tonight,” you suggest, trying to suppress another laugh. “But if you’re scared of them, why did you choose them?”

Minho’s gaze softens slightly. “Because you and Felix walked out on your own. Those two? They didn’t get a choice. I pushed them out. It wasn’t easy for them to come back, but they did. That’s more than I deserved from them.”

You nod slowly, realizing the depth of his regret.

Minho taps the dough roller against his palm before pointing it at you again. “You’re helping Taesoo with the mussels for tomorrow’s special. Don’t even think about leaving until it’s done.”

“Yes, Chef,” you mumble, accepting your punishment.

He stands, brushing off his apron. As he turns to leave, you grab the corner of his apron and tug gently. “Chef?”

He looks down at you, one brow arched.

“Are you… still going to be nicer to me?” you ask hesitantly.

For the first time that night, Minho smirks. “We’ll see.”

With that, he walks off, leaving you to sit on the steps, equal parts relieved and terrified.

-

The kitchen is silent except for the faint trickle of water as you and Taesoo scrub the last bucket of mussels. The clock above ticks closer to three in the morning, each passing second making the ache in your back and arms more noticeable. Taesoo sits beside you, head bobbing slightly as sleep tugs at him.

You nudge his elbow. “Hey, no falling asleep on me now.”

He jolts awake, blinking rapidly. “I wasn’t sleeping,” he mutters, though his slurred words say otherwise.

You stifle a laugh. “Sure, you weren’t.”

Taesoo groans loudly. “I swear, if I see another mussel or shrimp special, I’m quitting. Can’t we just ban seafood altogether?”

You chuckle, rinsing another mussel. “Oh, you’ve got no idea what’s coming. Octopus, blue crabs, clams, lobsters… and that’s just the seafood. Then there’s beef, chicken, lamb…”

He looks at you, horrified. “There’s more? For a whole year?”

“And who knows how many more years after that? But hey, I survived it, so can you.” You encourage with a playful bump to his shoulder.

He groans again, rubbing his face. Feeling a pang of sympathy, you wave him off. “Go nap. I’ll finish the rest.”

Taesoo hesitates, looking torn. “Are you sure?”

“Go. Before you fall face-first into the bucket.”

With a grateful smile, he mumbles his thanks and wanders off to find a quiet corner to sleep.

The silence that follows is almost comforting, and you work steadily, scrubbing each mussel clean. By the time you finish and drag the buckets to the freezer, exhaustion weighs heavily on you. You tidy up the kitchen, then slump into the chef’s table, letting your body relax for the first time in hours.

The empty kitchen feels vast and eerily still. From where you sit, you can see Minho’s usual spot, his apron draped neatly over a hook, his cutting board spotless.

You sigh, leaning back against the table. Your eyes flutter shut as you take in the rare peace, only for the sound of the kitchen door creaking open to jolt you upright.

Before you can fully scramble to your feet, Minho’s voice cuts through the silence. “Stay there.”

Your heart skips a beat as he approaches, his footsteps slow and deliberate. His presence fills the space effortlessly, his expression unreadable but his gaze locked onto you.

“Chef—”

“Quiet,” he says softly, his tone carrying a weight that stops you in your tracks. He steps closer, caging you in with his arms on either side of you.

His scent reaches you first—faint traces of soap and the sharp, warm hint of alcohol. You glance up at him, your heart hammering as his eyes study your face with an intensity that leaves you breathless.

“You sent Felix to have drinks with Sara. You went drinking with the sisters. Why am I the one not having fun?” you grumble, more to fill the charged silence than anything.

He doesn’t respond, his gaze dropping to the bandages on your arms. His brows furrow, and his voice comes out low and sharp. “You skipped your doctor’s appointment.”

Caught, you glance away. “I didn’t have time.”

“You didn’t have time?” he repeats, his tone bordering on scolding. “Do you want it to scar? You should at least listen to the doctor, even if you won’t listen to me.”

You groan, covering your ears. “If you’re about to give another lecture about women in the kitchen, I’m not listening.”

He leans in closer, the warmth of his breath brushing against your cheek. “I’m not giving you a lecture.” His voice softens, dropping into something that sends a shiver down your spine. “But you’ll regret it if you don’t listen to what I’m about to say.”

Curiosity wins out. Slowly, you lower your hands.

He tilts his head, his gaze flicking over your face as if committing every detail to memory. “I’m only going to say this once.”

Your breath catches, and you nod, urging him to continue.

“Even though you’re not the most appealing ingredient,” he begins, his lips curving into a teasing smile, “and this might be the alcohol talking… you have one thing that’s very pretty.”

The words make your heart skip, but you manage to ask, “What is it?”

Instead of answering, Minho leans in, his lips brushing softly against the corner of your eye. The touch is fleeting but sends warmth rushing to your cheeks. He pulls back just enough to see your flustered expression, a small, mischievous smile playing on his lips.

“Since it’s uneven…” he murmurs, leaning in again to press a matching kiss to your other eye.

You’re left speechless, your heart pounding as he lingers close.

He smirks, leaning back slightly. “If you get off my cutting board, you’re dead.”

His words draw a soft laugh from you, though you’re too stunned to fully process them. “What… what does that even mean?”

“It means,” he says, his voice dropping, “I like you.”

Your heart skips again, the words hitting you like a bolt of lightning. “We’re in the kitchen,” you blurt out, your voice barely above a whisper. “Does that mean you like me... even in the kitchen?”

“Yes,” he replies without hesitation, his gaze unwavering.

“What if we get caught?” you ask, suddenly nervous.

“They won’t,” he says simply and lower his voice into a whisper. “We’ll keep it a secret.”

Feeling overwhelmed, you look away, only for him to gently cup your chin and guide your face back toward his. His lips capture yours in a kiss that’s soft and slow, yet leaves no doubt about his feelings.

When he pulls back, he lingers close, his lips brushing yours as he murmurs, “Let’s go home, mmh? So I can discover more parts of you to like.”

Still dazed, you nod, warmth spreading through your chest as he takes your hand. Together, you leave the kitchen, the weight of exhaustion replaced by a giddy, fluttering feeling you can’t quite shake.

-

Minho holds your hand firmly as the two of you step out into the stillness of the night. The cool air brushes against your flushed cheeks, but it does little to soothe the heat still lingering from his kiss. He walks you to his car, his strides confident, but his silence speaks volumes.

You glance at him nervously, the fluttering in your chest growing more intense. He opens the passenger door for you, his expression unreadable. The gesture is uncharacteristically gentle, and it leaves you feeling both comforted and on edge.

The drive to his apartment is quiet, save for the soft hum of the engine. You keep sneaking glances at him, wondering if he regrets what just happened. But when his hand casually reaches over to rest on your thigh, giving it a reassuring squeeze, your doubts dissipate.

Once inside his apartment, Minho guides you in, his hand still holding yours. The space is dimly lit, cozy, and smells faintly of him—a mix of cedarwood and something uniquely Minho.

“Sit,” he instructs, his voice firm but not unkind.

You obey, perching on the edge of his couch, unsure of what to expect. He disappears into the kitchen for a moment and returns with a glass of wine, which he hands to you.

“You worked hard tonight,” he says softly, sitting down beside you. “Now drink.”

You blink, taken aback by his change in demeanor and take a small sip of the wine. “Is this... still part of my punishment?”

His lips twitch into a smirk, but there’s a tenderness in his eyes now. “No. Your punishment is over. Now it’s time for your reward.”

Before you can ask what he means, Minho leans in again, his hand cupping your cheek as he kisses you deeply. This kiss is different—more deliberate, more consuming. It pulls you in, leaving no room for hesitation or doubt.

When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, and his voice drops to a whisper. “You drive me crazy, you know that?”

Your breath hitches, your heart pounding. “Minho…”

He trails his fingers along your jaw, his gaze locked on yours. “You’re stubborn, reckless, and you never listen. But you’re also everything I can’t seem to get out of my head.”

You feel your cheeks burn, his words settling in your chest like a warm flame. “I didn’t think you…”

“Liked you?” he finishes, his smirk returning. “Maybe I didn’t want to admit it. But tonight… watching you push through, even when I know I was too harsh on you… I couldn’t ignore it anymore.”

Your lips part, but no words come out. Instead, you lean into him, your hands finding their way to his chest as you kiss him again, this time with all the emotions you’ve been holding back.

The kiss deepens, his arms wrapping around you and pulling you closer until you’re practically in his lap. The exhaustion of the night melts away, replaced by the warmth of his touch, the softness of his lips, and the steady beat of his heart against yours.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, his hand brushing a stray strand of hair from your face. “Stay,” he murmurs, his voice low and full of promise.

You hesitate, your mind racing with thoughts of what this might mean for both of you. But when he presses a gentle kiss to your forehead, whispering, “Let me take care of you,” all your resistance crumbles.

Nodding, you let him lead you to his bedroom. And as the night unfolds, what started as a punishment turns into something far more tender, intimate, and unforgettable—a reward neither of you could have anticipated.

-

The clothes are littering the bedroom floor and the air is quiet, save for the subtle rustle of fabric as he shifts beside you on the bed. His intense gaze locks onto yours, and the way he looks at you makes your chest tighten, your breath catching in your throat.

“You have no idea, do you?” he murmurs, his voice a low, husky whisper that sends a shiver down your spine.

You blink up at him, the warmth of his presence overwhelming. “What?”

His lips quirk into the faintest smile as he leans over you, his hand sliding up your arm to cradle your face. “How absolutely beautiful you are,” he says, his eyes softening as he speaks.

Before you can respond, Minho dips his head down, his lips brushing against your forehead in a kiss that feels like a vow. “Here,” he whispers, his voice reverent. “This is where you frown too much, always worrying about things that don’t matter.”

His lips trail lower, brushing over the bridge of your nose before he presses a soft kiss to the tip. “And here… so perfect, so adorable, it drives me insane.”

Your cheeks burn, and you reach out to push at his shoulder, embarrassed by his sudden affection. But Minho catches your wrist, pinning it gently to the bed as he smirks down at you. “Don’t hide from me. Not tonight.”

He shifts lower, his lips finding your cheek, then your jawline, his kisses slow and deliberate. His other hand skims along your side, sending sparks dancing across your skin.

When his lips press against the curve of your neck, just below your ear, you can’t suppress the soft gasp that escapes you. Minho chuckles against your skin, his breath warm and teasing. “Here,” he murmurs, “where I can feel your pulse. Proof that you’re here, with me.”

His hand moves to your collarbone, his thumb brushing over the delicate line before his lips follow, pressing kisses there that are both tender and possessive. “And here,” he continues, his voice growing quieter, “because it reminds me how strong you are. Even when you think you’re not.”

You can’t look away, his devotion leaving you utterly captivated. Minho’s lips move lower, grazing the curve of your shoulder, then down your arm, where he peppers kisses along your wrist and the inside of your palm. “Your hands,” he murmurs, intertwining his fingers with yours for a moment before kissing the back of your hand. “These hands are capable of so much, but they’re also so soft, so perfect.”

Your heart swells, the intensity of his words and actions making you feel like you might burst. “Minho…” you whisper, your voice trembling slightly.

He leans back up, his face hovering inches from yours as his hand comes up to brush a strand of hair from your face. “I’m not finished,” he teases, his voice playful but his gaze serious.

His lips move down again, finding the sensitive skin just below your collarbone, then along the curve of your chest, his kisses slower, deeper, as though he’s memorizing every inch of you. “And here,” he says, his voice barely audible now, “because it’s where your heart beats strongest.”

When he finally meets your gaze again, there’s a warmth in his eyes that steals the breath from your lungs. “You don’t need to say anything,” he whispers, his forehead pressing gently against yours. “Just let me show you.”

And as his lips return to yours in a kiss that feels like both a promise and a confession, you can’t help but feel utterly cherished, as though every part of you is loved in a way you’ve never known before.

-

The warmth of Minho’s lips against your skin sends a cascade of shivers through your body as he tenderly shifts you onto your stomach. His touch is careful, as if you’re something precious he’s afraid to break, and his hands gently trace the curve of your shoulders, coaxing you to relax beneath him.

“You don’t know how long I’ve wanted this,” he murmurs, his voice husky and low, almost reverent.

You sink further into the bed, his words wrapping around you like a comforting blanket. The softness of the pillow beneath your cheek contrasts with the heat radiating from him as he leans over you, placing a kiss at the nape of your neck. His lips linger there, the sensation drawing a soft sigh from you, your fingers curling into the sheets.

Minho moves slowly, purposefully, his lips trailing down your back. Each kiss feels like a confession, a piece of himself he’s baring to you. He pauses at your shoulder blades, his hands smoothing down your sides as his lips continue their gentle exploration.

When he reaches the small of your back, you feel a soft moan escape your lips, muffled against the pillow. He chuckles softly, the sound vibrating through you. “Don’t hold back,” he says, his tone teasing but affectionate. “I want to hear every sound you make.”

You bite your lip, trying to stifle another sound, but it’s impossible as his lips travel further down, tracing the curve of your hips with painstaking care. Minho’s hands are warm as they knead your thighs, his lips following, pressing kisses to the back of your knees and down to your calves.

By the time he reaches your ankles, you’re trembling beneath him, the slow, deliberate pace unraveling you in ways you didn’t think possible. He shifts, leaning up to place a kiss on the sole of your foot before trailing back up, this time turning you onto your back with gentle hands.

Minho hovers above you, his gaze intense yet soft, as if he’s searching for something within you. “You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, the sincerity in his voice making your chest tighten.

He leans down, capturing your lips in a kiss that feels like a culmination of every unspoken word between you. It’s slow, tender, but there’s a hunger beneath it, a need to show you what he can’t put into words.

As his body moves against yours, the intimacy of the moment feels like a key unlocking a door you never thought you’d open. Minho’s movements are deliberate, unhurried, as if he wants to savor every second, every sensation. His hands explore your body with a reverence that makes you feel worshipped, loved in a way that’s almost overwhelming.

You find yourself whispering his name, the sound barely audible but enough to make him pause, his lips brushing against your ear. “I’m here,” he murmurs, his breath warm against your skin. “I’m not going anywhere.”

The way he moves with you feels like a conversation, each touch, each kiss a response to the unspoken questions in your heart. By the time the night draws to a close, you feel as though you’ve glimpsed a side of Minho that he keeps hidden from the world, a vulnerability that he’s chosen to share only with you.

As you lay tangled together in the aftermath, his arms wrapped securely around you, you can’t help but feel that the cracks in his armor have finally begun to let you in, allowing you to see the man he truly is beneath the surface. And in that moment, as your head rests against his chest and his fingers lazily trace patterns on your back, you know this night has changed everything.

-

Minho leans against the sink, letting the cool water wash over his hands before glancing up at his reflection. The man staring back at him feels different—softer somehow, less burdened. For a moment, he studies the faint curve of his lips, the way they betray a smile he didn’t even realize he was wearing.

He exhales deeply, brushing a hand through his damp hair, and chuckles under his breath. What are you doing, Minho? he thinks, shaking his head at himself. This feeling—this warmth spreading through his chest like sunlight—feels almost foreign, like a distant memory of who he used to be. He didn’t think he’d ever find his way back to this version of himself, someone unguarded, someone willing to let another person in.

And yet, here he was, standing in the dim light of the bathroom, smiling like a fool because of you.

When he steps out of the bathroom and sees you lying on the bed, your body draped lazily across the sheets, waiting for him, the smile threatens to return. But Minho quickly schools his expression, an idea sparking in his mind. Let’s see how far I can push you.

Without a word, he climbs into bed, settling himself on his side with his back turned to you. He keeps his movements calm and casual, feigning exhaustion as he pulls the blanket over himself.

The quiet stretches between you, and he doesn’t have to look to know you’re frowning.

“Are you just going to sleep?” you ask, your voice laced with disappointment.

He suppresses the urge to smirk and mumbles, “We have work tomorrow.”

He can almost hear you preparing a playful jab or a protest, but instead, the room falls silent. Then, after a moment, he feels you shift on the bed. Your low sigh reaches his ears, followed by a soft, unexpected compliment.

“Gosh,” you murmur, “you even look good from the back of your head.”

Minho bites the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. He doesn’t respond, feigning indifference as he feels your hand lightly brush against his shoulder.

“And your shoulders,” you add, your voice softer this time, “so broad… they look so strong.”

That’s it—he can’t hold back anymore. Without turning to face you, he says with a teasing lilt, “You don’t have to sweet talk me anymore. You already have me.”

Before you can respond, Minho grabs your hand and tugs you closer, pulling you flush against his back. Your giggles spill out, warm and light against his ear as he traps your hand against his chest. He tilts his head slightly, feeling the soft press of your breath against his neck as you settle against him.

“That's right,” you whisper, your voice tender now, your words wrapping around him like a promise. “You are mine.”

Minho closes his eyes, a small smile tugging at his lips. He doesn’t say anything aloud, but in the quiet of his heart, he whispers back, And you are mine.

-

Minho sits in his office, staring blankly at the untouched cup of coffee on his desk. The once-steaming liquid has gone cold, but he barely notices. His mind isn’t here; it’s still tethered to last night. The memories replay in his head like a film reel, fresh and vivid.

The taste of wine on your lips, the way your breath hitched when he kissed the corner of your mouth, the sound of his name falling from you in a breathless murmur—it all feels so real, like he could reach out and touch it again. A small smile tugs at his lips, one he doesn’t even realize he’s wearing.

He leans back in his chair, letting the warmth of the memories wash over him. Last night… It wasn’t just good. It was perfect.

The sharp knock at the door breaks his reverie, pulling him back to reality. For a moment, he doesn't react, too lost in the haze of his thoughts. It isn’t until the second knock that he swivels his chair toward the door and calls out, “Come in.”

To his mild surprise, Taesoo steps into the room, his posture rigid and hands shoved deep into the pockets of his apron.

“You should be in the kitchen,” Minho scolds, straightening up. “Dinner prep doesn’t wait for anyone, Taesoo.”

Taesoo hesitates, his head slightly bowed, avoiding Minho’s piercing gaze. “I... I have something to say, Chef.”

Minho’s brow furrows, irritation flickering to life. “It better be important,” he warns, pushing himself up from his chair. He rounds the desk and leans against it, crossing his arms over his chest. “Speak up. We don’t have all day.”

Taesoo shuffles awkwardly, his shoulders hunched as though trying to make himself smaller. “It’s... I mean... I didn’t expect you to turn back on your word.”

Minho’s eyes narrow, confusion replacing his earlier irritation. “What are you talking about?”

Taesoo looks up for a brief moment, his gaze meeting Minho’s before darting away again. He swallows hard, visibly gathering the courage to continue.

“I saw it,” Taesoo mutters, his voice trembling slightly.

Minho straightens, his arms uncrossing. “Saw what?” he asks, his tone sharp but still laced with confusion.

Taesoo shifts on his feet, the air between them growing heavier with every passing second. “I... I saw you... and her,” he stammers.

Minho’s heartbeat quickens, a slow thrum of unease spreading through his chest. “What exactly did you see?”

Taesoo lifts his head, his expression both anxious and accusatory. “I saw you kiss her in the kitchen last night.”

For a moment, the world around Minho seems to freeze. His pulse pounds in his ears, drowning out the muffled sounds of the restaurant beyond the office door. His usually calm and collected demeanor cracks, his face turning cold—not from anger, but from a deep-seated fear that his secret is about to unravel.

The silence stretches between them, heavy and suffocating. Minho’s jaw tightens as he stares at Taesoo, his mind racing for a way to contain the situation. He doesn’t know whether to deny it, deflect it, or confront it head-on.

This can’t get out, he thinks, his chest tightening. If it does…

He exhales slowly, but the weight in his chest doesn’t lift. Minho feels cracks forming in the walls he’s spent so long building and for the first time, he isn’t sure he can stop them from breaking apart.

-

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

@svintsandghosts @abiaswreck @ppiri-bahng @drhsthl @idkluvutellme @biribarabiribbaem @skz-streamer @biancaness @hanjisunginc @elizalabs3 @laylasbunbunny @kpopformylife @caitlyn98s @hann1bee @mamieishere @is2cb97 @marvelous-llama @bluenights1899 @sherryblossom @toplinehyunjin @hanjisbeloved @sunnyseungup @skz4lifer @stellasays45 @severeanxietyissues @avyskai @imseungminsgf @silentreadersthings @army-stay-noel @rylea08 @simeonswhore @yubinism @devilsmatches @septicrebel @rairacha @ven-fic-recs @hyunjiinnnn @lostgirlinthewoodss @schniti-is-in-the-house @jisunglyricist @minh0scat @simplymoo @inlovewithstraykids @eastjonowhere @seochangbinnnnnnnnnnn @whosanaanyway @skzswife @nightmarenyxx @vixensss @lailac13 @kissesmellow21 @sushiinmidnight @angstraykids

[heauxvibez]

Cognac Queen

Warning: smut (18+)

I'm fucking a baller, we courting I'm making it clap, he record it (damn) And he keep on making them noises (yeah) Damn, fuck, shit ooh (fuck, oh)

With a gentle grip, you tilted his head back with your left hand, feeling the coarse texture of his beard hairs against your palm as you positioned his throat perfectly. In your right hand, you held the glass bottle of cognac, its rich brown color catching the light as you angled it above his open mouth. Slowly, you poured it in a steady stream, ensuring he didn't miss a drop.

"There ya go, baby," you whispered softly, your voice gentle and soothing.

As you watched the liquor cascade into his mouth, you couldn't resist the urge to mimic his actions, your lips parting slightly mirroring him. The drink filled his mouth, and a soft, involuntary moan escaped his throat—a signal for you to stop.

You pulled the bottle back, a smirk playing on your lips as he lifted his head to swallow. His Adam’s apple bobbed with the effort, and you could see the tension in his jaw as he forced down the remnants of the drink. He shook his head slightly and let out a shuddering breath as the liquid burned its way down his throat, leaving a fiery trail that led to his stomach. He could feel the intense heat spread through his chest.

You could feel the bristly hairs of his beard still tingling in your palm. He was never really a cognac person; you knew that. Whiskey was more his style—a comfort drink he rarely ventured out of. Yet, here you were, straddling his lap as he took it to the head on his luxurious, comfortable couch in the dimly lit living room. The soft glow from a few candles cast gentle shadows around the room, highlighting the expressions on your faces. The faint sound of Megan Thee Stallion played in the background, weaving beats through the air and your body.

A wave of chills coursed through him, starting at his legs and rippling upward. "Jesus," he murmured under his breath, his voice rough and strained.

You couldn't help but gently wipe away the lingering liquid that had dripped from his bottom lip with your thumb. The cognac's rich aroma wafted up as you did so, making your mouth water. Without thinking, you quickly brought your thumb to your mouth, savoring the taste that you adored. Cognac, specifically E40's 'Typhoon VSOP', was your favorite type of liquor— smooth and spicy, with a warmth that spread through your body and a depth of flavor that lingered on your tongue. It always got the job done, providing a special something that other drinks never could.

Unlike dark liquor, clear spirits always seemed to sit heavily at the bottom of your stomach, their sharpness leaving you with the worst nausea in the world. The unpleasant aftereffects were a stark reminder of why you preferred dark.

You leaned over, carefully placing the bottle on the small table next to the couch. As you did, his hand found its way to your hips, steadying you with a firm grip. Once the bottle was secure, you straightened up, turning your attention back to him.

With a tender gesture, you placed both of your hands on his face, your fingers threading through the black and gray hairs of his beard. Your thumbs traced soothing circles on his flushed cheeks, feeling the warmth radiating from his skin. You could tell he was already feeling the effects of the drink—the telltale signs were all there.

His lips curved into a lazy, contented smile, and his heavy-lidded eyes flickered with intoxication. Soft, wavy tendrils of hair dangled from his loose ponytail and around his temples and forehead as he gazed into your eyes, his look lingering before dropping to your lips, then back up to meet your eyes again. The feelings were deep and you both couldn't help but fall deeper with each other in moments like this.

Your pulse quickened as his hands slowly slid from your hips, slipping beneath the shirt you wore—a shirt that happened to be his. The fabric, soft and familiar, was a comforting reminder of him. You were dressed only in his oversized t-shirt and a pair of panties, your skin exposed and sensitive to his touch. Despite his hands typically being roughened from hard work, they felt surprisingly gentle as they explored the smooth skin of your back.

He traced a path up and down your bare back, you moaned softly, the sound escaping your lips involuntarily as his fingers moved with tender pressure. The warmth of his hands heated up your body the same way the alcohol did.

"You really are the Cognac Queen, ain't you?" he teased. He licked his lips and shifted his hips subtly, the motion causing the growing bulge beneath his sweatpants to press against your wetness through the thin fabric of your panties.

"Yup, Megan Thee Stallion ain't got shit on me," you teased back. He chuckled, the sound deep and rich. His laugh was just as intoxicating as the liquor coursing through both of your veins. The combination of his laughter and the lingering effects of the drink made your head spin slightly but in the best way.

His hands traveled slowly from your back down to your ass, his touch a bit possessive. Your hands moved to his shoulders, gripping them for support as you lifted yourself slightly, giving him better access. He took the opportunity to grasp your cheeks firmly, his hands squeezing and massaging them. The sensation of his strong hands kneading your flesh made you weak. Your pussy began to pulsate against him.

"Her knees don't got shit on yours either," He lifted you up slightly signaling for you to plant your feet onto the couch. You popped yourself onto your tippy toes and continued to steady yourself using his shoulders.

"You ain't ever lied," you replied while eyeing him mischievously. You started to move, popping your ass to the rhythm of the music that filled the room. Your movements were fluid and sensual, each motion perfectly timed to the beat.

Soft grunts escaped his lips, now flushed red from the blood rushing to his face. His low, half-lidded eyes remained fixed on you, observing your every move with admiration as your hips worked against him. You were completely in your element, your body moving with the same confidence you had when you were out with your friends.

He enjoyed watching you, it reminded him of the way Megan Thee Stallion did when she squatted down to her knees, rocking her hips back and forth. You embodied that same energy, and he couldn't help but be entranced by the sight.

"Can you do that with it in you though?" he challenged with his voice low and provocative while watching his bulge only grow bigger. Slowly, he looked up at you, one eyebrow raised. The question hung in the air, daring you to respond.

You paused your movements, the stillness making the tension thick. Your eyes locked onto his playfully. You raised your own eyebrow in response. The corner of your mouth curved to the side as you were ready to meet his challenge head-on.

"Baby..now you know I can do that.." you stated with pure confidence. With his hands still gripping your hips firmly, he responded without words, thrusting his hips upward once again. The sudden movement pressed his bulge directly against your throbbing wetness for the second time, the friction eliciting an immediate moan from your lips.

"Then show me," he whispered huskily. His wish was immediately your command. Without question, you stood from his lap, slipping out of your panties with a graceful motion. He wasted no time, quickly pulling his black sweatpants and briefs down to his ankles, his dick springing free.

You got back on the couch, straddling him once again, your bare skin pressing against his. The tension between you was almost overwhelming. You reached down and grabbed his hardened member, feeling the warmth and firmness in your hand. A small groan escaped his lips at your touch.

He pulsed in your palm, his dick throbbing with need, begging to be enveloped by your walls. You could feel your pussy reacting with the same desperation, the slickness of your arousal making it clear how much you craved him. You were both ready to lose yourselves in each other.

You began to tease both yourself and him, sliding his dick back and forth against your slit with a slowness. The sensation was damn near torture, each glide sending you to the moon. His hardness pressed against your slick folds, the friction driving the both of you insane. You could feel his pre-cum mixing with your own juices.

As his tip brushed against your throbbing clit, you could see him struggling to maintain control. His breathing became ragged, and his chest heaved with each breath. His tip was already drowning in your essence, slick and glistening from the contact. The sight of him so close to losing himself made you almost do the same.

He threw his head back against the couch, his eyes squeezing shut as a whispered string of curses escaped his lips. The guttural sounds of his moans resonated through the room, each curse followed by a sharp breath. His neck muscles tightened, and veins stood out against his flushed skin as he struggled to maintain control.

"Uhn uhn, baby, you better look at me while I put it in. I wanna see that handsome face," you demanded with a soft rasp. He let out a breathy chuckle at your words, finding it cute how you tried to exude the same confidence that came so naturally to him. He had half a mind to be disobedient, to assert his dominance with a stern "No," but the situation was different now. The warm buzz of liquor flowing through his veins, combined with the intoxicating sensation of your juices dripping down his dick, had softened him. At that moment, he was ready to do anything you asked, completely captivated by the power you had over him.

His eyes flickered open, dark and intense, locking onto yours as you slid down his length. You wrapped around him so tightly, his grip on the decorative couch pillows couldn't compare to the grip you had on him. He clung to the pillows, his knuckles white with the effort, but it was clear that your pussy had the stronger hold. His eyes never left yours, maintaining the intense eye contact just as you had demanded. His brows furrowed in concentration, lips parted as moans and gasps escaped him.

Your stomach fluttered at the sight, a rush of butterflies adding to the dizzying arousal. Your heart skipped a few beats, the rhythm stuttering under the weight of the moment. Although this was what you had asked for, you could barely handle the sight yourself. The intimacy of watching his every reaction, knowing you were the cause, was almost too much to bear.

"I can't. Fuck, wait baby." he moaned out. Roman couldn't believe the words tumbling from his mouth. Was he really tapping out on the first stroke? The pleasure crashed over him in powerful waves. Maybe if you allowed him to throw his head back and close his eyes, he'd be able to push through, to regain some semblance of control. But he was so entranced by you, by the way you moved, the way your body enveloped his, that he felt completely vulnerable in more ways than one. Your presence, your gaze, held him captive, it left him utterly exposed. He fought to hold on, to not lose himself entirely.

You also found yourself melting at your own request. You had never had him begging like this before, and the sight and sound of his desperation was different for you. Your knees wanted to give in, and your pussy pulsed around him, gripping his dick tighter and eliciting another deep moan from him. The liquor had a completely different effect on you than it did on him. It made him weaker, and more vulnerable, while you felt a surge of power.

With a slow lick of your lips, you wrapped your hand around his throat. You began riding him, moving up and down with nice strokes. Your titties bounced in time with your hips. You couldn’t help but use your free hand to grab one of your breasts, pinching and twisting your nipple while you watched his face intently.

He remained obedient, his eyes fixed on yours, filled with awe. They didn’t stray from your gaze, except for the occasional moment when they rolled back in sheer ecstasy, only to quickly find their way back to yours. The sight of him fueled your confidence even more. His moans grew louder, matching your movements.

"Mmm, but you can baby. You can take it.. you're doing so good.." you praised, your voice a sultry murmur. As you spoke, you shifted the movement of your hips, no longer lifting and dropping but instead rocking back and forth. The change in pace earned a very faint whimper from his lips.

You were stunned at how you were able to take him, his thick length hitting your most sensitive spot repeatedly with each roll of your hips. The sensation was almost too much. Your moans reverberate through the living room and with the soft strains of music playing in the background. The air was thick with the scent of sweat and sex as you loved on each other.

Your knees began to burn, a dull ache that was overshadowed by the feeling building in the pit of your stomach. The signs of your orgasm were unmistakable, and the feeling grew stronger with every thrust. Your movements became more frantic, more desperate, each rock of your hips driving you closer to the edge. You could see the intensity in his eyes, feel the tremors in his body, and you knew he was right there with you.

"Fuck, look at us baby. Look at what you make me do.." you murmured. Slowly, your hand trailed up his throat, the pads of your fingers grazing his skin until you reached his jaw. You tilted his head downward, forcing him to witness the sight of his dick sliding in and out of your slick, swollen folds.

The visual was mesmerizing. His eyes widened as he took in the view of your bodies joined together, the creamy ring of your pussy forming at the base of his length, glistening with each thrust. The sound of your wetness grew louder, filling his ears with the sound he loved the most.

"Only you can make me feel this way, baby," you moaned softly as you slowed your pace, allowing him to savor every sensation. You wanted to make sure he could see and feel the tugs and pulls your pussy caused around his dick. You wanted him to see the effect he had on you, to witness the power of his touch.

In the background, Megan's music continued to play. The beat motivated you to continue, urging you to ride in time with the music, each thrust synchronized with the melody. He couldn't hear anything but the soft, sensual moans that slipped past your lips and the soft gushy sounds of your pussy.

"Baby, if you keep talking me like that, I'm gonna nut," he confessed, his breath still in ragged gasps as his eyes remained fixed on him fucking you.

You made him look back at you, locking eyes with him, a mischievous smirk on your lips. "Then I guess I'm gonna keep talking, baby,"

"Whose dick is this, baby?" you questioned. Your orgasm loomed on the horizon, but you were going to make sure he came first. There was no way you were going to let yourself finish before him.

He threw his head back once more, a low groan escaping his lips as he surrendered to you. "It's yours," he whispered into the air. In that moment, there was no doubt that you owned him completely, body and soul.

"Aht, look at me, daddy," You could see his jaw clench at your words as his orgasm approached. He exhaled deeply, a sound that echoed through the room, before reluctantly lifting his head back up, his hands still clutching onto the pillows with a desperate grip.

"Whose dick is this?" you asked again as your hips rocked faster, urgently driving you both toward the edge of ecstasy. You felt his dick stiffen up beneath you, he was on the brink of release.

"It's yours, it's yours, fuck, it's yours," he groaned, his voice filled with need as his orgasm coursed through him. "Fuck, I'm cumming," he moaned, the words torn from his lips as you continued to ride him through his orgasm. His hands abandoned the pillows, reaching instead for your hips, holding onto you as his climax washed over him, his body tensing and trembling with the force of it.

You didn't let up, still working to chase down your own release, feeling yourself getting closer with each thrust. The sensation of him filling you up only added to the moment, pushing you ever closer to the brink as well.

Now it's his turn.

With a firm grip, he gathered your hair, pulling it back into a ponytail with his right hand, while his left hand remained steady on your hips, guiding and supporting you through the waves of pleasure.

"You gonna nut for me, babygirl?" His deep voice resonated through your ears, igniting something deep in your core. With sweat trickling down your forehead, your body responded tirelessly to him.

You nodded eagerly, your breath hitching as you felt the tension building in you. Every movement, every thrust, brought you closer to the edge, and you were determined to let go under his touch. His hands worked perfectly, one guiding your movements while the other maintained a firm grip, grounding you.

As you continued to ride him, he met your thrusts with his own, his hips rising to meet yours almost in a dance against the music. His movements were deep, each one grazing your G-spot, sending you into a frenzy.

"Daddy's hitting that spot, ain't I?" he questioned watching you tremble on his lap. "There you go, that’s it baby. Cum for me." As your body responded eagerly to him, your essence flowed freely along his dick, creating a trail down it and pooling onto his thighs. The orgasm brought a constellation of stars behind your eyelids.

As his thrusts increased, your trembling knees struggled to support you, eventually succumbing to ecstasy. He showed no signs of stopping, his need driving him to ravish you with endless strokes.

Your head found solace in the curve of his neck, and your fingers tightened their grasp on his broad shoulders, desperately seeking an anchor.

“Please..” you begged, eyes watering as the torture continued. His hips felt like the pounding of a machine, driving deeper and deeper into the depths of your soul.

"Nah...", his fingers stayed entwined firmly in the curls of your hair, with a gentleness that still demanded your attention, coaxing you into meeting his gaze again. He was ensuring that there was no escape from his eyes.

"Since this dick belongs to you," he continued, his tone filled with a possessiveness that sent a thrill coursing through your veins, "you gon take it like it belongs to you."

-----------------------------------------

Shoutout to @caramelcleopatraa for being my inspo for actually pushing this out💐🩷

Tags: @harmshake @southerngirl41 @sortudademais @empressdede @alichesmi

@msbigredmachine @theninthwonder @blacst4r @sassginamillls @wrestlingprincess80

@headoftheetable @trashbin-nie @tshepisho @mzv11 @sheyaish

@saintmagx

[himasgod]

Sharing Valentine's Day with NRC

OCTAVINELLE VER.

HEARSTLABYUL VER SAVANACLAW VER SCARABIA VER POMEFIORE VER IGNIHYDE VER DIASOMNIA VER

SCENARIO: The morning sun shone down on Night Raven College as students prepared for Valentine’s Day. Classes had ended earlier than usual, and the hallways were filled with rumors of chocolates, a few confessions, and secret dates. Despite the general excitement for that day of remembering and sharing, you hadn’t planned anything special for that day. Or at least, that’s what you thought.

But he had been acting oddly suspicious since the night before. You’d noticed his furtive glances and failed attempts at hiding smiles whenever you came near. You knew he was up to something.

With Azul Ashengrotto, Floyd Leech and Jade Leech

Azul Ashengrotto

The atmosphere at the Mostro Lounge was as elegant as ever on Valentine's Day. Azul Ashengrotto had taken advantage of the day to offer a special menu of sweets and desserts, attracting couples from all over Night Raven College. The dim lights and soft music gave the place a romantic feel.

However, while the employees waited on the tables and the customers seemed to enjoy themselves, Azul was more restless than usual. His attention was constantly diverted to the front door, as if he was waiting for something—or someone.

You entered the Mostro Lounge with a bit of nervousness. You had decided to make the first move this Valentine's Day, although you knew that dealing with Azul was never easy. Your heart was pounding as you searched for the owner of the place.

When he saw you, Azul almost dropped the pen he was holding. Quickly composing himself, he approached with his usual smile, calculating and charming.

"Welcome! What a surprise to see you here! Can I get you something from the special Valentine’s menu?"

You bit your lip and pulled out a small box wrapped in dark blue paper.

“Actually, I came to give you this. Happy Valentine’s Day, Azul.”

For a split second, Azul’s smile faltered. He took the box carefully, as if it were something delicate.

“Wow! A gift for me?”

“I made it myself. They’re filled chocolates.”

Azul opened the box and found a row of perfectly formed chocolates. The sweet aroma filled the air, and you could see a glint of admiration in his eyes.

“This is impressive! I wasn’t expecting such a… sincere gesture.”

There was a tense silence, but it wasn’t unpleasant. Azul looked around, noticing the employees keeping busy.

“If you don’t mind waiting a moment, there’s something I’d like to give you, too.”

Without waiting for your answer, he led you into a small, private room at the back of the Mostro Lounge. On a table was a tray covered in a glass dome.

Azul lifted the dome, revealing a small, elegant cake, decorated with sugar shells and edible pearl details.

“I made it especially for you. I knew you would come today—or at least I hoped so.”

Your heart stopped for a moment. Azul Ashengrotto, the master of manipulation, had prepared something so personal just for you.

“Thank you, Azul. It’s beautiful.”

Azul rubbed the back of his neck, clearly nervous.

“You know, I’ve never been good at this stuff. But… I’m glad you’re here today.”

You walked over and took a slice of the cake to taste it.

“It’s delicious. Like everything you make.”

Azul smiled, for real this time.

“Well, maybe you should stop by here more often. Who knows, I might prepare something more special next time.”

Floyd Leech

It was an oddly quiet Valentine’s Day at Night Raven College, or at least that’s what you thought until Floyd Leech crashed your day.

“There you are, Shrimpy!” he exclaimed as he found you in Octavinelle. His heterochromatic eyes sparkled with excitement, but there was something different today. Floyd’s usual energy was tinged with a sort of anticipation.

“Is something wrong, Floyd?” you asked, trying not to look too nervous.

“Yeah, something big.” Floyd jumped over, grabbing your hands in his. “It’s Valentine’s Day today and I want to spend the day with you!”

Your heart skipped a beat. You knew that when Floyd was in a good mood, things could get unpredictable.

Before you could say a word, Floyd had sped you off to the nearby dock. With a mischievous grin, he pulled out a basket covered in a navy blue striped cloth.

“I prepared this for us. I’m not very good at cooking, but Jade helped me out a bit,” he said with a mix of pride and honesty.

He unfolded the basket, revealing a selection of snacks and takoyaki, along with a couple of cold drinks. The sea breeze blew gently, and the sound of the waves accompanied the relaxing atmosphere.

“Let’s eat!” Floyd exclaimed, sitting down next to you. He took a takoyaki and began to eat it enthusiastically before offering one to you. His eyes never left yours.

As you shared the meal, Floyd laid down on the dock, leaning on his arms.

“Hey, Shrimpy. Why don’t you fear me like everyone else? Most people think I’m scary.”

You stayed silent for a moment, surprised by the question.

“Because I see past that. You’re more than your mood swings or your strength. You’re sincere, funny, and… well, you always make my day interesting.”

Floyd stared at you, his eyes shining with an emotion he rarely showed openly.

“So you like me?” he asked with a lopsided grin.

You blushed and looked away, but before you could answer, Floyd leaned in and rested his forehead against yours.

“I like you too, Shrimpy. I don’t care if it sounds cheesy. You’re the only person I like being like this.”

The moment felt like an eternity, until Floyd began to laugh mockingly.

“You should see your face right now. You’re as red as a shrimp.”

Despite his joke, his words were genuine. Floyd Leech had let his mischievous facade drop for an instant, showing you a side of him that few knew about.

Jade Leech

The calm of Valentine’s Day at Night Raven College had a mysterious air about it, as if something was about to happen. At least, that’s how it felt as you walked through the halls of Octavinelle towards the Underwater Aquarium, where Jade had met you. His message had been brief, but intriguing:

“Meet me at dusk. There’s something special I want to show you.”

Knowing Jade, it could be anything.

The Underwater Aquarium was bathed in a soft blue light when you arrived. The water reflected dancing shadows on the coral walls, creating a dreamlike atmosphere. Jade was there, dressed in his impeccable uniform, waiting patiently by a small table set with cups of tea and sweets.

“You’re just in time,” he said, his mysterious smile illuminated by the blue light. “I’m glad you accepted my invitation.”

You approached, feeling both curious and a little nervous.

“Why all the mystery, Jade?”

“Valentine’s is a peculiar day,” he replied, offering you a cup of tea with an elegant gesture. “Too predictable for my taste. But that doesn’t mean it can’t have its charm.”

You sat across from him, enjoying the exotic fruit-flavored tea as sea creatures swam lazily in the aquarium.

“I wanted to bring you here because this is one of my favorite places. It’s quiet, secluded… and full of secrets.”

His eyes met yours, and for a moment, all the serenity of the aquarium seemed to focus on him.

As the conversation progressed, Jade dropped his distant facade, revealing a side of him he rarely showed.

“I’ve always been someone who watches from the shadows,” he confessed. “But with you, it’s different. With you, I want to be present.”

The sincerity in his voice left you speechless. Jade was a difficult person to decipher, but at this moment, his emotions were clear.

“Jade… I feel the same way too. Although you are an enigma at times, you have always been someone I trust.”

His smile softened, and he leaned towards you with a solemn air.

“Then, I suppose it is only fair to give this to you.”

From his pocket, he pulled out a small black box adorned with a seashell. Inside was a delicate pendant with a bluish pearl, shining like a fragment of the ocean.

“It is a small part of the sea, so that you will always remember this day.”

You took the pendant with trembling hands, feeling the symbolic weight of his gesture.

“Thank you, Jade. It is beautiful.”

When the tea was finished and the conversation became quieter, Jade stood up and offered his hand.

“Before we go, there is something else.”

He led you to the edge of the aquarium, where a luminescent sea creature began to dance underwater, creating a show of light and shadow. It was a visual treat that only someone like Jade could have planned.

"Happy Valentine’s Day, Prefect."

[siienthiil]

𝓜𝓪𝓼𝓬𝓪𝓻𝓪.

𝓭𝓮𝓯𝓽𝓸𝓷𝓮𝓼.

contents.. yandere¿ dazai osamu x reader.

Choking.

You were violently choking on the hard wood floor, your body tilted to its side and your eyesight blurred by a mixture of dirt and blood that had infiltrated your vision. You had long ago coughed up all the rich liquid that was blocking your windpipe, which was a scare flavor of saliva and blood.

The air was vile, the smell so overwhelming that you could practically taste it on your tongue. You gagged, the unpleasant aroma of filth that has been accumulated overtime settling on your tastebuds and the smell adding to your migrane. Your head was pounding and you swore it was split open by the distracting pain that pulsated through your skull and to the back of your neck. Your leg too was also fractured, but to an extent, and bruises covered your body in various places.

But, nothing. Absolutely nothing would ever compare to the absolute fury Dazai unleashed on you after he found out about your escape attempt.

.

.

It feels like you're flying

Well, maybe you are by the way your body feels totally weightless as you desperately create distance from the prison you were once held in. Tears poured from your eyes like rivulets, a strange sense of hope swelling inside your chest. A feeling that you forgot had even existed and you sure as hell didn't want that feeling to go away.

You needed to get to where people were, you needed to blend into the crowd. You needed to get to the police.

The streets were no longer silent; distant laughter, people talking and the sound of motors running as vehicles drove up and down the road. Sounds you thought you'd never miss, but you did. Months of confinment and everything around you feels new. The air was cold and crisp and it seemed like yesterday that it was just the summer, yet it felt so long.

It doesn't take you long to stumble across a police station, the big and bold lettering on the sign catching your attention from a mile away. You waste no time to advance towards the building, bare feet crushing the cold snow beneath them with every accelerating step.

Until you're not.

Slender fingers wrap around your arm and suddenly your heart is in your stomach. The grip on your arm is animalistic and full of control, fingernails digging crescents into your flesh and you find yourself unable to move another step.

"where are you going?"

.

.

You're pulled back into consciousness by the sound of heavy footsteps reverberating against the walls and moving towards the door. Your heartrate immediately skyrockets, your anxiety alleviating your impending hyperventilation and cold sweat bathing over you. Your eyes shoot wide open and you fixate on the light shining through the small crevice beneath the door.

Quietly, you breath in through your nose and out through your mouth.

In through your nose,

out through your mouth.

The breathing exercise doesn't do anything to help soothe you and infact, you feel that your heart is beating so loudly that you think that he might've heard it to.

The footsteps come to a stop infront of the door and the air soon fell omnious and tense, hinges clicking and the door slowly opening with a loud creak. Dazai peered into the room, surveying it and noting every single detail, likely to see if you made another attempt to escape; his gaze lingering on the boarded up window. He looks away from the window and his honey brown eyes fall onto you.

Your blood runs cold and you'd hope that you would just go into cardiac arrest.

There was a slight tug at the corner of his mouth before his lips curl into a full blown smile, his eyes becoming downturned and his face molding into that disgustingly bright expression. He steps into the room, closing the door behind him and flicking on the light as he takes a step in. Why was he here? Why now? Is he planning to simply just watch you this time? Rarely, he would break a few of your limbs, but you didn't trust him. Not this time around. It rarely ever happens, but there's no guarantee where his head space is in, in that moment. He could suddenly burst and let all his anger out on you again.

He walks towards you and you narrow your eyes at him, an involuntary whimper bubbling within your throat. He kneels down infront of you and reaches his hand out to touch you, fingertips barely grazing your skin before you flinched away. The second you flinched, his heart twisted with hurt and rejection. He frowns and his hand falls to his side.

"You're still upset with me?" He says and he's not asking, he's simply making the observation. He finds it amusing how you think you could stay mad at him when he threw you into this room and only fractured your leg for precautionary measures. It'll heal, but it was much better than losing a limb, no?

You don't answer him and he sighs.

"I can't have you running off on me, ___. You understand why I did what I did, right? To...?" He's expecting you answer back, his gaze lingering on you and when you don't answer him, you can hear the finaltility in his voice. "To.. keep you safe. Now, say it back to me."

"Go fuck yourself."

Surprised, he leans back just a bit and raises a brow, his face slowly lighting up with amusement as his sinister laughter fills the room. He tilts his head at you, a toothy grin remaining etched onto his face as he looks down at you with mock curiosity.

"Where did you get the balls to speak like that? You're not exactly in the right position to be insulting me." He feigned arrogance, another huff of laughter escaping from his lips, "You are way too stubborn for your own good, gorgeous. You're gonna get yourself hurt if you keep this up."

Your eyes bore into him like daggers and you don't give him the satisfaction of responding yet again. Hatred pumped through your veins, fueling your rage and you wanted nothing more than to let out all your emotions on him. All the confusion, the hate.

The lack of communication from you made him frown once again, his lips pressing into a thin line.

"What's wrong? You were talking just fine a few moments ago. Cat got your tongue?" He tilts his head again, "You know how this'll turn out for you."

"Why me?" You croak out, managing to bring it upon yourself to finally say something that wasn't just profanities. He raises a brow.

"Why not?" He said, "You gave me a reason to."

"And what was that reason? I was there for you and you turned around and fucking kidnapped me!" Your voice is strained and it hurts to even talk, your voice coming out scratchy. Most likely due to the amount of coughing and screaming you did during the past couple days.

"If you're so insistent." Dazai chuckled, "You were too busy meddling in affairs that shouldn't have concerned you and look where being nosy got you. You were naive to think nothing would happen to you when digging around for information on the port mafia. I did it to keep you safe."

"To keep me safe? From what? The port mafia? Whatever they had planned in store for me would've been much better than the shit you've put me through." You spat angrily, slowly pushing yourself from off the ground and carefully scooting yourself back into the wall. Hissing in pain when you moved your injured leg to accommodate the position you were in.

"You wouldn't have liked what they'd do to you." He states matter-of-factly.

"You're a traitor and a fucking cunt. I trusted you."

"Is that all you know how to say? Profanities?"

"You were my boyfriend! You wouldn't have done this to me if you fucking loved me-" You should've known better than to think that he'd let you finish that sentence. Abruptly, his hand came up to have a tight grip on your jaw, forcefully pulling your face towards him and forcing you to look at him, a dangerous shadow casting over his features.

"I am your boyfriend and I do love you. You do not know the shit I would do for you and you'd certainly hate me more so if you had the slightest of clue of what I've done for you." His tone of voice sends chills down your spine and you find yourself not being able to hold eye contact with him for much longer. You close your eyes and you feel tears starting to form, prompting you to squeeze your eyelids shut. He doesn't take kindly to the action, his grip on your jaw tightening and with a slight shake of your head, you finally open your eyes to meet his gaze once more.

"Does it hurt?" He suddenly asks, causing you look at him with confusion.

"W-what?"

"This." He lets go of your face and stands up, towering over you and you carefully watch him as he takes a single step towards you. Your mouth runs dry and you want nothing but to disappear into the wall and to sink into the floor as his intimidating silhouette stared down at you. You don't even see him raise his boot before his foot came to press down onto your fractured leg, sending a rush of blinding hot pain throughout your entire being. Your mouth fell open, but no screams came out. All you could manage was a painful yell before your vocal cords decided to cease on you.

"Fuck!" You screamed out, tears finally pouring out of your eyes, "P-please, wait!" You gasp.

"What was that?" Dazai asked, putting more pressure down onto your leg. You wheeze and under the blurriness, you swear you can see him looking down at you with a great amount of pride and arrogance, his eyes sparkling with intense excitement. Though, he himself would like to believe he didn't like hurting you, but how else would you learn?

"I'm sorry!"

"Say that again, I didn't hear you." What an asshole, am I right?

"P-please, Dazai..I'm sorry!" Finally, he steps off your leg and you didn't even realize that you were holding your breath until his weight was finally off it. Crying, you reach for your knee on the same leg that was fractured, rubbing it up and down to try and soothe the pain as you rocked back and forth, trying desperately to distract yourself from the agony. Fuck, you missed being at home, missed the life you had before Dazai became a lunatic. But, it made you question, was your boyfriend always like this?

"I did warn you that you'd get hurt if you kept the attitude up." It is Dazai's voice that brings you out of your thoughts, but the agonizing pain was still there and honestly, right now you could care less about him being right there. You just wanted the pain to stop. To beg him to kill you, but you knew if you did that, than he's more likely to lash out. 'Kill you? Why? So you can leave me?' While savagely beating the shit out of you. If you had the strength, you would've attempted to kill him, but despite all the shit he's done to you, you still had those vague feelings for him. Or were they really vague?

He sighed and leaned down on his heels, demanding your attention as his hand reached for yours on your knee. You pull your hand away and he doesn't move or flinch, instead, his hand comes to where you were previously trying to soothe the pain.

"All I ask is that you listen to me, ___. Otherwise you wouldn't be going through all this pain if you would just fucking-" Cutting himself off before he could say something offensive. Which was laughable on his part. He surely had no problem using violence against you as a show of power, but when it came to his words? Oh, he was sure to be 'careful' with what he said when it came to you.

"I really don't like hurting you." He said, gently rubbing your knee. It takes a lot of focus to muster up the words through your fucked up vocal cords, but when you do, you dare ask.

"Then why do you do it?"

"How else are you supposed to learn if you can't obey what I ask?"

Anger just swelled within your heart even more. That was his justification for hurting you? Because you wouldn't obey him? He was never this controlling when you two first started out, but I guess it's true that you never really realize that you're in a bad situation until it becomes too late.

"I love you, ___."

"..."

"I love you too, Dazai.."

It's been 4 years(?) since I've posted lmao. This is a rewrite of a previous 'x reader' I wrote awhile ago. I am open to taking requests and it doesn't have to explicitly be yandere, you're able to request anything.

[sakkiichi]

ON WATERS SO INVITING.

Because tonight, neither of you can hold back from tasting the honeyed tea directly from each other’s lips.

ft. Wriothesley x gn! reader.

cw/genre: fluff, romance.

what’s this? aya finally posting a fic? insert dramatic gasp. anyway, dedicating this one to @bunny-rambles @https-furina and @dearemilia <3 to my favorite wriothesley lovers, I hope you enjoy this, mwah !

if you enjoy this, reblogs and comments help more than likes !

Notes of an herbal aroma fill the dim lit room.

Down here, it is sometimes difficult to keep track of time or the seasons, but the one constant that oftentimes keeps you sane are these meetings.

You are aware they take place once every week, just between him and you.

Steaming mugs are set atop the table separating you two.

Lately, you’ve started wishing the distance of it wasn’t there at all.

Softly clearing your throat, you place your hands around the warm cup. You take a moment to inspect its pattern, seeing how you had yet to encounter two identical sets.

You bring the liquid to your lips, taking the chance to briefly stare at the man before you while he focuses on some documents.

Unruly ebony strands stick out in different directions, somehow still managing to fall flatteringly over his face; sharp eyes, the color of starlit icicles scan over the pages, sharp jawline set, lips a taut line; your gaze travels lower still, helplessly getting lost in the contrast of black leather bands over the pale scarred skin of his neck.

Bitter. The tea you just tasted, but also the fact you have to pretend you two are just coworkers.

Although, sometimes, you thought he played you intentionally.

“Honey?” You ask, putting down your cup, beginning to stand up to get the honey jar from the adjacent shelf.

“Yes, dear?” Is the answer uttered in his baritone.

You scoff, frowning, as you place your hands on your hips.

“Wriothesley, I meant if you want honey for your tea.” You explain, tone pointed.

The warden puts down his paperwork, leaning back on his chair, that chilling gaze of his landing on you as his lips half curl into a devious grin.

“No, that won’t be necessary, thank you.” He says, that slight smirk still on his face.

You nod, returning to your seat, jar of honey in hand.

As you start mixing the thick golden liquid with your not-sweet-enough tea, you can still note his eyes on you.

It’s not that the feeling of the shiver his actions send down your spine is unpleasant per se, but you’ll start having trouble maintaining the composed facade if he keeps this up.

“Did you find anything interesting regarding the investigation?” You inquire, stirring your beverage.

Wriothesley leans a little forward, his own tea, untouched.

Strange; he was always the one to suggest you have some, after all.

“Yes to something interesting.” He states, resting his cheek on one of his hands. You swear those fingerless gloves of his are too distracting. “But it’s not related to the investigation.”

You raise an eyebrow, sipping on your finally sweet tea.

“Care to enlighten me, Your Grace?” You tease, as your honeyed lips tilt up in a grin.

The man chuckles, standing up from his seat, rounding the table towards where you are.

“I can enlighten you alright, if you’re willing to offer a little collaboration.” The Duke whispers, from behind you, lips almost brushing the shell of your ear.

You swallow, putting down your drink in fear you’ll end up spilling it with how fast your heart is hammering against your ribcage.

“Alright.” You choke out.

“Good.” He approves. With a swift move, he takes your hand, making you stand up too.

“Wriothesley, what are you doing? Your tea is going to get cold…” You try for a serious tone, but your voice comes out smaller than you would have liked.

“Hm? What was that? If I remember correctly, you wanted to know what I found, no?” Is his response, as he brushes some flyaway strands away from your face, his calloused thumb softly brushing over the pink of your lower lip.

“Wriothesley…” You utter, breathless.

“Shhh, don’t say a thing now, sweetheart.” He tells you, his face tilted to the side, one of his hands holding your chin, guiding your gaze to his, as the other cradles your cheek.

And those frosted sky eyes.

You may not be able to see the light blues painted by daylight every dawn from down here, but, right now, you’re pretty sure you prefer the shade of His Grace’s stare.

Who could blame you, for your next actions, when the distance between you suddenly vanishes and he’s reciprocating them?

You stand on your tiptoes.

And then, your lips collide against the Duke’s.

He kisses you back, more gentle than you would have expected.

Bitter and sweet flavors mingle in the annihilated space between you, as your fingers tangle in his dark hair and his hands grab your waist.

Wriothesley kisses you as if he’s drinking in the sunlight he’s been deprived of for ages; sweetly, tenderly, as if he was afraid this gold rush would disintegrate right before him; searing, the burning sensation of raw ice on bare skin.

And you can’t have enough of it, of him.

Months of yearning, of dreaming awake, finally realized in the burning of your lungs at the lack of air when his lips envelop yours.

Alas, his enlightenment only went so far for today, for the next thing you know, he’s pulling away, that same grin on his features once again, as you chase after the fading kiss.

An index over your lip’s cupid’s bow stops you, though.

“Found it interesting?” The man that currently has you on the palm of his hand questions, amusement laced through the lilt of his voice.

You reach a hand out, delicately running your thumb over the scar beneath his right eye.

He takes ahold of your hand, planting a lingering kiss on the back of it.

“Let’s find out more about it tomorrow, shall we?” The Duke utters, as he starts towards the door of his office. “By the way, that honey is very good.” Are his last words before he exists, eyes flitting from the jar to your lips.

And so, you stand there, alone and lovestruck, both your hands holding your burning cheeks as you contain a squeal.

Tomorrow can’t come fast enough.

[gurokiitty]

YAAAY Y’RE IN JJK ERA NOW AM I RIGHT?!?!?! !! 🎀

(can i request any staff with geto plz? (literally my #1 man ever 🙏🏿🙏🏿))

a/n : yesss i ammm and i LOVE geto too <3<3 i'm finished my exams and i actually couldn't stop thinking abt getting high w/ him!!! hope you enjoy, rosé :3

ROTTEN APPLE

{ stoner! suguru geto x f! reader }

word count : 3135

warnings/tags : mild DUBCON, college au, friends to lovers, drug use (marijuana), inexperienced reader, mild coercion, intoxicated/sloppy sex, cunnilingus, creampie.

Suguru has always been different—calm on the surface, languid like water that flows wherever it pleases. You, on the other hand, are all edges and discipline, tethered to your schedule and ambitions like a kite tied to an unyielding post.

But tonight, he’s managed to untether you.

“C'mon,” he says, his voice smooth and coaxing like honey. “You should just try it once." His dark hair spills over his shoulders, framing his face as he watches you with a lazy smile.

“Absolutely not—I am not doing drugs,” you say, crossing your arms over your chest, though the finality in your tone is already softening under the weight of his gaze. His voice is always disarming, his words too gentle to feel like pressure.

“Not drugs,” he adds with a playful shrug, “just… assisted relaxation.” The sleek glass bong gleams in his hand, an offering of escape. You’ve spent days hunched over textbooks, suffocating under the weight of equations and essays, and for once, you don’t have the energy to resist him.

“You trust me, don’t you?”

You nod, tentative but willing. His grin widens, and your resolve dissolves like sugar in warm tea.

He sets up the bong with ease, his long fingers moving deftly to pack the bowl. The weed smells sharp and earthy, its aroma curling into the air like incense. When he flicks the lighter, the small flame flares bright, illuminating his face for a heartbeat. He looks almost holy, a dark angel leaning close to guide you through some forbidden ritual.

“Okay,” he says, wrapping an arm around you, his broad chest warm against your side. “See this?” He taps the glass gently. “You’re gonna put your lips here, and when I light the bowl, just inhale slow and steady. When the chamber's full, let go of the carb and clear it. Easy.”

You follow his instructions clumsily, your fingers brushing his as you hold the cool glass. The flame crackles softly, and smoke swirls inside the chamber like a storm cloud, dense and white. You draw in slowly, and the hit punches sharp into your chest, leaving a bitter taste on your tongue. When you exhale, the smoke spills out in a trembling haze, fogging your glasses.

Suguru laughs, warm and unrestrained. “Cute,” he murmurs, reaching out to adjust the frames slipping down the bridge of your nose. “You’re a natural.”

“Hardly,” you mutter, blinking away tears from the roughness of the hit. He takes a turn, his movements fluid and sure, before passing the bong back to you. You take another hit and the world begins to soften at the edges. The air feels heavier, thicker, and your body starts to sink into the cushions, the tension in your shoulders unwinding like a thread pulled loose. The taste of smoke lingers on your tongue, sharp and strange but not unpleasant, and every inhale feels like stepping deeper into a dream.

Time stretches, slows. You aren’t sure how long you’ve been there, passing the bong back and forth, his laughter weaving into the fog around you. The warmth spreading through your limbs grows unbearable, like your blood has turned to molten honey. When you lean into him, your head resting against his chest, he doesn’t protest. His hand slides into your hair, stroking gently, and his voice drifts down to you like a lullaby.

“You okay?” he asks, soft but teasing. You nod sluggishly, your eyelids heavy and half-lidded. Everything feels distant, muted, except for him. The steady beat of his heart thrums against your ear, grounding you even as your mind spins.

“I feel... warm,” you mumble, the words slurring together.

His chest shakes with quiet laughter, his fingers trailing through your hair like silk. "Yeah?” he murmurs, brushing a strand away from your face. “You look warm.”

He tilts your face up with gentle fingers, his thumb brushing your cheek. The corners of his mouth quirk up, his expression softening as he watches you, so unguarded for once.

Your vision blurs, but you can still see the way his brown eyes glint, like polished stones catching firelight. They hold you there, spellbound and still, as if the world has slowed to a crawl around you.

“Your cheeks are all flushed,” he notes with a laugh, his thumb slipping to rest lightly on your lower lip. “You’re gorgeous like this.”

Your lips part instinctively, but no words come—only the thrum of your pulse in your ears and the heat curling low in your belly as his gaze lingers on your mouth.

Before you can think, his lips are on yours, soft and insistent, urging you to respond. Your thoughts scatter like ash in the wind, leaving only sensations—the warmth of his mouth, the faint sweetness of his breath, and the way his hands cradle your face as if you’re something fragile.

You melt into him, your body pliant under his touch as his tongue brushes against yours. Suguru's hands drift lower, slipping under your knitted sweater to trace the curve of your waist, his palms searing against your skin. You shiver, a soft whimper escaping your lips, and he swallows the sound with a smirk.

"You're sensitive," he says, his voice vibrating against your mouth as his fingers skim higher, ghosting over the underside of your ribs.

He pulls your sweater over your head, his movements slow as he drinks you in. The cool air hits your skin, but his lips are quick to find you again—kissing a path down your body from your collarbone, to the curve of your stomach. His hands follow the trail of his mouth, leaving goosebumps in their wake.

"Just relax, princess. I'll take care of you." He hums, his fingers tugging at the waistband of your pants.

You try to object, but the words tangle in your throat, coming out as a soft, incoherent hum. Suguru smiles, pressing his lips to your stomach.

Your body betrays you, hips tilting instinctively as he slides your pants down, the fabric pooling at your ankles.

You can't help but glance, taking a furtive peek at your own underwear. "Oh my," he murmurs, his eyes darkening as he takes in the sight of the lacy, lavender-coloured panties. "Did you wear these for me?"

You try to shake your head, to deny the question, but he chuckles softly, his hand brushing over the delicate fabric. “Liar,” he grins, the warmth of his palm seeping through the lace, making your stomach flutter.

Your breath hitches when he hooks a finger under the waistband of your panties and tugs them down agonizingly slowly. Lace glides over plump skin, dragging against your thighs as it’s peeled away, leaving you bare and trembling under his gaze. He leans closer, so close you can feel his breath ghosting against your cunt, and you instinctively try to squeeze your legs shut, but his hands are quick to still you.

“Fuck, you're already dripping,” he says softly, sending a flush to your cheeks. One of his hands slides between your thighs, his fingers dipping into your slick folds. His touch is unhurried as he gathers the fluid and lifts his hand to his mouth.

His tongue flicks, gliding over his fingers to taste you, and his lashes flutter as he lets out a soft, pleased hum. “Sweet,” he murmurs, his eyes locking onto yours with a predatory gleam. Embarrassment floods you and you try to look away, veiling your face behind trembling hands.

“Don't hide from me,” he murmurs, his tone almost chastising, though there’s a smile tucked in the corner of his mouth. "I want to see your pretty face as I eat you out."

"W-Wait, Sugu—" Your voice cracks as your hand reaches for his shoulder in feeble protest. He chuckles, his fingers sliding gently to entwine with yours. “I’ve got you. Just let me make you feel good.”

Your breath catches in your throat as he settles between your thighs, his hands firm on your hips to keep you from squirming away. Your mind feels foggy, your thoughts disjointed and swirling, but his presence anchors you, drawing all your focus to the way his head dips lower and his lips part so prettily.

When his tongue finally meets you, the sensation is molten. He starts slow—broad, languid strokes that glide through your wetness, his tongue curling at the end to lap up every bit of you. The warmth of his mouth engulfs you, wet and sloppy, and the obscene sounds of his ministrations make your face burn even hotter.

You’re vaguely aware of his hands, one gripping your thigh to hold you steady while the other shifts to spread you wider. You writhe beneath him, his name slipping from your lips in breathy whispers, but it feels distant, surreal—like a wet dream you’re floating through, too vivid to be real.

Your mind spins, thoughts shattering like fragile glass, each one broken by the next swipe of his tongue. His tongue flattens against your clit, pressing hard for a moment before he changes pace, teasing the sensitive bundle with quick, feather-light flicks that make your back arch off the couch.

“That's it,” he urges between strokes, his lips brushing your skin as he speaks. The words send a rush of heat straight to your core, and your thighs tremble beneath his unrelenting grip.

His pace shifts again, slower, sloppier, his tongue delving deeper as your fingers curl into the cushions. He presses his mouth against you harder, drinking in your reactions as you writhe, each mewl spilling from your lips sharper than the last. When he pulls back to catch his breath, his lids are heavy, his grin lazy and satisfied, like the euphoric haze after taking a deep hit. His lips glisten, his chin damp with your arousal, and the faint sheen catches the light, making you whimper.

“Keep your eyes on me, girl,” he commands, pulling you from the fog of your mind. His thumb slides up to rub gentle circles against your clit as he waits for you to meet his gaze. When you do, the hunger in his eyes threatens to swallow you whole.

“You taste like heaven,” he says, his tone softer now, almost worshipful as he lowers his mouth to you again. This time, his movements are more insistent—his tongue plunges into you, curling and twisting, coaxing every last tremor from your body while his thumb keeps up its relentless rhythm on your clit. You feel yourself falling apart, splintering at the seams, your body a quivering, pliant mess under his touch.

"Go ahead n' cum on my face, pretty girl," Suguru hums, grinding the pad of his thumb against your sensitive clit. You groan, your head falling back against the couch as your hips jerk involuntarily, chasing the release he’s dragging out of you. Your mind feels hazy, untethered, and your thoughts dissolve with each stroke of his tongue.

When it finally hits, it’s like a tidal wave, ripping through you with a force that leaves you gasping and shuddering. Your vision blurs, white-hot pleasure consuming every sense as your fingers twist into the fabric of the couch. He doesn’t stop, his tongue lapping at you greedily, prolonging the high until you’re babbling.

As you come down, your breath ragged and your limbs boneless, Suguru pulls back, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as he crawls back up your body. He presses his mouth to yours in a sloppy, hungry kiss, the taste of your arousal still fresh on his tongue. Your fingers tangle in his hair, pulling him closer as his tongue sweeps against yours, sharing the essence of your pleasure.

He finally pulls away, his forehead resting against yours as he catches his breath. "I've dreamed of this," he confesses, his voice low. His hand cradles your cheek as he studies your face, his thumb brushing tenderly over your swollen lips. “You don’t know how long I’ve wanted to taste you, to make you fall apart like that.”

Butterflies swarm in your stomach as he leans back on his heels, his hands sliding down to the waistband of his sweatpants. He shimmies them down, the fabric slipping over his hips to reveal the sharp cut of his V-line, trailing down to a dark patch of hair that disappears into the base of his length. His happy trail leads your eyes lower, framing the way his cock juts forward, thick and heavy, the tip already flushed and glistening. The sight makes your breath hitch, a nervous flutter mingling with the heady anticipation coiling in your chest.

“You ready?” he asks, his honeyed gaze locking with yours. You nod hesitantly, your head feeling heavy, your body languid and loose as if you could drift to sleep any second. The corner of his mouth twitches, an imperceptible softness flickering through his expression as he hooks your legs over his shoulders.

He presses a gentle kiss to the side of your knee before his grip on your thighs tightens. Slowly, he shifts forward, the head of his cock brushing against your slick entrance. The stretch begins almost immediately, the thick crown pressing into you with unrelenting pressure.

"I’ll go slow," he murmurs, his voice molten and soothing, like liquid gold pouring over your senses. His forehead brushes against your shin as he inches forward, his breath warm and uneven against your skin.

“F-Fuck, you’re so tight,” he groans, his words coming out shaky, barely audible over the soft hitch in his breathing. His hands slide up your thighs, gripping you like you’re something he can’t bear to let go of.

Your head tilts back, the high from before lingering, nullifying every painful sensation as his cock slips deeper. The room feels hazy, the air thick with heat, your skin tingling with hypersensitivity as your walls stretch and adjust to his size. “S-Suguru,” you gasp, your nails digging into the couch cushions.

“I know, I know, princess,” he soothes, his thumbs brushing slow, calming circles into the soft flesh of your thighs. “You’re taking me so well. God, you’re perfect like this.” His voice is velvet, reverent, and laced with something deeper—something that makes your heart flutter.

His movements grow steadier as he thrusts deeper, his pace still unhurried—but there’s a growing urgency in the way his hips press against yours, the way his hands tighten around you. You cling to him, your body trembling, the pleasure building slowly like waves lapping against the shore.

“I can feel you clenching around me,” he breathes, his tone laced with awe. His lips find your calf, trailing kisses down the length of your leg, each one searing and delicate. “Feels so good, baby. You feel so good.”

Your hands reach out, grasping for something—anything—to anchor you. “Suguru, please—” you start, your voice breaking into a sob. “I’ve got you,” he promises, his hands slipping to cradle your hips, pulling you closer as he shifts deeper, his movements becoming the slightest bit rougher.

He grinds his hips, dragging his length out until just the tip lingers, only to stuff it back in. His hands find your waist, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh, keeping you steady as his pelvis snaps forward with enough force to bury himself completely. The wet, obscene sound fills the room, and he groans deeply, his head dropping for a moment as his hair cascades over his face.

You mewl, thighs quivering against his shoulders as the sensation builds, raw and dizzying. His cock slides along your gummy walls, sinking deeper to nudge the spot inside that has your back arching off the couch. A sharp cry escapes your lips, your fingers clawing at the cushions as a familiar sensation blooms in your core. “S-Shit, right there,” you gasp, barely coherent, the word tumbling out in a broken plea.

Suguru’s dark eyes flicker up to yours, his grin widening as if he’s just uncovered the most precious secret. “Right here?” he teases, grinding his hips slowly, deliberately, the head of his cock dragging over that spot again and again. “You like that, don’t you?” His tone is soft, coaxing, but there’s a cocky edge to it that makes your cheeks burn.

“P-Please,” you stammer, the pressure building so rapidly it has your toes curling. He adjusts your legs over his shoulders, his grip tightening as his pace becomes measured, unrelenting, hitting that same devastating angle with every thrust.

The pressure builds so rapidly it has you babbling, eyes squeezed shut as your toes curl. He adjusts your legs over his shoulders, his grip tightening as his pace becomes measured, unrelenting, hitting that same devastating angle with every thrust. You can barely form a reply—your words caught somewhere between a cry and a moan.

“C'mon, baby,” he purrs, his voice melting into your skin. “I can feel you getting close. Let go for me—wanna feel you clamp around me as you cum.” His words are filthy, his tone dripping with praise, and the combination sends you hurtling toward the edge.

Your body trembles as the coil inside you snaps, a wave of ecstasy crashing over you so intensely it robs you of air. Your walls flutter and squeeze around him like a vice as you cry out his name, your hands reaching blindly to grasp at his arms. “Good girl, just like that,” he groans, his hips stuttering as he rides out your climax while his own begins to crest.

Suguru's head tilts forward, his lips brushing against the curve of your thigh, his breath heavy and ragged as he groans, “You’re squeezing me so tight, fuck—I don’t think I can—”

The rhythm falters and his head falls against your shoulder, his hips grinding into you one final time before he stills. You feel it then, the warmth spreading deep inside, and your dazed mind registers his groan, guttural and drawn-out, as he buries himself fully in you.

His breaths are uneven with the final pulses of his release, his movements involuntary as he rides out the last remnants of his high. When he finally leans back, his dark gaze drops to where your bodies are still connected. His cum seeps out in pearlescent trails, glistening as it trickles down your folds and pools on your ass. The sight makes him curse under his breath, his hands gripping your thighs as he lazily thrusts forward to push the mess back inside.

His gaze flicks back to your face, his expression softening as a crooked grin tugs at his lips. He watches your chest heave, your skin flushed, your half-lidded eyes clouded with exhaustion and the lingering high.

“Fuck, look at you,” he murmurs, leaning down to press a soft, lingering kiss to your swollen lips. “You’re fucking wrecked. Maybe I should get you high more often.”

[silverflqmes]

Okay hear me out, may I request Cloud x reader fluff where we spend lovely spring morning together? Nothing nsfw just pure comfort, our cat laying in bed with us, laziness at it finest.

Off the topic I really adore your work! I'm quite new to ffvii, basically I've just started playing, but your work made me fall head over heels for Cloud haha. Anyway have a good day!

໒⦂ 𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐃𝐄𝐖.

notes. hello! thank you so much for the request and the kind words akajsks i’m still fairly new to ff7 myself, but i’m glad to have amplified your love for it and cloud<3 the cat saga continues✨ i did something experimental here so it’s a little shorter, but i hope it’s okay :’)

genre. fluff + comfort

disclaimer. before any confusion arises.. sora is the name of your cat, who was first mentioned in this post if you are eager to see more of her!

cloud strife x gn!reader.

sora’s purring joins the gentle whistle sung by the breeze that swept through the bedroom window, chiffon curtains dancing to the soft tune like delicate petals.

cloud couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a taste of spring weather — of bitter cold melting into tender warmth.

the change of seasons was hardly ever noticeable without trees to flourish the busy streets with life, lakes to freeze over at the gradual drop of temperature, and flowers to splash the otherwise monochrome edge with color in the spring.

perhaps, it made the planet worth saving after all. to have been rewarded for his efforts at the very end with the beauty of the world, along with his beloved partner.. and a feline friend.

your chest rose and fell with breath, quietly, but surely, eyes fluttered shut. an unspoken trust, which your boyfriend treasured more than he could verbally express.

it was too early to even be up right now for most people.. but cloud, unfortunately, had to represent his little company as its only delivery guy and employee within the next two hours.

he fought back an annoyed sigh at the mental reminder of it.. only to remember that you had still been fast asleep.

any indicative sound that threatened to portray his irritation and spill from his lips all but melted away, falling completely silent on his tongue. because how could he possibly ruin the serene image of you all bundled up and cozy.

the exasperated exhale died all together in the stream of his windpipe as his features relaxed once more in repose.

normally he preferred taking up long distant deliveries by himself, but on this particular occasion, the client happened to live in your seaside hometown — costa del sol. a place that was untouched by the unpleasant smog of edge, and instead painted in a kaleidoscope of vibrant coats.. rather than a trillion shades of gray.

a shift in movement made his mako tinted sapphires flash just briefly before sliding to your stirring form.

his ears caught a jumbled, almost incoherent murmur ( were it not for his amplified hearing ) and cloud wondered to himself for a moment what dreams had joined you in your slumber. something lovely, he hoped, a gentle caress to your conscience.. and not the nightmares that haunted him until dawn on some evenings.

moonless nights when cloud thought too hard for comfort, let alone decent rest.

although, those had been few now. infrequent, thankfully, all because of your solace-filled presence — pressed into his chest.. and the light nuzzling of your calico kitty tucked into his side.

a silent, meow-less request for breakfast.. or maybe not. maybe it was just to ask cloud to stay a little while longer, and enjoy that which he could not back in edge.

waking up to unsullied air- a mixture of floral aromas and the soft, but welcome dripping of morning dew traveling from petal to petal, was.. sadly a rarity, the former infantryman realized.

which is why he found himself sinking into the pillows and duvets in submission, allowing darkness to greet his eyes for another round of sleep. two hours were more than enough to get dressed and to his destination. so truly, all he needed was thirty minutes to be dressed and out of your childhood home.

the hour and a half remaining could blissfully go to cuddling you a little while longer, all else drowning into background noise as he would slip further and further, deeper and deeper. surrendering himself completely to your warm company, the serendipitous quiet, and spring morn.

notes. okay this is way shorter than what i normally write, but i hope it’s still good😭 not much dialogue, just cloud being soft and at ease for a change ahaha

↳ return to main masterlist . request rules . send an ask

[princessleechan]

"You're the man!" Chapter 20 Written Chapter

Masterlist

⚽Chapter tags: MDNI, she’s the man au, revenge au???, cross dressing!reader, reader identifies anything but male, sports au, queer themes, university au, love-whatever the fuck kind of shape, the kissing booth scene, some steaming kissing, a good brawl, and someone unexpected, written chapter (2k wc)

⚽Tag list: @90s-belladonna @the-boy-meets-evil @lirtha97 @hipsdofangirl @justineasian @kwanisms @multi-kpop-fanfics @pantumin @wooahaeproductions @mayashu @shuasdraftsalt @lone-lone-ranger @headlockimnida @horanghaezone @haolistic @porridgesblog @jeonjungkaka @luchiet @ujimatchaaa @skzdesi @cheoliehansolie @vlbii @myghobi @sisterofsomeone @joonsytip @gyublues @alltheshineofthestars-blog @randomworker @isabellah29 @savgogh @too-many-kpop-hubands @shingsoluvely @kamabokogonpachro @skittlez-area512 @seccdlurv @chisskaa @mochiteez @theyluvfrankocean @lllucere @thomawifey @middle-of-the-earth @okiedokrie @itsokaytobedumb00 @humankimbap @zezedoesshit @teenyfinds @jeonghansshitester @aaa-sia @heyitz00 @silvsie

You've gone from arriving at the carnival in a dress and avoiding Melli like she could kill you, to almost exposing yourself to your teammates while changing from the bushes to a moving spinning teacup, and giving Seokmin a well-deserved slap to the face—all without getting caught. You're quite proud of yourself for this feat. Now, all that's left is the kissing booth.

The dreaded kissing booth. Just one more thing to get through.

Meanwhile, Mingyu waited impatiently in line, finally nearing the front, with an anxious bounce in his step. His eyes darted around nervously, and he could feel his heart pounding in his chest. Wonwoo, following behind, adjusted his glasses, let out a smug chuckle, and rested a firm grip on his friend's shoulder. "Down, boy."

Mingyu swatted him away, feeling every bead of sweat trailing down his neck and forehead. He wiped his palms on his jeans, trying to steady his breathing. The anticipation was almost unbearable, and he glanced back at Wonwoo, who seemed annoyingly calm. Mingyu's thoughts raced as he inched closer to the front of the line, his nerves buzzing with every step. “Fuck off. I’m having a mental breakdown.”

“Don’t make it obvious. You’re almost there.”

As the boys continued their conversation, Chae was grappling with customer after customer at the kissing booth. The final one, right before Mingyu, seemed to be taking an eternity. She forced a smile, trying to hide her discomfort as the man—who gave off definite freshman vibes at most—finally pulled away. His breath was a potent blend of turkey leg and popcorn, the greasy aroma clinging to her lips. She could practically feel the butter and salt seeping into her skin, and the lingering taste made her stomach churn in the most foul way.

Suppressing the urge to gag, she discreetly wiped her lips with the back of her hand, desperate for an opening to rinse out her mouth. The thought of that flavor staying with her all night was almost unbearable. She glanced around, hoping for a moment to catch her breath and shake off the unpleasant encounter, while silently praying the next customer would be quicker and less offensive.

“Here you go,” Wonwoo patted the nervous mountain of a man, “You’re finally gonna know what it’s like to suck face with Chae. Your truest most devestating victory. Making you a men amongst…well yourself. Still, an accomplishment nonetheless. And now there’s nothing–”

You hurried towards the booth, the urgency of the moment making your heart race against both speed and time. As you reached Chae, you couldn't help but flash her a kind smile, eager to take over after the marathon you ran. “Hi, I’m here to relieve you!”

The smiles on Wonwoo and Mingyu’s faces faded, and now the pats from the spectacled man felt more apologetic than encouraging. “Or not.”

Chae released a breath of relief. “Oh, thank god. By the way, be careful of the older guy coming up,” she warned, her eyes darting to a silver-haired man a couple of customers behind the line. “He’s chewing on something and I don’t think it’s gum. And for the love of god, don’t even crack your mouth open the slightest bit when you kiss. They’ll take it as an invitation.”

You furrowed your brow slightly. “Noted.”

Before leaving, Chae quietly scrutinized your appearance, her gaze searching for recognition of your features. “Have we met before?”

You chuckled nervously, feeling a knot of apprehension form in your stomach, as you shook your head in denial. “No,” you replied curtly, giving her a reassuring pat on the back before leading her out of the way.

Mingyu trudged towards you, his gaze unwilling to leave Chae’s retreating figure, softly muttering sounds of remorse under his breath. “Just my luck.”

“Oh, sorry,” you replied with a hint of disappointment evident in your tone.

"Oh! Not because of you, because you are..." He stumbled over his words, his gaze lingering on his source of dismay as he drank in the soft contours of your features. Your eyes, gentle and mesmerizing, seemed to dance in the warm sunlight, casting a spell on him. The gentle breeze tousled your hair, effortlessly arranging it in a perfect frame around your face. And your smile, though slightly awkward, possessed its own gentle yet friendly charm. Mingyu felt a flutter in his chest as he struggled to find his breath and he was unsure whether it was because of you or the lingering effects of his crush from before her departure. “You’re… you know…”

"I am?" You responded, slightly confused but perceptive enough to recognize that he was attempting to compliment you in his own boyish manner. "Thanks, I think," you added with a hint of amusement.

"Yeah," Mingyu felt a smile creeping onto his face, "Just know I mean no offense. Not in the slightest."

Wonwoo scoffed, crossing his arms. "No need to flirt, you know," he remarked, his tone tinged with amusement.

"Yeah," an outsider interjected in annoyance, flashing his belt of tickets like a trophy, "It’s not the time to go steady. You paid for your time, so pucker up so the rest of us can too."

Mingyu gritted his teeth as he turned around, his tanned skin flushed with a bright shade of embarrassment. "Why don't you both just chill out?"

Turning back to you, Mingyu cleared his throat. “I guess I should be kissing you now.”

"Right," you chuckled nervously, trying to steady your breathing, feeling a bundle of nerves coiling inside you already. "Here we go."

"Here we go."

It took a moment to find the right head placements, uncertain whether to lean right or left, but as your lips met his, there was no going back. The warmth of his breath against your skin, the softness of his lips, and the subtle tension in the air crackled like a kindling fire. Your eyes instinctively closed, hands finding their place against his forearms as you leaned in deeper, feeling the movement of his luscious lips transporting you to another realm.

When he finally pulled away, you tasted regret lingering between you, sensing his own conflicted emotions. “Okay, I think that’s worth one ticket,” he murmured, his breath fractured against the charged atmosphere.

“No, you've got a few more seconds,” you countered hungrily before eagerly diving in for seconds with even less reluctance.

Your fingertips brushed against the warmth of his cheeks, tracing the rugged contours of his face, as if committing every detail to memory for later satisfaction. Urgently, you pulled him closer, craving the taste of his lips against yours. Meanwhile, his hand claimed your waist possessively, pulling you closer as if afraid to lose the sensation, worried about ever feeling like this again.

At that moment, both of you seemed to devour the heat that the kiss ignited, a primal hunger burning with an intensity neither of you could deny. With each passing second, the world outside ceased to exist, leaving only the two of you locked in a passionate embrace that felt simultaneously fleeting and eternal.

“Hello…” the outsider sounded out. “Get a fucking hotel or something if you’re gonna get your dick wet, dude.”

The kiss ended abruptly with a hand on your shoulder roughly tugging you away from the scene. “Y/n, what the fuck are you doing with this guy?”

Your eyes shot back at Seokmin, catching the flash of anger in his gaze, but you didn't hesitate before firing back, “Hey, I was getting into that!”

“Excuse me, rock for brains. What are you doing making out with my Y/n?” Seokmin's voice dripped with venom and delusion.

Mingyu's eyes blazed with annoyance as he recognized the unwelcome intrusion that was Lee Seokmin. He had encountered the same-aged man more times than he cared to count, recalling their past battles for scholarships, facing off on opposite teams in various games, and every time Seokmin spoke, Mingyu felt himself recoil in disgust from the other's lack of sportsmanship. He wasn't a true soccer player; he merely kicked the ball around and messed about as if it meant nothing. The worst kind of colleague to have, and that was putting lightly.

"Excuse me," you interjected firmly, shoving your ex aside, "I am not yours."

Seokmin scoffed, his demeanor oozing with superiority. “Y/n, I told you your brother was going to the inferior school, and yet you’re macking with their biggest resident douchebags. I am beyond disappointed.”

“What does Yeonam have to do with this?” you asked, your tone tinged with offense at the implication.

Mingyu's gaze shifted toward you, a flicker of surprise lighting up his eyes as he began to piece together the puzzle. “Wait, Yeonam is your brother?” he echoed, comprehension dawning on him. His expression shifted into a mix of confusion and realization, a silent acknowledgment of his misstep evident in his befuddled expression that seemed to say, 'Oh, I fucked up.’

“Now that that’s cleared up, you’re about to get your fucking ass beat,” Seokmin spat.

Mingyu inflated his chest, adopting a confident swagger as he leisurely advanced toward Seokmin, his smug smile stretching across his face like a victorious conqueror. “What are you gonna do? All I need to do is hurl a ball at your nuts, and you’re down, buddy. Tears and everything.”

“That was you?” you exclaimed, now the surprised one.

Seokmin quickly tried to hush you, “Those were not tears! Something got in my eyes when I fell! You better watch yourself, Kim.”

“Or what?” Mingyu challenged, stepping closer, his eyes narrowing with determination.

You rushed to intervene, placing a hand on each of their shoulders. “Guys, this isn’t the place or the time. Let’s just cool down, okay?”

Seokmin's demeanor softened momentarily as he glanced at you. “You’re right, baby…or?”

Without warning, Seokmin swung a fist and landed it squarely on Mingyu's jaw, igniting an all-out brawl. Mingyu stumbled backward, clutching his face in pain as the crowd around them gasped, some even beginning to cheer, adding to the chaotic scene. Quick to recover, Mingyu retaliated, launching himself at Seokmin with a vengeance, delivering a blow to his ribs. You desperately tried to pull them apart, your voice drowned out by the noise of the onlookers.

Meanwhile, their tumultuous scuffle sent them careening from the face painting booth to the popcorn machine, narrowly missing poor Chan who was managing it. In the midst of the chaos, you found yourself tumbling headfirst into an innocuous display of cotton candy, the sticky sweetness clinging to your hair and clothes as you struggled to regain your footing.

As Mingyu and Seokmin continued to grapple with each other, they crashed into a stack of carnival prizes, sending stuffed animals flying in every direction. The crowd erupted in a mix of laughter and shock, drawing more onlookers by the second. Amidst the pandemonium, the distant blare of a security whistle signaled that your time to defuse the situation was running out.

Just as things seemed to spiral further out of control, your mother, the vice head of all things debutante, stepped in to intervene. "Stop it! Stop it! That’s quite enough," she exclaimed, her authoritative voice cutting through the chaos. She addressed you sternly, noting your involvement in the melee. "Y/n, this behavior is unbecoming and inappropriate! All of you! How could you let it get this far?"

Frustration simmered beneath the surface as you scowled, picking bits of food from your dress. Despite the urge to argue back, you held your tongue, unwilling to escalate the situation any further. Instead, you focused on composing yourself, brushing off the crumbs with an air of dignity amidst the carnival mayhem.

“The two of you are to leave the premises at once!” The head lady of the debutante society followed, her voice stern and authoritative as she lectured them like a disappointed parent. As Mingyu and Seokmin were escorted away, the carnival fell into a hushed buzz of gossip, with whispers spreading like wildfire about the dramatic altercation.

Meanwhile, you maneuvered through the crowd, attempting to blend in like a flock of pigeons amidst pedestrians, successfully avoiding the chaotic scene until you collided with a firm, warm body. Startled, you looked up to apologize, but before you could speak, their hand wrapped around your figure, steadying you. Meeting their eyes, you found a mixture of amusement and tenderness.

“Soonyoung,” you breathed out softly.

“There you are. You're here,” he claimed softly, a reassuring smile gracing his lips.

“Yeah, uh, a lot's happened,” you replied, feeling a wave of relief at his presence.

He took your hand, his smile growing wider. “You can tell me all about it once we get out of here.” 

[toruskiii]

I got you.

Synopsis: reluctantly going to a party, you're offered a drink by a persistent creep despite your refusal. But no worries, your best friend is there to help.

Genre: fluff (modern au!)

Character: Best friend!Blade x gn!reader

Warnings: mentions of alcohol, tension between you and Blade, partying, all characters mentioned here are as of age. Blade takes a hit (drink) for you lol. Reader wears heels.

Edit: holy shit I wrote this before I played hsr so this is very ooc whoops

[masterlist] [about me]

Both you and Blade were not ones to attend parties regularly. Instead, both of you often preferred the tranquility of your own dorm or the serene sounds of nature and music, rather than the cacophony of loud, unpleasant remixes of popular songs or the aroma of cigarettes and alcohol.

Despite the constant pleas from both Kafka and Silver Wolf for you and Blade to "live a little" and "socialize," the two of you reluctantly agreed. As soon as you both stepped foot into the party, the overpowering smell of alcohol and the unmistakable odor of someone's vomit assaulted your senses, causing you to cringe slightly.

"Oh god, this smells awful," you muttered to Blade, who nodded with a furrowed brow in agreement.

"Can we leave?" He glanced at the plastic red cups littering the floor, expressing his dissatisfaction with a grunt when someone accidentally bumped into him while walking past.

"We did promise Kafka and Silver Wolf we'd come. We can't back out now," you shrugged, feeling uncomfortable amid the overcrowded gathering.

"I'm gonna go and look for Kafka," you sighed, giving Blade's shoulder a gentle nudge. "Care to join?"

"I'll just stand in a corner," he replied, his expression deadpan as he surveyed the scene of inebriated youths. His hands instinctively delved into his pockets, retrieving his phone. "I'd rather not hunt them down either, or they'll rope me into playing pool or some other nonsense."

With a pout, you rolled your eyes and ventured into the sea of people. Navigating through, you murmured small apologies each time you bumped into someone.

The shitty TikTok blue lights only made it worse, casting an eerie glow and making it harder to avoid the random liquids (that you really hoped weren't more vomit or some other disgusting shit) on the floor.

"Where the hell are they?" you muttered to yourself, feeling increasingly lost in the chaotic party scene. Somehow, you stumbled your way into the host's kitchen, hoping for a moment of respite.

As you pondered your next move, someone tapped your shoulder, jolting you out of your thoughts. "Huh— Kafka— oh," you began, turning around to find yourself face to face with a stranger you've never encountered before. Arching an eyebrow, you tilted your head inquisitively. "Can I...help you?"

"Oh, my apologies. I didn't mean to startle you," the guy offered a small smile, shaking his head in understanding. You took note of his wavy brown locks and the plain button-up he wore, but your focus remained on finding your friends rather than anything else. "Are you looking for something? You seem lost."

Feeling a tad embarrassed, you chuckled nervously. "Oh, uh... I'm just trying to find my friends. Um... Kafka and Silver Wolf, you know them?"

"Ah, those two. I think I saw them at the ping pong table in the backyard," he replied.

"Thanks," you nodded dryly, averting your gaze. Just as you were about to leave, he spoke once again.

"Drink?" he smirked, holding out a cup of what you assumed was beer or something.

"I don't drink," you waved him off, feeling a little uncomfortable now as he pushed the cup towards you. "I'm not into alcohol, dude."

"That's a shame. It tastes good," he remarked, letting out a huff as he continued to hold out the drink to you. "It's actually a good thing to be able to tolerate alcohol, you know? It's useful for business parties and making friends."

You frowned, staring at him skeptically and then at the cup with uncertainty. Were you easily persuaded? No. But the way he was yapping right now made you feel the urge to just drink it and get it over with. However, you weren't foolish enough to do something so reckless. "I never said I had a bad tolerance, I just said I'm not into alcohol."

"Just a sip wouldn't hurt—" the man persisted, but before he could finish his sentence, a low voice interrupted.

"Thanks for the drink."

A chill ran down your spine as a hand appeared behind you, swiftly grabbing the drink from your shoulder. It then looped around your neck, pulling you into a loose chokehold. Your eyes widened in recognition and apprehension as you realized who it was.

"Blade—?" you gasped, feeling a mixture of surprise and annoyance as he continued to hold you in his grasp. His red eyes narrowed into a menacing glare, causing the other man to back off with a mumbled excuse as he hastily left the kitchen, leaving you and Blade alone.

"What the hell are you doing here? I thought you said you were gonna stand in a corner," you whined, lightly tapping Blade's arm to prompt him to release you. He simply shrugged, rolling his eyes before letting go and raising the cup to his lips.

"I was trying to find the toilet until I saw a shit-stained towel in the tub and lipstick smudges on the damn toilet lid. Lost my urge to pee," he grunted, taking a sip from the cup.

"Wait, don't drink that—" you nagged, suddenly worried that the drink might contain something harmful. But before you could finish, Blade turned around and spat out the drink into the sink, coughing in disgust. "Oh my god."

"Did he fucking pour apple cider vinegar in here? This tastes like shit!" Blade groaned, clicking his tongue in annoyance as he hurled the cup into the sink. "He sucks at hooking up ladies if he hands out godforsaken drinks like these."

"Stupid," you muttered, pinching the bridge of your nose in frustration as you rummaged through the kitchen, searching for a glass of water for Blade. "I thought you hated drinking. Why on earth did you do that?"

Blade wiped his mouth, turning on the tap to rinse his mouth with water. "Figured that if the drink did contain drugs, I'd be the best subject to test it on," he muttered, offering you a silent thanks as you handed him the glass of water.

"That's dangerous," you frowned, crossing your arms and watching him run a hand through his hair as he drank the water.

"I didn't want to risk you getting drugged either," he added quietly.

A moment of silence enveloped the kitchen, interrupted only by the corny music blaring in the background as the lights gradually faded to a deep red hue.

The two of you stood in the kitchen, with Blade hovering over the sink and you leaning against the counter, savoring the rare moments of tranquility.

Lost in your own thoughts, you zoned out, gazing downward and fixating on nothing in particular, longing for nothing more than to be back home.

Meanwhile, Blade stole glances at you from the corner of his eyes, his expression unreadable amidst the dimly lit ambiance.

"Let's just go home," he suddenly blurted out, swiftly washing the cup and stowing it away. "Screw those two."

You lifted your head to look at him, uncrossing your arms in agreement. "Yeah," you mumbled, feeling a wave of relief wash over you at the suggestion.

He noticed your discomfort, his gaze drifting down to the outfit you wore and the heels on your feet. "They hurt?" he asked, his voice barely audible over the blaring speakers.

Confusion clouded your expression as you struggled to hear him amidst the loud music. He sighed, gesturing towards your heels. "Your heels. Are they hurting your feet?" he repeated, more insistently this time. When you still didn't catch on, he groaned and suddenly dropped to his knees, his hands gently brushing against your calves as he lifted one foot.

"What the fuck—" you began, startled by his sudden action, your eyes widening in disbelief. "Blade!"

"Take 'em off," he mumbled, his voice softer now as he noticed a small bruise on the back of your ankle, evidence of the discomfort caused by your tight shoes.

"Dumbass! I'm not stepping out of here barefoot with all that disgusting shit on the floor!" you yelled, feeling your cheeks flush with embarrassment at the sight of him down on his knees for you. Your hands tightened their grip on the counter as you watched him slide off your heels.

"I'll carry you then," he retorted, his tone determined as he lifted you by the hips, effortlessly settling you on the counter so your feet wouldn't touch the grimy floor.

"You—" you began to retaliate, but your words fell silent as you were rendered speechless by his offer. "You..."

"C'mon," he urged, pursing his lips as he turned around, positioning himself for you to piggyback him. "You better get on before I change my mind. You know I don't do favors like this," he sneered, his tone teasing yet firm.

You gulped, feeling a mixture of nerves and gratitude as your hands trembled while gripping onto his shoulders. With shaky breaths, you wrapped your legs around his waist as you felt his hands slide under your thighs to support you, letting out a grunt of effort.

"...am I not heavy?" you whispered, your breath grazing the shell of his ear.

He shook his head, standing up straight now. The scent of his cologne somehow managed to calm your nerves as you rested your head against his shoulder, finding comfort in his embrace.

"No. I literally bench double your weight," he reassured you.

"No need to flex."

He piggybacked you through the crowd, disregarding the stares directed at him, while you felt awkward and embarrassed under the attention. He couldn't care less, knowing that most of the crowd was either too drunk to remember or too preoccupied with their own activities.

"Next time, just stay by my side," he whispered, finally stepping outside of the party.

"Mm...yeah, yeah," you yawned, your voice muffled by the softness of his jacket. "Thanks."

"And don't chug down the drinks next time."

"Yeah, yeah."

[literaryvein-reblogs]

100 Words for Worldbuilding

Some sensory words that can enhance your story/poem.

A-E

Acid - sour, burnt; vinegary

Acrid - strong, biting (e.g., something on fire)

Airy - natural smelling, (e.g., clean, fresh air)

Ambrosial - fragrant; having a pleasant smell

Aroma - strong, yet pleasant scent

Aura - smell surrounding something

Balm - soothing scent

Billowy - scent that surges and wanes

Biting - pungent, sharp or harsh

Bouquet - blend of floral scents

Briny - salty

Buttery - smooth; rich; greasy

Citrusy - crisp notes of any citrus fruit

Clean - very light scent, clean and natural

Cottony - soft; smooth or delicate

Creaky - squeaky; showing signs of deterioration

Crisp - fresh and natural

Crystalline - strikingly clear or sparkling

Dirty - nasty, unpleasant odor

Doggy - odor like an unbathed or wet canine

Downy - soft, soothing; silky; delicate

Earthy - recently dug or tilled soil

Essence - basic, natural scent

F-M

Faint - very light or mild; can barely be detected

Feminine - floral fragrances

Fetid - decaying or rotting smell

Fishy - smelling of fish; pungent, strong, unpleasant

Fleecy - shaggy; woolly

Floral - scents associated with flowers

Flowery - fragrance similar to flowers

Foamy - frothy; bubbly

Fragrance - pleasant smell

Fresh - natural smelling, rather than artificial

Fruity - having the flavor or aroma of ripe fruit; sweet

Gaudy - excessively showy

Gingery - pungent; sharp, robust taste or aroma

Globular - spherical

Gossamer - light, delicate, or insubstantial

Grainy - coarse; sandy; unrefined

Heady - very strong aroma

Incense��- strong scent

Lemony - tart, piquant citrus notes

Lilac - rich floral scent combining rose with vanilla

Lime - refreshing and zesty citrus smell

Loamy - fragrance with an earthy note

Masculine - earthy fragrances

Medicinal - earthy; often unpleasant

Mildewed - soaked in wetness that has gone stale

Minty - menthol-like smell (e.g., mint tea or peppermint candy)

Misty - mild fragrance, not overpowering

Moist - smell of dew or rainfall

Moldy - damp, fungus-like odor

Musty - old smell; stale and probably moldy

N-R

Nauseating - odor that makes one sick to the stomach

Odorize - changing the scent

Overpowering - too strong of a smell

Peppery - hot, pungent, fiery; stinging

Perfumed - artificial fragrance, not natural-smelling

Pheromone - natural scents

Piercing - loud, shrill; biting

Pine - crisp, refreshing evergreen smell

Piquant - pleasantly pungent, sharp, or spicy taste

Plastic - artificial chemical polymer odor

Poignant - pungently pervasive; piercing

Prickly - stinging; irritating; itchy

Pristine - fresh and clean as or as if new

Pungent - strong fragrance

Putrid - stench of decay

Rancid - spoiled; food that has gone bad

Rank - offensive in odor or flavor

Redolent - having a strong, permeating odor

Repulsive - off-putting odor

Rich - strong, resounding smell that is appealing to the senses

Ripe - brought by aging to full flavor or the best state

Rose - spicy yet sweet fragrance

Rotten - spoiled, rancid, unpalatable

S-Z

Savory - spicy, salty scent that has no elements of sweetness

Sharp - pungent fragrance that permeates the air

Skunky - noxious smell that lingers; sulfuric (like rotten eggs) odor

Smoky - scent of burning wood

Soapy - smooth and slippery

Sour - rancid, sickly sweet smell

Spicy - sharp, heady, can sting or tickle the nose

Spoiled - rotten; something that has “gone bad”

Stale - old, dusty, stagnant odor

Stinking - unpleasant, foul smell

Sweaty - perspiration odor

Sweet - sugary smell

Tangy - having a powerfully stimulating odor or flavor; acidic

Tantalizing - arouses or stimulates desire or interest

Tart - sharp fragrance or taste

Tasteless - arousing no interest; dull

Tempting - having an appeal; enticing

Trace - a tiny amount of fragrance

Velvety - soft, smooth, thick, or richly hued

Vinegary - sour; disagreeable, bitter, or irascible

Whiff - a fleeting scent

Wispy - hint of fragrance in the air

Woodsy - forest-like smell

Zesty - sharp and pleasantly stimulating

Sources: 1 2 ⚜ More: Worldbuilding ⚜ Word Lists ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs

[mikoyamisheadcanonblog]

Happy Birthday, Sanji!!

🍳Sanji🍳

Word Count:1201

You frowned as you stared at the recipe book and disastrous plate right in front of you. Something went wrong while you were cooking, actually, maybe a few missteps while cooking. Easy mistakes as you tried to reassure yourself with each mistake it was easy to fix, but they weren’t and just added to the already disastrous dish.

Cooking wasn’t your forte, but you had been practicing during your free time with Sanji to learn to cook for this night. It was a lot of fun as he taught you the skills you needed, unknowingly as he helped you prepare for his birthday surprise. A surprise you messed up.

You glanced at the picture and back at your dish, it didn’t look as nice as the picture or even close. Not only it didn’t have the sweet, but zesty aroma it would usually have if Sanji was the one to cook the meal. You frowned trying to figure out what went wrong and how to fix it.

“I could add more salt?” You questioned reaching for the salt but instead grabbing cumin. You stared at the recipe book throwing a pinch of ‘Salt’ into the dish before mixing the seafood pasta.  It started to smell alright you could only hope it tasted as good.

--

Sanji frowned as he started another cigarette and watched as the ship left the dock of another island. His birthday had been special, more than he could ask for as the crew. The crew kept him busy as they wandered around the village, Nami buying him a little trinket, and Ussop, and Chopper kept him busy by taking him to a tea shop. And Luffy and Zoro share a couple of sakes with him. Each member of the crew had little gifts or celebrated with him in a special way all but one….his lover.

When he asked about his lover’s whereabouts everyone had different answers or avoided the question altogether. It was honestly a bit annoying; he had planned a special birthday with you wanting to take you out on a special date to celebrate his birthday. He had found a special romantic restaurant that included ballroom dancing and soft music. But the Straw Hat Crew kept him completely distracted and busy.

Anytime he did see you walking around the village before he could even call your name, he was pulled away or you would run away from him. It was almost like you were avoiding him and the crew was in on it. He sighed leaning on the railing of the “Thousand Sunny” and blew out another puff of smoke. The light from the only warmth he got on the cold night. In another couple of hours, his birthday would be over, and he had yet to celebrate with just you.

In the morning you had wished him a happy birthday and gave him a simple kiss before breakfast, but he didn’t see you for the rest of the day. Was his relationship with you over? You had been mad when cleaning his bookshelf and finding his porn collection, but that ended with both flipping through the pages and giggling.

He sighed brushing his fingers through his blond locks and frowned wondering what went wrong since he last saw you. He lost the reservation for the dinner, not like it mattered you had avoided him all day before he could invite you. His only birthday wish was to spend one and one time with his lover unfortunately it seemed like it wasn’t going to happen.

“Hey Curly Cook,” an unpleasant voice rang in his ear. “Luffy is hungry you better start cooking something. Zoro said behind him he took a swing of sake he got from the kitchen. He was grumbling under his breath ignoring the glare from the blond cook and went back to training.

Sanji sighed enough self-pity, he told himself. If his lover decided not to celebrate his birthday, he would be fine with it as long as he still had them in his arms by the end of the night and they still accepted his love then everything would be fine. After all, birthdays weren’t really special just another year of celebrating getting older.

He walked into the kitchen ready to make food for his captain but stopped when you were standing there in the kitchen putting some final touches to the dining table. You paused and glanced at him and gave him a shy smile as put the candle in the middle of the table.

“Hey,” you waved to him before turning to the table, “Happy Birthday sorry it is so late,”

Sanji watched as you fidgeted standing in place and continued with your nervous habit that you did when you were usually nervous. He stared at the seafood pasta you created, there was a bitter and burnt scent that filled the room.

“You made me dinner?” he asked a bit surprised. He walked to the table to stare at the food. You had made his favorite seafood pasta. He smiled at you before turning to you capturing her lips and kissing your lip. “I thought you were avoiding me,” he said.

“No,” You shook your head, “I was trying to make you dinner,” you had gone shopping earlier in the day and planned on making a cake but you left giving up on even attempting to make the cake and went and bought one.

Sanji pulled out a chair for you before he took a seat next to you and grabbed your hand, “I am excited to try,”

You gave him a nervous smile before you helped yourself to a good fork full of pasta. Your reaction was to spit it out. It was worse than you expected. You glanced at Sanji who was taking another fork full of the pasta and eating it.

It was terrible, the food was burnt, the pasta was too soggy, and was sure you mixed the wrong spices a few times but to him, it was the best meal he ever had. He smiled as he stared at you and took another large bite.  But it was the best pasta he had ever. All because you made it.

“It could use a little work,” he said, “but I love it,” he had worse a lot worse. He moved your fingers to his lips and left a light kiss. “Best birthday present ever,”

“I bought the cake,” You laughed giving him a reassuring smile.

---

The Straw Hat crew stood outside of the kitchen door, Nami peeking inside watching the two celebrate a birthday dinner.

“They look so cute,” Nami said, “Good job bringing him to the kitchen,” she told Zoro. They had been tasked with keeping Sanji out of the kitchen all day and keeping him busy and it worked successfully for the most part.

“Whatever,” Zoro grumbled.

“I am hungry,” Luffy complained sitting crossed leg on the floor and pouting. He had almost ruined the surprise a few times during the day calling out to you a few times he saw you in the village.

“I got you something,” Robin said handing some extra rice balls to Luffy.

[moonriver080]

【Funny Story Time】

I wrote an article for my 6 pictures

I tried to machine translate a paragraph and modify it.

But it's too long. I give up.

During Links meal breaks, the chains sometimes share anecdotes from the past to improve their understanding of each other ......

Well, sometimes it's not so much the anecdotes that are shared as it is the puzzles or the creepy pasts that are shared on reflection. (And some people seem to enjoy it.

It was a spring-flowery afternoon, and the sun was just right, and mixed with the sweet aroma of the chef's well-cooked courser milk soup, it had to be said that it was a very good soothing respite for Links, who had just finished a hard-fought battle, both physically and mentally.

Everything was just right, so Warriors let his guard down and picked a conversation that had left him a bit exhausted for the next week (Oh! Don't get me wrong, it was actually quite an interesting process and development /grin/)

Huh, how could he be blamed, after all the Warriors, who was more social than the other Links, was relatively adept at grasping the melodrama of the atmosphere, knowing when to be quiet and when it was better to have a chat.

They all understood that the team was, with the exception of certain ones, clamshells that had come to life one by one. (Or maybe some of the outgoing ones are actually clamshells.) (Aha! A new way of flirting with oneself is born.)

Anyway, this is why Warriors wave his spoon smugly (like a tiny flag): "...... When we triumphed, the streets were filled with petals and ribbons, and people clustered in the streets and upstairs and on the rooftops, and though, trampled by the war, both the roads and the .. were somewhat depressed ...... Well! That part doesn't matter now!"Warriors stirs the soup and takes a small sip (any more and we won't be able to start a conversation today, Wild, the

boy's food is gaggingly good), "...brave soldiers walk the streets of Castle Town, their footsteps without the thunder of applause that rises up at the first moment, and my beloved Epona kicks and stomps (and here it's being torn apart by sunlight) down the stone streets, edged in gold, and the streets are filled with the most beautiful and beautiful things in the world.My beloved Epona was kicking and stomping along the stone streets edged in gold by the sunlight (glared at by a certain few here), flowers were thrown from all over the place to send blessings to the soldiers, and the fallen flowers covered the whole road, Aaannnnnd!Of course~ I received the most bouquets of flowers~ No matter which way I looked, the screams were like the rising of the tides that rose up and down, and went on and on and on~"

Warriors grunts and laughs as he speaks, lifting his bangs and skimming the ends of his hair.

Gee, he's always showing off his hormones that have nowhere to go.Legend smacked his lips on his spoon, the delicious food immediately soothing his prickly nerves caused by the teasing, but ......

Putting aside some of his "preconceptions", Warriors was indeed a strong general with leadership qualities, and under the circumstances, it was only natural that he would be welcomed to protect the people, lead the soldiers, gather the divided world, defeat Ganon, and bring safety to the people.With this in mind, Legend picked out the fruit in the soup and took a bite.Looks like he's popular, that's really good. Well, yummy.

(Wild has fine-tuned for everyone's tastes, the golden apple chunks added late in his bowl are soft, crunchy and sweet after micro-cooking, rich in flavor, he had asked for some seeds long ago, but Wild said that this golden apples are produced by probability,. Hummm, Legend who is the hottest apple supplier in Hylia and Loria' smiles but does not say anything.)

But ......Legend chewed another bite of apple chunks, looking at him like this is really unpleasant ah.Legend was disgusted by the image that appeared in his mind of Warriors riding horses and throwing flying kisses to stir up a cheering crowd of cold shivers, ah, can not think about it, a little stomach.[I'm not sure if this paragraph is translated correctly (because I read it myself as if something was wrong, but I don't know what went wrong).]

The Chef of Peace, who had been listening to the story since a moment ago and had somehow become a bit dazed, came back to his senses and looked at Legend, who was blushing a bit darkly, in puzzlement.

【If you want to know the full text, let me know, and maybe I'll translate it intermittently.】

Eggs①: (Three photos taken by Wind) (Price:?)

Confused by the first delivery of the bouquet

Link)

(Link, who was surrounded by civilians, gave flowers and scattered petals to celebrate shyness and cover his face)

(Link who was frightened by the enthusiasm of the people and hid in the Zelda King)

Eggs②:

A week later, another tea break.

Wars looked at Time, who was being chased and intercepted, and drank a cup of sweet and sour fruit tea contentedly.

Offensive and defensive potential is also different, sapling, soldiers are not tired of cheating, plan and then move, is also for the trick. (Completely strung together.)

Wind? Wind curled his lips as he held a small part of the empty cookie bag. Wars really held a grudge.

[princesspenguin-1]

What about Illumi having a tea party with his daughter?

Tea party

(Haha yes! I've thought of something like this before, so here it.

I kept the name a secret because I really don't know what name to come up with. Lol)

The sun was high in the sky, which was a rarity near the Zoldyck household. The girl's wide-eyed gaze followed her father's expression as they stopped at the entrance to the house. Her request to have a tea party was unexpected for Illumi. His eyebrows rose and a surprised sound escaped his mouth.

"Oh? A tea party?.. Hmm.. Okay, I guess we have some time for that."

The girl smiled slightly triumphantly, inspired by how Illumi's mother sometimes spent time with Kalluto drinking tea in the garden, she also wanted to spend time with her father.

After a while, everything was ready, the servants did their best to make everything as good as possible at the request of the young lady. In the luxurious garden, there was a garden house for sunny days like this. The table was set with porcelain, sweet snacks were lying nearby and the pleasant aroma of tea was in the air.

Illumi sat with his legs crossed, watching the colored liquid beautifully glitter in the sun's rays and the steam slowly rising upward.

The little girl settles herself comfortably on the chair and stretches her hands out to the cup, inhaling the scent.

The girl takes the cup, takes a careful sip, and immediately winces, abruptly putting the cup back on the table.

"Ugh! Is this medicine? Why is it so spicy?!"

She looks at Illumi with an expression of hope, as if he will now confirm that this is some kind of mistake.

Illumi maintains his usual composure, he lifts the cup, takes a sip, and places it on the saucer with a small thud.

"This is ginger tea. It is good for your health."

He explains calmly. The daughter, still wincing, mutters.

"Healthy should be tasty! Why should I drink this?"

Illumi slightly raises an eyebrow, as if thinking, but then answers:

"We drink what is needed. The taste is not important.

She frowns and says:

"Then you drink it yourself!"

She pushes herself away from the table and touches the back of the chair, crossing her arms over her chest and looking offendedly to the side.

Illumi calmly moves the cup towards her:

"If you learn to accept unpleasant things now, it will become easier in the future. Drink."

The daughter pouts for a long time, but probably takes another sip under pressure from her father and immediately makes a face of displeasure.

In order to somehow interrupt the taste of tea that she did not like, she reached for the cookies with her hand, which stood so enticingly on the plate and attracted her attention. The hand picked up two whole pieces that were stuck to each other and as soon as she brought them to her mouth, one of the cookies fell to the ground. The girl first looked at it, and then looked up at Illumi.

"Dad, it fell and.. it's dirty. Can you fix it?"

Illumi just looked at her silently, taking a sip of hot tea.

"There's no point in fixing something that's lost its value."

She looks at the cookie thoughtfully and takes a bite of another, but later secretly picks it up on the table and whispers to herself.

"It'll still be delicious for the ants."

Illumi seemed to sigh heavily. It irritated him that she was distracted by such trivialities.

"Drink tea. You wanted it so much, didn't you?"

"Yes, yes..."

She nodded in agreement, but her desire to drink something that was so tasteless overpowered her. The decision was made to try pouring the tea into the grass, but Illumi noticed it without even looking.

"If you want to be strong, learn not to run away from trivialities."

After her violent reaction to the ginger tea and a short "lesson in patience" from Illumi, the daughter sits at the table with her arms crossed, looking at the cup with the air of someone who is fighting a great injustice.

Her behavior irritated him, Illumi took a small spoon in his hand and scooped sugar from the sugar bowl several times, poured it into her cup and stirred it thoroughly to soften the taste, moving the cup closer again.

She sighs, realizing that she will have to drink it, but taking a sip, she notices that the taste was more balanced.

"It tastes better this way?"

"Oh... Yes! Now it’s not so terrible. But still disgusting..."

It seems that this time she was happy, finishing her tea and finishing she raises her head and with a satisfied smile says:

"Dad, I like sitting here with you, as if I’m an adult. But I still don’t want this tea anymore. Let’s have a different one next time? Maybe a flower one?"

Illumi, a little surprised by her reaction, but nods in agreement, glad that he can finally spend time in silence with her more than once.

"Okay. Flowery taste..."

Illumi looks at the remains of tea in the cup, he allows her to be a little naughty at such moments, but he accepts her childish whims as part of her growth and hopes that it will soon go away, but he also does not miss the opportunity to teach her something in his strict manner. Although the tea party was not without instruction, the daughter is happy that she fulfilled her little dream.

[chicaboom-chic]

Come to Grandpa- Old! Vito Corleone x Reader. 18+

I’m sorry for anyone who read this, I cannot keep the monster inside me contained. 😥

The room smells of mothballs, whisky, and cigarettes. It’s not the worst thing you've ever smelled, but honestly, it dulls the romance in the atmosphere, romance that was already questionable, dry, and devoid of any life.

Speaking of which. You think as the door whips open with a creak, he here is. You can smell and hear him before you see him coming; labored breaths and a musty stench that mingles with the odd aroma already in the air. It makes the small office feel more danker than usual.

“Vito.” You turn around, greeting him with the brightest smile you can muster. He smiles back as he approaches your seat, flashing his yellowish teeth. It takes a while for him to approach you. When he does, you stand up intending to to help him to his seat but he swats your hands away gently, but not before kissing them. You wince. 

Always the gentlemen.

“You look beautiful,” He says as he settles on the other side of the desk. His old eyes rake over your form that is encased in a tight black dress. He licks his lips, dribbling a bit. 

Gross.

“Thank you.” You say out of obligation. Your stomach rolls in disgust. 

Why is it always the old ones?

You make small talk with him for a couple of minutes. You listen to him drone on and on about the grandchildren from his thuggish children. He even holds up a photo of his youngest, Michael, with his child. Now Michael seemed like an interesting man; a rich, attractive, interesting man. 

“How lovely,” You say sweetly. Inside You’re screaming.

Hurry up, old man. 

It takes a while but the Vito finally finishes his yap fest and beckons you over. You stand up instantly and make your way towards him. You sink to your knees in front of him. You unbutton his pants with swift hands and yank down the boxers beneath. You are mildly disappointed to find a half erected cock, it makes work so much harder, but you’ve dealt with worse.

You begin by jerking him off slowly, carefully; wouldn’t want his heart to give in so easily. Vito is soon grunting, and his breaths become even more labored. 

“My dear, please.” Vito coughs.

You roll your eyes, looking down at his hardened cock. Your displeasure and disgust increase tenfold as a wave of what smells like goat's cheese hits you, it is permeating near his withered-up groin, congregating near his wrinkly balls.  The waft hits you in the face. It almost makes you gag. You push down the feeling as your head is simultaneously being pushed towards the tip of his cock.

Oh, Well. Bottoms up.

You swallow his cock completely. The taste of sweat and dried urine floods your mouth.

It doesn’t take too long for Vito to finish, that’s the beauty of sucking off old guys; their stamina is bust. Vito pulls you off before he can finish, and his cum promptly splatters on my face, unpleasant but it’s better than swallowing a load of stringy-cheese sperm. Vito attempts to wipe it off my face but you pull away and wipe it off yourself. 

You allow him to help you up from the floor. He’s musing about how beautiful you are now. It is fueled by the afterglow of his climax and now he won’t shut up about spending a weekend with you in a resort or somewhere tropical. You play along as you open your purse. He places generous wads of cash into your purse. It is the only real joy you derive from this tryst.

 You close the purse with a slam and make an excuse. You practically rush to the door. The taste of sweat and urine lingers in your mouth but at least you’re six thousand dollars richer.

I love to ruin people’s days with my stories. Hehe, hope you enjoyed.