#with polish and italian roots

[blackhillverse]

no one:

me: i hate poland but also i will make all of my comfort characters, including maria hill, polish in one way or another so i can relate to them even more.

[seospicybin]

TASTE.

CHAPTER I

Lee Know x reader. (s,a)

TASTE MASTERLIST

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Enter Lee Minho.

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

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

Only time would tell.

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Someone’s taken his seat.

You.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Minho follows, his interest piqued more than ever.

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But you don’t.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I'll be working,” you simply answer.

“What time you get off work?”

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

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

“Around midnight.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

“Who is he?”

“Is that the new head chef?”

“He looks... intense.”

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

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

“This is Chef Lee Minho.”

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

One by one, the staff steps forward.

“Seo Jun, Sous Chef, Meat Station.”

“Ha Yura, Sous Chef, Pasta Line.”

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

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

“I'm in the pasta Line.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, chef!” Everyone responds in unison.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Seungwan swallows hard. “It was a mistake—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

But Minho notices.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

“Morning,” she mutters, her voice hoarse.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thanks,” Minji murmurs, finally looking up.

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Vongole!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

Chef Choi Sara.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Recognize this?” he asks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sara looks away, her silence speaking volumes.

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You stay silent for a moment before nodding.

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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[mapsontheweb]

Indoeuropean languages in Europe

Historical Roots: The Indo-European language family is believed to have originated in the Eurasian Steppe around 4000-2500 BCE. From there, groups of speakers migrated to various parts of Europe, contributing to the linguistic diversity of the continent.

by hunmapper

Language Diversification: Indo-European languages in Europe have evolved into numerous branches and sub-branches. Some of the major branches include:

Romance Languages: Descendants of Latin, including French, Spanish, Italian, Portuguese, and Romanian.

Germanic Languages: Including English, German, Dutch, Swedish, and others. Slavic Languages: Such as Russian, Polish, Czech, and Bulgarian. Celtic Languages: Including Irish, Scottish Gaelic, and Welsh. Hellenic Languages: Mainly Greek. Baltic Languages: Such as Lithuanian and Latvian. Indo-Iranian Languages: Including Hindi, Bengali, and Persian. Cultural Significance: Indo-European languages have played a pivotal role in shaping European culture, history, and literature. Greek and Latin, for instance, have had a profound influence on science, philosophy, and the development of the Roman Empire.

Language Revival: Some Indo-European languages in Europe, such as Irish and Welsh, have experienced language revival efforts in recent decades. These efforts aim to preserve and revitalize languages that were declining in usage.

Language Contact: Due to centuries of contact and migration, many Indo-European languages have borrowed words and phrases from each other. This phenomenon, known as linguistic borrowing, has enriched the vocabulary and expressions of these languages.

[chained-sweater]

my up-to-date headcanons of TO (the curtis gang)

⇆ㅤ ||◁ㅤ❚❚ㅤ▷||ㅤ ↻ 𝓃ℴ𝓌 𝓅𝓁𝒶𝓎𝒾𝓃𝓰. . .

· ponyboy "pony" curtis

- gender : amab → identifies as demiboy

- sexuality : bisexual (no preference)

- ethnicity : polish/irish roots (mother and father's side)

- pronouns : he/him

—

· steve randle

- gender : amab → identifies as male

- sexuality : bisexual (no preference)

- ethnicity : german/french (german on father's side, french on mother's)

- pronouns : he/him

* * *

—

· dallas "dally" winston

- gender : amab → identifies as male

- sexuality : bisexual (male preference)

- ethnicity : russian w/ scandinavian roots (father had a scandinavian mother and russian father. mother was russian.)

- pronouns : he/him

—

· johnny cade

- gender : afab → identifies as transgender male

- sexuality : gay

- ethnicity : mexican/italian (mexican on mother's side and italian on father's)

- pronouns : he/him

—

· sodapop curtis

- gender : afab → identifies as genderfluid

- sexuality : bisexual (female preference)

- ethnicity : polish/irish roots

- pronouns : he/him (or she/her if feeling more fem)

—

· keith "two-bit" mathews

- gender : amab → identifies as genderqueer

- sexuality : straight ally

- ethnicity : irish/french canadian (irish on mother's side, french canadian on father's.)

- pronouns : he/they

—

· darrel "darry" curtis jr.

- gender : afab → gender dysphoric, but currently identifies as transgender male

- sexuality : gay

- ethnicity : polish/irish roots

- pronouns : he/him

[■■■■■■■■■■] 100%

[st4rsh4rds]

Some Headcanons of the characters of Peachyville

Trudy Trout

- She always loved the holiday season, especially because of all of the pretty lights

- She has some Irish and Icelandic blood in her family and is proud of her roots

- She was very competitive when it came to athletic activities but always a good sport!

- Her favorite kind of books were ones on Social Issues like ‘All Quiet on the Western Front’ and ‘The Jungle’

Kelsey Grammer

- She enjoys to teach English and History, her favorite things about these subjects was Spelling and Grammar for English and The Civil Rights Movement for History

- She used to struggle a lot with her Dysgraphia as a child and so what she would do is read and write down the words and definitions of things from the dictionary (I used to do that)

- She was never the best at anything inherently feminine and she was bullied for it until she got in Boxing

- She is obsessed with learning about her family history and has found that she is Polish and Swedish and comes from a long line of people who fought in the Military

Tony Collete

- He found him self drawn to cars because as a Cat, he once seen the Mille Miglia and fell in love

- He grew very fond of the real Tony Collete and loved him like a Son

- Although he also loved his Fathers, He never felt as connected to them because they were the ones who had turned him into a cat

- He finds that him being an Italian Immigrant in the 50’s won’t do him any good and that maybe if he did what others do to him, they won’t do it to him so much

- Bonus: He’s Pansexual and Intersex with xyyy chromosomes (Pansexuality was coined in 1914 and Intersex was coined in 1917)

Francis Farnsworth

- Francis grew up whitewashed, even with a Thai mother and Puerto Rican father, He has tried many times to change himself to seem like everyone else

- Due to his Financial situation and His Family’s Beliefs, He was never able to get Diagnosed with ASD or BPD

- He has an intense fear of being wrong, being born wrong, doing something wrong and this fear had taken over him so much that the only way he was able to ignore it was by self pleasure

- He experiences some bit of self-hatred towards himself for a lot of things but also because of his Bisexuality

Blake Lively

- The first time he’s encountered some form of racism was he first went to elementary school and a teacher had planted alcohol on him

- He used to help his Family with money, mostly by doing odd jobs for people in rich neighborhoods

- He and Tony both met in Dewer, Oklahoma where they had some shenanigans before moving to Peachyville, Nebraska

- He’s the only one who knows of Tony’s Backstory as a Cat

[boinin]

The dust has settled on Ubers versus Bastard Munchen. Any of us rooting for the Italian side have had to reconsider our theories for the PXG match. It's now being pitched as a battle of the NEL titans, rather than the scrappy underdog match-up some of us were hoping for.

I'm still excited for PXG v BM, as it means we'll get a definitive victor. Not just for the NEL, but for Blue Lock. It'll be either Isagi or Rin, just like in the U20 match.

But beyond that, there's a couple things I'd really like to see addressed. Namely around the master strikers... and the enigma that is Julian Loki.

Loki was introduced much earlier than his colleagues Lavinho, Chris Prince or Snuffy, preceded only by Noel Noa.

Unlike the other masters though, Loki is seventeen. Younger than many of the kids he's coaching... everyone but Rin and Nanase, so far as we know.

Given the other master coaches appear to be at minimum in their mid 20s to late 30s, Loki must have something extremely special going for him to be selected over another player... because whatever way you look at it, his age and inexperience pose a significant red flag.

You should not ask a seventeen year old to monitor a training camp for other teenagers. Come on. I bet Anri was banging her head off a desk when Ego informed her of this decision.

Anyway, building on this train of thought, Loki must have some heft both as a player and a coach to secure this gig. We know he's talented, from the World 5 game (third selection). We also know he's the "top rising star", at least in the French league. But why on earth was he chosen to be a master coach? Is it just to sell BLLK TV subscriptions?

Despite his relative inexperience, there's something about him that puts him in the same league as Noa, Snuffy, Prince and Lavinho, as both a player and a mentor. The question is, how will they establish this?

I have a vague prediction that would sell how good a coach he's been.

Each time so far, the Star Change System has been invoked by the opposing coach. Namely, Lavinho, Prince and Snuffy. Noa's never been particularly happy about it.

Imagine a scenario where PXG are destroying BM, as a result of their disjointed teamwork.

Rin has blown through their defence twice to score, and BM are visibly losing hope. Isagi's spilling puzzle pieces everywhere trying to come up with a countermeasure. But he needs time to think.

Right about then, if Noa decided to substitute on through the Star Change System... it would serve as a powerful commentary.

If resident frigid bastard Noel Noa has to row in to support his team, that says a lot about how well Loki has coached his players.

Does this overly rely on the PXG team's innate talent? Kinda. But you could say say the same for BM and Noa, who's managed to coax fantastic performances from his team in spite of his supposed hands-off approach. We only see things through Isagi's perspective. It's possible Noa's coached the others (such as Jin and Neru) off screen.

In essence: BM have raw talent, about the same as PXG. But the coaches are the ones who've polished it to a killer sharpness. You could argue Barcha were such pushovers because of Lavinho's refusal to refine their footballing early on. Manshine held up better, but like Lavinho Prince let his own narcissism get in the way against BM. Ubers were the hardest to beat, because Snuffy trained all of his players evenly.

So yeah: speculation for now, but I'm curious to see how they're going to justify Julien's placement as a Master Coach. Here's hoping we get some insight during the downtime chapters.

[jewish-vents]

There’s something that has troubled me for awhile…there are a lot of calls online to take Aliyah, and I get it, I really do. I can understand the draw especially with more observant, visibly Jewish people because the targeting has become horrific. The fear is growing, and we are all looking back at history and getting generational Deja vu in a really traumatic fashion. And while I feel zero pressure to move to Israel atm…

But for Jews in the diaspora, I always wonder if there are any that are proud of where they are from, that identify with it as much as they identify being Jewish. We all have been raised to have Israel and Jerusalem in our heart and our soul. But I am as American as I am Jewish. Between both sides of my family, my blood has been in America for close to 150 years (my father’s side is 120, my mother’s side is closer to 150). If you put a picture of any natural landscape in Israel or the skyline of Jerusalem or Tel Aviv with a skyline of my home city and the Adirondacks or the Appalachian mountains, my emotional pull will be towards the latter set of pictures.

I can’t see myself ever moving to Israel. I feel that if my ancestors wanted to go back to our collective roots, they would and they’d brave the tyranny of the Ottomans and the British Occupation along with the genocidal hostility of the Arab nations. But they came to America, so I am American born and bred, as are my parents and my grandparents and my maternal great grandparents.

And I wonder, are there any other Jews that feel this way about their country? Any fellow Americans, any British, Canadian, and Australian Jews? Are there Jews in Europe and South America that feel the same? Where they will always support Israel and its right to exist, but they can never imagine living there and can only see themselves living in the country they are currently from?

I will always support Israel’s right to exist. But I am American as much as I am Jewish, so I will support from across the Atlantic.

anon, I want you to know your feelings are valid, you shouldn't be pressured to make an Aliyah for any reason, just because Israel is a Jewish country doesn't mean all Jews must live there or want to live there.

in Israel, it's a pretty common question to ask people for their ancestry (for like ice breakers), and a lot of people will be able to tell you exactly where their grandparents are from, even if they have a very mixed ancestry. for us, where we came from is not something to be erased, it's a major a part of who we are. we're not just Israeli we're polish, iraqi, yemenite, moroccan, russian, italian, ethiopian, hollandi (dutch?), sabra, etc.

I can't talk for Jews in the diaspora, I believe there would be many people who share your feelings, but I can tell you most Israelis would probably understand your pride in your ancestry.

- 🐬

[saintsenara]

I really want to hear your thoughts on the wizarding world. So I have a question about British wizards' language skills. Canon tells us very little about British wizards and their relationship to languages. We know that Fleur, Victor and Madame Maxime can speak more than one language. (They are not British). However, we do know that there is at least one British wizard who speaks several languages. Percy and Ludo say that Barty senior speaks over a hundred languages. So, do you think British wizarding society has a general opinion about learning languages or is it more about what class a wizard is born into or what their future career plans are? After all, Hogwarts doesn't teach languages to students. I'd also like to hear your thoughts on these characters and their language skills. Do you think they can speak more than one language? Voldemort (parseltongue doesn't count), Dumbledore, Barty jr and Bill Weasley.

thank you very much for the ask, anon! and what an interesting question!

in harry potter, language-learning is one of those things which - since it's not a key aspect of the story - ends up not having any specific worldbuilding. and so it's one of those parts of the books in which the wizarding attitude towards foreign languages just seems to be exactly the same as the real-world british one.

which is - like everything in britain - enormously rooted in social class, and in things [like race and ethnicity] which intersect with this.

you will often hear, for example, that the working-classes don't bother learning foreign languages - but what is meant by this is that working-class people don't choose in large numbers to become proficient in the specific western european languages [french, german, italian, and spanish] which signify that someone is well-educated, culturally-sophisticated, and mentally non-parochial to the british cultural and intellectual elite. working-class people may very well speak one of these four languages - especially african and caribbean dialects of french - as native or heritage languages, and they may very well speak urdu, yoruba, albanian, polish, turkish, and so on for the same reasons... it's just that this isn't recognised as something impressive.

but it is certainly true that language-learning for reasons other than heritage generally isn't considered to be particularly important in class-brackets below a certain threshold in the middle-middle- to upper middle-classes.

partially this is for boorish, parochial reasons which align with certain strains of political and social conservatism. uncle vernon, for example, would regard language-learning as woke nonsense and be horrified if dudley came home from school and asked to be given loads of italian novels for his birthday... he would have a similar reaction if his son announced his intention to start playing the violin, take ballet, write poetry, become interested in impressionist painting, or eat the local food while on holiday.

[the grangers, in contrast, appear to come from the europhile wing of the upper-middle-classes - and would, therefore, regard it as horribly parochial to only speak english. we know they go on holiday to france in prisoner of azkaban - and i think we can imagine that this isn't the first time they do so, and that hermione and her parents can all speak conversational french. indeed, if hermione was privately educated prior to starting hogwarts - and all signs point to yes - she would have studied french at prep school.]

but british monolingualism is also partially because the global hegemony of english means that being able to speak anything else isn't crucial for travel, employment, or - indeed - emigration, since brits who aspire to move abroad often want to go to places like australia and new zealand.

and so language-learning has become - like music - an academic subject which seems to be thought of by many brits as "not a key skill" - unlike, for example, something like maths. nice to have if you've got a grip on everything else, but not a necessity... and so, for british children who are educated in state schools [public schools in the us], foreign languages are only compulsory for three school years [years 7-9, the equivalents of years 1-3 at hogwarts]. some schools insist on a language being taken at gcse [exams taken at the end of year 11 - hogwarts year 5, what owls are a pastiche of], but this is not mandatory.

[although it was at my school. slay.]

so it makes sense within this cultural context that there are no languages on the compulsory hogwarts curriculum - the intended audience isn't expecting there to be.

[although it's worth saying that ancient runes - while i know it has a whole fanon surrounding it which makes it a sort of spellcasting system - is a pastiche of latin/classical greek as school subjects, so there is at least one elective language students can study].

of course, it makes less sense that this is the case when we remember that jkr did french at university... and it also makes less sense that this is the case because hogwarts is based on real-world institutions - britain's elite boarding schools - which do prioritise language-learning, since the students come from class-backgrounds which value multilingualism as a signal of cultural status.

[seriously - while i accept that this is anecdotal - it was so striking to me when i was at university that all but three of the thirty-or-so people i ever met doing a degree in a foreign language, whether a european language or not, was privately educated. add in classical languages and that ratio gets worse.]

but i think we can get around this by noting that hogwarts is set up in a way which presumes that its entire student body has had a wizarding primary education - and not only that, but an elite one [since hogwarts does, even if this isn't the doylist text's intention, seem to apply some sort of selection process which means that students who aren't from well-heeled backgrounds stand out enormously]. and then by presuming that the primary curriculum which someone like draco malfoy would have studied [at home, probably with a governess] would have included some sort of language tuition.

i imagine that this tuition would be in a muggle language - non-human languages [like mermish or gobbledegook] seem to be regarded as sufficiently "niche" in the eyes of the population that they wouldn't be taught as a general skill, but either learned in one's own time or as part of the training for specific careers, such as goblin liaison; the fact that barty crouch sr. speaks so many just for fun is a way canon hints at him being a bit... weird - and i imagine that this muggle language would be french.

this is not, however, because i go in for the fanon that all purebloods are of recent french heritage and retain close family connections in france [names like malfoy and lestrange are anglo-norman - which means they arrived in britain a thousand years ago with william the conqueror, and are as meaningfully english as the word "beef" or "monarchy...], but because french is generally considered the most "useful" language to learn in britain because france is literally next door.

[irish is sobbing.]

when it comes to the characters you specifically asked about...

lord voldemort's pre-hogwarts education is a bit of a mystery - in that the fact that the text isn't concerned about fleshing it out means that he ends up being far better educated than would normally have been the case for a child of his background [simply by virtue of not being functionally illiterate...].

even if he went to a moderately well-resourced school by random chance, though, he's extremely unlikely to have formally learned any foreign languages. but the fact that the most common fanon locations for the orphanage are parts of east london which had historically large jewish communities in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries means that he'd have had a fair chance of picking up snippets of yiddish while he was wheeling and dealing around each day. east london also had a large irish community, and if the orphanage is a catholic one [which doesn't really work canonically but which is a headcanon i'm nonetheless wedded to], then he'd probably also have a bit of latin.

once he's at hogwarts, i presume he must take runes [since he's heavily implied, like all male characters the series considers to be intellectually brilliant, to have taken twelve owls]. nonetheless, while he's clearly a nerd - and while he loves a language puzzle, since he spends his teenage years coming up with an anagram of his own name [...] - he has a slightly harry-ish preference in canon for only enjoying lots of flicking-through-books research if it's for a tangible goal [i.e. opening the chamber of secrets]. i can't see him scouring textbooks in an effort to teach himself the european languages his posh friends would have learned at home unless he thought doing so would be unequivocally beneficial to him.

indeed, we canonically know that voldemort can't speak german, since when he's on his hunt for gregorovitch in deathly hallows a woman speaks to him in that language and he just defaults to the british standard of speaking louder in english... and i think we can reasonably assume on these grounds that he can't speak french either.

but he must be able to speak albanian fluently - simply out of necessity, since he spends so much time in the country.

and it's also interesting to me that during his ten years in europe after murdering hepzibah smith [so c.1955-1965], he is implied to spend a lot of time in communist europe, even if not in countries which were fully behind the iron curtain [he must, for example, meet karkaroff - and potentially dolohov - in some part of the eastern bloc, and the bulgarian delegation at the quidditch world cup know who he is]. i think it's entirely reasonable to suppose, then, that he must also be able to speak some level of russian.

dumbledore - on the other hand - can probably speak french, german, and italian, which would have been expected of the sort of late victorian young man who was preparing to embark on a grand tour, and which he undoubtedly taught himself in order to keep up his correspondence with the "most noted magical names of the day" [including grindelwald, to whom he probably spoke german].

i also quite like the idea of him as the sort of late victorian orientalist who crops up again and again in british history, who speaks a language like hindi, arabic, or ottoman turkish with a cut-glass english accent.

the various non-human language he speaks in canon - such as mermish - are presumably also self-taught, and the question which preoccupies me the most in relation to these is whether dumbledore can speak parseltongue?

after all, we know it's a language which can be learned by non-parselmouths - since ron manages to speak it in deathly hallows - and so it must have an actual structure rather than just be vibes. and if dumbledore can't understand it, then what the hell did he think was going on in the memory of the gaunts he shows harry?

barty crouch jr. was definitely forced to have endless lessons with tutors hired by his father, who wanted him to match his two hundred languages, but then forgot everything he knew about mermish the second he started school.

i am sure that - even if he doesn't seem to be able to during the canon timeline - bill weasley learns how to speak french fluently the second the war's out of the way. since this is a basic courtesy if your partner and her family is from france.

i am also sure that the three delacour-weasley children are raised to be bilingual, and that they take great pleasure in bitching about the three potter-weasley children to their faces.

the more interesting question, though, is whether bill can speak any gobbledegook.

it's implied that he might through his job - and he's asked in order of the phoenix about whether there's any pro-voldemort talk among the goblins at gringotts, which suggests that he's known to be able to understand any gobbledegook chit-chat he overhears. but it still always strikes me in deathly hallows that the imperialism really jumps out when bill's speaking to harry about griphook:

“I know goblins,” said Bill. “I’ve worked for Gringotts ever since I left Hogwarts. As far as there can be friendship between wizards and goblins, I have goblin friends - or, at least, goblins I know well, and like.”

this really doesn't sound like a man who takes the time to speak to his "friends" in their own language...

the fact that even the good guys treat non-human magical communities with - at best - paternalistic contempt is a really noticeable theme in the series [and, crucially, something which the series doesn't seem to think is a particularly bad thing]. and so i quite like the idea that someone like bill would have a lack of ability to communicate in gobbledegook, and that this would never be something he interrogated.

[graveltrapping]

Debutant | new and novel

Female Marc Márquez

Previous | Next

Uccio doesn’t really care the first time it happens.

Why would he? Valentino was back at Yamaha, he had an incredible opening race,  and to top it off they were all currently at a very nice restaurant with good food and even better drinks. The stake he was eating was perfectly done and just a tiny bit bloody while the wine that had been paired with it was beautifully rich. Music, low and soothing, was playing in the background and melded with the chatter that seemed to come from every corner of the room. It was a quiet night at the establishment and so far no-one had come up asking for photos or autographs. Everything was good.

Everything would be even better if Vale sat back down.

The table they were sat at, tucked int the corner of the rustic restaurant, was draped in a pristine white table cloth and dressed with fine shiny silverware that glittered whenever the hanging lights overhead caught them, the glasses were the same. Polished and pristine, they glittered like crystal. The several plush chairs that had been set up around the table were filled mostly by friends with the occasional Yamaha team member but the seat near the head of the table was empty and pushed back messily, half sticking out into the servers isle before it was tugged back in by the man sitting beside it. The drink that had been ordered sat untouched by an empty dinner plate.

Valentino himself was on the other side of the room.

Uccio can see the exact reason why.

Mar Marquez had walked into the restaurant with a smile and loud laughter, giggling at something her younger brother had said, dressed in some jeans and an oversized dark red t-shirt. Her hair was wild, black coils spilling out of the short little ponytail setting at the nape of her neck. She could of disappeared in the group she was with. Smaller than the rest, most of whom were Honda engineers or family, they orbited her like she was the sun. Rooted firmly at the centre of their attention, she was unmissable even in the hustle and bustle as they were seated at a table near the bar at the back of the room. Vale hadn’t taken his eyes off her.

He had simply said “I’ll be back” and strutted across the room.

He was on her now. Standing behind her chair and head leaned down to talk to the table, both hands planted firmly on her shoulders in a touch Aleccio would consider a bit over familiar. He would consider Mars own touch even more so. Her hands had come up as soon as Vale touched her, palms smoothing over his knuckles before her hands smoothed downwards so she could curl her fingers around his own. Holding him there. Valentino didn’t seem to care, just squeezed her tighter and said smoothing funny that had the whole table breaking out into loud laughter. Marquez had laughed as well, loud and distinct, her curls brushing his throat. Mar had then said something that had the Italians attention almost immediately. Her head was tilted back, cupid bow mouth moving a mile a minute, and Valentino had to pull back a small bit to look at her properly with how close he had been.

His hands remained.

“What do you think he’s saying” Alessio couldn’t held but asked the men around him. He sipped the wine, and winced when it went down a little less sweetly.

“Probably just congratulations.” Mattia hummed as he took a long sip from his own glass “She did good in Qatar”

More laughter echoed from the spaniards tables and they watched as Vale shook hands with several Honda engineers and the brother, Alex, who looked a mix between in awe and intimidated.

Tommas a scoffed slightly “Nearly knocked him off his bike”

Mattia smiled “Ah, she’s a rookie, she’ll learn”

“Learn what?” Daniel quickly put in his own two cents as he watched Vale pull a seat up beside Mar “How to kill someone properly? She’s been pulling the same shit since 125ccs and will continue to do it until she actually throws someone off their bike”

Mar at this point was pointing out several people at the table Uccio didn’t recognise as Vale reached out to shake their hands. They were either family or part of her Moto2 team that she had brought with her up into the new class.

“I thought you liked her” Mattia hummed. He scratched his stubble and shared a look with Uccio who just sipped his drink and cut viciously into his stake.

“I do!” Daniel defended, hands raised, as a flush rose to his face “Its just…”

“Just what?” Alessio couldn’t help but chuckle, knife scarping against the plate “She got you tongue tied, batted her lashes at you and knocked those thoughts out of your fat head?”

Tommas laughed loudly this time “Think she’ll hear you, crash into you instead, run you over coming out of the box?”

More laughter raised around the table as Tommas gripped Daniels and shook him slight, pinching his flushed face meanly. Uccios grinned around his mouthful of food.

“You could ask her to kiss it better after though!”

“Shut up.” Daniel huffed as he slapped the older mans hands away from his still pink cheeks “She’s good, alright, but she just…, just not careful!”

“Who’s not careful?”

Valentinos voice had several mouths snapping shut with clicks and several others taking deep swigs of fine red wine. Tommas grinned particularly broadly as Daniel slumped in his seat, not looking at Rossi and instead focusing intently on his half eaten carbonara. The Italian pulled out the chair he was originally in, fancily carved feet dragging against the floor, and dropped down heavily. He was grinning. He was also holding a glass of white wine he had taken from the spaniards table. 

Those clever blue eyes jumped from person to person before settling on Uccio, brow raising.

Uccio stole a glance back over Vales shoulder.

Mar had her back to them, ponytail now undone, but almost sensing the eyes on her she threw a glance back over her shoulder. Her gaze didn’t go to the man looking at her, no, it zeroed in on Valentino and lingered there. Dissecting, intense, measuring him up even. Her attention was stolen by her brother a moment later. Alex said something that had her laughing, her whole body curving towards him as her head tilted backwards. Valentino glanced backwards at the sound.

Something rankled in his gut, but he gave Vale a carefree grin and decided to just enjoy the rest of his night rather than mull over a thought that deserved a more sober mind.

“Nobody”

He wasn’t much more sober when it happened a second time.

This time they’re at a team diner, everyone sat a the table exclusively Yamaha staff while the tables dotted around them are filled with the rival teams that inhabit the paddock. The tables are draped in similar white cloths, the silver is still shiny, and the glasses are just as polished. Sure the wine wasn’t as nice and they’re were no stakes on the menu to order, which is probably for the better considering how many people there were in the room, but the food that is available is still nice. Was. He had lost his appetite actually, belly flipping at the sight of what was happening across from him in full view of Yamaha head staff and who knows how many photographers that had bartered themselves an entry pass or invitation.

Valentino had pushed his chair about a meter away from the table he was sat at, abandoning his food and drinks and any chance of talking about early contract extensions, and twisted had himself at a full 180 so his back was to them all.

Mar had done the same to her own table.

The Honda team had taken their seats at the dressed up table directly beside their own, with the girl being pushed to take the seat nearest the front and across from Pedrosa who she had been chatting too when they entered. Her attention was quickly stolen by Valentino however, when he turned in his chair to poke at her back to get her to turn around. She had startled slightly, curls bouncing, but the smile she had given was broad and nearly blinding when she realised who had tapped her. Her hair was down, ends curling around her jaw, and she was dressed in a dark pair of jeans and a black button down shirt that seemed a bit tight across the shoulders and arms. The pair had exchanged a few words throughout the night after that, chatting on the way to the bar or simply passing by when talking to others, but they had seemingly fallen into a rabbit hole of conversation the moment food was served. Both pushed way from their tables and blocking a full passage between the tables, they were both staring at Valentinos phone.

He had pushed his chair out, leaning back on its two hind legs to shake Mars shoulder, and had beckoned her closer while pulling out his phone. She had gone easy, her crew chief visibly rolling his eyes when she abandoned their conversation to scoot her chair backwards and press as close as decently possible. Uccio couldn’t hear what they were talking about, the room large and full of echoing voices, but they were both engrossed in it completely. Mar was fixated on Vale, watching both his phone and as his free hand moved through these fluid motions of curving and bending around what Uccio could only guess was a race track.

Was he explaining a racing line he took? Was he critiquing a turn she had over shot? Was he dissecting her first premier class win.

Uccio didn’t know.

What he did know, however, was that Valentino was completely engrossed in the conversation he was having to the point of ignoring the literal holders of his contract. Sure, early contract extension was basically already completely assured by Valentinos name alone but security and term adjustments were always able to be changed and tweaked even in the early stages, to just get ahead of the curve. He could do as he always did. Talk, joke, charm the ass off of every person at the table and firmly cement himself back into the foundations of Yamaha. Take back the place Lorenzo was trying to fill.

Instead he was talking to the girl.

He shouldn’t really be too surprised. Vale had always made an effort with rookie riders, even supported young drivers coming up through the feeder series, but this was just…, god he couldn’t even think properly. He took long sip of his wine. It was fine, really, she was a fellow rider and rival. But she was also a girl. He couldn’t just take the liberties that he usually did with other riders but Vale, as he always was, just didn’t seem to care. Uccio needed him to. She was a novelty at best, extremely bad press at worst. Bad thing by association and Uccio wasn’t really willing to risk anything after two long and hard years at Ducati.

He supposed Vale could see those thoughts on his face when he finally rejoined the table.

“ We are supposed to be talking about business” Was the first thing he said to him. Thankfully they were seated side by side so Alessio could speak to him discreetly without drawing attention and making his problem anyone else’s.

Vale just grinned and grabbed his wine glass “You’re talking about business”

“Cause you’re talking to her”

“Yes”. Unashamed. Smug, maybe?

“Vale”

“Uccio”

A moment of silence passed between them. 

Valentino wasn’t stupid, he knew what Uccio meant the moment their eyes met. 

Mar was the first woman in the premier class of the sport, she was new and novel and basically every single eye in the motorsport world was fixated on her every moment of her career and, by extension, every person she interacted with. Everyone she looked at, spoke too, touched. Everything was under a lens. Picked apart by team members, reporters, and fans alike. All vultures in some way or another. She was sweet, yes, a pretty pr face but her riding was aggressive and left so many angles of criticism open but she just didn’t seem to care. Just smiled a shrugged everything off. It all still hung around her though. Every comment a reporter or fellow driver made followed her presence closely even as she moved rapidly up though the series, snatching championships with that aggressive and mean driving that people used as a gateway to criticising Mar and everything else she was. Everything she could be. 

Valentino didn’t need that shit on his plate right now.

But Valentino just grinned and took a long draw of his wine.

[flagwars]

Vexillological Association Flag Wars: Round 1

Welcome to the Vexillological Association Flag Wars! This tournament will focus on the flags of any association dedicated to vexillology, or the study of flags. This includes both active and inactive organizations. The first vexillological organization is the North American Vexillological Association, which was founded in 1967 by Whitney Smith, who created the term “vexillology.” Most of the organizations in this tournament are members of the International Federation of Vexillological Associations (Fédération internationale des associations vexillologiques), which is an association of 53 flag organizations.

This tournament will feature the flags of organizations from every continent except for Antarctica. Let me know in the comments if you are a member of any of these associations and which flag you are rooting for! See the brackets below.

Round 1:

1. State Council of Heraldry at the Parliament of Georgia vs. Great Waters Association of Vexillology vs. Chesapeake Bay Flag Association vs. Transylvanian Heraldic and Vexillological Association

2. Heraldica Slovenica vs. Czech Vexillological Society vs. Indian Vexillological Association vs. Vexillological Society (Singapore)

3. Catalonian Vexillological Association vs. Bulgarian Heraldry and Vexillology Society vs. Manitoba Vexillological Association vs. Nordic Flag Society

4. Flag Institute vs. Rotterdam Flag Parade Foundation vs. Genealogical Society of Ireland vs. Institute of Heraldry and Vexillology (Poland)

5. French Society of Vexillology vs. Flag Data Center vs. Vexillological Association of Kansas City vs. Thai Vexillological Association

6. International Federation of Vexillological Associations vs. Vexillological Association of the State of Texas vs. Italian Centre of Vexillological Studies vs. Russian Centre of Vexillology and Heraldry

7. Japanese Vexillological Association vs. German Vexillological Association vs. Dutch Association of Vexillology vs. Society of Genealogy, Heraldry and Archivist "Paul Gore"

8. Belgo-European Studies Center for Flags vs. New Zealand Flag Association vs. North American Vexillological Association vs. New England Vexillological Association

9. Partioheraldikot r.y. vs. Macedonian Heraldic Society vs. Bandiere Storiche ONLUS vs. Institute of Genealogy, Heraldry and Vexillology (Lithuania)

10. Flag Society of Australia vs. Polish Vexillology Society vs. Flags of the World vs. Hungarian Flag Society

11. World Vexillological Research Institute vs. Belgium Vexillology Society vs. Hong Kong Vexillology Association vs. Swiss Society for Vexillology

12. Breton Vexillology Society vs. Corporación Nacional de Vexilología de Chile vs. Florida Vexillological Society vs. Heraldic Society "The Clover Leaf"

13. Vexillological Research Center of China vs. Foundation Interdisciplinary Center for Cultural Studies vs. Southern African Vexillological Association vs. Flag Research Center

14. Flag Heritage Foundation vs. Portland Flag Association vs. Spanish Society of Vexillology vs. Flag Insitute of Utah

15. Ukrainian Heraldry Society vs. Canadian Flag Association vs. Argentina Vexillology Association vs. Croatian Heraldic and Vexillological Association

16. Seattle Association of Vexillology vs. Burgee Data Archives vs. Gamecock Flag Association

[kookie-doughs]

Evermore

Dracule Mihawk X Reader

-Your evermore with Mihawk is a story to be told

Chapter 2: I Never Needed Anybody In My Life, I Learned The Truth Too Late

Time flowed like a gentle stream within the walls of Mihawk's grand castle, carrying with it a sense of familiarity and routine. The initial weeks of your stay had seen you seamlessly settling into the rhythm of life there, each day bringing a new layer of understanding between you and the enigmatic swordsman.

In the expansive library, you sat on the polished marble floor, nestled between Mihawk's legs. The soft rustling of pages turning mingled with the occasional sound of your voice as you shared snippets of your reading with him. His presence was a constant, a comforting backdrop to the world of words and stories that enveloped you both.

"Did you know," you began, your voice breaking the silence like a delicate melody, "that in the ancient tales of the North Blue, there's a legend of a sword said to be imbued with the power of the winter winds?"

Mihawk's eyes remained fixed on the pages before him, his tone nonchalant. "Indeed, legends often take root in the echoes of truth."

Your lips curled into a playful smile as you continued, undeterred by his lack of overt engagement. "They say that the sword's blade is said to shimmer like ice in the moonlight, and its strike can freeze even the mightiest of flames."

Mihawk's lips curved ever so slightly. "An intriguing concept, if one considers the intricate craftsmanship that could give rise to such a blade."

As the afternoon sun cast a warm glow through the library's arched windows, you found yourself entranced by the book further, your conversations serving as a bridge between two souls who communicated as much through silence as they did through speech.

Eventually, the passage of time prompted a change in rhythm. Mihawk closed his book, his gaze meeting yours with a knowing glint. "It seems hunger has taken its toll. Shall we prepare lunch?"

Your eyes lit up, and you rose to your feet with an eager nod. "Yes! Yes! I'll help."

The journey to the kitchen was a delightful interlude, your steps echoing through the castle's corridors. Mihawk's imposing figure moved with an effortless grace, his strides long and purposeful. And yet, you couldn't help but notice the subtle smile that tugged at the corners of his lips.

In the cozy warmth of the kitchen, you moved with practiced ease, gathering utensils and ingredients. Mihawk's attempts to send you back to your previous activities were met with playful defiance, your determination unwavering. "No way. I'm here to help, and that's final."

With a bemused sigh, Mihawk conceded, and together, you embarked on the task of preparing lunch. The kitchen buzzed with activity as you chatted animatedly, your words flowing like a lively river.

"Pasta, again?" Mihawk remarked, his voice tinged with mock exasperation.

You giggled, unfazed by his tone. "Of course! You can't expect me to go a day without my favorite dish, can you? You have to make sure you keep them in stock!"

As the pasta boiled and the aroma of the sauce filled the air, you went on a gleeful tangent about the different types of pasta, the history of Italian cuisine, and the importance of always having pasta in stock.

Mihawk's gaze softened as he observed your enthusiasm, a faint smile gracing his features. "Very well, I shall endeavor to keep an ample supply of pasta on hand."

Your grin widened. "You better!"

As the final touches were added to the meal, Mihawk glanced at you with a mixture of amusement and fondness. "You truly have an uncanny ability to make even the simplest things fascinating."

You beamed at him, your heart swelling with a sense of pride. "That's the magic of pasta, Mihawk."

As the meal was savored in the castle's elegant dining hall, the unspoken bond between you and Mihawk seemed to envelop the space, transcending words and actions. Amidst the shared laughter and the clinking of utensils, a connection had blossomed—one that defied expectations and brought together two souls who had once been strangers.

And as the meal drew to a close, Mihawk's gaze met yours, a hint of mischief dancing in his eyes. "In a few days, we shall venture beyond the castle."

Your curiosity piqued, you leaned forward. "Oh? Where are we going?"

Mihawk's lips curved into a knowing smile. "I have yet to figure that out but, were going out to acquire not just pasta but also clothes and other essentials."

Your eyes widened with a mix of surprise and excitement. The prospect of leaving the castle, of venturing into the outside alongside Mihawk, sent a thrill through your veins.

~

The candles flickered, casting dancing shadows upon the tapestries that adorned the walls. The aroma of a sumptuous feast wafted through the air. Mihawk calls for his guest to join dinner

As the duo settled into their seats, Mihawk's gaze flickered between the two. "I thought it would be a good opportunity for us to share a meal together."

Perona, who had materialized at the doorway with her characteristic flair, let out an audible groan. "Ugh, not pasta again!"

Mihawk shuts her complain, "Consider it a delicacy, Perona."

She pouted, her incorporeal form floating toward the table. "You always say that, but I'm pretty sure I've had enough pasta to last me a lifetime."

Zoro, his usual stoic expression in place, took his seat and shot a wry glance in Perona's direction. "Just eat it, Perona. It's not gonna kill you."

Perona scowled at him, her annoyance palpable. "And you! You're the last person I want to hear from."

Mihawk's gaze shifted between the two of them. "Let us try to have a peaceful meal."

As the plates were served, the trio began to partake in the feast that had been laid before them. The clinking of cutlery against plates was accompanied by the soft murmur of conversation—a harmony of voices that resonated through the hall.

Perona's displeasure with the pasta seemed to be outweighed only by her distaste for Zoro's presence. "You know," she began, her tone dripping with sarcasm, "I've been stuck with marimo over here for a while now, and let me tell you, it's been a real treat."

Zoro rolled his eyes, unfazed by her remarks. "Yeah, yeah, I know you can't stand me. You don't have to keep reminding me."

Perona made a face of exaggerated disgust as she toyed with her pasta. "And I can't believe you're actually eating that. You'd probably eat anything."

Zoro's response was nonchalant. "It's food. What's the big deal?"

Amidst Perona's grumbling and Zoro's retorts, the meal continued. Finally, as the last bite was taken and the meal drew to a close, Zoro pushed his plate aside and offered a genuine smile. "Thanks for the food."

Perona's annoyance seemed to waver for a moment, replaced by a begrudging acknowledgment. "Yeah, I guess it wasn't as terrible."

Mihawk inclined his head. "Perhaps, Perona, you'll find that new experiences can sometimes lead to pleasant surprises."

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[v-e-l-v-e-t-g-o-l-d-m-i-n-e]

Lestat and Armand + Kisses

"No, no, my dearest one," he was whispering, "nothing but peace and sweetness and your arms in mine."

"You know it was the damnedest luck!" I whispered suddenly. "I am an unwilling devil. I cry like some vagrant child. I want to go home."

Yes, yes, his lips tasted like blood, but it was not human blood. It was that elixir that Magnus had given me, and I felt myself recoil. I could get away this time. I had another chance. The wheel had turned full round. - The Vampire Lestat

In a way, he made me think of a child doll, with brilliant faintly red-brown glass eyes—a doll that had been found in an attic. I wanted to polish him with kisses, clean him up, make him even more radiant than he was.

“That’s what you always want,” he said softly. His voice shocked me. If he had any French or Italian accent left, I couldn’t hear it. His tone was melancholy and had no meanness in it at all. “When you found me under Les Innocents,” he said, “you wanted to bathe me with perfume and dress me in velvet with great embroidered sleeves.”

“Yes,” I said, “and comb your hair, your beautiful russet hair.” My tone was angry. “You look good to me, you damnable little devil, good to embrace and good to love.” - Memnoch the Devil

We made our own small clearing, among the volcanic black roots and rather cool winter earth. The breeze from the nearby lake was brisk and clean, and for a moment there seemed little scent of New Orleans, of any city; we three were together, and Armand asked again: “Will you tell me what you’re doing?” He bent close to me, and suddenly kissed me, in a manner that seemed entirely childlike and also a bit European. “You’re in deep trouble. Come on. Everyone knows it.” The steel buttons of his denim jacket were icy cold, as though he had come from some far worse winter in a very few moments of time.

We are never entirely sure about each other’s powers. It’s all a game. I would no more have asked him how he got here, or in what manner, than I would ask a mortal man how precisely he made love to his wife. - Memnoch the Devil

I rose finally. I went back to him and I looked down at him.

Gabrielle said something to me. It was harsh and mean. I didn't actually hear it. I heard only the sound of it, the cadence, that is, as if her old French, so familiar to me, was a language I didn't know.

I knelt down and I kissed his hair.

He didn't move. He didn't change. I wasn't the slightest bit afraid that he would, or hopeful that he would either. I kissed him one more time on the side of his face, and then I got up, and I wiped my hands on the napkin which I still had, and I went out. - The Vampire Armand

At twilight, I rose, straightened out my clothes and returned to the chapel. I knelt down and gave Lestat a kiss of unreserved affection, just as I had the night before. I took no notice of anyone and did not even know who was there. - The Vampire Armand

Armand suddenly began to weep.

“Don’t do it, don’t trust him,” he said. “Lestat, he’ll just destroy you. And if you are gone—.”

Ah, such sweet words from one who only hours ago had been cursing me with his every breath.

[...]

Time to go.

The shrill ring of a glass phone startled me. Kapetria calling to assure Gregory that Rhosh’s fortune had been given back over to him and all the conniving tentacles of her internet reach had been withdrawn.

“For the last time,” Armand whispered. “I beg you—.”

I kissed Armand and rose to my feet. I embraced Gregory. - Blood Communion

[mariacallous]

A Russian political influence campaign is shaking up Europe, as top officials warned Moscow paid European Parliament members to interfere in the upcoming EU election.

"This confirms what we have suspected: the Kremlin is using dodgy outlets pretending to be media [and] using money to buy covert influence,” European Commission Vice President Věra Jourová told Brussels Playbook, calling the revelations “very troubling.”

The scandal broke when the Czech government on Wednesday sanctioned a news site called Voice of Europe, which Prague said was part of a pro-Russian influence operation. Belgian Prime Minister Alexander De Croo said Thursday that Russia had approached EU parliament members (MEPs) and "paid [them], to promote Russian propaganda.”

The new Russian influence campaign comes with less than three months to go before the European Parliament election on June 6-9. It echoes concerns of corruption and foreign meddling brought to the fore by the Qatargate corruption scandal that rocked the European Parliament less than two years ago.

"We can't afford to be one step behind Putin and his propaganda army on a chess board ... We have to constantly bear in mind he will use the disinformation and foreign interference as a weapon to divide Europe," Jourová said.

The influence scandal revolved around the website Voice of Europe. The Czech foreign ministry sanctioned Ukrainian oligarch Viktor Medvedchuk, an ally of Russian President Vladimir Putin, as well as Voice of Europe itself and a person called Artem Pavlovich Marchevskyi presumed to be involved in the operation.

Medvedchuk was running a “Russian influence operation” from Russia on Czech territory using Voice of Europe, authorities said in a statement.

“This decision is in the security interest of the Czech Republic, as well as contributing to the protection of the democratic nature of the forthcoming elections to the European Parliament,” the Czech foreign ministry said.

Polish security services said Thursday they had carried out searches as part of the cross-border investigation in Warsaw and Tychy in western Poland, Reuters reported. Local media cited the security services' statement saying authorities had seized €48,500 and $36,000. Poland's Internal Security Agency's website has been down since Thursday evening.

Voice of Europe’s YouTube page throws up a parade of EU lawmakers, many of them belonging to far-right, Euroskeptic parties, who line up to bash the Green Deal, predict the Union’s imminent collapse, or attack Ukraine. There is no suggestion that those appearing on the network accepted cash.

The website has its roots in the Netherlands, Dutch daily NRC reported. An entrepreneur linked to the site at the time “worked with” far-right leader Thierry Baudet in 2016 “to bring about the Ukraine referendum,” the paper wrote, referring to a non-binding vote in which Dutch voters opposed a political association agreement between Ukraine and the EU. 

Voice of Europe’s website was unavailable on Thursday and its account on X hasn’t posted since Wednesday.

"It is just a bitter joke to call this operation of Russian interference the 'Voice of Europe' but it shows clearly the level of despise Putin has towards our democracies," Jourová said.

The claim that MEPs were paid to speak up for the Kremlin has raised questions about who might have taken the cash.

A spokesperson for European Parliament President Roberta Metsola said in a statement: “The president is aware of the allegations being made and is looking into specific allegations.”

Italian European People's Party lawmaker Matteo Gazzini, who gave Voice of Europe an interview and participated in a panel debate alongside other MEPs, denied being offered or taking any money.  

“Of course not, what a question is this?” he said. “It makes me laugh when you ask me if I got money from Russia … because I come from a very well-off family,” he said, adding that he is an agricultural and real estate entrepreneur who is only in politics to serve his country.

Asked about his comments on a Voice of Europe panel in which he said that Europe should not have the goal of defeating Russia, and instead focus on finding a path to peace in Ukraine, Gazzini said he condemned the invasion and that Russian troops should leave Ukraine. “At the same time, Europe should not help to escalate the situation,” he said.

He also blamed the European Parliament for letting Voice of Europe into the institution, where he said they first approached him. “If they are such a big threat, why [did] the European Parliament let these journalists inside? Why didn’t they check them?” he asked.

His EPP colleague Dennis Radtke, from Germany, said that Gazzini’s membership of the political group “has to be discussed.” Gazzini joined the EPP this year from the far-right Identity & Democracy grouping, having quit his League party to join Forza Italia.

“It underlines my skepticism with former members of Lega and the ID. Whoever is involved in this Russian network has to face consequences ... We have to defend our democracy and the integrity of our political institution,” Radtke wrote in a message.

A senior EPP group official said: “The EPP stands clearly and firmly on the side of Ukraine. We have been fighting against Putin‘s propaganda and disinformation for years and we will continue to do so.”

The S&D group joined others in calling for an urgent debate.

[gtimlinfilmfestivals2023]

First Lecture:

During our first lecture, our tutor (who is Artistic Director/Co-founder for the film festival Cinecity) introduced us to the concept of film festivals, and added vital context for us to understand why they exist, why they're so important in the film industry, and how they impact on audiences with their outreach. As well as this, throughout our lectures we learnt about Cinecity, a film festival local to us in Brighton, and how it cultivates new, underground talent by providing them an outlet for their creations.

What kickstarted these? Venice Film Festival, the oldest film festival in existence, which started in 1932. 

Founded by Giuseppe Volpi, a member of Italy’s National Fascist Party.

Has evolved far beyond its roots associated with fascism, such as its discontinuation of the Mussolini Cup (named after dictator Benito Mussolini, awarded to Best Italian Film and Best International Film) in 1943 and its distancing from the control of fascist organisations such as the Nazi Party and the Fascist National Federation of Entertainment Industries, under the direction of film theorist Luigi Chiarini (1963-1968). 

Has evolved in terms of content displayed. Amid the backdrop of World War II, the Nazi propaganda film Heimkehr, which advocated for the ethnic persecution of the Polish population under Hitler’s Aryanism, received special commendation from Italy’s Minister of Popular Culture, a role only used during the war. Meanwhile, in 2000, the Iranian film The Circle, underpinned by its narrative scrutinizing/reflecting the harsh conditions (both minor and major) faced by women in contemporary Iran, won the Golden Lion that year (the highest honour at the VFF), reflecting how far the festival has come from its origins, and how the media curated for these festivals has both adapted to and been moulded by the times.

Film festivals play a vital role in the proliferation of media within the film industry, both in terms of production and consumption. Their worldwide expansion has led to an increase in diversity for filmmakers regarding genre, meaning and stylisation, and this in turn has led to a broader scope for audiences, letting wider groups of people explore the medium as well as creating new meaning for newer groups to fit with the issues of today. 

The uptick in digital technology in recent years has benefitted both parties; filmmakers now have a wider, near-limitless marketplace in which to advertise their projects, and audiences now have increased accessibility to increasingly versatile locales through the consumption of international media right at their fingertips. 

Stemming from this, film producer Roya Rastegar stated that this technological proliferation “has created a crisis in curating – an urgent need to filter these productions and connect with audiences” (Screen, Volume 53, Issue 3, Autumn 2012, Pages 310–317). This links to my final point about why these festivals are important: they allow for filmmakers who would otherwise go unnoticed to instead broadcast their works on a larger, more welcoming stage, and network with not just other people in their situation, but also with those who are more experienced and rooted within the industry. It also allows audiences to enhance their niches, giving them a more varied look into films as a whole and giving them the opportunity to experience thoughts and have conversations that they couldn’t normally have from watching mainstream cinema.

[nightsidewrestling]

D.U.D.E Bios: Ida McDougall

The Cyhyraeth Duchess of C.R.C Ida McDougall (2020)

The eldest daughter of Deirdre, and second eldest granddaughter of Naoise, Ida. An Irish-Catholic woman living in Wales and an attentive and sympathetic mother. Ida is one of Kirby's first cousins once removed.

"Some days I really could scream my scream lungs out."

Name

Full Legal Name: Ida Elain Ffion Briallen McDougall (Née Llewellyn)

First Name: Ida

Meaning: Derived from the Germanic element 'Id' possibly meaning 'Work, Labour'.

Pronunciation: IE-da

Origin: English, German, Swedish, Norwegian, Danish, Dutch, Italian, French, Polish, Finnish, Hungarian, Slovak, Slovene, Germanic

Middle Name(s): Elain, Ffion, Briallen

Meaning(s): Elain: Means 'Fawn' in Welsh. Ffion: Means 'Foxglove' in Welsh. Briallen: Derived from Welsh 'Briallu' meaning 'Primrose'.

Pronunciation(s): EH-lien. FEE-awn / FI-awn. bri-A-shehn

Origin(s): Welsh. Welsh. Welsh.

Surname: McDougall (Née Llewellyn)

Meaning: Variant of 'MacDougall', which means 'Son of Dougall' in Gaelic. (Llewellyn: Derived from the Welsh given name 'Llywelyn', which is probably a Welsh form of unattested Old Celtic name 'Lugubelinos', a combination of the names of the gods 'Lugus' and 'Belenus', or a compound of 'Lugus' and a Celtic root meaning 'Strong'.)

Pronunciation: mack-DO-gall (loo-EHL-in)

Origin: Scottish (Welsh)

Alias: Cyhyraeth Duchess, Ida McDougall

Reason: This is Ida's ring name

Nicknames: None

Titles: Mrs

Characteristics

Age: 27

Gender: Female. She/Her Pronouns

Race: Human

Nationality: Welsh

Ethnicity: White

Birth Date: November 5th 1993

Symbols: Banshees, Cyhyraeths, Ghosts, Crowns

Sexuality: Straight

Religion: Irish-Catholic

Native Language: Welsh

Spoken Languages: Welsh, Irish, Scottish (Scots Gaelic), English

Relationship Status: Married

Astrological Sign: Scorpio

Theme Song: 'The Dirty Glass' - Dropkick Murphys (2011-)

Voice Actor: Anna Thomas

Geographical Characteristics

Birthplace: Tullahought, Kilkenny, Ireland

Current Location: Llanfaethlu, Anglesey, Wales

Hometown: Llanfaethlu, Anglesey, Wales

Appearance

Height: 5'6" / 167 cm

Weight: 136 lbs / 61 kg

Eye Colour: Blue

Hair Colour: Brown

Hair Dye: None

Body Hair: N/A

Facial Hair: N/A

Tattoos: (As of Jan 2020) 15

Piercings: Ear Lobe (Both), Tragus (Both), Eyebrow (Double, Both), Anti-Eyebrow (Both)

Scars: None

Health and Fitness

Allergies: None

Alcoholic, Smoker, Drug User: Smoker, Social Drinker

Illnesses/Disorders: Depression

Medications: Antidepressants

Any Specific Diet: None

Relationships

Allies: (As of Jan 2020) The Rhydderch Clan

Enemies: (As of Jan 2020) None

Friends: Matrona Volkov, Eira MacThaoig, Rachel MacGregor, Wanda Llewellyn, Vale Llewellyn, Cadence Llewellyn, Dacre Llewellyn

Colleagues: The C.R.C Locker Rooms / Too Many To List

Rivals: None

Closest Confidant: Desmond McDougall

Mentor: Deirdre Llewellyn

Significant Other: Desmond McDougall (28, Husband)

Previous Partners: None of Note

Parents: Ivan Llewellyn (48, Father), Deirdre Llewellyn (47, Mother, Née Rhydderch)

Parents-In-Law: Diarmaid McDougall (58, Father-In-Law), Fionnuala McDougall (59, Mother-In-Law, Née Babineux)

Siblings: Kevin Llewellyn (24, Brother), Padrig Llewellyn (21, Brother), Wanda Llewellyn (18, Sister), Vale Llewellyn (15, Sister), Aaron Llewellyn (12, Brother), Bada Llewellyn (9, Brother), Cadence Llewellyn (6, Sister), Dacre Llewellyn (3, Sister)

Siblings-In-Law: Mavourneen Llewellyn (25, Kevin's Wife, Née McEachern), Rathnait Llewellyn (11, Padrig's Wife, Née McTaggart), Aoide McPhee (25, Desmond's Sister, Née McDougall), Valentin McPhee (26, Aoide's Husband), Tihomir McDougall (22, Desmond's Brother), Astraea McDougal (23, Tihomir's Wife, Née Monroe), Arete McDougall (19, Desmond's Sister), Tomislav McDougall (16, Desmond's Brother), Arethusa McDougall (13, Desmond's Sister)

Nieces & Nephews: Muadhnait Llewellyn (4, Niece), Muire Llewellyn (1, Niece), Ceallach Llewellyn (1, Nephew), Valko McPhee (5, Nephew), Arke McPhee (2, Niece), Velichko McDougall (2, Nephew)

Children: Keelin McDougall (7, Daughter), Caomh McDougall (4, Son), Cathal McDougall (1, Son)

Children-In-Law: None

Grandkids: None

Great Grandkids: None

Wrestling

Billed From: Kilkenny, Ireland

Trainer: The C.R.C Wrestling School, Talulla Rhydderch, Deirdre Llewellyn

Managers: Desmond McDougall

Wrestlers Managed: Desmond McDougall

Debut: 2011

Debut Match: Ida Llewellyn VS Deirdre Llewellyn. Ida won via pinfall.

Retired: N/A

Retirement Match: N/A

Wrestling Style: Brawler / Hardcore

Stables: The Rhydderch Clan (2011-)

Teams: No Team Names

Regular Moves: Belly To Back Suplex, Bulldog, Figure-Four Leglock, Inverted Atomic Drop, Low Blow, Multiple Jabs, Poking / Raking Opponent’s Eyes, Running High Knee Strike, Big Boot, Atomic Drop, Backbreaker Rack, Diving Overhead Chop, High Knee, One-Armed Body Slam, Piledriver, Running Big Boot, Running Leg Drop, Vertical Suplex Slam

Finishers: Sleeper Hold, Jumping Knee Drop, Top Rope Jumping Knee Drop

Extras

Backstory: Ida McDougall (Née Llewellyn) of the C.R.C (Welsh Wrestling League / Cynghrair Reslo Cymru) owning Rhydderch family. When Deirdre dies Ida will have a 1/504th ownership of the promotion. Ida is a 'Cyhyraeth Style’ (Brawler / Hardcore) trainer. She’s mostly Welsh.

Trivia: Nothing of Note

[dear-indies]

hello cat & mouse! hope you're doing well. i was hoping you could help me find some MENA and southwest asian female fcs in the 24-28 age range with acting credits? (they can do other things but the rp requires acting!) i know 5+/- is common, but if they could be within this range & not just passable for that age range that would be great! her husband & his fc are 26 & the storyline is they've known each other since they were kids so i'd like for them to be close in age. thanks so much!

Dina Shihabi (1989) Palestinian, Saudi Arabian / Norwegian, German and Haitian.

Sofia Pernas (1989) Moroccan / Spanish.

Rakeen Saad (1989) Jordanian with Palestinian roots.

Sophia Nomvete (1990) Jamaican / Iranian.

Elnaaz Norouzi (1992) Iranian.

Medalion Rahimi (1992) Iranian, Mizrahi Jewish.

Valerie Abou Chacra (1992) Lebanese.

Pınar Deniz (1993) Turkish [Lebanese].

Tara Emad (1993) Egyptian / Montenegrin.

Salma Abu-Deif (1993) Egyptian.

Stephanie Atala (1993) Lebanese and French.

Hannah Marks (1993) Muscogee, Egyptian Jewish, Italian Jewish, Polish Jewish, Irish, and English.

Yasmine Al-Bustami (1993) Palestinian-Jordanian / Filipino.

Hana El Zahed (1994) Egyptian.

Natacha Karam (1994) Lebanese-French / Irish.

Arienne Mandi (1994) Chilean and Iranian - is pansexual.

Salma Abu Deif (1994) Egyptian.

Huda El Mufti (1994) Egyptian.

Asmaa Galal (1995) Egyptian.

Dilan Telkök (1995) Turkish.

Beril Pozam (1995) Turkish.

Aslıhan Malbora (1995) Yörük Turkish.

Maddison Jaizani (1995) Iranian / English.

Sezgi Sena Akay (1995) Circassian Turkish.

Aslı Bekiroğlu (1995) Turkish.

Gülsim Ali (1995) Turkish.

Hazal Subaşı (1995) Turkish.

Dilan Çiçek Deniz (1995) Turkish.

Nil Keser (1995) Turkish.

Caroline Azmy (1996) Egyptian.

İlayda Alişan (1996) Turkish.

Yaprak Medine (1996) Turkish.

Melisa Şenolsun (1996) Turkish.

Leem Lubany (1996) Palestinian.

Rabia Soytürk (1996) Turkish.

Özgü Kaya (1996) Turkish.

Melisa Berberoglu (1996) Turkish.

Yasemin Yazıcı (1997) Turkish.

Mayan El Sayed (1997) Egyptian.

Haidy Refaat (1997) Egyptian.

Özge Yağız (1997) Turkish.

Biran Damla Yılmaz (1997) Turkish.

Afra Saraçoğlu (1997) Turkish.

Melis Sezen (1997) Turkish / Albanian and Macedonian.

Iman Meskini (1997) Tunisian / Norwegian.

Bahar Şahin (1997) Turkish.

Alina Boz (1998) Turkish / Russian.

Devrim Özkan (1998) Turkish.

May Elghety (1998) Egyptian.

Serra Arıtürk (1998) Turkish.

Sonia Ben Ammar (1999) Tunisian / Polish.

Here you go!