#But push and push and push and there'll come a time where it's enough and eventually Pangi bites back

[mikaikaika]

Ohh Lukey saying "he's been my ride or day since day one... It's been unconditional... I care about the egg but I don't wanna lose him over it" he's hurting so much but he feels any small action he takes will cause Pangi to run away from him. He just has no faith in how much he means to Pangi </3333

[criminalyapping]

due for trouble | the two of us

the pitt masterlist main masterlist

pairing: jack abbot x f!reader

a/n: seriously this is filthy filthy smut lmfao but anyways!!!!

warnings: unplanned pregnancy, smut with a capital s (MDNI!!) unprotected p in v sex, age gap, breeding kink lol

< part 6 | part 8 >

It's hot. You think you're actually boiling alive with the way that Jack is pressing you hard into his kitchen counter.

His mouth; rough, insistent, and totally dominating is pressed tightly against yours, squandering any hope that you had about being able to kiss him back.

Every sense that you have is filled with Jack. He's all you can feel, all you can see. If something catastrophic happened outside, or even in his living room, you would be none the wiser because of how wrapped up you are in the feeling of him against you.

All at once, his hands that you swear were just tangled in your hair are tight on either side of your waist and your center of gravity is suddenly thrown off. You squeal out a sound as he liifts you up, up on to the counter where you're now seated.

Jack pulls away from you, wrenching his body backwards as if you had a magnetic field pulling him in. You lean back on your hands from your perch on the counter and watch as his eyes rake over you from top to bottom and back up. You're panting, breaths coming hard and fast out of your open mouth.

"Look at you," he ponders. "All it takes is a little kissing and you look like you can't even think."

You whimper, trying to hook your foot around his leg and pull him back in, but he stays where he is.

"What?" he teases, "Tell me what you want."

A long whine falls out of your mouth, which Jack grins at.

"Come here," you try.

He laughs and shakes his head. "You can do better than that, I know you can," he encourages.

"Fine," you sigh, "I want you to come here," you start, speaking slowly and looking in his eyes, "flip me over, and fuck me so hard that I can't remember what year I was born," you tell him.

"Fuck," Jack breathes out, and is all over you again less than a second later.

His mouth goes straight to your neck, biting down around your soft skin, hard enough that you know there'll be a mark there. His hands find their way around yoour hips as he pulls you forward to the edge of the counter. He's right there, in between your legs, as he leans forward and grinds himself into you. You can feel how hard he is in his sweatpants, and with one more filthy grind into you that he punctuates with a harsh bite to your collarbone, he does what you asked.

All at once, your feet are on the floor, his chest is pressed hard into your back, and he's kicked one of your feet out so that your legs are open.

From there, Jack wastes absolutely no time. You don't have the time to have one coherent thought before he's managed to bunch the fabric of your dress up over your waist, pull your underwear to the side, and shoved himself so hard into you that you lurch forward.

You choke out a gasp as he fills you all the way to the brim, pressing hard agaist the deepest parts of you and just staying there.

Your hands scramble across the countertop, looking for something to hold on to but finding nothing.

Before you can even get used to the stretch of him, he's moving his hips back and pulling out of you, until only the tip of him remains. He slows, and you take the change to turn your neck and look at him looming behind you.

His sweatpants and boxers are barely pushed down, but he has the bottom of hiss t-shirt lifted up and secured between his teeth, leaving his stomach and chest on display for you. He's not looking back at you; his eyes are glued to where you two meet, and you think about how he must be absolutely covered in your wetness.

Oh. Oh. You realize suddenly that you've haven't had sex with Jack since you told him you were pregnant, and that every time before that he had worn a condom. Not this time, though.

Fuck, that's hot. Jack must be coming to the same realization as he stares down at you.

He thrusts back into you hard, completely taking your mind off of it. One of his hands is braced on the edge of the counter and the other has slid up to hold your jaw, his long fingers taking up most of your cheek as he digs his fingers in just a little.

Every time before this, Jack has proven to you that he has quite the mouth, the he is not afraid to run, while fucking you. You're used to the dirtiest comments, questions, and phrases falling from his mouth as he gets lost in you. This time however, he's so completely caught up in you that he's not saying anything. It's not silent though, not when the room is filled with the most explicit, wet noises as his hips hit you, hard. Not to mention the small, punched-out moans that leave your lips with every brutal thrust.

If your conversation before hadn't convinced you that you belonged to this man, his grabby hands and pants that you can hear coming from his mouth now would have convinced you.

How you had managed to go weeks without this baffles you now.

The hand that Jack had on the counter moves between your legs and begins running fast circles over your clit. The feeling is so overwhelmnig, you squeal and try to shut your legs, to which Jack immediately kicks your foot back out and leans harder into you, now pinning you against the countertop.

"Jack, JackJackJackJackJack," you pant out as you feel yourself getting closer.

Finally, he opens his mouth to speak.

"Yeah, you missed me, huh," he teases.

"Uh huh," you agree breathily.

"How about," he suggests lowly, his hips never stopping their movement, "you come for me, squeeze me nice and tight, and I'll reward you," he pauses, taking a deep breath, "by coming so hard in you that if you weren't already pregnant, you sure would be," he offers.

You let out a pitiful moan, your forehead meeting the cool tile of his kitchen counter. New kink unlocked with just a few words from him.

You nod, not lifting your head up from the counter.

And just a few moments later, you're thrown headfirst into your orgasm, still replaying his filthy words over and over in your head.

You whine high and long as you're overwhelmed with the feeling, barely realizing that Jack is following you. He thrusts a few more times, hard and stuttering, before you feel the warmth of him exploding inside of you.

He presses in one more time, looking down at where some of your mixed releases has dripped down the back of your thigh and groans, throwing his head back like the sight of it is too much for him.

Pulling himself out, he steps even closer to you, leaning down where you're still laying on the counter and pressing kisses to the side of your face that he can reach.

"You okay?" he finally asks, speaking into your hair.

"I'm fucking fantastic," you tell him with a giggle.

"Alright," he laughs, patting you on the ass a few times as he stands back up.

You both know that there's a few more conversations that need to happen. But you feel like, for the first time, it might actually be the two of you against the world.

tagging: @michasia24 @veggieburgerwrites @bruher @ahopelessromanticwritersworld @catmomstyles3 @qardasngan @fuckalrighty @rae4725 @beebeechaos @thatssomebadhat89 @cari87 @livingdeadblondequeen @wowitsafemale @neonpurplestars89-blog @starswin @celiacallsitcausal

let me know if you want a tag!!

[nosyp]

Third years as yanderes

Note = sorry for disappearing y'all🙄, here's y'alls daily dose of twst yanderes

First years | Second years

Trey Clover

Trey's a more subtle yandere, so subtle you might not even realize he is one until you've fallen too far.

He uses his calm and helpful nature to manipulate you make you rely on him. It starts with small favors and thoughtful gestures, but the strings he pulls are always there, ready to tighten if you try to pull away.

Trey is master manipulator and guilt tripper. If he sees or finds out you talked to someone else, he’ll find ways to make you feel like you owe him your time and affection. His charm masks his hidden intentions, making you question whether your own feelings are truly your own.

He tries to convince you that everything he does is for your benefit, but in reality, he’s just trying to make you dependent on him. He’ll convince you that no one else cares for you the way he does and that you two are a perfect match for each other.

“You can’t leave me, can you? I’ve done so much for you. Wouldn’t it be a shame to just throw it all away?”

Cater Diamond

Cater thrives on attention, especially from you. His obsession starts innocently enough, tagging you in photos or showing up at places you frequent. But his desire to keep you close escalates quickly. He constantly needs reassurance, using social media to track your every move and bombard you with messages, ensuring you can’t ignore him.

Cater knows how to make you feel special, but only in ways that benefit him. He plays on your insecurities, making you feel like the two of you share a unique bond that no one else can understand. He's convinced that if you try to talk to anyone else that means you’re abandoning him.

As you slowly become a more important figure in his life, he'll start to create situations where he’s the only one who can help, offering favors or gifts that make it harder for you to say no to him. Slowly, he isolates you from your friends by showing you how “incredible” he is in comparison.

Cater's obsession manifests as an overwhelming desire to always be part of your life. He’ll make it clear that you need him, and any attempts to pull away will be met with passive-aggressive behavior. “You wouldn’t ignore me, would you? After everything we’ve been through together?”

Leona Kingscholar

Leona’s yandere nature is far more straightforward and intimidating. From the start, he makes it clear that you belong to him. He’s not one to hide his emotions, and if he feels jealous or possessive, he’s not afraid to show it, no matter how strong it is (and it can be quite aggressive sometimes)

If anyone else gets close to you, Leona will make it known that they’re a threat, pushing them away with his rough behavior. His possessiveness is intense, and he views your attention as something that he should only have. If anyone dares to challenge that, they're gonna be in a whole lot of trouble.

Leona often uses his intimidating presence to keep you under control. He makes sure you know that if you stray too far from him, there'll be major consequences awaiting you. His affection may seem like it’s coming from a place of care, but it’s actually just his way of securing your place by his side.

His temper is explosive, and he won’t hesitate to fight for your attention. If anyone dares to get too close, he might even resort to violence to keep them away.

“Don’t even think about leaving me. You’re mine, and I won’t let anyone take you from me.”

Rook Hunt

Rook’s yandere nature is often overshadowed by his romantic and poetic facade. He views you as an object of beauty, someone to be admired and adored. However, that admiration quickly becomes an unhealthy obsession when he starts to constantly watch you, studying your every move, convinced that you are his perfect “work of art.”

Rook uses his charm and intelligence to make you feel like you are the most important person in his life. His obsession is driven by the belief that he is the only one capable of truly understanding and appreciating you. Gradually, he manipulates your emotions, convincing you to believe that you owe him your attention.

Rook convinces you that your life should revolve around him, making you feel like your relationship with him is something deeply meaningful and unique. He isolates you by convincing you that no one else can see you in the same light as he does.

Rook is always watching, waiting for the perfect moment to express his love for you. He will often show up in places you least expect, as if fate itself is guiding him to you.

“Every moment you breathe, every smile you make, it’s all a beautiful masterpiece. You were meant to be mine.”

Vil Schoenheit

Vil’s obsession with you comes from his desire to make you perfect in his eyes. He is incredibly controlling and don't take it lightly. He's controlling, not just over his own image but over yours as well. He believes that only he can make you truly beautiful, and he will stop at nothing to mold you into his definition of perfection.

Vil uses guilt to manipulate you into staying by his side, reminding you of everything he’s done for you. He makes you feel indebted to him, and the more you resist, the more he’ll insist that it’s for your own good.

Vil isolates you from others by convincing you that they don’t understand your beauty the way he does. He subtly pushes people away, making you believe that no one else can love or appreciate you as he can.

Vil sees you as a possession, and he’s willing to go to great lengths to make sure you remain his. Any attempts to break free from his grasp will be met with persuasion and manipulation, until you’re left with no choice but to accept his love. “I’m the only one who truly cares for you, who sees your true potential. You belong with me, not them.”

Idia Shroud

Idia’s obsession is quieter but it's just as intense. He’s a master of digital manipulation and will use every tool at his disposal to keep track of you. He might not be as outwardly possessive as the others, but his obsession runs deep, and he will quietly follow you, watching you from the shadows.

Idia knows how to manipulate your emotions, often pretending to be helpless or vulnerable to gain your sympathy. He makes you feel responsible for his well-being, using guilt to keep you close.

Idia will often find ways to show up in places you often go to, acting as if it’s just a coincidence. Additionally, he wont hesitate to use his social media presence to monitor you, and if you don’t respond to his messages or give him attention, he’ll act as though you’ve abandoned him.

Over time, Idia will grow increasingly clingy, needing reassurance and constantly fearing that you’ll leave him. He’ll stop at nothing to make you believe that he’s the only one who truly cares for you.

“If you leave, I’ll have no one left… please, don’t go.” he pleads with you, watching as you get closer and closer to the door.

Malleus Draconia

Malleus is convinced that you’re destined to be together, and his obsession stems from the belief that fate has already chosen you for him. He doesn’t understand why you might resist, because in his mind, there is no other option but for you to be with him.

He treats your relationship as a matter of destiny, and anyone who dares to interfere is nothing but an obstacle. He’ll just deal with them by simply deleting their existence off of the face of the earth? world? idk

Malleus may not resort to violence in the traditional sense, but his sheer power and presence are enough to make you feel like you have no other choice but to obey him. He will patiently wait for you to accept that you belong to him.

Malleus will become increasingly impatient if you don’t fall in line with his expectations. He will be relentless in his pursuit, believing that your eventual acceptance is inevitable.

When you try to fight or push him away, he'll only wrap his arms around you into a hug and whisper “You can fight it all you want, but you’ll see… we’re meant to be.”

Lilia Vanrouge

Lilia’s playful and fun, but don't get it wrong, he's not any better than the other yanderes. He hides his true feelings behind jokes and tricks, but beneath that mischievous exterior lies an intense need for control over you.

Lilia WILL uses his age and wisdom to make you feel responsible for his well-being, framing his obsession as an act of care. He’ll guilt-trip you into staying close, making you believe that you’re the only one who can make him happy.

He will isolate you from others by convincing you that only he understands you, and everyone else is simply too “normal” or “boring” to keep you entertained. And foolishly, you believe his stupid made up lies.

He'll smother you with affection, always making sure that you’re dependent on him for support. If you try to pull away, he’ll act like you’ve betrayed him, using his charm to reel you back in. “You’re not going to leave me, are you? I’m nothing without you… please,”

[seospicybin]

TASTE.

FINAL CHAPTER: TASTE.

Lee Know x reader. (s,a)

TASTE MASTERLIST

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

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

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

The first thing Minho ever learns about taste is balance.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Coming up now, Chef!"

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

"Yes, Chef!"

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

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

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

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

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

Hyunwoo grins. “Yes, Chef.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s exhilarating. Exhausting. Satisfying.

Because this kitchen? It’s his now.

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Italy. The address on the front is unmistakable.

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

Which only means that Minho is leaving.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Minho takes another slow sip before nodding.

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

He watches you carefully, his gaze unreadable.

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

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

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

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

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

And you are.

But your heart… your heart is breaking.

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m looking for apartments.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Minho resists the urge to roll his eyes.

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

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

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

Minho scoffs, shaking his head. “Unbelievable.”

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

“It’s all the same,” Minho mutters.

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

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

“I think I’ll go to Italy with you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Minho frowns, visibly confused.

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

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

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

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

You nod, smiling.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chris finally turns to face him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blink, pulling back slightly. “Huh?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your dad nods. “Let’s eat.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Minho straightens slightly but doesn’t answer right away.

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

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

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

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

Silence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

“You shouldn’t be drinking that much.”

Your dad scoffs. “Why do you care?”

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

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

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

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

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

Minho frowns.

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

Silence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

Am I really going to leave this?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Minho raises an eyebrow, waiting for him to continue.

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And just like that, the kitchen comes alive again.

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

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

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

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

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

Taesoo groans. "Just say yes or no!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

Seojun murmurs, "The beef is good today."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Thank you, Chef," Seojun says.

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

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

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

-

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

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

Seojun turns fully to face you, his smile widening.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And oh, you must be happy.”

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

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

Your breath stills.

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

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

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

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

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

Minho is staying.

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

Meet me at the bar.

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

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

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

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

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

The sous-chef tie.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And for Minho, that is more than enough.

-

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

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

[velvetsainz]

summary: [ cl16 x fem!reader ] charles is away in baku and you remind him of what he's missing. part two.

word count: 1.3k

content warnings: smut under the cut (minors dni pls!), pwp, use of explicit language, phone sex, masturbation, google-translated french (lmao), a dash of fluff, i like em dashes too much

a/n: baby's first smutlet! i've been writing for like twelve years but i've never posted to tumblr, so here's to first times! there'll def be at least a part ii to this, but i'm also hoping to write for other drivers soon(ish). also giant mega thank you to @multiseb21 + @lecrep for your support—y'all have been so incredibly sweet & i am so thankful for you!! anyways, i hope y'all like this! enjoy, loves! xx

“Chérie,” his voice crooned over the line, a soft laugh leaving your lips. “Don’t tease, mon ange—it’s already hard enough being away from you for so long.”

“Weren’t you the one who said he’d be fine just a month ago?,” you retorted, voice low.  The cards were in your hands now, and Charles was desperate.  He was a nomad lost in the desert and you were his oasis on the horizon, just the sound of your voice enough to slake his thirst.

“Yes, but then you sent me that picture and—” You hear him curse again under his breath, his fist acting as a poor substitute for the velvet heat of your walls. He swore he wasn’t going to let you leave that bed once he got his hands on you again.

Charles wasn’t entirely wrong: you were the biggest fucking tease known to mankind.  Earlier that evening you sent him a semi-absentminded photo of you fresh from the shower, steam still obscuring the best parts of the photo with a fresh white towel around your hips and one gathering your hair on top of your head.  He’d always had something about you fresh from the shower—every time he’d nearly pounce as soon as you’d pad back into the bedroom from the steamy confines of the bathroom, hair wrapped on top of your head just as it was now.  (Part of you thought it was something primal in him: you’d washed away his scent on your skin and he needed to make his territory known again, that horn dog.)  Still, he was ever the gentleman and would make the endeavor more than worth your while.

“Yeah, that was pretty bad of me, wasn’t it?,” you ceded with a knowing smirk on your lips as you sat back from your desk, closing your laptop slowly.  You’d wanted to get a little more work done after your shower, but the Monégasque wasn’t keen to let sleeping dogs lie and needed to hear your voice for himself.

“So bad, chérie,” he agreed with tone of exasperation, a heavy sigh passing through the phone, “And you’re not even here to help a–”

“That doesn’t mean I can’t help in other ways,” you were quick to remind him, the words coming from your mouth quicker than your shame would force you to bottle them up.  Heat was creeping to your cheeks, and you could feel the familiar coil of desire tightening deep in the pit of your belly.

“Are you—?”

“That’s why you called, isn’t it, baby?,” you asked only to get a stifled groan from the other side. “You wanted me to tell you how I’ve been thinking about you all day,” you continued, “how I miss your hands on my hips, your cock so deep—”

“Fucking hell,” Charles practically whines as you push yourself away from the desk now, allowing yourself to relax into the seat of the chair and your hips to ease apart despite every part of you wanting to grind them together to relieve the dull ache that rested between them.

“What would you do if I was there now, Cha?,” you asked softly, hand splayed out over the plush of your thigh, eyes glazing over as you pictured him there with you.  You wanted his hands everywhere; you couldn’t decide where you truly needed him most. Fingers curling against that hidden spot in your tight cunt, threaded through your hair and pulling your head back to rest on his shoulder, gripping your thighs so tight they’d leave bruises that he’d fuss over later—it all sounded like heaven compared to the lonely hell of your shared Monte Carlo flat.

“I want to taste you, mon cœur,” he replied shakily as his breath came faster, the sound of him fisting his cock becoming more and more prominent as time passed; he wasn’t going to last long like this, but you both already knew that—it wasn’t the point of this exercise.  “I’d have you coming on my tongue, let you taste yourself when I kiss you—putain,” the driver cursed once more as his brow furrowed.  He was leaking precum over his ironclad grip and all he wanted was to slide his fingers past your plump lips to feel the wet heat of your tongue take care of the mess.

You let out a tremulous breath over the line, one you hadn’t known you’d been holding onto so tightly until your head started swimming with need.  Your hand had drifted from its origin, rubbing lazy circles over the cotton of the panties you’d slipped into after the inciting picture.  On your top half was a worn, faded shirt of Charles that you’d taken a liking to as a nightshirt—especially when you were missing him as you were so desperately now.

“Need you in me,” you begged, the emptiness you felt so acutely coming to the forefront of your senses, “You always do such a good job filling me—my fingers don’t do you justice.”

You hear a groan on the other side of the line, the man now sitting on the edge of the bed as he tries to keep himself in check.  He wasn’t ready for this to be over so soon; you had him feeling like a teenager again, ready to spill at a moment’s notice. Granted, this wasn't anything new: there's something so intoxicating about you that destroyed whatever semblance of restraint, of control he had over his lust.

“Want you in my mouth, give me something better to do than tease you like this,” to which you received a choked merde, the man hanging on your every word as the hand between your legs abandoned its objective—you could take care of that later.  You were too caught in every little sound that passed his plush lips, listening for every little cue his body so willingly gave you.

“Want your hands in my hair, guiding me up and down your cock,” you keened for him on a whine, his breathing heavy and labored.  He was running at full speed to the cliff's edge, and you were there watching, waiting in the grass. “Want your cum on my tongue, baby,” you whined.

“Promise not to waste any, minette?,” he grunted, gritting his teeth as you hummed your assurances.  “Such a good girl f’me, yes–”

With a strained hiss and a groan he came sloppily over his hand, thankful enough that he wasn’t home in Monaco so he didn’t have to worry about cleaning up the mess he’d made. “Fuck,” he croaked, breathing heavy as he came down from the blinding high your words had catapulted him through.  It wasn’t like he hadn’t been taking care of business when duty called, but something about your voice, the thought of you there…it clutched everything into a higher gear.

“Better?,” you asked, sly smile audible to the Ferrari driver; he didn’t need to see you to know the shit-eating, satisfied smile that took over your lips.

With a tired laugh he nodded, slumping back onto the cool rumpled sheets of the hotel bed as he stared absently at the dark ceiling.  It was three in the morning in Baku, and he couldn’t sleep—the thoughts your cheeky picture had invited wouldn’t let him.

“Get some rest, tiger,” you teased him, knowing he’d have to be awake in a few short hours. You debated sending him another picture in the morning as motivation, tiding him over until you’d join him later that weekend.

“Que ferais-je sans toi, mon amour?,” he asked, sleep heavy in his voice as he rolled the right way onto the bed and running a hand through his hair.  He’d deal with the mess he’d made in the morning along with the flowers he’d send you—he really didn’t know what he’d do without you.

“I guess we’ll never know, hm?,” you replied gently, smile melting into something softer as you fiddled with the gleaming ring on your left hand.

[gamerwoo]

Bang Chan: The Girl Who Didn't Cry Wolf (Part One)

Characters: Bang Chan x fem reader

Genre/warnings: werewolf au, fantasy, enemies-to-lovers-ish??, slowburn, werewolf/alpha!chan, (werewolf)hunter!reader, angst, a tiny bit of fluff if u squint ig (chan takes care of reader's injuries), some humor toward the end, mentions of blood, violence, mentions that reader is from america and moved to korea, reader doesn't know korean [dialogue in bold is meant to be korean]

Word count: 4,317

Summary: You've learned to do whatever you can to protect yourself after an incident almost a decade ago had your father and brother dragging you to a new country to start all over even though they blamed you for what happened. After finding yourself stuck in a house of werewolves, you're forced to come to terms with your feelings over what happened back home when the alpha imprints on you and his pack claims they're keeping you prisoner. You know exactly how this will end if you give in, and yet you can't seem to get yourself to leave the sweet and charming werewolf who's willing to do anything to make you comfortable. You're just hoping that maybe there'll be a good end this time.

a/n: this is a part of the TftP universe, which is a Seventeen series!! if you haven't read that, some of this series might not make a lot of sense, but it can still be read on it's own! :) [if you do read TftP: this series also takes place after the events of Jeonghan's part, which is currently still ongoing]

Next | TGWDCW Masterlist

Your face was scratched up, your arms were sore from trying to push the werewolf off of you, and you were pretty sure the warm liquid dripping down your chin and onto your chest was blood, but you couldn’t tell where you were bleeding from. You limped your way through the forest, glad to have subdued the werewolf long enough to get away. You were out getting berries when you were attacked, so you only had the tiny pocket knife on you for defense. God, your family was going to have your ass for sure for not being prepared for this.

But you were currently not going toward town, you were going away from it. You just needed a place to hideout and patch up. Maybe you’d look a little better in the morning and your father wouldn’t berate you as hard as he would seeing you in your current state. How could a hunter not be prepared for a werewolf attack? That was the first thing your parents had warned you about when you started hunting alone. They let you in on the fact that werewolves weren’t just mythical monsters made up to scare kids into being good lest they be dragged off into the woods and eaten by one. But that was something you needed to know if you were going to go out hunting. You had to be aware of every creature – mythical or otherwise – that was out there.

Were you a werewolf hunter? ...Sort of. But you still were supposed to be ready to fight back if one attacked. You kept 3 silver bullets on you at all times, and yet…

The house you saw pulled you from your thoughts. It was made out of tree logs and seemed fairly big but not so big that it looked odd for it to be here in the small clearing. It seemed cozy and all of the lights were off, so you figured it must be abandoned. Who in their right mind would live out in the middle of a forest anyway?

You dragged your bum leg toward the house – you were pretty sure you twisted your ankle while running because you really had to prove you’re the worst hunter in the history of hunters that night – and in through an open window. That was a dead giveaway it was abandoned because nobody would just leave their window open like that.

The window brought you into a kitchen, specifically on top of a counter next to a sink. You slid down quietly and crouched down to your hands and knees. It was just precautionary and instinct to hide, so you crawled your way around the large kitchen table and out of the kitchen to a hallway. You saw a door wide open across the hall, seeing a sink and a toilet in there.

Jackpot. The bathroom has to have some medical supplies, right? Even if it was abandoned, maybe the people left some of their stuff there. Maybe they were eaten by bears so their belongings were left untouched. It was best to check for any sort of supplies just in case.

You carefully crawled your way over and through the door. Once inside, you closed the door silently and stood to look through the cabinet behind the mirror. Just as you hoped, there were bandages, peroxide, cotton balls, and other first aid things. You immediately got to work, cleaning off your face of the blood before tending to the small scrapes and cuts that had filled with dirt. You knew cleaning them would sting but it still made your teeth clench and sharply intake a breath.

A few seconds after the small noise you made, the bathroom door was flung open, making you gasp and leap toward the opposite wall. A younger looking guy – he could’ve been a teenager for all you knew – with fluffy brown hair stood in the doorway, dressed in a baggy white t-shirt and some loose shorts. His angry, golden eyes slowly shifted to red as he glared at you, and you knew you really fucked yourself over now.

“Shit…” you cursed under your breath, your hand fumbling in your pocket for the only small weapon you had.

Before you could even wrap your fingers around it, the wolf lunged at you, bringing you down to the tiled floor with a thud as your head hit the cool tiles. It hurt but thankfully it wasn’t enough to disorient you. The wolf’s claws grew, pinching at the skin of your arms. You lifted one foot in the space between you and kicked against his abdomen, throwing him off of you. In the process of him being flung away, his claws scraped against your biceps, making you wince slightly. It wasn’t anything too bad but it definitely broke skin. You quickly pushed yourself up and raced to get out of the bathroom, leaping over the wolf on the ground.

Just as you had jumped over him and ran to the open door, he grabbed your bad ankle and tugged you down onto the floor, landing on your stomach but catching yourself with your hands. He dragged you back to him as you tried to dig your nails into the hardwood floor. You knew this is how you would die but you were going to fight the whole time. It’s what you were taught to do.

He roughly flipped you over and straddled you. You punched him straight in his cheek with all the strength you could muster, but you knew your strength was nothing against a werewolf.

He let out a loud growl that had you cowering for a moment. He took that opportunity to claw roughly into your left side, making you cry out in pain now. But he apparently didn’t like how loud you were because he pinned your wrists above your head, and leaned down with his fangs extended, roaring in your face. The sight sent a chill down your spine, and tears pricked your eyes when he dipped his head down to your neck, mouth open wide and fangs extended.

You knew this was it. You had no way to fight back or run away. You weren’t strong enough in this state, and you didn’t have any weapons to help you. In a case like this, it was better to just have a quick death over one that was drawn out.

You squeezed your eyes closed and braced for the end, requesting through clenched teeth, “Just make it quick.”

You knew you had no way to fight back or to run away. This was it. All you could do was wait until it was over. You weren’t backing out of this. You never backed down, and even if you were facing death, it would be no different. The last thing you were doing was dying a coward.

But his weight was suddenly lifted off you, and you heard him hit the wall with a crash. Your eyes flew open to see a man a few inches shorter than the wolf towering over you, but his back was to you and his stance was protective. A wild, defensive growl ripped through his chest, the warning aimed at the wolf that was on you. He turned his head just enough to look back at you before his focus was in front of him again.

When your eyes met, that was when you felt it. The draw that you were told about by your father when he was telling you all about werewolves. He said both parties would feel it, but it was stronger for the wolf. For both, it was almost instantaneous as soon as their eyes landed on their mate. And you felt exactly that.

It felt like being in love, but it was like it was all at once instead of falling slowly. It hit you like a train instead of floating down a river. It felt…exactly like–

“Seungmin. Don’t,” the man’s voice was a low rumble that pulled you from your thoughts and had your blood turning to ice. The threatening tone to it was enough to make a grown man run for the hills, but you were frozen in place, trying to make sense of it all.

You didn’t even notice the other wolves that had rushed down the stairs to see the commotion, golden eyes going from your attacker, to your...mate, to you.

“Chan?” a new voice asked, their deep voice gravely from sleep full of concern. “Did you…?”

He had. He had imprinted on you. A werewolf-hunter-in-training was now the mate of a werewolf.

The stunned silence that followed was short lived when the front door a few yards behind you slammed open, and a familiar, beaten body dragged himself through the door. His golden eyes landed on you before turning red and narrowing.

It was the wolf you had just fought and gotten away from. This was just your shitty luck.

“Minho?” one of the wolves from the stairs recognized him. "Where the hell have you been? It's late."

His eyes just stayed glued on your body on the floor, “You?”

Despite the fact the situation could probably only be made worse by you opening your big mouth, especially when you didn't really understand the language they were speaking, you spoke up against your better judgement, “You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.”

-

You were literally carried to your mate’s room, kicking and screaming despite the fact your body was screaming back at you to stop. Your injuries were burning with intensity, and you were sure you were bleeding all over your mate’s naked torso – especially from the cuts in your side. He didn’t seem to care, so neither did you. Then again, you wouldn’t care even if he did fuss about it.

“Put me down!” you demanded, slamming your fists into his bare back. “I’m not going to be your captive!”

The little Korean you knew wasn’t going to help you in this scenario. Your family had moved to Korea about half a decade ago after a freak accident involving the death of your mother, but you didn't pick up on a ton of the language since you didn't interact with other humans that often – speaking wasn’t necessarily important for your line of work. Instead, there were a few words and conversational phrases that you had picked up on in town or from other hunters – mostly about hunting, trading, and buying.

“So you want to go home and get humiliated by your family in front of the rest of the town? Maybe even worse for all I know,” he questioned, though the last part was a bit softer. His voice wasn’t as menacing as it was when he faced his pack brother but he was still definitely annoyed. “Believe me, I don’t find this situation ideal, but I have to protect you. It’s instinct. We both know it.”

You were too stunned to say anything for a moment. You didn’t expect him to respond, let alone understand you. But he replied in perfect English with a thick accent you didn’t recognize. Not many foreigners had moved to your country since before The War, but the numbers had only gone down even more afterwards. Even other Americans had moved away after The War, but your family stayed until grief struck.

“Th-Then–” you slowly began, finally remembering you had to say something otherwise he would win the argument. “Then I’ll run away.”

“I’ll just come find you and bring you back,” he promised with a chuckle. It was weird to you how your heart fluttered at his promise. It was something that never happened before. “No matter how many times you try to escape, I’ll always find you. You know that.”

He finally set you down, but it was on a bed. Once the blood rushed away from your head, you noticed that there were a few curious wolves standing by the open door. Your mate paid them no attention as he went to a corner of his room in search of something.

“Felix,” his voice was sure, like he already knew the person in question was there.

Sure enough, a thinner wolf with blonde hair that flared out around the back of his neck stepped forward. “Yeah?”

“Could you get the bandages and a towel? Jisung, you and Jeongin go collect the herbs, please,” Chan’s voice was soft as he walked over to you with a very large t-shirt. He placed it on the bed beside you and mumbled for you to change before he went over to address his packmates at the door. “The rest of you need to give her space unless you want the angry hunter on your ass.”

He seemed to be over his anger toward the other wolf who attacked you – Seungmin, apparently. And you were also surprised to hear him address another one of the pack in English. 

So maybe Seungmin had understood you before.

“Chan, I’m concerned,” one of them spoke up. “Seungmin and Minho–”

“Keep them as far away from this room as possible,” the alpha stated urgently. “You know how they are, and the last thing I need is another fight. They’ll both take their grudges to the grave.”

“Why was she in here?” another asked, glancing at you from behind the alpha.

Chan just moved to block his view, “Considering I haven’t gotten the chance to ask her after Minho came running at her, I wouldn’t know.”

While Chan spoke to his pack, you took the time to really look at him, and you noticed something about him. Other than the obvious things like his good looks, chiseled jaw, and perfectly carved torso, you took note of various scars that scattered seemingly his entire body. They all seemed to be healed, but there were just so many of them. He had a handful on his face and even more littering his torso, arms, and hands. You saw about half as many on his legs, just off of what you could see from his shorts that were low on his hips. You wondered just what kind of trouble this guy got himself into on a daily basis to have that many scars.

The first one that spoke sighed and ran a hand through his black hair that was messy from sleep. “Alright well...we’ll leave you to it. Let us know if you need anything.”

Chan sighed as well and nodded, his voice softening. “Thank you guys. It means a lot.”

He softly closed the door and turned to look at you, his eyebrows scrunching together when he saw you, “You didn’t change clothes?”

You looked at the shirt he set beside you as if you were looking at food you found disgusting, “Am I supposed to?”

“Yeah, that’s kind of why I got it for you.”

A knock on the door had him turning away from you again – not before he caught you rolling your eyes – but he called over his shoulder for you to at least remove the bloodied and torn shirt. His broad frame blocked the door from the blonde wolf that had gotten the medical supplies to take care of you, so you peeled the shirt that was stuck to you with sweat, and both wet and dried blood off of you, leaving you in your bra, and beaten and dirty leather pants. Chan closed the door with the supplies in his arms, turning to face you again. You noticed something glint in his golden eyes, almost like they were shifting for a second, but the change was too quick to notice. They were the same gold when he knelt down in front of you, only worry was showing clear in them.

“It’s pretty deep…” he murmured as he examined the large claw marks that tore across your side. “How’s your ankle?”

You narrowed your eyes at him, “My ankle?”

“I know it’s injured, you couldn’t even get away from Seungmin,” he chuckled, beginning to mix various herbs together in a bowl. “I’m Chan, by the way. Or Chris, if you want. What’s your name?”

You stayed silent, not even looking at him. Instead, you looked at a spot on the bed to your right, looking away from your wound.

Chan noticed your silence, looked up at you and let out a playful sigh, “Nothing? You don’t have a name?”

“Why would I tell you that?” you quizzed, still not looking at him. “Ever heard of ‘stranger danger’? Or do you not encounter that since you live in the woods and only talk to squirrels or something?”

He chuckled, “Is that what you think we do all day? Stay in the middle of nowhere and talk to squirrels?”

“You realize we’re enemies, right?” you pointed out to him suddenly, finally looking down at him. “Why do you even think I’d let you know any personal information?”

“Because I know you feel it, too,” he informed you in a gentle tone, his eyes soft like he was trying to comfort you. “And I know you want to be stubborn about it because of instincts and whatever, but the very least you can do for me is tell me your name to make it slightly easier.”

“Nothing about this mating thing is easy! We’re opposites; we’re supposed to be killing each other but you’re treating my wounds and saving me from your pack – one of which I tried to kill!”

Which was true. Maybe he was nice, sure, but that didn’t mean anything when you had been training for almost a decade to kill his kind and had been force fed all of these narratives that told you you had to hate him and his pack, regardless of if he had saved you from death and was now treating your wounds. You came from a family that would kill them and you if they found out you showed any sort of kindness toward them.

You were missing. The realization suddenly hit you that you wouldn’t be returning home anytime soon, and your father and brother would both get worried and come looking for you. And if they found you, the first thing they’d do is kill every last wolf in this house.

…Why did that thought hurt as much as it did…?

“That’s how this works,” he sighed, sounding and looking tired, pulling you from your thoughts once again. “Do you think I’m happy about this? I’m not. But I can’t fight the instinct to protect my mate, okay? So this is just how it’s gonna be, and, as level-headed as I want to be so I don’t make it worse for you, I suggest you don’t test me.”

You scoffed and rolled your eyes, “Yeah, whatever. You’re not that scary.”

The low growl resonated in his chest, but it only made you laugh as you looked down at him. He continued to just stare back before he went back to mixing medicine to help your wound, dropping the mating subject, but picking back up on your name, “So, who are you, hunter? I told you my name so it’s only fair you tell me yours.”

You sat back on your hands, letting out a deep sigh and speaking as you let it out, “_____. It’s _____. Happy?”

It was his turn to smile now, glancing up at you through dark lashes as dimples appeared on his cheeks, “Very.”

It was only then that you had realized the door had opened with two wolves holding clear jars of various plants and herbs. Both of them just stood in the doorway, looking uncomfortable at best.

“Um…” one of them with round cheeks and shaggy brown hair spoke up timidly, “i-is this a bad time?”

-

Chan was half-surprised to find the entire pack still awake, gathered downstairs in the cramped kitchen. And of course, the topic of conversation was you and their alpha. Jeongin and Jisung, who had mixed up the herbs to help heal your wounds, were giving out all of the information they had gathered from the few minutes they were in the room.

The pack had moved to a tiny cabin quite a few miles away, but they had recently decided to move back to their cozy little hole under the giant tree due to lack of space at this new place they’d found. They were still in the process of packing up to move back to said tree, but they now assumed plans would change since you had quite literally crawled into the picture.

All eyes darted to Chan as he walked in, carding a hand through his hair.

“Is the menace finally asleep?” Minho asked, venom in his voice as he tended to his cut-up arm.

“Yeah, I had Jisung mix something up to get her to sleep,” Chan breathed. His thoughts were running at a million miles an hour but he was trying to hold himself together in front of you despite his own confusion, and conflicting emotions and instincts. “I figured if I helped with the pain myself it might freak her out, and she’s already been through a lot tonight.”

“Her?” Seungmin spat, icing his cheek as he sat in a chair opposite Minho at the table. “I wake up to go pee just to see some hunter in our bathroom! And she’s got a fucking right hook, let me tell you.”

“It’s not like she broke your jaw,” Jeongin reminded him, rolling his eyes. "You're not even gonna bruise."

Seungmin shot him a dirty look and opened his mouth to snap back, but Changbin was faster to speak.

“What’re we supposed to do now, by the way?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Hyunjin looked almost scared, “this is the first time we’ve…had…a mate in the house. What happens next?”

Jisung snorted, elbowing his brother in the upper arm, “What, are you afraid of girls?”

“No!” Hyunjin glared at him. “We’ve just never had a mate here before! I’d be confused no matter the gender!”

“I meant,” Changbin interrupted, “with moving, taking care of her, sleeping situations – stuff like that.”

“Well, moving is obviously on pause,” Chan sighed, rubbing his hands over his face as he tried to organize his thoughts.

Changbin was right, there was a lot to consider now. You were taking Chan’s bedroom, but he was sharing a room with Felix, which meant they both had nowhere to sleep now. There was also the matter of sharing a bathroom, but that was a bridge they’d cross when they got to it, he figured. 

“Um…any way Felix can crash with one of you guys?” he asked once he’d removed his hands from his face. “I’ll just take the couch.”

Minho gave him an incredulous look, “No!” his exclamation sounded almost like a question – a very loud question. “You think we can cram a fourth person in either of our rooms?!”

The house was small, and Chan knew it was already a tight squeeze fitting three grown werewolves to one bedroom. Him and Felix were the only paired roommates just because their bedroom was the smallest. The other two bedrooms weren’t much bigger, but he had to figure out something for Felix.

Jisung could tell Chan was obviously stressed, so he quickly spoke up, “W-we can make it work, though. Don’t worry about it.”

Minho’s head whipped around to look at him like he was insane, “How?!”

The younger wolf shrugged, “We could…share beds?”

Minho’s face was quickly transformed into a smirk as he leaned over in his chair, looking up at Jisung, “You just want an excuse to sleep in my bed.”

“I–”

“I accept.”

Felix made a face as he eyed the two, “I think I’d rather crash in Seungmin’s room.”

“I don’t care who sleeps where or with who,” Chan stated, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “Everyone just please go to bed now.”

“I mean this in the nicest way possible,” Jeongin began, “but how are we supposed to sleep with her in the house?”

“She is a werewolf hunter,” Felix agreed a bit timidly, not wanting to upset the alpha more than he already was, but he was wary about having you in the same house as them – especially with how small the space was. “Doesn’t that make her our enemy? I don’t want to sound mean, but…she could…kill all of us in our sleep.”

For the nth time that night, Chan let out a deep sigh, “I mean…technically, no. I barely sense any werewolf hunter on her, so she’s not a huge threat. But…she’s definitely trained to be one, I won’t lie. Still, I don’t think she’s a threat to us.”

“Oh, so we’re just supposed to trust her based on vibes?” Seungmin spat.

“She has the training of a werewolf hunter but do any of you even sense werewolf hunter?” he countered. “But…yes, you’re right. She’s not really an ally either. She definitely knows she shouldn’t feel…how she does toward me.”

The room was silent as Chan’s emotions seemed to finally weigh down on them. They could really see the hurt in his eyes when he said that, and despite how angry or nervous they might’ve been, they felt bad for their alpha. They knew what being denied by your mate could do to a werewolf, so not only could they not even imagine the heartbreak he was feeling, but they feared for his health and his life.

“So…” Minho spoke up slowly, “what you’re saying is…I could maybe take her in a rematch?”

A few of them chuckled, and the room felt lighter again. Even Chan cracked a smile and felt thankful for his snarky brother for at least getting him to do that.

“Just go to bed.”

»»————-　　————-««

[join the tag list here!!!]

series tag list: @bluehoodiewoozi @starlight-night0 @lukeys-giggle

skz tag list: @svintsandghosts @allie-mcginn @blossominghunnie @rylea08 @arabelleum

@birthday-prinxess @bakedlilgoonie @vensweety

permanent tag list: @brattybunfornct @avyskai @meowmeowminnie @dessianna1 @minluvly

@yeetmehome @katsukis1wife @gyuminusone

[sorceresssundries]

Imagine: post-game Gale and Tav out somewhere with some dude RELENTLESSLY hitting on Tav. Gale can take people hitting on tav, it happens all the time and he's not insecure in the slightest. But this guy is being obnoxious and obviously making tav uncomfortable. How does Gale react and also what if they fucked afterwards

You're unhinged and I respect and love you for it.

Here you go friend. Some pure, mindless smut for you!

Pairing: Gale x female Tav - NSFW

Warnings: SMUT!!!! Public sex, blow job, probably the smuttiest smut i've smutted thus far. You have been warned. This is not regency-esque euphemistic smut. Gang, this is straight up pornography.

Word Count: 1.7k

Gale could hardly believe the brazen audacity of the merchants. His shopping trip had started off pleasantly, with Tav swishing around the market stalls in all her bare-legged, off-shoulder glory, the hem of silk dress flirting with her knees and billowing as she moved. She was exquisite, obviously, and she knew exactly what she was doing. She always managed to bring home produce at far lower prices than he could ever haggle for. He enjoyed watching her play the minx, but he did not enjoy the merchants taking liberties.

Leaning against a nearby wall, pretending to read a book, he watched as she flitted between the stalls, appraising fruit and laughing with the sellers. They couldn’t help but stare at the constellations of freckles adorning her exposed shoulders and collarbones. Gale was focused solely on her—imagining her tanned, strong calves draped over his shoulders, his hand tight in the loose braid that swung across her back as he kissed the plush skin of her breasts. He thought pushing up her skirt and running his tongue all the way up the inside of her leg until..

His thoughts halted and he snapped his book shut as soon as he realised something was wrong. The squat, bearded merchant she had been bargaining with suddenly had his hand in the crook of her arm and he was leant in close enough for her to look uncomfortable. The way she was leant back and gently tugging herself away showed she was trying to politely remove herself, with little luck. Gale felt his fists ball at his side, he wouldn’t jump in yet, he knew she could handle herself…

Then with his other hand, the merchant reached forward to move a strand of hair away from her face. It made Gale see red.

In an instant, he was there. Hot with anger. 

“Touch her again and there'll be naught left of you but a pitiful pile of dust upon scorched earth” Gale said quietly in the man’s ear, the grip on his arm a closing vice. 

He put his arm round Tav’s waist and began to lead her away from the market and back to their home. He didn’t want to embarrass her by making a scene, and he knew better than anyone how capable she was of defending herself. But, for his own benefit, he felt he needed to intervene, before another person put their hands on his wife.

“Wouldn’t want her anyway, the slutty little..” the merchant murmured as they walked away.  Gale turned sharply with palms crackling full of fury-hot weave. Before the necessary words could be spat from his lips, Tav pushed past him and with effortless strength punched the merchant so hard that blood splattered from his nose like burst fruit, and he crumpled into a heap on the floor. 

“No one dare give him a healing potion.” She snapped loudly to the other merchants as he rolled in agony on the ground. “When I come back tomorrow, I want to see skin as bruised as his pathetic little ego.” The market was now quiet apart from a few whispers bouncing between the patrons. She grabbed her husband by his arm, the basket of shopping abandoned, and left quickly. Gale was suddenly very aware of how hard he was. 

Just round the corner, barely any distance from where Tav’s display had taken place, she pulled them both into a  dark and narrow alley,  barely wide enough for two people to pass each other without turning sideways. The walls of the surrounding buildings, tall and oppressive, cast deep shadows that almost entirely blocked out the sunlight, but not completely.

Tav was pressed against him instantly, pinning him back against the cool bricks and running her hand slowly down his chest until she eventually rested her palm against the hard bulge in his trousers. 

“The thrills of combat still do it for you then?” She purred against him, the scent of the sun and the sea-breeze settled and heavy on her exposed skin as he left tongued kisses on her shoulders, her throat, her jaw. 

“Just you.” He said, breathless “Always you.” 

As they tangled together, pushing against each other with such desperation that a passerby might mistake them for a single shadow, Gale realised they weren’t completely hidden. People still wandered past, busy with errands or chattering absently with friends. Gale could hear their voices clearly, which meant he and Tav would be heard too. And if anyone stopped to look closely enough, they would definitely see Gale of Waterdeep fucking his wife senseless against the brickwork. 

“Gods.” His voice was cracked with lust. “Someone will hear us.” 

“Well you’ll just have to be quiet when you come down my throat then, won’t you? my brave hero” Her golden eyes were lidded, and voice dripping with wanton desire.

Her words sparked him. His hands were suddenly all over her, pushing up her skirt and gripping the soft flesh of her backside, stroking up her spine until gripping the nape of her neck to hold her head still as he kissed her with wild urgency. 

The sounds she made were beautiful, but risky. He had to put his hand over her mouth to keep her quiet and their dirty little tryst a secret. His eyes burned into hers as he kept his hand there, and her muscles stilled completely as he moved his other up her thigh and to where she was slick and desperate for him. 

“No underwear, Mrs.Dekarios?” Gale tutted at her as he began to draw light, slow circles over her clit. All Tav could do was moan against his hand, and Gale could feel the spit from her mouth against his palm.

Tav was rarely quiet, in or out of the bedroom, and she was finding it very difficult not to cry out with peals of ecstasy under his touch. They had done this enough times now for him to make her come apart with barely any effort. He knew how she liked it slow and soft as he whispered words of encouragement in her ear. How she liked his hand on her throat, firm enough so he could feel her moans against his palm and soft enough for him to stroke her parted lips with the pad of his thumb. She liked it when his eyes burned into her, and all trace of his softness had blazed into rough, heated need.

“That’s it.” He said, quiet and forceful in the swirl of her ear “Don’t let them hear you” There was a lilt of playful amusement in his voice, a cockinesss which pushed Tav further towards her undoing. She couldn’t help but moan as his fingers increased their pressure slightly, now slick with her arousal.

She came in hot silence, him holding her steady as she bucked under his touch. He continued to stroke her through the waves of warm pleasure that crashed against his fingers. After she had settled, he kissed her slow and attentively. Mimicking what he would like to do against her warm cunt when he got her back home. 

Tav had other ideas. 

She dropped to her knees in front of him and frantically started to unbuckle his belt. “Tav” he groaned as she pulled down his trousers. “Maybe this isn’t…”  Any thoughts of gentlemanlike manners disappeared into white oblivion as she licked hard along his erection. 

“Gods” he groaned, his fingers tracing over her lips. "You look so good taking me like this”

Tav’s head spun at his words, her mind bubbling with white-hot thoughts of lust and debauchery. 

She would do this quickly now, take him in desperation while her legs were still weak from coming against his fingers. And then when they got home she would take her time doing this all over again, letting him think she would do it the same way, at the same pace, but she would draw it out in the private sanctum of their home until his wrung-out voice echoed throughout the rafters of the tower. She would delight in pulling from him noises which even he had never heard himself make before. But for now, she would settle for whimpers and groans as his hand tightened in her hair and he spilled into her mouth. 

The moans that left his chest were visceral. He loved to watch her like this, lips swollen as she moved him in and out of her mouth, the rose pink flash of lipstick smeared over her chin and his cock. Eyeliner smudged, tendrils of sweat-slick hair stuck to her neck. He could come just from looking at her. He knew that after this she would want to tidy herself up, but like fuck would he let her. He wanted to walk home with her on his arm, looking well-fucked and messy.

Tav could feel him trying to keep his hips still, so as not to push himself too far against the back of her throat, but she encouraged him forward by placing his hand in her hair so he could tangle his fingers in it as he fucked her mouth. 

He had to bite down on his other hand as he came, but it still didn’t stop the sinful sounds that spilled from his lips as his hips stuttered and he fell apart completely. 

They stayed there for a few moments, his head leant back against the wall and hers against his thigh. Both breathless and spent. 

“Do you need to go back to the market, my love?” he panted, as he pulled her up and began to press soft, lazy kisses against anywhere he could reach. “I’d be happy to get into a fight with anyone else, man, woman or child, if this is the reaction it sparks.”

Tav laughed as they left their little hideaway in total disarray, smug in the subtlety of their tryst. They were completely unaware of just how many people had heard the sounds of Mr. and Mrs. Dekarios ravishing each other in public. Tomorrow, the market would be buzzing with gossip about the black-eyed merchant and the subsequent public escapades of the respectable wizards. But, fortunately, Gale and Tav would remain blissfully ignorant of it all. Tomorrow, they planned to spend the entire day in bed, making love and living off whatever food they could scrounge from their empty cupboards.

[yumebambi-writes]

Hope you don't mind another request of Emmett finding out his mate has cancer so he offers to change her to save her from it. 🥺 He's such a big protective teddy bear and this is something he can't just beat up to protect her.

Emmett Cullen x Fem!Reader with Cancer (SFW)

emmett would do absolutely anything for you

he's there with you when you get the diagnosis because he's the one who finally pushed you to get a checkup with carlisle when he noticed you'd been showing signs of sickness

he's holding your hand so tight you think it'll break, but he'll notice immediately that he's hurting you and whisper a quiet, "sorry babe" as he kisses your knuckles

he's more anxious than you are, but he's putting on a brave face so that he doesn't freak you out

he's usually a pretty chill guy, but not when it comes to you. you're his everything, and he is entirely devoted to you. if you're in pain, he's in pain

side note: he definitely experiences sympathy periods. that is all.

i don't know if you would have even noticed anything was wrong. i think vampires, with their heightened senses, can maybe smell or otherwise sense sickness, so i get the feeling he caught it pretty early. either that, or it wasn't bad enough for him to catch until it was too late

either way, his first thought is to turn you. he doesn't want you to suffer, but the pain of the venom will be brief compared to the pain of a long, drawn out cancer diagnosis

if it was caught in the early stages, and carlisle reassured the both of you that you could likely recover with treatment, emmett would back off for a while on the whole turning you idea

if you ever have a particularly bad pain day, the one thing he always asks while taking care of you is, "are you ready? (to be turned)"

it's always his first solution. he died a relatively quick, but excruciatingly painful, death, and he doesn't want you to even suffer a tiny fraction of the pain he suffered.

if it was caught in the late stages, and carlisle didn't think treatment would do much, emmett is immediately asking about turning you, right then and there

carlisle would tell him to back down, that it was a family matter to be discussed, and emmett would be pissed. he wouldn't want to waste any time arguing over whether you should live out the rest of your days in pain or be turned right away

you'd tell him that it was okay, that you wanted to think about it

he'd look at you with those big, puppy dog eyes, but he'd nod and follow your wishes

if you decide to go ahead with treatment, he will support you but silently be terrified for you all the time

he knows you're a big girl who can take care of herself, so he doesn't pamper you in an overbearing way because he wants you to know that he trusts you and believes you are still just as strong as the day he met you

that's not to say he's not constantly carrying you around and fetching things for you because he is

as soon as you agree to him turning you (IF you agree), he's making plans

he'd take you somewhere nice and peaceful where the two of you could be alone (maybe isle esme or somewhere more personal to the two of you)

i think he'd have practiced showing restraint when it comes to tasting your blood by hunting a lot more and practicing on the animals he'd catch

lots of half-drained squirrels and rabbits end up on or around your property, but it's kind of romantic??? because he's doing it in order to make sure he doesn't hurt you

when he bites you, he'll make sure to do it somewhere on your body where there'll be minimum blood loss and therefore minimum temptation to keep drinking from you

i think it will be hard to show restraint, but that's what all that practice was for!

he'd want to do it the least painful way possible, but it's impossible to avoid the pain of the venom. he gives you lots of painkillers. like, too many painkillers. he doesn't know what the right amount of painkillers is

he'll hold your hand through the whole process

idk how long it takes for the venom to work its way through in order to fully turn you, but he does not leave your side for even a second of that time

once you're turned, he is sososo proud of you, and the two of you celebrate by doing everything you missed out on doing since the diagnosis :)

[randommle]

Spoilers to the last Parrot episode ^^ (The hacker/TruOriginal one)

The two stars. The only two that are touching in the Minecraft sky.

They keep bringing it up, and by they, I mean specifically Nufuli.

What does it mean?

It represents Nufuli's relationship with Leo

Nufuli says in the episode that he feels like he's an extension to Leo. He feels like he's dependent on Leo to be his guide through life, and he's just following his steps and actions to try to become disconnected (while at the same time actually tying him further to Leo)

He thinks that the best way to live life is to stick with Leo and follow whatever he does, to the point where he struggles to see any positivity when he makes his own choices. All he sees is Leo's successes and his failures. If he were Leo, or at least did things the same way as Leo, he'd never fail.

But as he's trying to be more like Leo, he's also losing more of himself. He begins to realize that he's pushing aside his own thoughts and feelings to follow what Leo would do.

The two stars in the sky are like a venn diagram. The closer they get to each other, the larger the area of the center part is, which represents things that share traits of both sides. If they fully overlap, then everything in the venn diagram is the exact same, and we've lost difference.

If one of the stars is Leo and the other is Nufuli, if they get close enough, Nufuli will practically just be Leo.

Nufuli realizes that if he keeps going, he's just going to lose himself.

So he decides that he's going to leave BAT.

And obviously this isn't an easy choice, considering this would be leaving his friends, and this would be leaving Leo. He thinks about this choice for a really long time. He doesn't want to do it, but he knows he has to. So he's stuck.

Until Parrot comes in. He's the one who finally convinces Nufuli. He just needed to hear his own reasoning from someone else to stop doubting himself.

So at the end of the episode, he leaves BAT. He tried to separate his star from Leo's. To become his own person and to make his own choices. To follow in his own steps rather than trying to copy someone else. To be his own star in the night sky.

But alas, the two stars were always meant to be together. Separating them was never an option.

If there can't be two, there'll be one.

(This might just be a mess of words idk, all you have to know is that Nufuli and Leo are "Two birds on a wire, one tries to fly away")

[hoshiseon-digiarc]

desire ; preview

♰ pairings :: ot8 vampire!ateez x fem!witch!reader

♰ genre :: dark fantasy, smut, strangers to ?? to lovers, fluff, maybe slight angst?, soulmates/fated lovers

♰ content :: polyamory, references to religious themes, all of them are kinda down bad... some more than others, reader is enamored with them (i'll add more by chapter, they're not written yet)

♰ word count :: 580

♰ note :: all of the descriptions are general as this is the preview, please read the warnings for each chapter!! this is my first time not writing in third person :,) each chapter will probably focus of different sets of members. the chapters aren't planned, i'm writing this as i go so pls be patient. i'm not sure how many chapters there'll be. feedback is greatly appreciated and i should have the first chapter up very soon!! ♡

♰ gen. warnings :: blood, violence, predator/prey dynamics (non sexual & possibly sexual in later chapters), fear, anxiety, sight obsession, stalking, general dark themes, manipulation (non sexual)

☽ smut warnings by chapter, MDNI!!

as i look around confusedly, i forget that there was a small chance i was being followed by something. instead astonishment replaces the fear as i look around. but not for long. i start to hear the distinct sound of crunching leaves coming from my right. this time my entire body freezes for a fraction of a second and i do not turn to see whatever it is coming for me. instead i turn left and start to run. as i sprint through the tree line, i make it long enough that the clearing behind me starts to morph back into endless trees.

but turning back to look proves to be a mistake as i trip once again and fall, unable to catch myself as i collide with the ground. sharp pain shoots through my knee again and i know this time i would not just have a bruise. i wince and cry as i push into the dirt to roll onto my back. through my fear, i could only hear my boots making contact with the earth beneath me but now that i am still i can definitely hear the pursuit of something coming towards me. it doesn't sound like running but then again i may not be able to hear over the sound of my own pounding heart and heaving breaths. i attempt to scramble to my feet and push through the pain in my leg but i can only manage a weak limping jog. i feel tears pool in my eyes as i stop to lean my side against a tree. there's just no way i'll make it to my cabin like this. and there's no way i'd beat whatever it is that's following me. as the pain in my knee starts to throb, i sink lower until i'm sitting with my back against the tree.

through my wallowing i failed to realize that the sound from before had stopped. as i turn my head to look around, i spot a silhouette to my left. back from where i originally started running. it looks like.... a person? who in their right mind would be out this far? it seems like the seconds drag on as i stare wordlessly at the unmoving figure. i have no options to weigh so i wait. for impending doom most certainly. but there's nothing i can really do. trying to get up again really isn't practical and would just alert them to my location, if they don't see me already. i blink and suddenly the figure looks a lot closer than they were a second ago. no... my mind is playing tricks on me no one moves that fast. my heart rate kicks into high gear as the figure starts to become larger. they're definitely getting closer. my reflexes kick in and i scramble with no success to get onto my feet. i hear my breath stutter and a cry threatens to leave my lips as the figure finally really comes into view and then stops. though it's still very dark, they're close enough now that i can see the person is a man. he's human looking... enough. but that doesn't really quell my fear. he's still not close enough that he could hear me if i spoke in a normal tone but i shouldn't get my hopes up. i watch as his head tilts to the side for a second before he starts to walk, much slower now, towards me.

[montammil]

Commission for @softvampirewhump ! Thank you so much for commissioning me!! <3

This is taking place in an AU where Nathan has Stockholm syndrome (along with Sadie and Marshall but they aren't included in this).

TW: Stockholm syndrome, parental whumper, slight infantilization, wholesome if you look past everything else

...

Lawrence blinked at the flier being shoved in his face. "Woah, not so close, I actually wanna read what it says."

Nathan grumbled under his breath and pulled it back so he could read it more clearly. "Knotfest. It's coming up, and I wanna see it. Can we?"

"Kiddo, I don't know..."

"Please?" For the first time in what seemed like forever, Nathan gave him his best puppy dog eyes, a very rare sight. "I'll never ask anything of you ever again."

Lawrence snorted. "That's a bold statement."

Nathan continued to give him the look, and Lawrence sighed in defeat. He already knew he wasn't going to win this battle. He could only refuse his darling kiddo anything for so long before breaking down under pressure. Nathan was great at playing with his weaknesses to get what he wanted, and it scared Lawrence sometimes how well he knew just what buttons to push.

"We can go," he said finally, watching as a grin split across Nathan's face. He knew he had done so much for Marshall and Sadie, it was only fair to indulge in his eldest's interests. "Promise you'll stay by my side? Not talk to anyone? No drinking?"

"Yeeesss," Nathan groaned, though it wasn't of genuine frustration. He hugged Lawrence. "...thanks. I mean it."

Lawrence almost teared up upon hearing that, but forced himself to hold it together. His kid actually thanked him for something. "Oh, Nate," he chuckled, voice cracking as he hugged him back. "You're welcome. You know I'd do anything for you."

"I know, Dad." It was so quiet Lawrence might've thought he misheard him if he didn't know any better. The shock of it stunned him for a moment. "Um, anyway! It's next month, soo... don't make any plans, or whatever..."

"Wouldn't dream of it," he managed to reply when he snapped out of it.

...

"So, who are you most excited to see?" Lawrence asked while parking. He asked Charlotte to watch Sadie and Marshall on their outing. He trusted them, but wanted them to have some company while he and Nathan were gone, considering they had made a road trip all the way to Florida.

Nathan's answer took a moment. "Korn, probably. Linkin Park is a close second, I was literally obsessed in middle school." His knee wouldn't stop bouncing.

Lawrence ruffled his hair. "I think I heard of Korn before. They made... what's that one called? Twisted Transistor? I like that one."

"I'm surprised you'd approve all of this. Considering you're, y'know, an old man."

"Excuse you! I am very cool and hip."

"Mmm. Right. That's why you're wearing an actual suit and tie to this event." Nathan rolled his eyes. "You look like my bodyguard."

"Well, you aren't wrong," Lawrence laughed. He found a parking spot and put the car in park. "Don't stray too far away from me today, alright? There'll be tons of people." As he unbuckled, Nathan did too.

They both got through the line with surprising ease and found their seats, after Lawrence insisted they get bottled water at the concession stand

"Oh, honey. Are you nervous?" Lawrence asked softly, patting Nathan's shoulder.

"It's just been a while since I've been in public," he muttered. He cracked open the water bottle and took a swig. "Also I hate this fuckin' state. I've never felt so sweaty before. How are you wearing a suit?"

"Language, kiddo. And with how many sets I've had here, I think I've grown an immunity to the heat," Lawrence replied easily. He led him to their seats and sat down beside him. The stadium was filling up quickly.

Soon enough, the opening acts began performing.

For the first time in what felt like years, Nathan smiled brightly. His eyes lit up as the bands played, and he bobbed his head along with the music. And that was when the nerves started to settle for him.

Lawrence hadn't seen him so happy in a long time, and tried to match his energy. His baby deserved a nice time, especially with the stress he'd been under for ages now. As long as Nathan was happy, he didn't mind the crowd so much.

He had never heard Nathan yell so hard when Korn finally started performing. Nathan knew every single word to all of their songs, and Lawrence made a mental note to take him to more concerts in the future.

When the concert had ended, Lawrence made sure to buy all the merchandise Nathan wanted on their way out.

"Look, we can have matching shirts!" Lawrence crooned with delight, holding up a Korn shirt.

Nathan chuckled. Even if it was corny (no pun intended), he'd take anything over more pastels. "Get me a Slipknot one, too."

Lawrence complied and bought everything, paying no mind to the price tags. If he could indulge Nathan's interests more, then he'd spend every dime on doing just that.

[rosiesdisneydrama]

GF X SKY: Ford's Notes on Stan

AN: Felt like writing something where Stanley was, somehow, an incarnate of a spirit from the game Sky. Because I wanted to play with crossovers and see how some of the characters would/could have grown over time. Plus, I just like Sky and the spirits from it.

Stan is, rather specifically, the Cackling Cannoneer from the Season of Abyss and I tried to hint at that with his appearance in this. He’s styled himself and his clothing to match how he sees himself, but he’s also still Stan as his core. It’s fun to consider what details, big and small, Stan being a Sky spirit would have changed. And even the things he himself would have done differently with those underlying character traits and notes that get added in.

Ford doesn’t know about Stan being the Cackling Cannoneer at this part in the story. It’ll come out eventually, and there'll be a lot of good family bonding from that. (Probably. It might take a bit for things to get sorted out.)

I also wanted to try rewriting Ford’s journal entries about his return with those details affecting how/what happened to bring him back. I leaned into how the entries were written in Journal 3 when I first started writing this, but then I split off from it since it looked odd without the accompanying art that Ford would put into the journal.

Against all odds, I’m Back.

I never thought, in a thousand years, that I would be holding this book again. The weight of it in my hands and the smell of the parchment whisks my mind back to the tragic accident that forever changed my life.

Though I was not present to record it when it first happened, 30 years ago I got into a fight with my brother and was knocked through my own interdimensional portal into a universe beyond my imagination.

The last three decades have been frightening, exciting, cruel, and strange, and as I find myself back in my old study, writing in my old journal, it is hard to shake the feeling that I have awoken from a bizarre 30-year dream…

How is it that I am back? It turns out that despite my warnings and the possibility of global catastrophe, Stanley managed to re-activate the portal and bring me back to my home dimension. While his intentions may have been pure, he was just as careless in bringing me back as he’d been knocking me through in the first place. He destroyed the portal in the process and nearly risked endangering the entire fabric of reality!

It is only by the barest chances that he’s avoided people outside of the house from realizing what he was doing. His lack of forethought is just the kind of thing I should have known to expect from him.

But I should not dwell on the past for long. There will be time enough to ruminate on my years spent traveling through the dimensional rifts and the strange things I saw there.

First, I must focus on the present and the problems created by the man who is responsible for my latest twist of fate…

My Brother Stanley Hero or Idiot?

When I first saw him, I had assumed I had once again found myself in an alternate, parallel dimension. Gone was the stubborn messy-haired, frostbitten vagabond who had pushed me into the portal many years earlier, replaced by a wrinkled old mariner with my father’s face, a patched-up set of overalls, and more tattoos than a man his age should have.

I’d spent years contemplating what I might do if I saw Stanley again. Would I even be able to look him in the eye after what he did? Would I apologize for shutting him out of my life?

As it turned out, instinct took over and I punched him in the face.

I feel kind of bad about that…

1 Face- Inherited Dad’s nose and Mom’s untrustworthy tongue. For some reason, he’s tattooed his FACE! A few simple, blue triangles over his right brow, but it’s the PRINCIPLE of the thing! (We are both well into our 50s, we’re too old for such sharp-lined tattoos.)

2 Build- I have kept an extensive exercise and diet regime over the past 30 years. Stanley hasn’t been as rigorous but seems to be somewhat in shape.

3 Clothes- Stanley dresses as though he’s a fisherman on their day off. An old jumpsuit tucked into thick boots and worn over an aged-looking shirt. While all sensible dress, it’s not what one should wear in a lab environment! However, the strange symbol on the front of his jumpsuit looks familiar…

4 Hair- Despite his years and wrinkles, Stanley has chosen to keep the right half of his head SHAVEN with even more tattoos there. The left half of his head, by contrast, is unshaven and reveals that his hair has gone fully white in the years since I had seen him last. He keeps it all wrapped up in three long, thick braids that he’s tied off with dark brown cords rather than normal hair ties. They may even be leather cords, but I haven’t examined them closely enough to tell.

5 Machinery- Stanley’s work on the portal is sloppy, at best. And that is if I’m being kind about it. Some parts were properly welded in place, but others were messily attached with bolts and screws that didn’t belong or anchored with metal cables. Some parts were even attached with DUCK TAPE of all things!

I have no idea what the purpose of the strange paintings, symbols, and plants that had been in the basement as well, buried beneath the rubble of the destroyed portal.

Yes, despite the years and wrinkles, Stanley seems to be the same irresponsible miscreant I remember from our shared childhood. Most unbelievable: his first thought upon seeing me again was to expect a thank you- a THANK YOU- after destroying my life!

He’s apparently spent the past 30 years impersonating me (likely to escape the law or some band of criminals he’s made enemies of) and he’s completely changed the nature of my labs and what the town thinks of them.

Once a haven for my work, the secluded cabin I built with my grant money has been transformed by Stanley into a fake cryptozoology museum. My brother re-dubbed my labs as the “Mystery Shack” and has filled it with fantastical, completely fabricated creatures for tourists and locals alike to come and gawk at.

My inventing room? Now a hall of false taxidermies of made-up creatures. Why on earth would he decide to call a strange, stone creature with juts of red crystal sticking out of it a “Shattering Crab”? It makes no sense!

My thinking parlor? Now little more than a tacky “man cave” for lazing in front of the television when the “Shack” was closed. Stanley has been using my T. Rex skull as a coffee table. A coffee table!

Not even my storage room was spared from Stanley’s absurdity, having been turned into a “gift shop” more cluttered than Pines Pawns had ever been. Many of the items relate back to the creatures of the museum, a few even appearing as soft toys for children.

Though, with great reluctance, I must applaud my brother’s handy work on these creatures. Despite the subpar materials he’d used to craft them, Stanley seems to have put genuine effort into creating each one. Many of them have small placards and posters near them depicting cleverly conceived speculative biology and behavior. If I did not know better, I would potentially mistake them for REAL creatures and not simply flights of fancy.

His elaborate tales of the creatures only add to the air of plausibility behind them, in addition to highlighting his skills at spinning a yarn for gullible tourists.

I had always known that Stanley loved the ocean when we were children, but he seems to have taken many of the animals of the seas and created a fantastical version of them to put on display. At least there are SOME things he’s willing to put in the work and research for. They are surprisingly grounded for what I would normally expect of him.

It would be impressive, entertaining even, if it weren’t for the fact that he’s taken over MY labs to do it.

I feel like a ghost wandering through a parody of their own home. I can see enough of what used to be to know where I am, but it has all been CHANGED.

I intended to make it clear to Stanley that I WOULD be taking my home back, but he shut down the conversation the moment I started to speak about it. And, as much as I detest it, he did have a good reason for not having the conversation at that time.

It seems the children staying at the house are here because of marital in-fighting between their parents. In-fighting that has been growing increasingly toxic between our nephew and niece-in-law and has started to affect the twins as well. Things have been said when they should not have and the children have overheard it. He wants the two to believe that the house is both safe AND stable for as long as they’re here.

We’re both prone to losing our tempers with each other and it’s very likely our argument will get very loud and harsh once we start. As such, Stanley doesn’t want to have a conversation about what will happen now that I’ve returned unless he is SURE the children won’t overhear us speaking. A noble intention that I find myself willing to go along with for now.

It is frustrating to be forced to hold my tongue but he has made his stance clear. So I am not being left much choice in the matter anyway.

Stanley has asked his employees to take the children to town tomorrow so that we will have the building to ourselves. An ideal opportunity for us to have a private conversation about what is going to change now.

It should be a simple matter. Nothing for me to worry about.

AN: Ford is showing his age/upbringing with his opinions on tattoos even if he doesn’t know it. In the 70s and 80s, tattoos on the face or hands were usually associated with criminals. So he’s seeing the ones Stan has and assuming he has them for his own criminal activities or as some kind of Subversive movement he’s part of.

He’s wrong, but he doesn’t know that yet. Because he’s only JUST come back and hasn’t actually sat down to talk with Stan yet about what’s happened while he was gone. He does, subtly, bring up the crispness of the edges and deepness of the colors in this journal entry, though.

IRL tattoos fade as the person with them gets older and it takes active maintenance to keep tattoo lines sharp and to prevent them from fading. After all, human skin sheds/changes over time so tattoos lose their clean lines and their colors will fade and become harder to see. Because of that, tattoos need to be retouched and maintained over time to keep them in good condition.

(I know this because, despite not having any myself, my childhood babysitter DID have some. He explained it to me when I mentioned how faded one of his had gotten and that he planned to get it touched up soon.)

Ford’s own tattoos are almost gone by this point in the story because he REFUSED to care for them after Bill had gotten them. No going out to get them retouched or making them more prominent/defined. The fact that Stan’s have such neat lines and vibrant colors means he’s taken time to ensure that they have them and Ford thinks that means they’re either A) Proud of whatever he did that they symbolize or B) Still being Rebellious despite no longer being a teenager.

AKA He’s either a Criminal or refusing to Grow Up and be an Adult and that’s coloring Ford’s opinions on his brother. The half-shaved head also plays into his idea that Stanley is “immature” since men their age Don’t Do That.

[gauloiseblue]

Blue Velvet

(König × Reader × Horangi)

War isn't easy to get through, and the importance of keeping the soldiers' morals is as crucial as their ratios. They need distractions as much as they need food, and the higher ups are forced to provide it to them. It should be a bare minimum, since they subjugated them to fight their war. But they're a bunch of pigs, of course they'd rather keep the money to themselves.

They did give them a show—twice a week, but it felt inadequate. They only call a shrieking woman, with equally loud music to entertain them.

It's appalling to him, and he scoffs at the thrumming beat from the tent, where the singer—if you can call her a singer—screams her tune. The soldiers would whistle at her, stretching their hands to touch her, and she'd playfully evade them. It feels animalistic, vulgar, and he scoffs everytime the music starts. He'd walk to the opposite side, while the soldiers flock to the tent.

He sometimes found the Russian agent by the woods, and they'd sit in silence while the rowdy show filled in in the background. Though he prefers to be left alone, it's a better option than the crowded tent.

They talk when it's necessary, but most of the time they keep their thoughts to themselves. Nikto would stare at the woods, or anywhere else, really. It doesn't matter, since his mind isn't here.

He thought it'd stay that way, until Horangi told him to come.

"It's not the loud American slag," He explained to him, "Trust me, you'll like her."

He was vexed when he dragged him along, but it quickly changed once they got into their seats.

It's not as crowded as usual, and he can hear the soldiers murmur behind him. Some of them have a curious tone, but some of them are derisive. He didn't understand the sentiment, until the lights are dimmed.

And there you stand. On the stage, with the floodlight shines on you.

You were cold, aloof. And there's something delicate in the way you stood. Though it's only a brief moment, before the music plays softly.

As if lured by the tune, you step into the light and sing.

She wore blue velvet

Bluer than velvet was the night

Softer than satin was the light

From the stars

The murmurs begin to cease, as you sing the gentle ode.

She wore blue velvet

Bluer than velvet were her eyes

Warmer than May, her tender sighs

Love was ours

He holds his breath, as the flutter of your voice reaches his ear.

Ours, a love I held tightly

Feeling the rapture grow

Like a flame burning brightly

But when she left gone was the glow of

His friend glances at him, and a smirk spreads on his lips. He sees it from the corner of his eye, but he couldn't care less.

Blue velvet

But in my heart there'll always be

Precious and warm a memory through the years

And I still can see blue velvet through my tears

"Told you you'd like her."

He stares at his friend, before he states a warning.

"Don't act like you know me." He hissed.

Horangi lifts his hands lazily, as he returns to watch the stage.

She wore blue velvet

But in my heart there'll always be

Precious and warm a memory through the years

And I still can see blue velvet through my tears

"You know," He started, while his eyes stayed on your figure, "I wouldn't watch her if she's not pretty, but you gotta admit that she's more than just a pretty face." He took a glance at him, "She makes you feel… things, doesn't she?"

"What do you want?"

His voice is enough to convey the message, but his friend doesn't flinch away. He pushes through instead.

"Help me capture the bird, and I'll give you half of it."

The chair screeches when he stands as he glares at him, before he marches out of the room.

His friend's eyes burn holes into his back, and he grits his teeth at the prying gaze. He hates it, he hates that he's seen through him.

[allthelittlecreepycrawlies]

good evening and happy early birthday! if the idea interests you, how about a modern-day au where meng shi is alive and meng yao gets to introduce nie huaisang to her as his lover for the first time?

Thank you! And I am giggling and kicking my feet because you're letting me play with an idea I had ages ago but never managed to get to gel properly. It's a little short for now, but maybe there'll be a part two? IDK yet.

---------------

"I'm sure he's very... nice, dear," was all his mother had managed to come up with when he'd first shown her a picture of Nie Huaisang.

In all honesty, he couldn't blame her for being apprehensive. After all, he hadn't been shy about his annoyance with all the... quirks, for lack of a more polite word, that the gallery director had when they'd been pushed into working together for the charity gala his father wanted to -use to get yet another scandal out of the press- throw.

And even once he'd found some of those quirks were decidedly less annoying when being used in his favor - and used intentionally in his favor, as Nie Huaisang had proven to be quite a bit more of a complicated individual than first meetings implied- Nie Huaisang was still... well... not exactly the type he ever thought he'd be...

It wasn't simply an issue of gender. While he'd had to keep his preferences hidden from his father, his mother had always been aware that he found women and men equally nice to look at. But he had always gravitated toward a certain style, a certain appearance, a certain personality... the boxes of which Nie Huaisang fit into exactly none of.

Yet here and now, six months later...

"I would like you to meet him," he said, once he managed to get the words to stop sticking in his throat.

Even though she was still looking at the picture, he could see her blink in surprise before she raised her head, then arched a single eyebrow in that way she always did whenever she was reading him, and he had to struggle not to fidget under the stare.

He couldn't stop the heat from rising to his face, however, and that eyebrow arched even higher before a smile curved her mouth just enough to reveal the dimples they shared.

"Oh?" she asked teasingly. "A-Yao, you-"

"Have never asked you to meet someone, I know," he mumbled, now aware his face was probably glowing like a hot coal. If he'd still been a kid, he already would have turtle-shelled into the collar of his coat in an attempt to hide it.

He hadn't even asked his mother to meet Lan Huan, though that had partially been because he'd thought they would have much more time to settle in before taking that step. Before-

But he didn't want to think about that right at the moment. At the moment, he was toying with the gloves he'd taken off, waiting for her opinion.

His mother studied him for a moment longer, then looked at the photo on his phone again. "Are you happy with him?"

"He can be... a handful sometimes," he admitted. "But he always makes up for those times, and then some. I've crossed paths with his older brother a few times, and he said something once about weaponizing me, since I was the only person outside the gallery that Huaisang made so much effort for. He was joking... I think."

She made one of those little noises she often made when trying to be ladylike about holding in laughter, then handed him back his phone. "All right, then. If he's willing to set us up a date so you don't have to be the one doing all the planning, then I'll meet him."

Ah. So she was wanting it to be a little test for Huaisang, then. He didn't mind; he understood the reasoning behind it.

And he was sure Huaisang would pass easily.

[karamazovposting]

On Ivan and bipolar disorder (part one)

I've never seen anyone talk about this and it doesn't surprise me considering most people don't really know what bipolar disorder actually is (the stereotypes are all wrong and good representation in media is rare, sigh) and while I'm not saying my interpretation is the only correct one as I'm a firm believer that anyone can see whatever they want in art and that's a beautiful thing, in my opinion there are enough things about Ivan's behaviour and character that make my bipolar Ivan Karamazov agenda worthy of being pushed a little.

This first part will be more of an introduction where I'll just talk, in general, about what I picked up on in the first half of the novel and then in the next parts (I don't know how many there'll be yet, there's a lot of stuff to say) I'll get more specific by going over Ivan's inner world and the more significant events that made me think yeah this young man definitely needs some lithium.

Let's start with this: I know every Dostoevsky character is fucked up in their own way, that's pretty much his thing, but there is a difference between being a little fucked up and being actually mentally ill. There's just something about Ivan that made something in my brain click and go bipolar, which has never really happened before.

Do I think Dostoevsky deliberately chose to make Ivan so bipolar coded? Considering at the time there was barely a name for this disorder (which isn't even the same name we use today), let alone an actual diagnosis, no. But as someone who is diagnosed with bipolar disorder, I think his character makes a lot more sense if we see him as suffering from it. I even talked about this to my therapist who has read the book and he sees my vision too (lmao).

The thing that I'm sure jumps to someone's mind when it comes to Ivan and the topic of mental illness is the psychotic episode he goes through after Fyodor's murder, and while it kind of sustains my thesis on its own already, I thought he was bipolar coded way before that, because in my opinion there are a lot of subtle signs and behaviours that are kind of like little puzzle pieces that need to be put together to get to see the bigger picture, as bipolar disorder is not just the episodes someone goes through but also the impact those episodes have on them. It's a disorder that shapes the person, their brain chemistry and patterns and therefore their life in an irreversible way.

What initially struck me was how angry Ivan actually is. We don't really see it at first solely because we don't really see much of him in general, but I think that after he pushes Maksimov off the carriage without saying a word or explaining himself to his father we open some sort of Pandora's box. After that, almost every time he appears in the first half of the novel, he's angry. At the top of my head I can only think of two instances where he's not: when talking to Katerina before leaving for Moscow, which is also the first time we see him show an emotion other than anger (and it only took him, what? More than 300 pages? Yeah, relatable), and when he's at lunch with Alyosha shortly after. Other than that, he's always angry, and it's so visceral that I couldn't help but think that he feels that particular kind of deep rage only someone with bipolar disorder is capable of feeling (I personally nicknamed bipolar disorder the always fucking angry disorder). The way he's so deeply and irrationally angry that he feels himself shake and has to collect himself in order to not beat up Smerdyakov? The way he can't let it go and engages in conversation with him even though he himself doesn't even know why he's feeling or doing any of that? The way he treats his father? That's undiagnosed/untreated behaviour, I've been there. It may feel weird or even absurd if you're not familiar with this disorder, but there's a reason why the term bipolar rage is a thing: it is indeed on another level. It also seems like the only emotion he's comfortable with showing is anger and that's why it seems to be his only emotional outlet, as he didn't seem that eager to open up in front of Katerina and even when alone with his own brother you can feel some sort of awkwardness coming from him. I'll go into the specifics of that particular interaction with Alyosha in the future, but I think that after that Ivan's, very emotion-centered, character arc officially starts to develop as his relationship with his own feelings finally and slowly starts to change and becomes a tool to get him closer to the other characters. It's obviously not linear and I really like that, it feels very realistic.

Anyway, at first I thought I was just projecting, lots of people have anger issues and showing one symptom of something doesn't mean you have it, diagnostic criterias exist for a reason. The thing is, the more I read the more I noticed that not only Ivan happens to meet a lot of them, but he also shows some behaviors and has some personality traits that can easily be interpreted as bipolar coded (as I said a few paragraphs ago): his complex and peculiar type of loneliness, the emotional outbursts, his own perception of himself compared to how the other characters speak of him, his traumatic childhood, his attitude towards life (and death), the reasons behind his relationship with God and religion, his curated persona, the fact that no one seems to understand him. Not to mention he's described as having experienced depression and anguish multiple times in the past, and in a particular occasion in the novel not even knowing why (this one point in particular is very important as it connects to his attitude towards life and death, which is the most bipolar coded thing about him to me). All things I'll go over with more detail in the future when I'll get to his inner world.

For now I'll say that the main thing about bipolar disorder is that it fucks up one's emotions a lot, causing "inappropriate" or "abnormal" (for a lack of better terms) and exaggerated emotional responses and reactions in the people who have it (which usually manifest as the epic highs and lows the average person has at least heard of, but it can and does get more complicated than that) and I genuinely don't think Ivan reacts normally to anything, ever; the most noticeable thing to me is that his default reaction to anything, no matter what it is, is laughter. We also see him get extremely anxious to the point of being physically unwell and spiral a little after Smerdyakov and Fyodor tell him to go to Cermašnja due to what the former told him, which made me go damn, no one died yet and he's already paranoid?. His emotional regulation is a mess and he's so real (and bipolar) for that.

Another quite important thing about bipolar disorder is that it makes every emotion more intense to the point of confusion and being all over the place, which causes a person with bipolar disorder's emotional responses and reactions to be the way they are. Now, I'm not proclaiming myself as the one and only True Ivan Karamazov Understander, but I do think people tend to focus too much on his façade of coldness and on the darker side of his story, causing them to forget about how actually fun, passionate and almost childish he is at times. Ivan feels, and he feels deeply, and it isn't fair to overlook that just because he rarely shows it. Extreme rationality and collectedness can often also be a way to try to gain control over your symptoms (I'm guilty of that). We get to see some of his less collected emotionality in how dramatic he gets (like a true Karamazov) when reciting poetry in German to Katerina and in The brothers get acquainted, Rebellion and The Grand Inquisitor, as I already mentioned. At this point of the novel, something in particular happens and at this point in the novel I decide that yes, Ivan is bipolar coded.

I think I'll stop here at this sort of "cliffhanger" because this got quite long and I need one post only to elaborate that last paragraph. This isn't as coherent as I hoped it would be and, honestly, I kind of feel stupid, like I read too much into this and am seeing things that aren't there (how familiar, how fitting), but I wanted to share my perspective (and I'm also open to discussion!). Also, I won't lie, Ivan is my favorite character of The Brothers Karamazov and I don't think he's talked about enough, I've even seen people say he's the least interesting one out of the brothers which kind of broke my heart because I personally think he's the most interesting (no shade to the uninteresting Ivan gang of course). I don't know if I feel like that towards him because for the first time ever I got to see myself in a character and it was very important to me, but I don't think it really matters, "meeting" him made me happy and he will always be special to me, even if his story has its fair share of tragedy. Or maybe because of it. I'm planning on making a post about that and his ending in particular, but for now I'll focus on finishing this bipolar Ivan Karamazov essay.

No idea when I'll write the rest though, but I will.

[gomzdrawfr]

HELLO!

I just wanted to pop and here and ask a Lil smt, I'm unsure if you've been asked this before and if I'm being honest I don't want to spend hours trying to find smt that idk if it's been asked before lmao-

But! I was wondering If you could describe your OCs Jelly and Raven's personalities and how they act?! If that's okay ofc, thank you!!

*casually slides back through the window waving enthusiastically*

Hey there! thank you for this ask, it's going to be a long answer so buckle up and get some tea xD let's start with Jelly first because she is still a relatively new OC, I haven't develop her story completely yet.

cw: there'll be mentioned of suicidal idealisation on Raven's part, some canon-typical violence here and there

Jelly's a silly gal, initially the one OC that I want to make it so that she's relatable to most people (around my age at least) and project my chaos and goofiness on. She's bubbly and kind, a bit awkward and sometimes a dumbass but this kindness isn't born from naivety but rather it's a choice. Shaped by her tragic upbringing (when can I make an OC that doesn't suffer? likely never, anyways), she has felt and seen first hand what it's like to be disregarded and overlooked, knows how it feels to be underestimated, to be someone you're not, thus this makes her perceptive to emotions and empathetic. She's the type of person who will go out of her way to help someone, even if it means putting her own needs aside.

She's a bit of a geek, anime, gaming, figurines, fan fiction, you name it she'll love it. Though she doesn't show it outwardly in fear of judgement, you'll see trinkets/merch in her workshop. Though if you approach her on those topic, she'll gladly yap about it with you.

Think of her like a mix of orange cat and golden retriever.

Now when it comes to Raven...oh boy, this one's a lot to unpack here.

The short answer is she's the fem version of Ghost, minus the muscles and repressed gayness (wheeze, no really, I made Raven using Ghost as a blueprint and then slowly expanded her story from there, lazy character making so to speak) but that may offend a portion of people so *cough*

Where do I even begin? xD

Raven's life has been hard since the very start, so she has a different level of mental toughness so ingrained that she often pushes herself past the point of exhaustion, has faced anything and everything from psychological pain to near-death experiences (multiple times). This makes her fiercely independent and rely solely on herself most of the time, viewing dependency on others as a weakness. So she doesn't like getting approached, and would likely ignore anyone who tries doing so.

Despite so, if you earned her loyalty, she will commit and submit to you wholeheartedly. While her past has taught her that loyalty can be a weapon used against you, she still chose to willing go to great lengths protecting the people she thinks are worth protecting for. So, let's just say she has some possessive tendencies. This trait however, is dangerous as well because that made her value her life a lot lesser, her own life is a pawn on the chess piece, a weapon that should be sacrificed for the greater good. It takes a lot of patiences and love on John's side to resolve a big part of that. (Raven goddammit it you are important just as much as Price and everyone else is, doesn't matter if you are useful or not because simply existing, is enough!!)

Ambiguous moral complex, I think that's the word, instead of operating in the black or white, she operates in the shades of gray. She's disciplined and highly analytical, ruthless and heartless when she does, so she can be coldly logical (stole this description from Jack). She has no qualms about deception, manipulation and dishonesty if it meant achieving her goal. This sort of...behaviour of her would make her unpredictable at times, and creates a tension between her and other operators, because can you trust a woman who wouldn't hesitate when necessary?

She has a cynicism perspective in live, which often isolates her from those around her, I could go on and on about this but she views empathy with suspicion, questioning the motives of kindness, which is why she's more reserved and distant to others, detached even. She copes by compartmentalization, which is basically isolating thoughts and feelings separately, think of Raven putting anger, sadness, happiness in different boxes, it's some form of dissociation to avoid feelings because they get in the way of life. So sometimes she doesn't react emotionally towards situation, which makes her seem like a monster. (at some level, she is one)

But despite her being a hardass, she does have a softer side that's hidden. Buried, deep-seated empathy of hers is quiet, almost reluctant, they appear when she least expected, and thus she has a hard time to express her feelings directly. Actions speaks louder than words, afterall. She's the type that shows her appreciation rather than speaking them.

This also, kind of make her awkward in some ways, especially when she's flustered. She wouldn't how to respond to heartfelt compliments or simple act of kindness.

Oh you bought her tea? She'll stare at you for an uncomfortable amount of time before she drinks it and tell you to get the same one next time.

You dust off her uniform? again, stares at you before she awkwardly pat your shoulder with a nod.

In short, she's quiet and reserved, emotionally guarded and cynical. But beneath that hard exterior she's a loyal person who cares more than she likes to admit.