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solxamber · 6 months ago

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Trash Novel Chronicles: I Want a Refund || Trey Clover

When the universe dunks you into a dumpster fire of a novel as the villainess, survival is key. Except your husband, Trey Clover, turns out to be such a green flag that it gets a little harder to function.

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You prided yourself on being a normal, decent person. Maybe even a good person, depending on who you asked. Sure, you weren’t out here saving kittens from trees or solving world hunger, but you did your part.

You recycled when you remembered, held the door open for strangers (if they were close enough, you weren’t that kind of hero), and even tossed bread crumbs to the pigeons outside your apartment every now and then. It wasn’t much, but it was honest work.

So, really, what you didn’t expect was to be completely betrayed by the universe. The betrayal began small, like a mosquito buzzing in your ear: the newest novel you’d been anticipating for months was sold out.

“Are you serious?” you grumbled, glaring at the empty display like it had just insulted your mother. A handwritten sign on the shelf read: ‘SOLD OUT! More in stock soon!’ in cheerful cursive, as if mocking you.

What were you supposed to do now? Go home empty-handed? Waste your perfectly good afternoon plans of curling up with a book? Absolutely not. Refusing to admit defeat, you scanned the bookstore until your gaze fell on the “New and Best-Selling” rack.

One book immediately caught your eye. The cover was... well, something. It looked like someone had raided a middle schooler’s stash of Barbie stickers, splattered glitter over the whole thing, and slapped on an aggressively curly gold font that screamed, I’M A ROMANCE NOVEL!

You sighed. “Fine. How bad could it be?”

It could be very, very bad.

The first red flag was the synopsis. It introduced Trey Clover, the Grand Duke, who loved his spouse, the villainess, with a devotion so pure it made you want to gag. But then came the second male lead, the Prince, who confessed his love to Trey and the villainess, because monogamy was too boring for this book.

And then there was the heroine. The synopsis just called her “the Saintess,” because why bother giving her a name when her only personality trait was being the worst human being imaginable? She appeared out of nowhere, became the Saintess overnight (because logic?), and made it her life’s mission to ruin the villainess’s life while somehow convincing everyone she was an angel.

Oh, and the Prince? The book had him slip on a rock and die halfway through the plot, like the author had a word count limit and didn’t know what else to do with him. The villainess ends up dying too, right aftetr asking Trey for a divorce to "protect him." The ending involved Trey marrying the heroine, despite spending the entire book side-eyeing her like she owed him rent.

You closed the book slowly, your soul drained of all joy. “What in the fresh hell did I just read?”

But no, you couldn’t let this stand. You were a taxpayer, a contributing member of society. You did not deserve this literary slap in the face.

With righteous indignation burning in your chest, you marched back to the bookstore. You slapped the book onto the counter with a dramatic flair that deserved a standing ovation.

“Refund,” you declared, glaring at the cashier.

“Uh... we don’t usually do refunds on books you’ve already read...” they began hesitantly.

“I don’t care,” you snapped, pointing at the glittering monstrosity. “This isn’t a book. It’s a hate crime against literature. A refund, please, before I start sobbing in public.”

After a long pause—and possibly fearing a customer service meltdown—they handed you store credit. Satisfied but still simmering with rage, you stomped out of the store, muttering to yourself about bad authors, worse editors, and the existential crisis of knowing someone got paid to write that garbage.

And that’s when karma struck.

A segway—a SEGWAY—came hurtling toward you at Mach speed, piloted by a man dressed in full medieval knight armor.

“MAKE WAY FOR SIR SCOOTINGTON!” he screamed, his voice muffled by his helmet.

You froze. Your brain could not process this level of absurdity in such a short amount of time. Was this a prank? A hallucination? Had the book actually been cursed and now you were living out its bad writing?

The segway didn’t stop. It hit you with a solid THUNK, sending you flying backward into a suspiciously well-placed pile of garbage bags.

As you lay there, buried under the remains of someone’s takeout and a very old banana peel, as your vision started to blur, you stared at the sky and thought:

Dawg, why me??

You woke up to the faint chirping of birds and the kind of silence that only rich people seem to afford. Something felt... off. The sheets were too soft, like they’d been spun from angel whispers and a mid-tier deity’s hair. Your pillow was the perfect combination of fluffy and firm, a far cry from the lumpy second-hand abomination you’d bought on sale three years ago.

Your eyes cracked open, squinting against the sunlight filtering through an elaborate, gold-encrusted chandelier. A chandelier. In a bedroom. You lived in a shoebox apartment; your idea of luxury was a lamp that wasn’t from a clearance bin.

You turned your head slightly, and your soul froze mid-exit.

There was someone next to you.

Your brain screeched to a halt, flashing every warning signal it had. Stranger. Bed. You. No.

The only living thing that should’ve been in your apartment was the stray cat you’d nicknamed Gremlin, and he sure as hell didn’t have human proportions or a steady breathing rhythm.

Slowly—painstakingly—you tilted your head to look at your unwanted companion.

It was a man. A very attractive man, sleeping peacefully on his side, glasses perched askew on the nightstand. His hair was a soft mess, his breathing even, and his entire aura screamed gentle husband vibes.

Then recognition sucker-punched you in the gut.

No.

It couldn’t be.

You blinked. Looked again. Replayed every horrible memory of that atrocious novel you had read, and then read again because you hated yourself.

It was Trey Clover.

Male lead. Gentleman. Human embodiment of a warm cup of tea. The guy who was in love with his villainess spouse (you remembered her being dramatic but competent) before the world went full dumpster fire.

Your breathing hitched. You stared down at your hands, and they stared back—perfectly manicured, dainty, soft hands that had never touched a single dirty dish or over-scrubbed countertop.

The reality hit you like a segway knight at full speed.

You’d been isekai’d.

You fought the urge to scream into the pillow. Was this some karmic punishment for returning that book? Was your snarky review in the Reddit thread too harsh? Because this? This was an unholy level of irony.

Trey stirred beside you, his brow furrowing slightly as his hand lazily reached for his glasses. He slid them on, blinking sleepily as his gaze landed on you.

“What’s wrong?” His voice was soft, groggy, and just a little raspy—the kind of voice you’d pay extra to have someone read you bedtime stories with. “You’re staring.”

For a moment, your brain blue-screened. Trey Clover—novel character and now your husband, apparently—was looking at you with concern, and all you could think was: At least he’s hot.

“…Nothing,” you croaked, swallowing down the rising tide of panic. “Just… processing.”

“Processing what?” he asked, sitting up slightly and rubbing his eyes, his entire demeanor radiating "adoring husband" energy.

You clenched the sheets in your fists, trying to will yourself to wake up from this insane fever dream. Unfortunately, the chandelier wasn’t disappearing, Trey wasn’t fading into mist, and your perfectly moisturized skin wasn’t breaking into your usual crusty dryness.

This was real.

And somehow, you were the villainess in a novel you’d once described as "a literary abomination designed to kill brain cells."

The sound of a soft knock at the bedroom door made you jump, nearly upsetting the tower of books you’d been flipping through in your attempt to figure out where in the dumpster fire of this timeline you were.

“Come in?” you called hesitantly, trying to shove the incriminating evidence of your non-villainess-like behavior—a half-written list titled HOW TO NOT DIE TRAGICALLY—under a pillow.

Trey stepped in, balancing a tray of food like he was auditioning for Husband of the Year. His hair was slightly mussed, the sleeves of his button-up rolled up just enough to show forearms that could inspire sonnets. The man was a walking Pinterest board, and it was unfair.

“I brought you something to eat,” he said with a small smile, setting the tray on the table. “You’ve been skipping meals, and that’s not like you.”

You laughed nervously, pulling the blanket tighter around yourself. “Oh, um, yeah. Upset stomach. You know how it is.”

Trey raised an eyebrow, his smile unwavering but his eyes far too knowing. “Sure. And I’ll be here while you eat, just to make sure you’re feeling better.”

Oh, no.

You stared at the tray like it had betrayed you. Soup, bread, and some suspiciously perfect desserts that looked like they had been made by the hands of an angel. You couldn’t say no without sounding even sketchier.

“Right,” you muttered, picking up the spoon with the grace of someone about to face a firing squad. As you sipped, Trey watched silently, his chin resting on one hand, his soft gaze pinned on you. The air felt so heavy you could’ve cut it with a butter knife.

“Are you going to go through with it?” he asked suddenly.

You froze mid-bite, the words hitting you like a frying pan to the face. “Go through with… what?”

“The divorce,” he said simply.

You choked on your soup. The spoon clattered back into the bowl as you grabbed a napkin, trying to avoid literally dying of shock. Divorce? Divorce?! That wasn’t in the plan! You knew what happened after the divorce—the villainess died, and you weren’t about to let fate steamroll you into an early grave, again.

“What? No! Of course not!” you sputtered, waving your hands in frantic denial. “Why would I want a divorce? You’re, uh, great! Fantastic! A literal dream husband!”

Trey blinked, his brows furrowing in confusion before his expression softened into something warmer, almost relieved. “You… want to work things out?”

“Yes!” you blurted, nodding with enough enthusiasm to give yourself whiplash. “Absolutely! Let’s work this out. Together. Like a team.”

His lips curved into a rare, genuine smile that nearly melted you on the spot. He leaned in, pressing a kiss to your forehead that left your brain doing cartwheels. “Alright. I’ll hold you to that. I’ll be back for dinner, so rest up until then.”

He left the room, and the moment the door clicked shut, you flopped back onto the bed like a deflated balloon. The pillow muffled your scream of embarrassment as you kicked your feet, equal parts flustered and mortified. What was that? Why did he have to be so sweet? How were you supposed to survive this level of tenderness without combusting?

The door creaked open again.

You froze mid-giggle, legs tangled in the sheets like a caught fish. Trey stood in the doorway, eyebrow raised and looking like he was about two seconds away from bursting into laughter. “Forgot my pen,” he said casually, strolling over to grab the item from the bedside table.

You wanted the floor to swallow you whole. “Oh. Uh. Right.”

He paused on his way out, leaning down to kiss your cheek with infuriating gentleness. “I’ll see you at dinner.”

And just like that, he was gone again, leaving you red-faced, flustered, and questioning every life choice that had led to this moment.

It had been such a nice meal. The kind where the food was good, the company better, and the wine just strong enough to make you feel warm and floaty but not stupid. Trey was smiling faintly at you over his plate, his rare but deeply satisfying I’m enjoying myself face in full effect, and you dared to think, Hey, maybe I can survive this isekai nonsense after all.

And then the restaurant door swung open, and your fragile peace shattered like a dropped wine glass.

The prince had arrived.

Trey’s face immediately darkened like a thunderstorm on the horizon, and you felt yourself lose a year of your life just from sheer dread. The prince was a walking disaster in human form, and you’d been hoping to avoid him like the plague. But the universe clearly hated you because here he was, sashaying through the restaurant like he owned the place.

“Oh no,” you whispered, gripping your fork like it could somehow protect you.

Trey’s jaw tightened as the prince spotted you both, his grin wide enough to make you wish the floor would open up and swallow you.

“Darlings!” the prince cried, crossing the room with the enthusiasm of a golden retriever off its leash. “Fancy seeing you here!”

You didn’t even get a chance to object before he grabbed a chair from a nearby table, spun it around dramatically, and wedged himself between you and Trey, plopping down like he’d been invited. Spoiler alert: he hadn’t.

“Your Highness,” Trey said through clenched teeth, managing to sound both polite and like he was ready to stab someone with a salad fork.

“Oh, come now, Trey,” the prince laughed, waving off the formality. “No need to be so stiff. After all, we’re practically family!”

You didn’t get the chance to ask how that made sense before he grabbed your hand—and Trey’s—planting a wet, sloppy kiss on each. The sound it made was unholy, like a boot pulling free from a swamp. You and Trey simultaneously stiffened, the same thought clearly running through your minds: Don’t cringe, don’t cringe, don’t cringe…

“I simply had to come over when I saw you two!” the prince gushed, oblivious to your visible discomfort. “The saintess—bless her kind, radiant heart—has been dying to see you both!”

You glanced at Trey, who was visibly restraining himself from rolling his eyes.

“She’s throwing a ball this weekend,” the prince continued, clasping his hands together like he was sharing the world’s most exciting news. “And you must come. Truly, it’d be… well, treasonous not to, considering we’re both inviting you!”

Ah, there it was. The veiled threat disguised as politeness. You hated that this guy was smart enough to wield his royal status as a weapon, even if he made everything sound like it came with a complimentary gift basket.

You forced a smile, hoping it didn’t look too much like a grimace. “We’d be honored, Your Highness.”

Trey shot you a subtle look, one that very clearly said Traitor, but you knew he agreed. Anything to avoid another round of Wet Hand Kisses.

“Wonderful!” the prince declared, clapping his hands together. “I knew you two would understand. You always were the reasonable ones.”

He finally stood up, ruffling Trey’s hair in a way that made his eye twitch before striding off like he hadn’t just hijacked your peaceful dinner.

As soon as the door swung shut behind him, you slumped back in your chair, utterly drained. “I feel like I need to bathe in holy water.”

Trey pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like, “I should’ve poisoned his dessert last time.”

You stared at him. “You what?”

“Nothing,” he said, picking up his fork like nothing had happened. “Let’s finish eating.”

You could still feel the ghost of the prince’s wet kiss on your hand, and you shuddered. “Do you think we can fake our deaths before Saturday?”

Trey actually looked like he was considering it.

The ball was, against all odds, actually enjoyable. The lights glittered like fairy dust, the music was just the right level of lively, and the wine was strong enough to turn your earlier dread into a warm, floaty haze. Trey was by your side, charming in his tailored suit, and for once, the prince and saintess were blissfully absent.

"Maybe they got lost," you whispered to Trey, leaning in conspiratorially. "Or better yet, maybe they found a better party and decided to leave us alone."

Trey smirked, sipping his wine. "If only we were that lucky."

Your hopes were dashed, naturally, when the prince appeared out of nowhere like some unholy summon. One second you were lifting a glass to your lips, and the next, your arm was being yanked so hard you almost spilled your drink.

“Come now, my dear!” the prince declared, grinning in a way that felt more like a threat than an invitation. “Dance with me!”

Before you could even process what was happening, you were being twirled onto the dance floor. Across the room, you caught a glimpse of Trey being snatched by the saintess, who looked like she had all the coordination of a baby deer on ice.

The prince pulled you in too close, his breath an unholy concoction of garlic and what might’ve been sour milk. You tried to politely lean back, but he just leaned closer, grinning obliviously.

“You’re stiff, my dear,” he said, his voice low and entirely too sultry for someone who smelled like a kitchen accident. “Loosen up!”

Meanwhile, Trey was enduring his own nightmare. The saintess stepped on his foot with her stiletto for the fourth time, and you could swear you saw him wince in actual pain. She was chattering nonstop about something—maybe puppies, maybe world peace—you couldn’t hear over the sound of her heels clobbering the floor.

When the ordeal finally ended, you staggered back to Trey, feeling like you’d aged ten years. He looked equally frazzled, rubbing his shoulder like it had been yanked out of its socket.

“I’d say that was horrible,” he said under his breath, “but I think ‘horrible’ is too kind.”

Before you could respond, the saintess suddenly tripped. She wasn’t even near you—she was all the way across the room—but she hit the ground with a dramatic thud, and her dress promptly ripped down the side.

You blinked. “Wait, what just—”

“I knew it!” she screeched, pointing an accusatory finger at you from the floor. “You sabotaged me!”

The prince, for once, looked baffled. He glanced between her and you like he was trying to solve a complicated riddle. “But… she wasn’t even near you?”

“SABOTAGE!” the saintess shrieked again, her voice cracking.

The original villainess would’ve taken the high road, maybe pretended to be insulted or outraged. You, however, were just drunk enough to find the entire thing hilarious.

You laughed. Loudly.

And to your absolute delight, the crowd followed suit. Quiet snickers turned into outright guffaws as everyone around you dissolved into laughter.

The saintess gawked, looking like a wet cat as she scrambled to her feet. “You’re all… MONSTERS!” she shrieked, before fleeing the room with a level of dramatics that would make even a soap opera jealous.

The prince hesitated, torn between chasing after her or staying to glower at you and Trey. Finally, with a sigh that sounded suspiciously like “I hate my life,” he ran after her, disappearing into the night.

“Well,” Trey said, offering his hand with a faint smirk, “that was… something. Care to salvage the evening with a proper dance?”

You took his hand, letting him spin you onto the floor. The music softened, the crowd fading into the background as Trey pulled you close.

“You look stunning tonight,” he murmured, his lips brushing your ear as you danced.

The compliment hit you like a sucker punch, leaving you so dazed that, in your flustered state, you impulsively dipped him instead of the other way around.

Trey laughed, eyes crinkling with genuine delight. “What are you doing?”

“Shut up,” you hissed, cheeks burning as you held the pose.

But to your surprise, he didn’t protest. He let you dip him, even laughing as you pulled him back up. And when the dance ended, he kissed your cheek, sending your heart into a full-on meltdown.

“That,” he said, his voice filled with amusement, “was the most fun I’ve had at a ball in years.”

The tea party was a picturesque affair, all pastel tablecloths, delicate porcelain cups, and the kind of floral arrangements that screamed wealth and good taste. You were seated with Riddle, Cater, and Che’nya at a table tucked under a wisteria-laden gazebo, trying your best to survive the endless parade of gossip and sweets.

The conversation drifted naturally, like it always did, until someone—probably Cater—brought up the topic of Trey.

“Y’know,” Cater began, swirling his tea with exaggerated nonchalance, “Trey’s been looking at you like you personally hung the moon and stars lately. It’s kinda adorable.”

Che’nya leaned over, grinning like the Cheshire Cat he was. “So deep in love, it’s practically a romantic trench. What’s your secret, huh? Love potion? A really good pie?”

You chuckled, brushing off the comment, but then you glanced across the garden—and froze.

There he was, Trey Clover, the ridiculously perfect husband material that fate had handed you in this bizarre isekai life. He was standing a little ways off, chatting with a few nobles, but his gaze was unmistakably fixed on you.

When your eyes met, he smiled. Not just any smile—a warm, genuine, I-would-die-for-you-and-bake-you-cookies-afterwards kind of smile. It hit you like a runaway carriage.

Your chest tightened, your stomach flipped, and for a moment, the entire world seemed to pause.

Oh no.

You were in so deep.

Like, Titanic-hitting-the-iceberg-and-sinking-to-the-ocean-floor deep.

“Uh oh,” Cater sang, leaning closer with a smirk that could only mean trouble. “I know that look. Someone just had their Hallmark movie epiphany.”

You snapped out of it, cheeks burning. “What look? I don’t have a look!”

“Oh, you totally do,” Che’nya chimed in, his grin somehow wider. “It’s all dreamy and starry-eyed, like you’re in a fairy tale. Which, I guess you kinda are?”

Riddle, ever the straight man in these situations, regarded you with a mix of pity and exasperation. “Please tell me you’re not about to let these two meddle in your relationship.”

But before you could defend yourself, Cater was already leaning forward, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Cay-Cay’s got you covered! Wanna confess? I can totally set the mood—candles, roses, soft music…”

“I—what?” you stammered, still too dazed by your revelation to form a coherent response.

“That’s a yes!” Che’nya declared, clapping his hands together. “Alright, let’s brainstorm. Hot air balloon confession? Dramatic rain scene? Ooh, what about—”

“Absolutely not,” Riddle interrupted, his tone sharp as ever. He turned to you, expression weary. “I’ll make sure they don’t do anything absurd, but honestly, why not just tell Trey yourself? He’s your husband.”

You groaned, sinking into your chair as Cater and Che’nya continued to scheme with increasingly outlandish ideas. Meanwhile, Riddle looked at you like you’d just wired your entire fortune to a scammer and promised to fix it for you later.

Across the garden, Trey caught your gaze again, his brows furrowing slightly in concern at your flustered state. He started to make his way over, and your heart leapt into your throat.

Oh no.

Whatever happened next, you were absolutely not ready.

Riddle had been firm, as always. “A pie,” he said with the kind of authority you’d expect from someone sentencing a man to death. “It’s simple, heartfelt, and Trey would appreciate the effort. Not that I have time to indulge in frivolities like this, but… you’re lucky I know the basics.”

Turns out, Riddle did not know the basics. And neither did you.

What followed could only be described as a culinary catastrophe.

The kitchen looked like it had been struck by a flour tornado, with you and Riddle at its chaotic epicenter. Your attempt at pie dough was a war crime in the making—half stuck to the counter, half to your hands, and none of it remotely edible.

“Why is it stretching?” Riddle hissed, his face as red as his hair, holding one end of the dough while you gripped the other. The elastic monstrosity between you refused to snap, stretching longer and longer like some unholy noodle.

“I don’t know!” you shrieked back, your voice an octave higher than usual. “I followed the instructions! Mostly! Kind of!”

“‘Kind of’ isn’t good enough! Put some force into it!”

Riddle tugged one end of the dough like he was in a tug-of-war with a particularly stubborn ghost. You yanked back, and the dough elongated even further, wobbling ominously in the air.

That’s when Trey walked in.

He stopped in the doorway, taking in the absolute chaos: the flour-streaked counter, the rolling pin embedded in what used to be a bag of sugar, and you and Riddle holding opposite ends of the world’s saddest dough.

“What… exactly is happening here?” Trey asked, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

You froze, still clutching the dough. Riddle looked like he wanted the earth to swallow him whole.

“We’re baking,” you managed to squeak out.

Trey blinked, then burst into laughter, the sound warm and rich like honey. “Is that what you’re calling this?”

His laughter didn’t help your embarrassment, but the way he stepped forward, gently taking the dough from you and Riddle like a benevolent baking god, did. “Alright, let’s see if we can salvage this. Flour, water… and patience. You two watch and learn.”

You stood back, flustered and hopelessly smitten as Trey worked his magic. In minutes, he turned your disaster into a perfectly respectable pie crust. He even smiled at you both as if to say nice try, kids, and it made you feel oddly warm inside.

Still too mortified to admit the pie was meant for him, you let him finish it while Riddle quietly excused himself, muttering about overdue paperwork.

You did feel for Riddle, poor guy was stuck babysitting the Prince after all. Maybe the dough was sad because of his stress.

Later, Cater and Che’nya were far too pleased with themselves when they found you.

“So,” Cater said, grinning, “how’s Operation Swoon going?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” you grumbled, remembering the dough debacle.

Che’nya’s grin widened. “Lucky for you, we’ve got Plan B: flowers! Romantic, classic, and impossible to mess up.”

You weren’t sure about that last part, but their enthusiasm was infectious. You ended up at a florist with Cater coaching you through every step, from picking out the blooms to tying a ribbon. By the time you were done, the bouquet looked gorgeous.

When you handed the flowers to Trey later, he looked… stunned. His eyes widened, his cheeks turned faintly pink, and his smile was so soft and genuine that you nearly dropped dead on the spot.

“For me?” he asked, his voice quieter than usual.

You nodded, suddenly nervous. “Yeah. Just, uh, wanted to thank you. For everything. You know.”

Trey cradled the bouquet like it was something precious. “Thank you. Really. This means a lot.”

And when he smiled at you again, you realized that maybe, just maybe, Cater and Che’nya’s meddling wasn’t so bad after all.

You were practically vibrating with excitement as you entered the restaurant, rare flower in hand. You’d spent far too much money on it, but it was worth it. Trey deserved nothing less. The merchant had waxed poetic about how the flower symbolized eternal devotion, and you figured it was the perfect way to set the stage for your long-overdue confession.

Trey was already seated at the table, his calm demeanor somehow both comforting and devastatingly attractive. When he saw you approach, his eyes softened, and that sweet smile of his—the one that made your knees weak—spread across his face.

You handed him the flower, and his expression lit up as though you’d just handed him the moon.

“For me?” he asked, his voice full of surprise and warmth.

“Of course,” you said, a little shy but mostly proud of yourself. “I thought it suited you.”

His fingers brushed yours as he took the flower, and before you knew it, you were holding hands across the table. The atmosphere felt perfect—soft candlelight, his warm gaze locked on yours, and your heart pounding like it had just discovered cardio.

This was it. The moment to confess that you loved him.

You opened your mouth, ready to pour your heart out—

And then she appeared.

The saintess, an uninvited hurricane in the form of a woman, swept into the room with all the grace of a bull in a china shop. You barely had time to process her arrival before she snatched the flower from Trey’s hand like a seagull stealing a french fry.

“Oh, Trey, you shouldn’t have!” she gushed, clutching the flower to her chest like a deranged soap opera villain. “How thoughtful of you to get this for me!”

Trey’s face froze in what could only be described as polite murder. His jaw tightened, his grip on the table visibly white-knuckled.

You, however, were already halfway to a breakdown. “Excuse me?” you sputtered.

The saintess ignored you entirely.

Enter the prince, the human equivalent of a golden retriever who’d been hit on the head one too many times. He trailed behind her, clearly regretting his existence. For once, he seemed to grasp the gravity of the situation and awkwardly tried to mediate.

“Ah, maybe I should—uh—just give this back,” he mumbled, reaching for the flower.

The saintess responded by shoving him.

The prince, unprepared for even the gentlest resistance, stumbled directly into Trey’s arms.

Trey, now holding a grown man like a bridal bouquet, froze. His eyes darted to you, silently screaming what do I do with this?

Before he could decide, the prince looked up at him, smiled coyly, and winked.

You might’ve laughed if the saintess hadn’t chosen that exact moment to drape herself across you.

“Oh, my dear friend,” she simpered, batting her lashes, “surely you understand Trey’s affection for me. You’ll support us, won’t you?”

You were too stunned to respond, stuck holding the saintess like an overly affectionate sloth. Across the table, Trey looked like he was begging whatever gods existed for an escape route.

Finally, something in Trey snapped. Gently—yet firmly—he set the prince in his seat like a toddler being put in timeout. Then, without a word, he reached across, grabbed the saintess by the arm, and unceremoniously deposited her in her own chair.

“You’ll have to excuse us,” Trey said, his voice smooth but his expression pure I’m done with this nonsense. He grabbed your hand and pulled you out of the restaurant, not even sparing a glance back.

Oh, and he definitely took the flower back.

In the carriage, Trey was silent, his expression unreadable. You hesitated before asking, “Are you okay?”

He exhaled slowly, running a hand through his hair. “I’m just… tired.”

“Of what?”

“Of not having moments with you for myself,” he said, his voice soft but full of frustration. “Every time I try to enjoy being with you, someone interrupts. I just… I want you. Just you.”

Your heart practically melted on the spot. Overwhelmed by his honesty, you leaned forward and kissed him—a gentle, tentative gesture that said everything you’d been too nervous to put into words.

Trey froze for a moment, then pulled you closer, kissing you again, this time deeper and with so much emotion that you thought your brain might short-circuit. His hands cradled your face, and the world outside the carriage ceased to exist.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his smile so radiant it made your heart skip. “I guess this means you’re mine?”

You nodded, breathless.

“And I’m yours,” he murmured, sealing the confession with another kiss that left you thoroughly, blissfully dazed.

It was supposed to be a simple stroll through the common garden—just you and Trey enjoying a rare moment of peace. The sun was shining, the birds were singing, and you were basking in the warmth of Trey's smile when, out of the corner of your eye, you saw him.

The prince.

And worse, the pebble.

You recognized it instantly—the cursed rock from the original novel, the one destined to send the prince spiraling into a tragic, fatal end. It glittered ominously on the path, as if taunting fate.

The prince, blissfully unaware, strutted forward like he owned the place. He stepped right onto the pebble, his foot slipping out from under him with comical precision.

In that split second, you knew what you had to do. Annoying as he was, no one deserved to die because of a glorified piece of gravel.

You lunged forward, grabbing the prince by the arm and yanking him upright just before disaster struck.

He looked at you, wide-eyed, for all of two seconds before breaking into a toothy grin. “Ah, so this is love,” he declared, dramatically placing a hand over his heart. “Fear not, my dear! Your feelings for me are obvious, and I, in my infinite generosity, shall grant you the honor of becoming my bride!”

Trey, who had been watching this unfold with his usual calm, suddenly stiffened. His hand slipped into yours, his grip firm but not unkind as he gently pulled you closer.

“Your Highness,” Trey began, his voice polite but laced with steel, “I think you may have misunderstood something.”

“Oh?” The prince arched a brow, clearly oblivious to the warning signs.

“She's already married,” Trey said, his tone so calm and measured it was borderline terrifying. “To me.”

The prince’s eyes lit up with excitement, not deterred in the slightest. “A rivalry for their love, then? Excellent! Let the best man win!”

You opened your mouth to protest, but Riddle—ever the voice of reason (or exhaustion)—strode into the fray like a man who had been dealing with this nonsense for far too long.

“Your Highness,” Riddle snapped, looking entirely done with life. “What in the sevens are you doing?” Without waiting for an answer, he grabbed the prince by the collar and dragged him away like a scolding parent hauling a toddler out of the candy aisle.

“You can’t just propose to married people!” Riddle hissed as they disappeared down the path.

Left in their wake, you spotted Cater and Che’nya lounging under a tree, shamelessly munching on popcorn. Cater caught your eye and waved, looking far too entertained by the whole ordeal.

“Did you see Trey’s face?” Che’nya whispered loudly. “I’d give it a solid nine out of ten on the jealousy scale.”

“Totally,” Cater agreed. “Hey, Alfred!” he called to the butler nearby. “Get me a glass of wine; this show’s getting good!”

Before you could decide whether to laugh or cringe, Trey’s hand gently tilted your chin, drawing your attention back to him.

“Focus on me,” he murmured, his gaze locking onto yours.

And oh, jealous Trey was adorable. His usual calm demeanor was tinged with a possessiveness that made your heart skip several beats.

Caught up in the moment, you leaned forward and kissed him, a quick but sweet gesture that left him blinking in surprise before a soft smile spread across his face.

From the corner of your eye, you saw Cater almost spill his wine in excitement, while Che’nya clapped like a seal.

“Now that’s spicy!” Che’nya crowed.

“I need another glass,” Cater sighed dramatically, as if the sheer romance was too much for his delicate heart.

But you didn’t care. Trey’s arm slid around your waist, pulling you closer, and for once, the rest of the world faded away.

The war room was dead silent, the kind of silence so heavy you could hear the shuffle of maps and the scratch of quills on parchment. Every important figure of the empire was present—Trey and you, the Emperor and Empress, military generals whose scowls could crack stone, the Pope looking as though he’d rather be anywhere else, and, shockingly, even the Prince, for once not actively trying to ruin someone’s day.

Strategies were discussed in grim tones. Supply lines, terrain advantages, possible reinforcement numbers—you and Trey were fully immersed in weighing the support your duchy could offer. For once, even the Prince managed to look engaged, though he was suspiciously chewing on the end of his quill like a kid stuck in detention.

Then, like an uninvited storm, the doors slammed open.

“Hellooooooo!”

Every head in the room turned as the Saintess waltzed in, an hour late, as if this were a garden party and not a high-stakes war council. She was dressed in what could only be described as a fever dream of bad taste: a dress so garish and bedazzled it could probably be seen from orbit, complete with absurd feathered accessories sticking out at odd angles like a startled peacock.

“Sorry, I’m late,” she sang, twirling unnecessarily as if this was a runway. “I couldn’t decide which dress to wear. Do you think this one looks good?”

The silence was palpable, charged with a collective secondhand embarrassment that could power an entire city.

You pinched the bridge of your nose, wondering if you could claim an "upset stomach" for the fifth time this month. Then, unable to stop yourself, you deadpanned, “Yes. It’d make a great enemy flag.”

Trey choked on a laugh, quickly covering it with a cough. The Pope crossed himself, possibly praying for patience. One of the military generals muttered something under his breath, hand twitching toward the hilt of his sword. The Prince just buried his face in his hands.

The Saintess, predictably, burst into tears. “You’re so mean! I’m just trying to brighten up this dreary meeting!”

The Emperor looked deeply, soul-crushingly confused, glancing at the generals as if to ask, Does this happen often? Meanwhile, the Empress, seated beside him, was gripping the armrest of her chair so tightly her knuckles were turning white.

Trey sighed and leaned closer to you. “I’ll handle it,” he murmured, giving you a quick nod before standing.

He approached her like one might approach a wild animal, hands raised in surrender. “Saintess, perhaps we could discuss this outside—”

But no sooner had he stepped within arm’s reach did she trip. On purpose.

In what could only be described as an Olympian-level act of self-preservation, Trey sidestepped so swiftly she ended up flailing through the air like a failed acrobat.

She landed directly on top of the Emperor.

The entire room froze.

The Emperor looked down at the Saintess sprawled across his lap with the bewilderment of someone who just found a raccoon in their bed. The generals were wide-eyed, clearly waiting for his reaction before deciding if they needed to draw their swords. The Pope had started sweating through his robes, clutching his staff like it was his last lifeline.

And then, like an avenging goddess, the Empress rose from her seat.

Without a single word, she grabbed the Saintess by her feathered hairpiece and hauled her up like a disobedient child. The Saintess shrieked, limbs flailing, but the Empress dragged her toward the door with a grim determination.

“OUT.”

The doors slammed shut behind them, and the silence that followed was deafening.

Trey cleared his throat, brushing off his sleeves as if nothing had happened. “Well,” he said, returning to his seat beside you. “That was… eventful.”

“Eventful?” you hissed, elbowing him. “She just dive-bombed the Emperor!”

Trey shrugged, lips twitching. “And yet here we are, still alive. I’d call that a win.”

Across the table, the Emperor straightened his robes, trying to reclaim what little dignity he had left. “Shall we… continue?” he asked, though his tone suggested he wanted nothing more than a stiff drink and a nap.

You nodded, biting your lip to suppress a laugh as the meeting resumed. Somehow, against all odds, you managed to get back to planning strategy. But you knew this story was one for the history books. Or at least for drunken retellings later.

The negotiation room was a grand affair, with gilded walls, an impossibly long table, and an air of tension so thick you could slice it with a butter knife.

The opposing kingdom’s crown princess sat across from your delegation, radiating intelligence and poise. Her every word was measured, her presence commanding, and she somehow managed to make a simple quill look like a weapon of mass destruction.

Meanwhile, your prince was... spinning in his chair.

“Wheeeee!”

You felt your soul leave your body.

“Your Highness,” Riddle hissed, his voice laced with the kind of fury only a man on the verge of a migraine could muster. “Compose yourself!”

The prince paused mid-spin, blinking like he’d just remembered where he was. “Right, right. Negotiations. Totally got this.” He picked up a quill and twirled it between his fingers like a toddler pretending to be an adult.

You buried your face in your hands, quietly mourning the future of your kingdom.

Across the table, their saint was the picture of grace, clasping their hands as though ready to bestow divine blessings upon the room. They exuded an aura of peace and righteousness that made you think, Ah, yes, this is what a saint should look like.

And then there was your saintess.

She was currently leaning against the wall, dramatically fanning herself with a peacock-feathered fan that you were pretty sure wasn’t hers. She’d arrived late, claiming she’d been “blessed by the spirits of fashion,” and was wearing a gown so covered in rhinestones that it could probably be seen from space.

You caught Trey’s eye from across the table. He looked entirely too amused, like he was moments away from bursting into laughter. You glared at him, silently begging him to take this seriously.

He raised an eyebrow, his lips twitching upward as if to say, I’m trying.

Thankfully, the Empress had come along for damage control. She sat at the head of the table, calm and unflappable, effortlessly steering the conversation back on track whenever your prince derailed it with comments like, “So, how do you guys feel about dragons?”

When the opposing kingdom’s crown princess suggested an ambassador exchange as part of the peace treaty, the Empress visibly perked up.

“That’s an excellent idea,” she said smoothly. “In fact, we have the perfect candidate.”

You felt a sliver of hope. Maybe she’d suggest Riddle—he was intelligent, responsible, and would undoubtedly represent your kingdom well. Or Trey, whose calm demeanor and charm could win over anyone. Or—dare you dream—maybe even you, since you were clearly the only one in this circus who had a shred of common sense. And the two of you could move away from this hellhole.

“We’ll send the saintess,” the Empress announced, her voice dripping with what could only be described as malicious glee.

You blinked. “I’m sorry, what?”

The crown princess on the other side of the table looked mildly alarmed. “Um,” she began, clearly searching for a polite way to decline.

“She’ll be an excellent cultural ambassador,” the Empress continued, her smile widening. “She’s... unforgettable.”

Riddle’s eye twitched, but he said nothing. Trey looked down at the table, probably to hide his grin.

The saintess, oblivious to the underlying implications, squealed in delight. “Oh my gosh, finally! I’ve always wanted to travel!”

The opposing kingdom reluctantly agreed—probably under the assumption that taking her would somehow count as reparations.

When you all finally returned home, the atmosphere was noticeably lighter, as though a glittery, rhinestone-encrusted weight had been lifted off your collective shoulders.

Trey leaned over in the carriage, his voice low and amused. “Well, I’d call that a success.”

“Success?” you laughed. “We basically tricked another kingdom into taking her off our hands.”

Trey’s smile was soft as he reached for your hand. “And we averted a war in the process.”

You sighed, but your heart skipped a beat when his thumb brushed against your knuckles. Maybe you could live with this version of “success.”

Without the saintess egging him on, the prince had downgraded from menace to society to mildly annoying NPC. He still popped up every now and then, offering unsolicited advice on topics he clearly didn’t understand, but Riddle—bless his overworked soul—had finally had enough. As royal advisor, he slapped the prince with permanent probation, effectively keeping him confined to paperwork and far, far away from you and Trey.

Life, for once, was peaceful.

So peaceful, in fact, that you and Trey found yourselves back at that restaurant—the same one that had become the backdrop for two very traumatic encounters. It felt like tempting fate, but Trey, ever the optimist, assured you that lightning wouldn’t strike thrice.

And for once, he was right.

The food was good, the atmosphere was cozy, and not a single insufferable royal barged in to ruin the evening. You both laughed, reminisced, and indulged in desserts that Trey—being the baking connoisseur he was—had plenty of opinions about.

By the time you left the restaurant, the streets were quiet, bathed in the soft glow of lanterns. The air was crisp but not cold, and everything felt oddly serene, like the universe was apologizing for all the nonsense it had previously thrown your way.

As you walked side by side, Trey suddenly stopped.

You turned to face him, confused. “What’s wrong?”

He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he knelt down on one knee, pulling a small velvet box from his pocket.

Your brain short-circuited.

“Trey—”

“Before you say anything,” he began, his voice steady but tinged with emotion, “I just want you to know that despite how things started between us... I’ve never regretted a single moment with you.” He looked up at you, his green eyes warm and sincere. “You’ve made me happier than I ever thought I could be, and if you’ll let me, I want to spend the rest of my life making you just as happy.”

He opened the box, revealing a ring—simple, elegant, and undeniably perfect. “So... will you marry me? Again?”

You stared at him, your chest tight with emotions you couldn’t even begin to untangle. And then you laughed—because how else were you supposed to process the sheer ridiculousness of everything that had led to this moment?

“Yes,” you said, your voice trembling with joy. “Of course, yes.”

He stood, sliding the ring onto your finger with a smile that could have melted glaciers.

And then he kissed you—soft, slow, and so full of love that it felt like the world around you ceased to exist.

Somewhere in the distance, you thought you heard a cat knock over a trash can, but nothing could ruin this moment.

Series Masterlist

Main Masterlist

#twst #twst x reader #twisted wonderland x reader #twisted wonderland #trey clover x reader #trey x reader #twst trey #twst trey x reader #trey clover #trash novel chronicles

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hairmetal666 · 10 months ago

Text

Eddie owns a record store, gets to talk about music everyday. Life is good. Great, actually.

He's consolidating the Christian rock section on a quiet Wednesday morning when it happens. A man with swoopy dark hair, tight dark blue jeans, and a plum Member's Only jacket walks in, and doesn't take his Ray Bans off even once he's solidly inside.

Eddie is awestruck. This dude is gorgeous. Heart stopping. He watches him browse in quiet astonishment, unable to say anything until he blurts, "Can I help you find something?"

The man smiles--Eddie's heart stops--and he says, "Nah, just browsing. Your sign caught my eye."

And he's still not quite with the program, the rich honey of the man's voice taking him totally by surprise. "Ah, oh, it did?" He manages after a few long beats. "Painted it myself."

"No shit? It's great."

"Thanks, man. I also think it's some of my finest work."

The guy laughs. "How can I know unless I see some of your other pieces?"

Eddie's face heats, but he's never been known for having good impulse control. "Maybe you'll get lucky."

Spots of pink bloom on the man's cheeks and the tips of his ears. "And here I was, thinking I was getting special treatment."

Eddie cocks his head, smiles big. "Well, the day's still young." It's so risky and stupid; no way this guy is queer, but he grins at Eddie, laughs a little too.

"That right? Well, tell me your latest recommendations."

"For you?" Eddie eyes him up and down. "Wham!"

The guy's laugh is warm and rich and Eddie wants to drown in it. "Big of you to say for a someone who's only listened to Enter Sandman for the last four months."

Eddie cackles, points a be-ringed finger. "It's a good song! A great record."

"Hey, I've got no problem with Metallica. I just don't think you should be casting aspersions on Wham!."

"Casting aspersions, do you have a word of the day calendar or some shit?"

"No! It's toilet paper."

Their snickers grow until they're both hysterical, needing to lean against a display to stay upright.

It's like he's living in a dream, hitting it off with a beautiful man who just happened to stumble into his store. They catch their breath and Eddie uses the time to grab a record off a nearby shelf.

"Here," he says. "Try this."

"Joni Mitchell?"

"Don't tell me, Wham! fan, that you're too cool for Joni."

"Nah, she's my best friend's favorite. How much do I owe you?"

"On the house," Eddie shrugs.

"Shit, that's generous. Thanks, man. Now, about your art--" He glances at the shiny watch on his wrist. "Fuck, is it really 3:15? Goddamnit, I gotta get going."

And Eddie wants to call him back, doesn't want this dream encounter to end, but he's dashing to the door--

And just like that, the man is gone, the only evidence it ever happened the lingering chime of the bell over the door.

The bell clatters again, and his head wrenches up hard enough it hurts his neck.

"Was that Steve Harrington?" the customer shrieks.

"No," he scoffs. Except. Except. The hair and the clothes and sunglasses and the face and his lips--

"No!?" He feels the way his eyes have gone wide with panic. He didn't just flirt with Steve Harrington. Of course not. Not ever. He would've recognized--

He runs to the racks of magazines in front of the register, grabbing the latest issue of People. The cover features a glossy, polished photo of the man who just left the store. The one who had the highest grossing movie of the summer alongside his co-star, Julia Roberts. The one who, according to the article within, is in Chicago right now shooting a new movie. The one who Eddie flirted with. The one who flirted back.

He groans and covers his face with his hands. At least he'll never see Steve Harrington again.

---

Harrington comes back.

The second time, he's wearing a jewel blue polo and fitted slacks, Ray Bans nowhere to be seen.

"Got anymore recommendations?" Steve asks.

"What?" Eddie's still trying to accept that Harrington came back.

"I finished Joni. It was good. Recommend something else for me."

Fully with the program, he reaches to the rack behind him, handing the vinyl to Steve without ever taking his eyes off him.

"Seriously?" Steve deadpans.

"Tell me you don't deserve it after last time."

Steve studies the cover of Metallica, a complicated look on his face. "Fine, but you have to listen to the album George Michael released last year."

He mimics getting shot in the heart. "After my magnanimous first suggestion, you dare to punish me with Freedom?"

"Think of it more as an opportunity."

"To regret every decision I've ever made?"

"To expand your musical horizons."

Eddie rolls his eyes. "Fiiiine. It's a deal."

Steve beams. "Good! Ring me up."

And Eddie, he'd comp it again, but Steve gives him this look that tells him not to try it.

As they pass the magazine racks, Eddie points at one featuring Steve on the cover. "That thing you wore to the Vanity Fair party last month was hideous."

Steve snorts, then laughs. "Thanks. My stylist decided to go for something--"

"--terrible?--"

"Avant garde."

"Oh, is that what they're calling it these days?"

Steve pays, throws Eddie one last smile, "next time?"

Eddie nods, already certain this time is the last one.

---

He keeps coming back.

Eddie tries not to read into it.

Steve is straight, famously has a girlfriend. former horror movie child star turned cinema wunderkind, Nancy Wheeler. They're always on the covers of the tabloids, in ever more improbable stories about affairs and secret babies and french countryside weddings.

But he keeps coming back. And eventually, they grab dinner. And that dinner becomes lunches, movies, clubs, concerts. Eddie's in paparazzi photos, and there's no speculation about their relationship. Steve has a girlfriend.

But sometimes. Sometimes Steve will rest his hand on Eddie's nape, his lower back, let it linger. He'll trace a finger down the tattoos on Eddie's forearms or the patches of his battle vest. He'll lean too close when they talk, unafraid to press their bodies together. And he catches Steve's eyes on his mouth more than once, his pupils wide.

Over the next few weeks, Steve's gaze on Eddie's mouth gets hotter, his looks longer, and it's killing him. All he wants to do, all he ever wants to do, is close the distance between them, appease the gnawing beast of desire in his chest.

But Steve has a girlfriend.

They don't talk about her, not even when he knows all about Steve's best friend, Robin, and the gang of kids who adopted him, or Joyce and Hopper, his surrogate parents. Never Nancy.

He tries not to read into it.

---

They're supposed to meet for dinner. Steve scored reservations at a trendy new restaurant, but Eddie's late. Astronomically, horrifically late. It's pouring rain, it takes fifteen minutes to get a cab, traffic is a nightmare.

Out of patience and time, he decides to run the last few blocks to the restaurant. By the time he reaches the building, he's soaked to the bone, spluttering harsh breaths through mouthfuls of rain.

Steve is walking in the opposite direction, hands stuffed into the pockets of his coat.

"Steve?" He calls.

He turns and this is the first time Eddie's seen him angry. "You're late," Steve's eyes rake over him, and his face softens in an instant. He takes Eddie's wrist, leads him into an alley where the buildings are close enough to block some of the rain.

"What happened?"

"Traffic."

Steve's gaze go all soft and gentle, and Eddie's knees buckle a little. "You look like a drowned rat."

"Yeah, well." Eddie scoffs. "We can't all be beautiful movie stars."

"You're more beautiful than I could ever be, even soaking wet."

He shakes his head, ignoring the cascade of butterflies; Steve shouldn't say things like that. His vigorous movement sends wet strands of hair slapping him in the face.

Steve reaches out, softly brushes it back.

Eddie stops breathing.

Steve closes the distance between them.

What a thing, to be kissed by Steve Harrington. What a terrible, glorious thing.

He breaks it fast, face red, can't catch his breath. "Nancy," is all he can say.

"Nancy?"

"You have a girlfriend."

Steve's face scrunches. "She's not my girlfriend."

Eddie's mouth drops. "Yes, she is." They went to the Oscars together.

"Eddie." Steve takes a few steps back. "Eddie. I'm gay."

He laughs, an ugly honking thing. "C'mon. What could she possibly get out of that?"

Steve's eyes widen, eyebrows reaching his hairline, mouth pursed in a bitchy line. It takes Eddie a minute but, "Ohhhhh. So, it's all--?"

"It was the best way."

"But you're--?"

"I thought you clocked me immediately! Wham!???"

"That was because of the jacket!"

"Have you ever met a straight man who dresses like I do and likes George Michael??"

"That describes five dudes I see a day!"

"And you thought they were straight??"

Eddie stares into the middle distance, replaying some of those interactions, and--"Huh. Okay. I get hit on at work waaay more than I realized."

"For fuck's sake, Eddie!" He's shaking his head, but Eddie sees the way the corners of his mouth shake with suppressed laughter.

"I'm sorry! You have a very public straight relationship!"

Steve giggles, pulls Eddie close. "Is this okay?"

"So okay."

"You do like me back?"

"Are you kidding! Thought I was going insane, how much I want you."

"And now?"

"Come back to my place?"

"Thought you'd never ask."

And Eddie, he's seen Steve playing at love dozens of times, but this--right here, in a soggy, smelly alley where they're both soaking wet--it's more perfect than any movie.

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love--and--venom · 5 months ago

Text

Protective Instincts: Enhypen

Summary: Your best friend shows his possessive nature when another man harasses you

Warnings: Misogynistic comments, intimidation, threats of violence, allusions to drugging in Sunghoon's part, if I missed anything lmk

Protective Instincts Masterlist

Lee Heeseung

No matter how busy you were, you and Heeseung always made time to see each other at least twice a month. You have been friends for as long as you remembered, having grown up as neighbors. Your moms would gossip over tea while the two of you got into as much mischief your baby brains could think of. Not much has changed, except now you were the ones gossiping instead of your moms.

“Text me when you get home, yeah?” Heeseung held the door of the cafe open for you. The sidewalk bustled with pedestrians rushing to get their weekend errands done.

“Of course. Make sure you do the same.” You always ended your hang-outs with the same good-byes and a tight hug. You parted ways, walking in opposite directions to get back to your respective apartments. Barely five minutes passed since you left the cafe and yet a FaceTime call from you interrupted Heeseung’s music.

“Wow, did you miss me that much already?” He wasn’t looking at the phone or he would’ve seen the fear clearly written on your face.

“Heeseung.” His eyes snapped down to you, immediately concerned by the tremor in your voice.

“What’s wrong?”

“I think there’s a man following me,” you whispered, as if the man would be able to hear you from several feet away. Heeseung stopped dead in the middle of the sidewalk, earning him some glares.

“What?!”

“He was outside of the convenience store a couple doors down from the cafe. After I passed him, he looked at me weird and now he’s behind me.”

“Don’t go home. Start looking around one of the stores, I’m coming to you,” Heeseung instructed while turning on his heel and speed-walking in your direction.

“Okay, uh, I’m in that boutique with the grandma curtain dresses.” You passed that store all the time but never went in because of the gaudy patterns on the window displays. You greeted the cashier, moving to the back of the store to hide.

“Can you see him?”

“He’s looking in the front window.” Heeseung ground his teeth, pushing his way through the crowded sidewalk. A lot of people jumped out of his way when they saw his barely-contained anger. The little bell above the boutique’s door jingled in his ear. “Oh fuck, he just walked in.”

“Stay calm and don’t hang up. I’m almost there.” You shrunk behind a rack of clothes, hoping he wouldn’t notice you. But there was only one other customer in the store, so your chances were slim.

“Hi,” an unfamiliar male voice cut into your conversation. “What are you up to all by yourself?”

“O-Oh, um, I’m just looking for a gift for my mom,” you lied, wide eyes flicking between your phone and the stranger.

“Mhm,” he hummed, obviously not listening to what you were saying. “How old are you?”

“19.” Another lie. Maybe if he thought you were too young he’d leave you alone.

“So you’re inexperienced, then. Why don’t you let an older man show you how it’s done.”

“It? N-No, no thanks.” At this point, Heeseung borderline sprinted toward the store.

“No? Why not?” The door slammed open, whipping the poor bell around and startling the cashier. The man ignored it, staring down at you, leaning closer and dropping a hand to your shoulder. “I can promise I’m way better than that little boy you were with before. Where is he, anyway?”

“Behind you,” Heeseung growled.

“Oh, shit,” the man swore after he turned and caught sight of Heeseung’s icy glare. You have never seen your best friend this pissed off. He shoved the man’s chest, making him stumble and give just enough room for Heeseung to pull you into his side. His arm draped over your shoulders, hand hanging loosely in front of you. His relaxed posture was a stark contrast to the intensity in his eyes and voice.

“Did you need something or were you just trying to intimidate my girlfriend?” You flushed at that, glancing up at him, but he kept his steady gaze on the man.

“Relax, I was just making small talk.”

“By asking a 19-year-old girl if she wants to have sex with you? Fuck off, you’re lucky if I don’t call the cops,” Heeseung sneered, continuing your lie with ease. This grabbed the attention of the cashier. She discreetly pulled out her phone, whispering into the speaker with a hand over her mouth.

“Seriously, kid? You should really be thanking me.” The man held up his hands with a shrug. “I was offering to show her how to make a guy cum. That works in your favor.” You squeaked, ducking under Heeseung’s arm to hide behind him, gripping the sleeve of his hoodie. He didn’t seem to mind, as he reached back to rest a comforting hand on your hip.

“So you’re a pervert and you have no shame, got it,” Heeseung scoffed with a click of his tongue.

“See, I knew you weren’t a real man. You should–”

“Excuse me, sir,” a woman with sharp eyes and a neat bun interrupted. “I will only say this once: get out of my store.”

“What?!”

“You are harassing my customers. Very young customers, at that, with extremely lewd comments,” the shop owner scolded the man, arching an immaculate eyebrow. “If I need to repeat myself, you will be leaving in handcuffs.” The man bristled, bowing his head and scurrying out of the store.

“Thank you, ma’am,” you sighed in relief but kept your shaky hands wrapped around Heeseung’s arm.

“It was no trouble at all. You kids have a good day, now.” As quickly as the owner arrived, she disappeared through a doorway behind the counter. You sat in silence until you realized that Heeseung was still gently brushing his thumb over your hip.

“Hee, you called me your girlfriend.”

“Yeah, I did.” He didn’t give you any time to dwell on it, kissing your temple then your cheek and tugging you back out onto the sidewalk. “I’m walking you home.” Your mind reeled as you tried to wrap it around this new information and the sudden affection. You grinned and squeezed his hand.

“Okay.”

Jay Park

You were at a party for one of Jake’s friend’s birthdays. Jay dragged you along, claiming that he needed you there for moral support since the only people he’d know were the other Enhypen boys. Yeah, moral support my ass. Not even a minute after you walked through the front door, Jay veered off when another girl waved him over. So now you were forced to awkwardly mingle with a growing pit of jealousy in your gut. Luckily one of the little cliques adopted you into their circle, easing your nerves a bit. An hour into the party, you managed to break out of your shell and were now laughing loudly with everyone.

“Oh, hey Jay,” one of the guys in the group greeted the idol as he approached.

“Hey,” Jay greeted flatly while shoving himself between you and the girl to your right. You furrowed your brows at the odd change in behavior. He was normally very polite, opting to gently maneuver you to the side so he could stand next to you. He didn’t even say ‘excuse me’ to the poor girl. You followed his uncharacteristic glare to a guy leaning on the arm of the couch. You thought he said his name was Dan or something similar.

“Are you okay?” You asked quietly, looking back up to Jay.

“I’m good.” A muscle in his jaw twitched and you knew he was lying.

“No, you’re mad about something. What’s going on?” He didn’t answer. Jay's fiery gaze didn’t waver, even when someone tried including him in the conversation. You rolled your eyes. “Okay, fine. Don’t tell me.”

“Y/N,” a shorter girl with cute round glasses grabbed your attention. “You have to come with us next time we go out! There’s this amazing cafe and the cutest…” Jay tuned her out while moving a hand to your lower back, which you didn’t question. He usually used your body heat as a way to ground himself. He was visibly angry because didn’t like the way Dan was eyeing you up, and he definitely didn’t like that Dan wasn’t backing down while he was standing right next to you. The last of his patience ran out when Dan fucking smirked at him. Oh, so he knew what he was doing. Knowing that only pissed Jay off more.

“What about you, Jay?” The short girl looked at him expectantly.

“Hm? Yeah, sure.”

“It wasn’t a yes or no question…” She trailed off when you signaled that he was in a bad mood. The conversation carried on like normal for approximately 15 seconds before Dan chimed in.

“Hey, Y/N, has anyone ever told you how pretty you are?” Absolutely the fuck not. Jay’s hand slid from your back to your hip, digging his fingers into you and pulling you flush against his side.

“I tell her every day,” he replied before you even had a chance to process the intent behind the compliment.

“Oh?” Dan cocked his head to the side. “I never asked, but how do you know each other?”

“We’re–”

“She’s my girlfriend,” Jay interrupted you. Every ounce of your willpower went into keeping your composure. You didn’t know why Jay would lie about dating you, but you trusted him. There must be a reason, so you let yourself relax into his side.

“Really?”

“Yeah, really.” Everyone watched the exchange nervously. Between Dan’s arrogance and the edge to Jay’s voice, a thick tension hung in the air.

“So why’d you leave her alone to talk to Yunah?” You were curious about that, too, to be perfectly honest.

“Not that it’s any of your business, but she was asking for advice. She and the other Illit members want to try rapping in some of their upcoming songs,” he explained. Now you felt a little silly for being so jealous earlier.

“Suuure. You two were just a bit close, in my opinion,” Dan shrugged while looking over at you. Jay’s whole body tensed up.

“I don’t give two shits about your opinion, so stop eye-fucking my girl before I make you,” he snarled, surprising everyone with his threat. Your jaw dropped as you stared at his profile. Under the anger, you could see something else, something you couldn’t quite put your finger on.

“Jay,” you whispered gently, placing your hand over the one squeezing your hip like a lifeline. He finally looked at you, and his resolve shattered at the genuine concern on your face.

“We’re leaving,” he muttered, grabbing your hand and leading you to the front door. “Sorry, Donghyun.” He apologized as he passed the host of the party. You waited until you left the apartment to pull Jay to the side. He dropped your hands to curl his fists by his sides, refusing to look up from the sidewalk.

“What happened in there, Jay? I’ve never seen you so angry before,” you asked while uncurling his fist, tracing over the lines on his hand with your fingertips. You missed the shiver that went down his spine at your touch.

“I’m sorry, I just,” he interrupted himself with a frustrated growl. “I hated the way he was looking at you.”

“How was he looking at me? And why would it piss you off that much?”

“Y/N, he was basically undressing you with his eyes. I hated it cus I could tell that he was thinking about you like you were a prize,” he gestured with his unoccupied hand during his rant.

“I didn’t even notice.”

“I know you didn’t. That’s why I came over. God, the thought of someone else wanting you like that just–”

“Wait,” you cut him off, holding both of his hands in front of him. Jay still avoided eye contact, so you had to duck your head down to force him to meet your eyes. “What do you mean ‘someone else’?” His eyes widened like a deer caught in headlights.

“Fuck, I didn’t mean to let that slip.”

“Is that why you get moody after I go on dates?” You struggled to suppress the grin tugging at the corners of your mouth.

“Don’t laugh–”

“I’m not!”

“Y/N, seriously.” You took a deep breath to compose yourself at the desperation in his voice. “Yes. I’m sorry I never told you, I just didn’t want to ruin our friendship since you obviously don’t feel the same.”

“Oh my god, you’re such an idiot,” you giggled behind your hand.

“What?”

“Jay. I have been flirting with you so much that it grosses Jake and Sunghoon out. How have you not noticed?” He stared at you in disbelief. You had to hide your face in his shirt to smother the cackles that would’ve definitely gotten you some dirty looks from other pedestrians. He hesitantly wrapped his arms around you before chuckling at his own obliviousness.

“Oh. Good, so I wasn’t lying. You’re mine.” His chin rested on the top of your head as he gently swayed back and forth.

“I have been for a while, Jay.”

Park Sunghoon

A long-standing and well-loved tradition in the Enhypen dorm was their monthly movie nights. It started with just the boys, but then Sunoo introduced you to the group. You bonded with everyone very quickly and after a few months, you were allowed to join their sacred movie tradition. Not like anyone, especially Sunghoon, minded you being there. Actually, Sunghoon found it to be the perfect opportunity to get closer to you, metaphorically and physically. Everyone knew his excuse of “sharing the blanket” was just that: an excuse. Well, everyone except you knew and it drove Sunghoon crazy.

The issue with tonight’s movie night was the sudden inclusion of two of Heeseung’s friends. Most of the other members haven’t even met these guys. How the hell were they allowed to crash their movie? To make matters worse, one of them stole both Sunghoon’s last bottle of tea and his spot on the couch next to you. He had to sit in the recliner. All alone. Without his favorite blanket- your blanket- but at least you didn’t share with the new guy. He either didn’t notice or blatantly ignored your discomfort, which was unsurprising for a guy named fucking Tyler.

So Sunghoon sat there, seething and barely watching the movie, glaring at Tyler from the corner of his eye. You were, arguably, having a much worse time than Sunghoon. You had to deal with this guy’s annoying flirting and inability to accept “no” as an answer. You’ve already told him three times to take his arm off your shoulders. He listened, sort of. He technically wasn’t touching you, but his arm rested on the back of the couch directly behind you. He gave you the worst feeling in your gut. He was definitely not to be trusted with your drink. Your knees ached from curling yourself as deep into the corner of the couch as possible. You needed a break.

“Where are you going?” Tyler asked when you stood. The others turned to you, making you even more nervous than you already were.

“Bathroom,” you mumbled and fled down the hall. Heeseung sighed before addressing his friend.

“Man, you need to chill. You’re making her uncomfortable.”

“What?” Tyler scoffed. “No I’m not.”

“Yes, you are,” Heeseung’s other friend insisted. “Just relax, bro. Now’s not the time.”

“Yeah, whatever. There’s nothing wrong with taking what’s available.” A heavy silence fell over the group. Even the movie was quiet. Six sets of eyes stared at an unbothered Tyler. While the others were visibly pissed, Heeseung and his other friend just looked disappointed. You hesitantly reentered the living room and now Sunghoon was actually happy that he got booted to the recliner, since it was between the hall and the couch. As you passed by, he grabbed your hand and tugged you down to sit sideways on his lap. Your eyebrows scrunched up in confusion.

“Just stay here. Please,” Sunghoon whispered. You certainly weren’t about to argue, shifting to a more comfortable position with your arms hanging loosely on his shoulders and your cheek resting against his temple. The tension slowly melted from Sunghoon’s body as he wrapped his own arms around your waist.

“Okay, seriously?” Sunghoon tightened his hold on you when Tyler spoke up.

“Is there a problem?” The movie went forgotten in the background. Everyone’s attention was on you, Sunghoon, and Tyler. The latter rolled his eyes, crossing his arms and relaxing into the couch.

“Nah.” He shook his head with a huff. “She could have just told me she had a boyfriend and I would’ve backed off.”

“She is sitting right here,” you interrupted. “And I shouldn’t have to tell you anything. You should have stopped the first time I asked.”

“Oop, get him!” Jake encouraged from where he was laying on the floor.

“How was I supposed to know you wanted me to stop?!”

“Because I told you! I said to stop touching me before the movie even started,” you snapped, back going rigid as you glared at him. One of Sunghoon’s hands slid to your lower back to rub gentle circles on your spine. The other stayed on your thigh, and your hand dropped to his.

“We also told you to stop,” Heeseung’s other friend pointed out.

“Oh, come on–”

“No, Tyler,” Heeseung cut him off. “You’ve changed ever since you joined your bullshit frat house. I’ve been trying to give you a chance to prove me wrong, but this is it, man.”

“What are you saying, dude?”

“I think it would be best for you to leave. Neither of us want to be associated with a guy that harasses women.” Heeseung gestured between himself and his other friend.

“Harass, seriously? Whatever. I didn’t realize you guys were such pussies,” Tyler ranted while making his way out of the dorms. The front door slammed shut, and everyone breathed a collective sigh of relief.

“I’m so sorry about him, Y/N. He wasn’t always like that, but I can’t keep holding on to the past. He’s a lost cause at this point,” Heeseung apologized, rubbing his temples to stave off his growing headache.

“For what it’s worth, I’m sorry, too. I’d really like to get to know you all, so I hope I can get a second chance.”

“You’re cool, man,” Jake reassured him with a pat to his knee. “You tried to step in. That’s proof enough that you’re a good guy.”

“Can we get back to the movie now?” You giggled at Ni-Ki’s impatience. Jungwon had to rewind it a bit, but once it started playing again you moved to get off Sunghoon’s lap.

“Nooo,” he protested, dragging you back down to sit between his legs. “Stay here.” He pulled your back flush against his chest, resting his chin on the top of your head.

“O-Oh, okay.” Your face turned bright red, and you were very happy he couldn’t see it from his position. Or so you thought.

“You know,” he started, leaning closer so he could whisper in your ear. “You’re really pretty when you blush.”

“Sunghoon,” you whined and hid your face in your hands. His chest vibrated as he quietly laughed.

“Alright, I’ll leave you alone.” He kissed your temple before turning his attention back to the movie. “For now.”

Permanent Taglist: @furfoxsake22 @babygirlskz98 @miniverse-zen @holly-here @corgilover20 @eastjonowhere @bookswillfindyouaway

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chromehoney · 30 days ago

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“AT THE SAME DAMN TIME,” chap one, chapt two, chap three, chap four, chap five.

synopsis; After a messy, short-lived situationship with Stack—reckless, flirtatious, and all the wrong kinds of possessive—you swear you’re done with hood boys who can’t keep up. But when you drop something off at his mother’s store and find both Stack and his older twin brother Smoke inside, something shifts.

The bag was heavier this time. You made sure of it. No half drops. No quick getaways. You had enough of Ms. Moore’s coconut oil mix to last her through the end of the month—more than enough to justify walking back into her shop without looking like you were looking for anybody.

But you still smoothed down your shorts in the parking lot before heading in. The bell over the door jingled the same way it always did, but the air inside the beauty supply felt warmer this time. Heavy, like it was waiting for you.

Ms. Moore was behind the counter, tying her apron tight around her waist. Her locs were wrapped up in a printed scarf, earrings catching the light when she looked up.

“Aha, you back already? Didn’t take you long, huh?” You grinned, holding up the brown bag. “Didn’t want you to run out.” She raised her brows, clearly not fooled. “Mmhmm.” But before you could say more, your eyes shifted—and there they were.

Stack, propped up near the magazine rack with a toothpick in his mouth and that same cocky tilt to his smile. He looked you up and down, again, like you were a damn snack in a candy-colored wrapper. Smoke, seated low in the back corner near the bundle display. Elbows on knees. Eyes already on you. Cigar unlit but in hand like he’d been waiting to spark it with your name on his tongue.

Stack let out a whistle when you passed the counter. “Told you she’d come back,” he mumbled to Smoke. You rolled your eyes without turning around. “Told who?” Ms. Moore smirked like she didn’t hear them and gently pulled you to the side of the counter where her new hair oils were arranged.

“Now, this right here’s the new blend,” she said, opening a small jar. “Might even be better than what your auntie makes, but don’t tell her I said that.” You leaned in, letting the scent hit your nose. It smelled sweet. Warm. Like something you’d wear around a man just to make him lean in a little closer. Ms. Moore’s voice softened. “You know… Stack is really sorry.”

That caught you off guard.

“Huh?” She glanced over toward the boys—both still lingering, pretending to be busy. Her voice dropped lower. “He won’t tell me what happened between y’all, but he’s always talkin’ to Smoke about how sorry he is. Like, can’t let it go.”

You blinked, straightened slightly. “Really?”

Ms. Moore nodded, then immediately changed the subject before your heart could do something dumb. “Anyway, for your curl pattern, this’ll give moisture without all that heaviness. You been using heat on your ends, baby?”Before you could answer, the bell chimed again. A woman stepped in, holding a toddler on one hip and asking about crochet hair.

Ms. Moore snapped into business mode. “Come with me, baby,” she told the client, then to you: “I’ll be right back. Grab you a free sample from the basket, alright?” She disappeared into the back with the customer, leaving you standing in the center of the shop.

Alone.

With both of them. Stack moved first. “I ain’t know you still smelled that good,” he said, stepping close enough for you to catch his cologne. Something spicy. Overconfident.

“You still mad at me or you done bein’ dramatic?”

You opened your mouth to respond, but Smoke’s voice cut low behind you. “Why she gotta be dramatic?” he asked calmly. “She left ‘cause she knew her worth.” That shut Stack up for half a second.

You crossed your arms, turning just slightly to meet Smoke’s eyes. They held steady on yours, calm and full of something unreadable—but it heated your skin like sunlight through glass.

Stack smirked, mouth curling like he knew you were flustered. Smoke didn’t smile. But his gaze never moved. You rolled your eyes, grabbing a free sample just for something to do. “Y’all talk too much.” “You ain’t deny nothin’, though,” Stack said. You turned to leave, chin high. “Didn’t confirm anything either.” The bell jingled behind you as you left, but the burn on your skin didn’t fade for blocks.

time jump; that evening

You sat cross-legged on Sevyn’s bed, picking at a loose thread in her comforter while she scrolled on her phone, bubble gum popping between her teeth. “You know that boy Jay throwin’ a pool party this weekend?” she asked casually. “The one from the old high school crew?”

You glanced up. “The one with the house on the west side?” She nodded. “Yup. Said it’s gon’ be a vibe. Real mixed crowd. I already know Stack and Smoke gon’ be there.”

You froze mid-thread pull. Sevyn’s eyes didn’t miss it. She smirked, scrolling past bikini ads. “We should go shopping tomorrow. You need somethin’ loud. Like… bitch-you-lost-me loud.”

“I’m not going to impress nobody.”

“Sure you’re not.”

the next day; bikini shopping.

The store smelled like new fabric and summer anxiety. You were flipping through racks when you heard a familiar voice from the next aisle over. Mary. Tall, white, shit almost pale, with her straight hair in a short bob and lip gloss shining like a damn light beam. You peeked past the rack and saw her laughing with her friends. “Girl, when Stack see me in this swimsuit?” Mary giggled. “He gon’ finally stop actin’ like he don’t want me. Watch. I know what that man like.”

Your throat tightened.

Your fingers froze on a cherry-red bikini.

Because if she was bold enough to say that out loud, she wasn’t bluffing. She either has him… or had already had him. And Stack had the nerve to flirt with you? You frowned, turning slightly away from the group. Tried to school your face into indifference.

But Sevyn walked up just then, holding two options—one neon green, one black mesh—and saw your whole mood.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, voice low, teasing. You shook your head. “Nothin’.” “Uh huh.” Her smirk deepened. “Must be nothin’ if your whole forehead wrinkled like that.” You snatched the red bikini off the rack. “Let’s just try these on.”

And you swore you didn’t care.

Even as your stomach flipped at the idea of Stack and Smoke seeing you in that two-piece. Even as your mind wondered who Stack had been kissing. Even as your heart, deep down, admitted that it hoped Smoke would be the one looking hardest.

@katezy2x @d1gitalb4rbie @queenofklonnie22 @spicypiscesssss @yana3sworld @maniifesto @kqmbr1a @bl3ssyn @nikkitheunpredict @5starsirl

#black tumblr #black girl aesthetic #beyonce #elijah smokes x black!oc #michael b jordan x oc #smoke au #smoke x reader #beyedit #elijah smoke moore #michael b jordan #elijah smoke moore x black reader #elias stack moore #elijah moore x reader #elias stack moore x reader #stack x oc #smoke stack twins #stack sinners #stack x reader #smoke and stack

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honeytonedhottie · 2 months ago

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shopping tips from a professional shopaholic⋆.ೃ࿔*:･👛💕

in this post im going to give you the rundown of my all-time FAVORITE activity… shopping! and i must say im quite the professional. i’ll be talking about navigating sales, identifying deals, and finding the CUTEST stuff that’s worth ur buck…💬🎀

GOOD DEAL VS. BAD DEAL ;

let’s imagine there’s a big sale going on. $5 for 10 basic tank tops that are so cute! but the quality isn’t very good. but it doesn’t matter cuz there r 10 different tops right? WRONG. quality > price ALWAYS, sometimes cheap isn’t a good deal if it won’t last. if it’s a reasonable price for good quality than it’s a good deal, but if u have to pay a pretty penny for good quality products it’ll be worth it in the long run.

when shopping for clothes think of investing in pieces that will actually get used. imagine ur looking at two super cute hand bags, one is $50 that you’ll prob wear like twice and that you don’t anticipate will last very long and the other is $150, it’s designer and it’s high quality and goes with more outfits.

the $50 bag worn twice = $25 per wear. not worth it.

the $200 bag worn 100+ times = $2 per wear. way more value for your money.

now THATS girl math. investing in well made pieces actually saves you money in the grand scheme of things. you’ll have go to pieces, so make sure ur thinking about you’ll be wearing the piece ur about to buy.

FINDING THE GOOD STUFF ;

when shopping i love to go to the mall or online shop but ultimately THRIFTING has my heart. i’ll find these super cute pieces or pieces with loads of potential that i have a vision for, and i’ll DIY it until it’s exactly what i want. that way i have original pieces in my wardrobe that no one else does. it makes me feel like a custom barbie doll 🎀

when shopping i gravitate towards clothes within my color palette (pinks, black, browns, creams). because i know my colors and my palette so well it’s easy for me to mix and match pieces and thinks blend easier. next i check the fabric bcuz even if a piece is cute, if it won’t last i don’t bother wasting my money.

another thing i always make sure to do is try on the piece before purchasing it because the fit is also important. i want the piece to flatter my proportions. another thing i take note of is unique details that elevate that the piece already has or that i can add. some examples include…

faux furs

rhinestones

cute ruffles

always browse beyond the mannequin displays. oftentimes the best pieces are hidden in the back of the rack or in sections you wouldn’t normally check. also, don’t sleep on the kids’ or men’s sections, they have good stuff there too!

NAVIGATING SALES LIKE A PRO ;

sales are such a blessing when u know how to navigate them correctly. when theres a sale make sure to ask yourself if you'd buy that same item at full price. if not, PUT IT DOWNNN. a discount literally means shit if the item is just gonna collect dust in ur closet.

also, know what a real sale is as opposed to a fake one, some stores mark up prices just to mark them down again. do ur research and compare prices to different shops to see if you’re actually getting a deal.

PRO TIP : holiday sales and end-of-season clearances usually have the best markdowns, so that’s when i go all out and stock up...👛💕

ONLINE VS OFFLINE SHOPPING ;

the perks of online shopping include :

better for finding exclusive pieces

online only discounts and promo codes

make sure to check the reviews for something before buying anything!

the perks of offline shopping include :

you can actually try on the pieces

you see the item in person, feel the fabric, its much more intimate and personal

impulse buys are typically less tempting

to get the best from both worlds i'll do some research before shopping in person to check the quality. if I love it, i buy it right then and there. iff it’s cheaper online, i'll order it online.

REWARD SYSTEMS AND MEMBERSHIPS ;

if ur a shopaholic TAKE ADVANTAGE OF MEMBERSHIPS AND REWARD SYSTEMS, especially from shops and boutiques that u frequent.

🎀 keep track of birthday and anniversary sales

🎀 subscribe to emails

🎀 sign up for store memberships

SOME OF MY FAVORITE ONLINE SHOPS ;

🛍️ i.am.gia

🛍️ shou shou cherry

🛍️ princess polly

🛍️ prty grl beauty

🛍️ depop

🛍️ poshmark

🛍️ pieces of porcelain

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bbydoll18xx · 11 months ago

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I've Got a Wand and a Rabbit

Paige stumbles into a sex shop you work at, and you give her some satisfactory customer service.

Paige Bueckers x reader

Masterlist

Word Count: 1.6k

Themes: sex toys, masturbation, and sex mentioned

A/N: hii so I thought of this idea when I was lounging in my pool and I kinda love it. I have a few ideas for a second part if you guys are up for it

“That’ll be 49.95,” you say brightly, your customer service voice on full display, as you carefully wrap an eight inch glass dildo up and put it in a bag. Your customer, a tall, muscular man with shifty eyes and a baseball hat hanging low over his face, quickly swiped his card, avoiding eye contact with you, as you finished the transaction.

“Have a great day!” You call as he rushes out of the store and into his large pickup truck.

Ah. The joys of dealing with the closeted ones. It was certainly more appealing than the creepy straight dudes who offered to take you home and prove to you that the vibrators that adorned the entire back wall of the store were not as good as their own dicks.

That was fucking bullshit.

You had prided yourself in being open with both your sexuality and the joys of sexual pleasure since you were old enough to know what it entailed. And you were not shy about sex or masturbation. It was a totally normal thing.

You have often referred to yourself as The Fairy Godmother of Orgasms. Each of your friends had been given a vibrator sometime during college, with subtle instructions to learn how to make themselves cum. Because men just aren’t up for the job these days.

So when you picked up a job at the newest, trendiest sex store just outside of Storrs to help make some extra money for school, it seemed like all of the stars aligned.

You shake your head, giggling at the hilarity of the man’s sheer discomfort and apply a layer of lip gloss to your full, pink lips. There were a few customers lingering in the store but it had been pretty quiet today, as it was the middle of the week.

A few minutes later, the jinging of the bell on the door alerts you to a group of girls giggling loudly, faces blushing in a way that you had become quite accustomed to seeing in the store.

College students were your favorite customers, as you loved seeing young women being open about having fun and safe sex lives, and you wave warmly at them.

“Hi there! Just let me know if you have any questions!” You chirp, sending a wink over to the tall blonde girl whose cheeks were the brightest shade of red in the group.

Her face darkens, spreading down the pale skin of her neck as the other girls shove her teasingly, and she almost falls into a rack of lingerie.

Muttering an apology, she fixes the rack, running her hand across her face, glancing back at you before running after her friends where they had assembled in the back of the store.

Her bumbling behavior amuses you, and it was so unlike her.

You had recognized her from the second she had walked in. Paige Bueckers face was plastered all over UConn’s campus, and you were a victim of the tiktok edits bombarding your phone.

You were a willing victim at that.

Paige was not just a great basketball player. She was also incredibly kind and unusually humble. It also did not help that she was gorgeous, and you were not ashamed to admit that you had thought about those long, nimble fingers and her muscled thighs from time to time.

Or maybe a little more than that.

You are pulled out of your increasingly naughty thoughts by loud laughs, and you look over to where KK Arnold is holding up a huge purple dildo.

“Paige, I think this would be perfect for you!” She snorts, sending the other girls into a fit of howls.

You chuckle, putting a hand over your mouth as you observe Paige’s obvious embarrassment from behind the counter.

“God, KK, could you be any louder,” Paige mutters, eyes flickering to where you were pretending not to watch. “Shoulda just bought this shit online.”

“That’s no fun,” Aubrey says, gazing at the section of strap ons with an interested look on her face.

The bickering continues for a few minutes, with Ice Brady and Aubrey occasionally making a few comments before you decide to go over to the group.

“Is there anything you’re looking for in particular today?” You ask. “I know the selection can be a bit…overstimulating.” You bite your lip as you finish your sentence, inwardly cringing at your provocative choice of words.

Paige coughs, and KK erupts into another fit of laughter, and before the blonde could even form a word, KK says, “Home girl needs a nice vibrator. She is very single, and the ol’ right hand just ain’t cuttin’ it anymore.”

“Dude, oh my god,” Paige groans, hands once more shielding her face.

“I totally understand how that is,” you say sympathetically. “Let me show you our most popular vibrators.”

You reach for Paige’s hand, somewhat surprised as she allows you to take it, and you guide her to the back wall.

“Now this one is a classic. They call it a rabbit because of the cute lil bunny ears, which is great for the clit. And it has a dildo attached, so it’s a two in one type of deal.”

You look up at Paige, trying to gauge her reaction, and she looks completely stunned. Blushing, you put down the brightly colored toy. “I’m sorry if I’m making you uncomfortable at all.”

“No, not at all,” Paige mumbles, a far cry from her usual confidence. “This is all just new to me.”

You nod understandingly.

“This one might be more your speed. It’s called a wand, and it’s perfect for beginners. Not much of a learning curve for this one,” you say, holding out the box for her to inspect.

The wand was purple and small enough to throw in a discrete bag, and with a rechargeable battery and its waterproofness, it was a fan favorite.

“Alright, I think I’ll try this one then,” Paige says, her voice a little more sanguine as the initial embarrassment of buying a sex toy wore off.

Aubrey, KK, and Ice erupt into loud cheers and a round of applause, and Paige responds by giving them the middle finger.

“You guys are hilarious. You should come in more often,” you laugh.

“Maybe I will if you’re working,” Paige responds, looking you up and down.

It was your turn to blush, her sudden boldness surprising you, and your heart rate jumps at the idea.

Paige follows you over to the checkout counter, where you ring up the toy, adding your employee discount for good measure before bagging it up and handing it to her, your fingers brushing up against hers as you do so. The contact sends shivers through your body, and you immediately think of your own toys waiting for you in your bedside drawer.

You were really going to fucking need them after this shift.

“Have fun. If you ever have any questions, you know where to find me,” you tease, not wanting this to be the last you see of her.

“I will,” Paige responds, sending you a cheeky wave before leaving, her friends in tow.

“She will definitely be back, don’t worry!” KK exclaims, before Paige pulls her out of the store by the hood of her sweatshirt.

You certainly hoped so.

Life continued on the next few weeks as normal. You went to work. You went to class. And you spent even more time with your legs spread thinking about Paige.

You didn’t necessarily mean for it to happen; it just did. If her face was not completely clouding your thoughts before she had stumbled into the store, it was now. Even your dreams were swirled with images of that long blonde hair and her mouth, her tongue peaking out seductively.

And because you were quite single, you had turned to the toys.

You were walking through campus, eagerly heading back to your apartment after your lecture so you could enjoy yet another solo session, when you spot Paige, KK, and Jana walking up to you.

KK was leading the charge, enthusiastically waving to get your attention, whilst Paige was trailing behind, a shy smile on her face.

“Well look who it is!!” KK teases, introducing you to Jana, who had a knowing look on her face. She reaches a hand out to you. “I’ve heard lots about you,” she smirks in Paige’s direction, who rolls her eyes.

You wave at the blonde, eyes crinkling from the sun and the excitement of seeing her again. “Sooo,” you trail. “Any issues with it?”

The question was vague, but all three girls seemed to know exactly what you were referring to, and Paige flushes yet again. She looks at the other two girls, shooting them harsh looks until they hesitantly walk away from the two of you, leaving you with the privacy you were dying to have.

Paige coughs. “Um, I haven’t really been able to figure it out, ya know?”

You try not to laugh. “What’s there to figure out? Just turn it on and go to town.”

“I tried,” she nearly whines, clearly embarrassed.

“And?” You prod, confused as to what she was so obviously missing.

“I couldn’t, ya know, finish,” she mumbles, looking at you with a small pout.

You wanted to kiss the pout right off those lips.

“Need some help then? I’m kind of a professional,” you suggest boldly, hoping she was feeling the electricity flowing between you.

“God, yes,” she breathes.

It was all over from there.

If anyone was wondering, yes my friends do really call me the fairy godmother of orgasms. And yes I am very passionate about my love for vibrators LOL

I hope you enjoyed!! Do we want a part 2??

My inbox is always open

xoxo katy

Part 2

Part 3

#paige bueckers #paige bueckers x reader #paige x reader #paige bueckers x you #uconn wbb #uconn huskies

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phoebejaysims · 1 year ago

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Boutique Mod - DOWNLOAD

Inspired by the sims 2 shopping for clothes system, I present a sims 3 take on buying clothes, accessories and running a thriving boutique! Set up shifts, keep the racks stocked, and you might find yourself in profit!

Required:

Ambitions

NRAAS Master Controller + Integration Module

Optional:

ITF if you want to use the clothes mannequin and some visual effects.

Late Night if you want the animations for the security guard.

Seasons for extra interactions on the mannequin.

Savvy Seller Set for some visual and audio effects.

Full Documentation is included in the download. I spent a while writing it out, so please read thoroughly!

How Stores Work:

Set up a shift

Hire Employees (bosses count as employees so stores are fully functional with only one sim!)

Link at least one rack to the register

Open for business!

Employees:

Store employees can be given three types of roles: register attendant, sales attendant and security guard.

Employees will do their jobs automatically but you can always manually tell them to do things too like: restocking, dressing up mannequins, helping customers, among other things.

Customers:

Inactive and active sims can browse through the racks and have the ability to purchase items. They'll interact differently depending on if they are shopping at a clothes rack, accessory rack, or at a mannequin.

Inactives won't purchase outfits from mannequins unless you direct them to (or you enable auto-purchasing in the XML). However, they may "fake" buy clothes.

Once finished shopping, customers hold their bags and wait to be rung up! Take too long and they may abandon their purchase.

Shopping:

Adjust prices and restrict customers by age and gender to customise your store!

Clothes Racks:

Buy Clothes for your own sim, sims in your household, or (if you're an employee) suggest clothes for customers.

Employees that suggest clothes for customers can fulfil Ambition Stylist jobs this way.

Accessories Racks:

Choose accessories to be sold by adding them to the XML in the package file. The XML comes loaded with a few base game items already plus a couple modded items (Arsil's Sunglasses and lipstick - that won't be loaded unless you have them installed).

Sell buy-mode items as well as CAS items!

Make your CAS items wearable from your sim's inventory using your own meshes or my dummy accessory (see Documentation and XML for details).

Blacklist certain categories from being shown. If you want a dedicated shoe shop or an opticians, you can have it!

Try on products before buying them to see if they suit your sim. If there's a mirror in the room, they'll check themselves out in it.

Clothing Mannequin:

Try on the mannequin outfits to see if they suit your sim.

Plan different outfits to display and even set them to be rotated through seasonally.

Let your employees be creative and choose a random outfit for the mannequin to wear.

Buy clothes for your own sim, household members, or customers.

Allow or disallow inactives from automatically purchasing display outfits.

Security Gates:

Give your security guards something to stand and look threatening by.

You can try your luck at stealing from the shop. If you're caught, you'll have to pay up. If you get past the gates (or if there are no gates), enjoy your bounty!

Boutique Door:

Cloned from the Savvy Seller doors without the annoying 'kick-every-last-person-out-the-building-come-closing-time' feature.

Link this to a register and let the open and close sign automatically flip itself. Also, close the store or rename it, straight from the door.

Phone Interactions:

Ask for time off work (paid or unpaid).

Call in sick.

Cancel vacation days.

Credits and Thanks:

@dhalsims for adding geostates to the ITF rack for me. Modders, I really recommend her if you need any 3D models made also!

DouglasVeiga for the BG rack with the geostates.

@aroundthesims for allowing me to use her objects in my mod as always!

Sims 4 for all the animations that I converted.

Simstate & merchant mods for the idea to go into a mode to link racks to the register.

The OG shop for clothes mod and pedestal by @anitmb.

Arsil and @zoeoe-sims for wearable CAS items idea that I adapted.

Ani's Candle mod & Amb. Makeover XML which I looked at for inspo on how to do accessory rack xml.

Compatibility:

All new objects so shouldn't conflict with anything really.

Removes the 'plan outfit' interaction from dressers.

Made on version 1.67.

If you would like to donate as thanks, please feel free to do so at: my kofi! I don't take your generosity for granted!

Download: - Simblr.cc - 2t3 Boutique Mod Suggested Extra CC: - Lyralei's TS2 Conversions (incl. clothes changing booth) - More ATS3 Security Gates - ATS3 Friperie Set

Known issues, prop information and the full feature breakdown are all in the documentation.

Please be patient with me if there are bugs to fix. Also, anyone who DMs me "I don't know how to create a new shift" will be immediately fined £150.

With that said, please enjoy the mod and tag me in your beautiful boutiques,

Phoebe :)

#sims 3 #phoebejaysims #boutique mod #ts3 #ts3 mods #sims 3 mod #sims 3 cc #simblr #sims 3 download #2t3 #functional obj

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nysrage · 2 years ago

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Midnight Snack, Connie Springer.

synopsis: connie just couldn’t wait for his dessert to be served..

connie had an extreme sweet tooth, so it was no suprise when he was won over by the pretty lady that owned the bakery shop on the corner from his loft. he’d been a regular customer for about a year before he finally asked you out on a date, and ever since it’d been history. You’d always surprise him with a late night sugary snack after a nice hearty meal and tonight you chose to make his favorite— cinnamon rolls. Even at home you always got into your work mode when making treats, your hair pulled back in a half up half down with your favorite bow securing it all in place. Pink silk robe secured tightly in place as your skilled hands prepare the pastry. Spreading the cinnamon sugar filling on the sweet dough, rolling them with precision and placing them onto the baking sheet as connie sat in the living room, taking in all the delicious aromas filling the place.

Watching his pretty princesa from across the room as you got into your element. Brows scrunched and lip pouted as you focused on preparing your man’s favorite pastry. Roaming around the kitchen as you searched for the ingredients you always stored in his cabinets. His eyes low and red from the previous hits of his blunt that he smoke earlier, biting down on his lip as he took you in. That silk ballerina pink robe contrasted against your brown skin lovingly, displaying every curve and dip beneath the fabric. So mindless unaware of the ripples of your body with every movement you made, even as you whisked the ingredients of the sugary glaze.

Connie didn’t know if it was the sweet aroma or the view from afar but before he knew it was he was right behind you. Kissing your temple as he wrapped his hands around your waist, earning a light giggle from you. “They’re almost done baby,” swaying in his arms as you continued to finish the dessert. “let me just me get these in the oven and i’m all yours..” bending over and placing the cinnamon filled dough onto the rack. The only thing now on connie’s mind was you, that ass on display, and how he wanted rip every piece of silk off your body.

He started slow by pecking your cheek, before slowly moving down to your neck and taking in your flirty perfume. Running his hands along your curves as he lightly sucked at your skin. “Connieee, our snack..” you breathed out, eyes closing as he peppered kisses along your shoulder. “it’s okay mamí, papí ‘bout to give you one..” feeling on that soft booty of yours, hiking your robe up in the process. Slowly you bend over the counter, giving your man a shy twerk and backing your jiggly ass into him. His hard on fighting the restraints of his sweats as he pressed himself into you, earning a soft moan in return. Removing his clothes quickly he bent over you, giving you a wet kiss and whispering into your ear. “You want this dick, hm?” Rubbing that leaking tip through your flooded slit, and toying with your clit. Nodding your head eagerly, pussy clenching with anticipation and waiting to be filled.

“Words, talk to me princesa..” giving your lips a quick two taps, as he continued to teased your pussy below. Barely pushing his tip in and out of you, “Yess, please— I want it connie.” a whimpering gasp leaving your lips as he filled you up slowly at your word. Pelvis flush with your ass before pulling out and giving you a firm thrust. Setting a steady pace that had your pussy gripping onto him tightly, glistening slick leaking out onto his dick. “shit always so wet fr’ me..” those tight walls slowly letting him in with every thrust, opening up just right for him to fuck you stupid.

slobbering on the counter with eyes rolling back as you took those delicious strokes. connie pounding you hard and steady as your body bounced above the island, “yes, yes, yess, f-fuckkk.” you squealed, gripping and scratching at the marble counter. Connie roughly slapping down on that soft flesh rippling against his pelvis. Eyes focused on that tight pussy clenching down on him with every slap. “mhm, like that?” slapping harder, hand imprinted slowly beginning to form of your cheek. building the pressure as he angled his hips up towards that spongey spot deep within. “o-oh my godd, just like that.” voice bouncing with every thrust. Connie digging deeper until your legs were shaking, that creamy essence gushing from those pretty two toned lips and onto the floor.

Connie’s moans growing louder as his thrust grew sloppier, getting closer to his own orgasmic bliss. The oven sounding off with a beep behind you as the clapping sound of connie fucking you echoed throughout the loft. “c-connie, the rolls!” throwing your hand back to slow his pace, just for him to pin it behind your back “fuck them cinnamon rolls mi amor,”

“papí want a cream pie..”

#nys works.ᐟ ᥫ᭡#black writers #aot connie #aot connie springer #connie springer #connie springer smut #connie x black!reader #connie springer x black reader #connie x black reader #connie smut #connie springer x black reader smut #connie x black reader smut #connie x black y/n #connie springer x reader #connie springer x you

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shattered-matrix · 7 days ago

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Vampire/Club au | Mingi x afab!Reader

Themes: flirty bartenders, supernatural elements, upscale club setting, getting together, smut, nosy friends

Note: this fic is rated ‘E’ on Ao3. Reader discretion is advised. MDNI

15.5k words

The bell above the boutique door chimed one last time as the final customer slipped out into the night, glamour already flickering at the threshold. The place still smelled faintly of witch-made cleaner—the brand management insisted on after the incident with the werewolf in rut.

With the light displays dimmed and mannequins redressed in the latest stock, you were already imagining the taste of convenience store dinner and the warmth of your pajamas. Your two coworkers were not thinking the same, apparently.

Nico snapped the register shut with unnecessary force and turned, all sharp jawline and impatient energy.

“So,” they said, dragging the vowel out. “Tonight. Fantasy. Yes. We’re doing this.”

You didn’t even have a chance to answer before Lale twirled into your peripheral vision, trailing a lint roller like a weapon and smirking like she’d already won. The limbal ring in her amber eyes glowed with the promise of mischief.

God, not this again.

“I’m tired,” you began, reaching for your coat. “And I have drinks at home. And a cat who’s emotionally needy.”

“He’ll live,” Lale replied breezily. “He told me. In dreams.”

You gave her a look. “He hates you.”

“Yes, but he dreams of me anyway,” she said with a dramatic sigh. “Tragic, really.”

Nico looped an arm around your shoulders, steering you with casual menace toward the clothing racks. As always, a wave of coolness surrounded them, like the strange opposite of body heat.

“So help me,” they said, tone low and darkly amused, “if you say you don’t have a dress, I will buy you one. Pick something. Now.”

You blinked at the gleaming wall of gowns and club fits, still faintly enchanted from the evening’s aura. Half of them looked like they’d demand a blood oath just to zip up. You cringed. Sure, you’d gone clubbing with them before—but never this club. Upscale, elite, and apparently haunted by people too beautiful to describe accurately, if the way Lale had taken to sighing when describing the venue’s events manager was any indication.

“You’re not serious.”

“Oh, I’m violently serious,” Nico replied, releasing you only to start flipping through hangers like a vampire possessed. “What about the black one with the sheer neckline?”

“The one with the magic breeze around the skirt?” you muttered, squinting.

“It’s for dramatic entrances,” Lale chirped. “Which you’ll be making. With cleavage.”

You exhaled hard through your nose. Stared a second longer than you meant to. Then reached out, despite yourself. The fabric felt like smoke and secrets beneath your fingers—cool, slick, a little too inviting.

“If I try it on,” you said, giving Nico a sidelong look, “will you stop hounding me?”

Nico paused their hunt and gave you a slow, satisfied grin. “If you try it on and wear it, I will stop hounding you for tonight.”

“Ten bucks says someone flirts with you within ten minutes,” Lale added, already pulling accessories off the wall like a chaotic fairy godmother.

“Twenty if they’re hot and I ignore them.”

“Now you’re getting into the spirit of it,” Nico said.

The reluctant agreement was how you found yourself staring at your reflection fifteen minutes later. The dress fit like it had been waiting for you.

You hated that.

It shimmered in the mirror with an almost smug luster, catching the ambient enchantments in the boutique’s backroom bathroom like it was made to reflect candlelight and bad decisions. You shifted your weight and watched the hemline float like smoke. And, sure enough, there was the cleavage. The thing could have given even the most flat-chested a daring window.

Lale made a pleased noise from behind, all approval and latent fae glamour.

“I told you,” she said, pressing another flower pin into place in her hair, each one glittering with a soft golden sheen. The copper dress she wore clung like molten metal, elegant and impossible. “You are going to destroy someone.”

“I don’t want to destroy anyone,” you muttered.

“Then wear that and make eye contact,” Nico drawled from the sink. “Same thing.”

They were already dressed and on to the finishing touches, because unlike you, they hadn’t dragged their ass when changing. The white suit was crisp enough to threaten sanity. The silver sheen of the embroidery caught the light like frost, and the pale blue tie was tucked with almost surgical precision beneath the lapel. Their platinum hair had been slicked back and finger-combed to intentional chaos, the undercut catching the light like something dangerous. The whole look screamed Draco Malfoy if he worked runway.

“I’m still deciding if I want to kiss you or kick you,” you said, narrowing your eyes at Nico’s reflection.

“Why not both?” they replied smoothly, applying highlighter with a smugness that made you waver toward the latter.

The music shifted in the background—something bass-heavy with lyrics you half-knew. All three of you fell into that familiar rhythm: hair touch-ups, earring debates, arguments over which shoes had the stronger “come hither and maybe you’ll survive it” energy.

Lale snapped her fingers and pointed to the dark lipstick you’d been hesitating over.

“That one. Bold lip. If you’re going to commit to the dress, you commit.”

You gave her a look but reached for it anyway. The color swiped on like defiance in a tube.

Nico stepped back to inspect the three of you in the mirror—three very different energies reflected in glass and glamour.

“We look heartbreaking,” they said, satisfied.

“A whole new golden trio,” Lale hummed, pinning one last curl into place.

“I look like a woman with regrets waiting to happen,” you muttered.

They both grinned.

“Don’t regret yet,” Nico said, “You haven’t even tried it. I promise it’s better than Pride and Prejudice with your cat.”

You shot them a glare.

“Mr. Darcy is hot as fuck. You take that back.”

“Nope,” they replied, herding you and Lale out of the bathroom, “Because I guarantee the people at Fantasy are hotter.”

The Uber slipped away from the curb, tires whispering, the driver muttering “Good luck” without waiting to see where you went.

You stepped out onto the uneven pavement, heels clicking, dress swishing like a dare. The alley was narrow, quiet—just far enough off the main street to be suspect. Streetlights didn’t quite reach this far, and the glow from the nearby neon signage ended in a murky wash that gave everything a kind of half-lit haze.

Lale was already halfway down the alley, her copper dress catching what little light there was like it was made for the darkness. She came to a stop in front of what looked—for all the world—like a forgotten service door, complete with a tiny slot set into the upper third.

“Tell me this isn’t the place,” you muttered, glancing between the door and the old brick walls closing in on either side.

“Oh, it’s the place,” Nico replied, their white suit radiant in the dimness like it had never known dirt. “Just trust the process.”

Lale reached up and knocked once—sharp, deliberate. A pause. Then a click echoed low and metallic from somewhere behind the frame, and the little slot opened.

You couldn't see anything inside. Just dark beyond dark. Like the kind of black that pressed in rather than faded out.

A second passed.

Then the door creaked open, smooth as breath. No words. No greeting. Just the implied invitation.

Lale grinned and held her hand out behind her. “Come on,” she said brightly, as if you weren’t walking into the kind of place that required secrecy, attitude, and possibly a waiver.

Nico took the lead without hesitation, cool confidence in every step.

You followed. Because—despite every survival instinct muttering otherwise—your pulse was already ticking faster. And, damn it… maybe they were right.

Maybe this would be better than Pride and Prejudice with your cat.

Inside, the air changed.

It hit all at once, like stepping through a threshold not just of space, but atmosphere. The alley faded behind you, swallowed by the hush of the door closing—soft, final, like the seal on a secret.

Red light swallowed the walls, dense and matte, like it would soak up sound. The floor gleamed underfoot: dark wood polished to a mirrored sheen that echoed footsteps in whispers. Gold accents gleamed in soft arcs—on archways, railings, the curves of ornate light fixtures that glowed like candlelight but hummed with something steadier. Classier.

The ceiling arched high, blacked out save for pinpoints of warm light that mimicked stars. You caught the outline of tables dressed in black cloth, flickering votives at each one like constellations. A low stage sat nestled in the far corner, dressed in shadows, a cello resting like a promise.

And the bar—

Long, smooth, carved wood with a faint gleam like amber under warm lighting. Rows of bottles behind it shimmered in muted rainbow, not garish but rich—like liquid gems shelved beneath gold-trimmed mirrors. The stools were upholstered in black leather with brass footing, each spaced just far enough apart to feel intentional. Private. Meant for close conversation or none at all.

Music curled through the space like perfume. Not the pulsing bass you were used to from previous nights out, but something lower. Slower. Sultry sax and brushed snare. The kind of music that didn’t demand dancing—only watching, and wondering.

People were seated in twos and threes, leaned in close in little half-moon booths or perched like sculptures at the bar. Everyone looked too beautiful to be real. Too sharp. Too polished. Like the place curated its patrons.

You swallowed, clutching your tiny purse like a lifeline.

“Where did you bring me?” you murmured, eyes lingering on where a pair of vampires murmured over glasses full of something too thick to be wine.

Nico ran a hand over their tie. “Welcome to Fantasy. Wish you’d come sooner yet?”

Lale looped her arm through yours, chin high and radiant as ever. “If not, you will.”

You let yourself be pulled deeper into the velvet hush, past warm gold light and glances that lingered too long. Under the scent of liquor and perfume, you caught the tang of werewolf, the edge of fae, the stillness of vampire, and the lingering heat of witch.

Somehow, all the usual inter-species tension had been checked at the door. Strange, but… refreshing. The only reason you hadn’t seen fights in the boutique was because the strip-mall’s security guy looked like he might be directly related to a professional boxer.

The spell of it—the velvet, the hush, the beauty—lasted maybe thirty seconds before Nico touched your elbow and nodded toward the bar.

“Come on. Drinks first.”

Lale added, already moving, “Pretty sure I saw bruschetta on the menu.”

You followed, the three of you slipping through the space like you belonged there—past low booths glowing with candlelight, past polished shoes and slinky silhouettes and the kind of people who didn’t wait in lines. Your heels clicked softly against the dark floor, the bespelled dress moving with a little more confidence than you felt.

The bar curved along one side of the room, warm-toned wood catching the light, brass rail glinting beneath a row of neatly spaced stools. Bottles shimmered behind the bar in quiet rows—deep jewel tones, thick glass, no backlit neon in sight.

The bartender clocked you all with a glance—quick, professional, a little amused—and slid a trio of gold embossed menus across the polished surface without a word.

You eased onto the nearest stool, purse in your lap, fingers adjusting your skirt out of habit.

Lale settled beside you, already flipping through the menu. “Okay. Do we want sharp and citrusy or dark and dramatic?”

“Carbs,” Nico said, not looking up. “Whatever the drinks are, they come with carbs.”

You let the atmosphere settle into your bones—the low lighting, the quiet thrum of conversation, the smell of aged liquor and something rich, like cardamom or clove. The kind of place where no one rushed, no one yelled, and every detail had been chosen on purpose.

You traced your finger along the edge of the black-gold menu. The font was minimal. Classy. Beneath the list of cocktails, a quiet row of symbols marked each one for species compatibility. You spotted a line that read recommended for dhampir and snorted softly under your breath.

Lale bumped your shoulder. “They know their clientele.”

You paused. You’d never actually seen a menu with that note before. Huh. The rest seemed pretty accurate…may as well. You chose something that seemed close to what you might usually drink at your usual haunts.

A few minutes later, drinks arrived—yours amber and steady, Nico’s pale and sparkling, Lale’s blushing pink with a sugared rim—and with them, a plate of bruschetta that smelled like garlic and fresh herbs.

You took a bite. It was honestly far better than what you’d expected from a bar in an alley, no matter how nicely decorated. A sip of your drink followed, curiosity spurring you. Again, better than expected, with just the right hint of chilled blood. Not enough to satisfy the thirst your father had passed on, but enough to be enjoyable.

The next few minutes passed in comfortable indulgence. Warm bread, herbed oil, chilled blood-touched drink. Your friends were already people-watching, casually judging outfits, posture, and the flavor of makeup looks like it was part of a game.

Then the lights dimmed—just a little. Enough to hush the ambient chatter and draw attention to the stage in the far corner.

Lale perked up instantly. “Oh, here we go.”

A low instrumental swell rose from unseen speakers, smooth and sultry, like a tease of something bigger. A spotlight warmed the edge of the stage as a figure stepped into view.

You blinked.

Okay, wow.

Whoever he was, you weren’t sure how he existed in real life. Smooth stride, loose shoulders, and a sharp and entirely too charming smile. The sleeves of his dark shirt were pushed to the elbow, cuffs just rumpled enough to suggest effortlessness. His hair was artfully tousled, and his eyes seemed to skim the crowd like he already knew exactly the effect he had.

“Good evening,” he said into the mic, voice smooth as the velvet on the seats. “Thank you for joining us at Fantasy. Our next performer will be out shortly—but until then, take a breath. Enjoy the company. And remember…”

He smiled. Slow. Lazy. Devastating.

“We enjoy our peaceful space, so do behave.”

The lights shifted again—gold spilling low and moody across the stage—and he turned, striding off with the kind of confidence that didn’t need to look back.

You exhaled, only half aware you’d been holding your breath.

“…Who was that?” you asked, blinking.

Nico grinned into their glass. “That would be San.”

Lale sighed, dreamy and a little exasperated. “I tried to describe him once, remember? I think I blacked out halfway through. You can’t explain San. He just…happens to you.”

“He’s in charge of the performances,” Nico added. “Ambiance. Vibe. The stuff that makes people leave tips like they’re offering tribute.”

“He’s also the only person I’ve seen make Seonghwa laugh in public,” Lale said.

You blinked. “Seonghwa?”

“Oh, honey.” Nico set down their drink and turned on the stool just slightly, facing the crowd. “You are not ready.”

And with that, they began pointing discreetly—not obvious, just enough. The man in question was ethereal, watching the going’s on from a balcony on the second floor and speaking with one of the staff. It almost hurt to look at him.

“That’s Seonghwa. Runs the place. Tall, too elegant. Wears suits that cost more than your rent and knows it.”

Lale leaned in, whispering like she might be overheard. “He can kill a deal with a smile and carry a tray of drinks like a holy offering. It’s ridiculous. I adore him.”

Nico nodded toward the bar’s far corner. “That’s Yeosang. Numbers guy. Doesn’t talk much, but he sees everything. Remembers more. And somehow makes it hot.

Lale added, “He once outbid a demon in a silent auction just to prove he could. Didn’t even want the painting.”

You raised a brow, sipping your drink. The man had reddish hair and, sure enough, was focused on a tablet, one leg folded casually over the other, a glass sweating on the bar before him.

“Yunho’s security,” Nico continued. “Absolute sweetheart. Built like a bouncer, vibes like a golden retriever. Don’t let that fool you—he could throw you through a wall and ask if you’re okay on the way down.”

“Now that is a man with good posture and better intentions,” Layla murmurs, glancing over appreciatively.

Your eyes follow their nods to where a tall man with a warm smile is seated next to someone in one of the armchairs in the lounge area. Good god, Nico wasn’t kidding about these people being attractive.

“Jongho runs hospitality,” Nico said next. “He’s the reason your drink showed up cold and your chair doesn’t wobble. He’s also terrifying. But, like… calmly.”

“He’s probably the one who trained the bartender to remember our favorite drinks after one visit,” Lale said proudly.

Indeed, striding from the elevators on the far side of the room is a sharply dressed man with a pleasantly unreadable expression, like someone who could ruin your night without raising his voice.

You raised your brows. “Is that all?”

“Oh, no. But I haven’t seen the others tonight,” Lale said, taking a bite of bruschetta. “But there’s Hongjoong—he founded the place. Everyone says he made a deal with a demon to get the land.”

Nico smirked. “He makes me wish I was a demon so he’d make a deal with me.”

“And Wooyoung—chaos incarnate,” Lale added. “Flirts with everyone. We think he’s part siren.”

You sat back, eyes wide as you scanned the room again with fresh perspective. “So this is, like… their place?”

Nico gave you a pleased little nod. “Fantasy. Owned and operated by eight ridiculously hot immortals with very specific talents and even better bone structure.”

“And you brought me here why, exactly?”

“Because,” Lale said simply, raising her glass, “you deserve to be somewhere magical.”

Bless her. You couldn’t help the little rush of fondness that settled in your chest. Your eyes again roamed over the club with its elegance and magic. The too-lovely clientele and beautiful owners.

And then something clicked.

“Wait. You said eight. But you only mentioned seven…”

Lale opened her mouth—only for her eyes to widen, shifting slightly as if reacting to something behind you. Nico grinned over the rim of their drink like a cat that knew exactly when the mouse had walked into the room.

And then you heard it: the clink of a bottle being set down just behind the bar, followed by the low glide of a voice.

“How’s everyone’s evening?”

You turned.

And immediately wished you hadn’t. Good god.

The man behind the bar was tall. Broad-shouldered, long-limbed, and unfairly handsome in a way that hit like a punch you almost enjoyed. His hair was damp-dark and tousled just enough to suggest either recent sin or something close to it.

His eyes were sharp in the low light, a little hooded, a little amused—like he’d already heard your excuse and found it lacking.

When he moved, it was deliberate. Lazy only in the way a predator conserves energy. He rolled up his sleeves with the practiced smoothness of someone who knew he was being watched—and had no intention of playing coy about it.

And that smile? Flirtation with teeth. Which you caught a glimpse of behind those full lips—an elongated canine peeking out.

He breezed past, going further down the bar to attend to a couple who were very obviously enjoying a date night.

“That,” Nico said, clearly enjoying your reaction, “is Mingi.”

“He runs the bar,” Lale added, tone just a bit too breezy. “Drinks, food, sometimes the kitchen. If it tastes good, he probably touched it.”

“Or flirted with the person who made it,” Nico said, not even pretending to whisper.

Mingi’s eyes flicked up from the bottle he was pouring and he smirked, like he’d heard every word—and agreed with all of it.

You swallowed. “He always work the bar himself?”

Lale shrugged. “Seems like only when he’s bored. Or wants to get a better look at the clientele.”

The man in question looked up just then, meeting your eyes.

And smiled.

Low. Slow. Like heat spreading under your skin.

“Well,” Nico murmured, tapping their menu casually. “This should be fun.”

The look should’ve ended there. Should’ve been fleeting, a brush of intrigue before moving on.

But you didn’t look away.

And neither did he.

A blink. A heartbeat. Then he was moving.

Not rushed. Not obvious. Just… recalibrating his course with the kind of lazy certainty that said he’d been planning this all along.

Lale shifted slightly, pretending to study the cocktail menu again.

Nico, on the other hand, didn’t even try to hide their grin. “Yep. Definitely fun.”

You tried not to fidget. Really. You did. But when he stopped just in front of you—forearms braced on the bar, sleeves still casually rolled, every bit the picture of relaxed confidence—it was hard not to feel like you’d been caught doing something mildly illegal.

“Evening,” he said, voice low and warm. “I don’t believe I’ve seen you in here before.”

You blinked, trying hard not to make eye contact with the window of his shirt. Or his face. Or any part of him, really.

“First time.”

He hummed. “Thought so.”

You should’ve said something clever. Or mildly intelligent. Instead, you gave a tight little nod, like someone suddenly overwhelmed by the concept of being perceived.

“You’re with them?” he asked, tipping his head toward Lale and Nico.

Lale gave a little finger wave without looking up. Nico offered a serene “Hi, Mingi.”

“Mm,” he hummed. “Good taste.”

You frowned. “In drinks or friends?”

His grin widened. “Both.”

There was a beat. Just long enough for your brain to catch up and your heartbeat to forget how to behave. Then he was reaching for a bottle behind the bar—something smoky, amber, definitely expensive.

“I’m making you something. Call it a house welcome.”

You hesitated, frowning slightly. “What if I don’t like it?”

“You will.”

That should’ve been arrogant. It wasn’t. It was just… matter of fact. Like the sun would rise, gravity existed, and of course you’d like the drink he was about to hand you.

He worked quickly, pouring and stirring, eyes flicking up occasionally to meet yours in brief, almost dangerous intervals It had no business being that nice—watching those hands move with casual expertise—but you were already all too aware of the seemingly permanent flush in your cheeks.

He set the drink down in front of you—dark, neat, a twist of citrus at the rim and just the faintest scent of clove and something else you couldn’t quite place.

“Try it,” he said.

You took a sip. Paused. And immediately hated that he was right.

“…It’s good.”

He leaned in slightly, bracing a hand on the bar. “Told you.”

You raised a brow. “Do you always custom-make drinks for people just because they stare too long?”

“Only when they’re interesting.”

You made the mistake of holding his gaze again—and felt your pulse spike for the second time in as many minutes.

“Well,” Nico said lightly, swirling their drink, “this is already going better than your last date.”

You nearly choked. Mingi just laughed. Smooth. Unbothered. Dangerously amused.

And then, just like that, he was moving on—drifting a few stools down to greet another guest with that same easy charm.

Before he turned fully away, he glanced back—just once—and winked.

You stared at the empty space he left behind like you’d just witnessed something unholy. And you weren’t sure if you wanted to run or ask for another drink.

Then—

“Daaamn, girl,” Nico said flatly, raising an eyebrow. “You just got bar-flirted in 4k.”

Lale fanned herself with one hand, a little awestruck. “What just happened?”

“I think I blacked out,” you muttered, dragging a hand over your face. “Did that just—was that real?”

“Yep,” Nico smirked. “You made eye contact and that man recalculated his whole route like a vampire GPS recalibrating for thirst.”

“He crafted you a drink like a love potion,” Lale whispered, eyes wide, like that was the most outrageous part. “A custom drink. While flirting. Sleeves rolled up.”

You buried your face in your hands. “I hate you both.”

“You love us,” Nico said, tilting their glass. “Admit it. We’re the glitch in the simulation. Achievement unlocked: unexpected bartender thirst trap.”

“This is karmic reward for leaving the house,” Lale said, smug and satisfied. “Imagine missing out on tall, dark, and bar-trained.”

You made a strangled noise. “Please stop.”

“Oh, no. This is our Roman Empire now,” Nico said, taking a victorious sip. “I’m going to be thinking about this moment on my deathbed. My last words will be ‘do you remember when?’”

You stared down at your drink, trying to recalibrate your brain chemistry like that hadn’t just happened. Needing something to do, you sipped the drink again. Cool sweetness hit your tongue—still better than you wanted to admit. You needed the distraction.

“Hope he wasn’t too forward.”

You looked up—and met a different kind of warmth entirely.

Yunho. Apparently summoned from the lounge. All easygoing confidence in a tailored suit, perfectly styled hair expertly framing his face.

Lale gave a little wave. “Hey, Yunho.”

“Evening,” he said, then turned to you. “I saw he poured from the top shelf. That’s usually a sign.”

You blinked. “A sign of what?”

His smile grew just a little. “That he wanted to make a good impression.”

“Oh.”

“Ohhh,” Lale echoed, deeply amused.

Yunho let the moment sit just long enough to hit, then gently placed a napkin on the bar in front of you. In clean, confident script was the name of the drink Mingi had made—along with its ingredients, compatibility notes, and a small gold stamp that read approved by house staff.

“In case you want another later,” he said.

You glanced from the napkin to him. “Do you do this for everyone?”

“Only when they’re new. And he breaks out the good bottles.” Yunho offered you a warm nod. “We’re glad you’re here. Let us know if you need anything.”

And just like that, he was gone—back into the soft ambient glow of the club, checking in with a patron nearby and helping the hostess with a guest’s coat like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“That’s the ‘I run this place’ energy. Dangerous in a three-piece,” Nico muttered.

You looked down at the napkin. At the drink. At the subtle but clear invitation folded inside both. And you felt the strangest little flutter in your chest.

Nico raised their brow. “So… Tomorrow or next week?”

You took another sip of your drink, stalling like it might somehow cool the flush in your cheeks.

“Maybe I just want to finish this drink.” You focused on your glass, like the ice melt could shield you.

“Sure, sure,” Nico drawled. “Just admit you’re already planning your outfit for the return trip.”

Lale nudged you with a grin. “I love this for you. Night one and already catching eyes.”

You didn’t answer. Mostly because your brain was still busy doing cartwheels over the fact that Mingi had made you a drink, winked at you, and then walked off like that wasn’t a crime against your nervous system.

You looked down at what was left in your glass, then at the napkin Yunho had left. There it was again—that little flutter. Stupid. Nonsensical. A fizzy rush of adrenaline and heat that hadn’t worn off yet.

You could leave it at that. Enjoy the drink. Laugh about it later.

Or…

You glanced down the bar.

Mingi was back in position, sleeves still rolled, smile easy, hands in motion. Every bit as lethal.

You took a slow breath, then raised a hand just enough to catch his eye. He clocked it instantly. And made his way over, all slow steps and even slower smiles.

“Need a refill?” he asked, voice warm.

You shook your head. “Just wondering what this one’s called.”

He paused for a beat. Then his grin crooked a little higher. “Velvet Trigger.”

You blinked. “Wait—like the band?”

A flicker of pleased surprise lit his eyes. “You know them?”

“Track seven haunted me in college,” you said. “I used to loop it on rainy nights and pretend I was the main character in a tragic indie film.”

God, why did you say that? Oversharing was what had killed the last date you went on.

But he laughed—soft and full, like it caught him off guard. “Same. That one guitar riff? It still hits.”

Then he raised a brow “I already liked you,” he said, eyes glinting. “Now I might be in trouble.”

You blinked at him. “You liked me already?”

He grinned. “Obviously.”

Then he was off again—called away by another guest, disappearing down the length of the bar with a smooth turn and a half-smile that didn’t quite leave his face.

You sat there for a second longer than necessary.

“…Tomorrow,” you said at last, lifting your drink. “We’re definitely coming back tomorrow.”

Lale and Nico clinked their glasses against yours without hesitation.

“Cheers to that,” Nico grinned.

“We’re coming back tomorrow and next week,” Lale says, like it’s destiny.

You just smiled and took another sip—wondering what the hell kind of night you’d just stumbled into.

And hoping you’d get to stumble into it again.

You meant to play it cool.

Really, you did.

But the next morning, your coffee tasted flat. Your apartment felt too quiet. Even your cat—judgy little gremlin that he was—stared at you like he knew you’d been flirting with a vampire who could pour top-shelf liquor like it was foreplay.

The napkin still sat on your nightstand, a smudge of clove still clinging to your sleeve.

And when Lale texted "Round two tonight?" you didn’t even pretend to hesitate.

You’d barely sent back “what time?” before your phone lit up again:

[Lale]: meet you there 💅 [Nico]: don’t wait for us 😘

You narrowed your eyes. The emojis were suspicious. The phrasing? Suspicious-er.

Still, when that night came around, you got dressed. Did your hair. Ignored the part of your brain screaming trap like it was a Scooby Doo hallway.

Now you stood just inside the entrance of Fantasy, one step over the threshold, wrapped in warm light and hush-toned music—and feeling like an imposter in your own shoes.

It was somehow worse the second time.

The first night had been a blur of lights, music, heat. This—this felt intentional. The lighting was lower, warmer. The music had more bass. The hum of conversation quieter, like the whole place had exhaled for the evening and now watched you walk in.

You scanned the room, hoping to spot a familiar face.

Nothing.

You frowned, one hand still gripping your phone like a lifeline.

Your outfit was deliberate. Pants and a dress shirt—elegant, but sharp. Paired with heeled boots that clicked softly on the marble floor and a cropped jacket the color of stormclouds. One ear glinted with a constellation of gold studs. Your hair was styled but not overdone. Your makeup soft, eyes lined just enough to smolder.

You hadn’t dolled yourself up like last night. You’d dressed like you—but the version who took herself seriously. The one who turned heads without asking permission.

Your phone buzzed. Two texts lit up the screen:

[Lale]: running late! meet you there 💅 [Nico]: car trouble 😬 don’t wait up 🖤

You stared.

Read the texts a second time.

“...bitch, you don’t even own a car.”

You stared at the screen like it personally betrayed you. For a second, you seriously considered leaving. The nerves were real. The setup was realer. And your entire body was screaming abort mission in ten different languages.

Your eyes slid across the room of too-pretty people again.

You should have stayed home with your gremlin cat. You got caught up in the glam, the flirtation, the liquid sin of a drink made by a man who looked like a crime of fashion and pheromones.

You knew better.

Living with a single mom should’ve taught you everything you needed to know about male vampires.

You turned toward the door. And nearly ran right into someone.

“Oh—sorry, I—” you started, stepping back.

“Oh, no, my fault.” came a low, even voice. Familiar from the night before, “I apologize.”

You looked up.

Yunho stood just a few steps away, hands casually in his pockets, posture relaxed. Same tailored suit, same calm energy, like he was part of the architecture. He offered a small smile—not overly bright, just enough to take the edge off your rising panic.

“Came in solo tonight?” he asked gently, glancing behind you like he’d half expected someone to follow.

You let out a short breath. “Yeah. Lale and Nico texted ‘meet you there’ and then… didn’t.”

A single brow lifted. “Really?”

“Mmhm,” you hummed, lifting your phone. “Apparently one has ‘car trouble’ and the other’s just ‘running late.’ Which would be fine—if one of them owned a car.”

That made him laugh, low and genuine. “Sounds like they’ve been here a few times.”

You nodded. “They’re obsessed. I’m apparently the first person they’ve dragged in.”

“Ah.” His smile deepened a touch, friendly and unbothered. “Well, they’ve got good taste.”

You blinked at him. “In… venues?”

“In company,” he said simply. Then nodded toward the main lounge. “You’re welcome to hang out at the bar until they show. Mingi’s in, if you’re looking for a familiar face.”

You hesitated. Then followed his line of sight—right to Mingi, who was behind the bar again. Sleeves rolled. Hands moving. Expression unreadable for just a second… until he spotted you.

And smiled.

Not just smiled—lit up. Like the sight of you had sparked something behind his eyes. A slow, unmistakable curve of his lips. Like he’d just been handed exactly what he wanted.

Your heart stuttered. A hot flush crawled up your neck. Your stomach did that awful rollercoaster drop that felt suspiciously like anticipation wearing fear as a party dress.

Right. Male vampires. Trouble. You knew this.

And still—

“…Sure,” you said, barely trusting your own voice. “Bar sounds good.”

Yunho’s gaze flicked between you and the man behind the bar. Like he knew exactly what reaction Mingi had pulled out of you. But all he did was nod, easy and unfazed.

“Glad you came back,” he said.

Then he drifted away, completely unbothered.

You lingered for half a breath too long. Then you turned. One slow, uncertain pivot toward the bar.

It felt a bit like walking into a trap.

Still, you moved—sat gingerly, like the stool might bite. Or worse, like he might. You were fully aware of the fact that you were alone. That there was no buffer this time. No Nico or Lale to intercept or deflect or scream internally on your behalf.

And Mingi was right there.

He didn’t give you the illusion of time. Didn’t play coy or pretend he hadn’t seen you. No, the second your hand touched the bar top, he was already there—arms braced on the other side, leaning in just close enough to flood your senses with the smell of vampire and cologne and too much presence.

“Hey,” he said, low and pleased. “You came back.”

You blinked. “I… yeah.”

“Glad you did.” His smile turned lazy. Lethal. Like he’d picked up right where he left off. “Wasn’t sure if that drink scared you off or sealed the deal.”

“It was a strong contender for both,” you muttered.

He chuckled, and the sound curled straight down your spine. “Want another?”

You hesitated, honestly startled. “Like…a different drink?”

His eyes gleamed. “I’m full of surprises.”

It was hard to remember the trouble aspect when he spoke with a voice like velvet itself and a grin that could wreck infrastructure. Still, you had half a mind to ask him if he practiced lines in the mirror or if they just came naturally.

But instead, you nodded. “Surprise me, then.”

He didn’t move right away. Just looked at you for a beat longer than was strictly necessary. Only then did he begin, all fluid confidence and rolled sleeves and unapologetic attention still tracing over you like heat.

You swallowed hard. Watched his hands. Wondered if this was a mistake and how fast you’d forgive yourself for making it.

“You had dinner yet?” he asked casually.

The question caught you off-guard. Your brows lifted, surprised, and his smirk widened.

“Dinner,” he repeated, “Did you have it today?”

No, you hadn’t. Because you were expecting to have friends to share something with. You shook your head and he hummed in response.

“Me neither. We can eat together. Not about to let a pretty girl drink on an empty stomach.”

God.

“…that was smooth,” you muttered, a little dazed.

He grinned fully at that, fangs displayed as he fetched a glass from the rack.

“Think so?”

You nodded, still dazed but not denying it.

Mingi poured with easy confidence, a practiced tilt of the bottle, something pale and amber catching the light like sunlight through whiskey. something that smelled like strawberry—sharp and sweet, like candy laced with something darker—and then didn’t hand it over.

Instead, he braced his elbow on the bar and leaned in, the drink still in his hand. Close again. Always close.

“What do you want to eat?” he asked.

Your brain stuttered. “Can I see a menu?”

One of his brows arched, lazy and amused.

“I didn’t ask what you want from the menu, baby.” His voice dropped—low, velvet-smooth, and dangerous in all the right ways. “I asked what you want to eat. You make me feel creative.”

That flutter came back in full force. Like your ribs couldn’t decide whether to expand or collapse. Was this man seriously offering to cook for you?

You blinked, trying to recover your brain function. What would Nico do in this situation? They were always quick with their responses.

“What if I say I’m a picky eater?”

You meant to sound smooth, cool. It came out tremulous.

He hummed, a sound that vibrated like a bassline under your skin. Then leaned a little closer, still holding your drink hostage.

“I’m good with picky. Long as you let me try a few things.”

You blinked at him, heart in your throat and absolutely no idea how to answer that without sounding like a menace or a fool.

“I, uh—savory?” you managed, like it was a question.

His grin curled slow. “Yeah?”

You nodded. “Yeah. Just…dinner food.”

He nodded, easy and unbothered, like he hadn’t just short-circuited your frontal lobe. “Any allergies?”

Your brain scrambled to reboot, but you rattled them off automatically—just a couple, nothing major.

“Good,” he said, eyes gleaming like you’d passed some sort of test.

Then—without another word—he set the drink down in front of you. Tapped the glass with two fingers.

“Don’t drink this yet.”

And he turned and walked away. Back through the bar, past the curtain near the end of the counter—disappearing into what had to be the kitchen. You stared after him like a freshly slapped cartoon character. Blinking. Processing. The glass sat in front of you like a promise. Like a countdown.

Your pulse tripped. Your face was probably on fire.

Blindly, you fumbled your phone from your bag and began hurriedly typing.

[You]: What the actual fuck where are you how is this happening right now

A moment passed.

Then:

[Lale]: oh nooo we’re missing it 😭 stupid car

[You]: BITCH YOU DON’T OWN A CAR

[Nico]: have fun!

You groaned softly, pressing your forehead to the bar for a second like it might absorb the chaos radiating from your phone.

The glass in front of you glinted in the low light. And somewhere in the kitchen, a vampire was cooking for you like this was a scene from a music video you had absolutely no business being cast in.

You exhaled slowly. Straightened up. Smoothed your hands down your thighs like that would somehow fix your heartbeat.

It’s just dinner, you told yourself. It’s just food. You’re not on a date.

Your pulse didn’t listen. Your stomach definitely didn’t listen. But you made yourself take a breath, sit a little straighter, tuck your phone back into your bag like you were capable of being normal.

One deep breath. Then another.

Okay. Composed. Collected. Cool.

Until—

The kitchen curtain shifted, and out he came.

Mingi, in all his rolled-sleeve glory—walking toward you with two plates balanced like it was nothing. Steam curled upward, savory and warm. Something golden, grilled, herb-dusted and delicious.

You blinked. Your internal monologue shattered like glass dropped on tile.

He didn’t say a word at first—just tilted his head and gave you that lazy, confident smile. Then, with a nod toward one of the shadowed corner tables, he said:

“Come on. I made you something.”

You blinked. Once. Twice. Then—without thinking—you reached for the drink he’d told you not to touch yet and cradled it carefully in your hands like it might shield you from whatever was about to happen.

Your legs moved. Somehow. Possibly through divine intervention.

Okay. Okay. It’s fine. You’re just… following a dangerously attractive bartender into a private table setup with moody lighting and only two chairs. Not suspicious. Not terrifying. Definitely not a date.

You glanced at the table. Then back at him.

...Okay. It might be a date. That is a date space.

The candle in the center cast a warm light. The table was small. The chairs were angled just so. The plates were already placed with casual elegance, like he did this sort of thing often—which should’ve been a red flag, but you were way too deep now.

You hesitated at the edge of the table, heart tap-dancing inside your ribcage as he pulled out a chair for you like a proper gentleman-slash-problem.

You sat, slowly, placing your untouched drink down.

He took the seat across from you, leaned back just enough to lounge—relaxed, focused, and fully aware of the effect he was having.

“I wasn’t sure if you’d actually wait,” he said easily, nudging your plate toward you. “Figured I’d hedge my bets and make something good.”

You stared down at the food. Then up at him.

“Do you…do this a lot?”

God, you wished you could get your voice to not shake when talking to him.

He tilted his head thoughtfully.

“Mm… I did once, couple decades ago. We wanted different things out of the night so—” he gave a loose shrug, like that explained it all. Like that wasn’t a sentence that casually included decades.

Still, you nod. Like that explained anything. Then you reached for your fork, mostly for something to do with your hands.

“It smells really good.”

His smile softened at that. “Try it.”

You took a bite—small, cautious, still trying to be composed. And immediately forgot how to be composed.

The flavor was deep. Balanced. Rich, savory heat layered with something fragrant and just a little indulgent. You blinked down at the plate, startled.

Mingi watched, eyes alight.

“That good?”

You swallowed. “Yeah. It’s… it’s really good.”

His smile didn’t widen. It deepened. Settled into something pleased. Content. He picked up his own fork, like sharing this meal with you was the most natural thing in the world.

And then, like he hadn’t just cooked for you or caught your nervous system in a chokehold, he asked lightly, “So… track seven, huh?”

You blinked. “What?”

“Velvet Trigger. You said it haunted you in college. Rainy nights. Tragic indie film vibes.”

Your heart did something traitorous in your chest.

“Oh,” you said, swallowing a mouthful and setting your fork down carefully. “Yeah. It just… hit the right kind of sad, I guess. That slow build? The way the vocals feel like a bruise?”

He made a soft sound—agreement or appreciation, you couldn’t tell. “The outro always wrecks me. Like everything just collapses on purpose.”

A startled laugh escaped you. “Right? It’s like the audio equivalent of a slow-motion breakdown.”

Mingi’s smile curved, smaller now. Gentler. “That’s exactly it.”

You looked down at your plate again, tension easing just slightly under the weight of the familiar. The normal.

“You ever see them live?” he asked after a moment.

You shook your head. “No, I wanted to, but the tour sold out too fast. And then I got sick that semester. Everything kind of… slipped past me.”

That earned a softer look—quiet sympathy, not pity. “That sucks.”

You nodded. “It was just timing. Still love the music, though.”

“I’ll send you a few of their demos,” he offered. “Got a friend who’s obsessed with tracking down rare mixes. Might be something you haven’t heard yet.”

That startled you again—not just because he offered, but because of the warmth behind it. Thoughtful. Unassuming. Like he simply wanted to share something with you.

“You’d… do that?”

He shrugged like it was nothing. “You’ve got good taste. I trust you not to judge me if I send the really weird ones.”

Another small laugh pushed its way out of you, less shaky this time. “Deal.”

You picked up your drink, finally taking the first sip like you’d forgotten to be afraid of it. The flavor hit like a well-placed chorus—unexpected, balanced, sharp in a way that left you wanting more.

And when you looked back up, Mingi was still watching you. But it wasn’t hungry. Or smug.

It was soft. Like maybe he liked seeing you like this. A little off-balance, but real.

Then the music shifted.

The easy lounge rhythm gave way to something slower—low strings and smoky piano, the unmistakable opening of a song made for slow dancing, candlelight, and eye contact that lingered a second too long. Way too romantic for a casual night.

You blinked. Tilted your head.

Mingi’s gaze flicked toward the stage. And there—just stepping down from a quiet word with the pianist—was San. Same styled hair, same charm grenade energy from the night before.

He caught Mingi’s eye and winked.

Not even subtle. Full grin, wink, and a casual little double finger-gun like he’d just fixed the entire situation and deserved a raise.

Mingi didn’t sigh so much as exhale in long-suffering defeat. He closed his eyes for half a second, then reopened them with the flat expression of a man who has known someone too long to murder them for this.

You followed the look. Then looked back at him.

He looked at you.

“I did not ask for that.”

You couldn’t help it. A laugh slipped out before you could stop it.

“Wow. He really committed to the bit.”

“Always does.”

“Is this a common thing? Music meddling?”

“Every time any of us so much as pause suggestively. He thinks it helps.” Mingi leaned an elbow on the table, giving you a long-suffering smile that didn’t quite mask the fondness beneath. “It doesn’t.”

You laughed again, quieter this time. The kind of laugh that settled between you like a secret.

He glanced at the stage again and huffed, “...Though, to be fair, I’m just as bad.”

Your brows lifted. “Really?”

“Mm.” He stirred something on his plate, casual as ever, like he hadn’t just admitted to being a meddler in his own right. “I’ve definitely changed the playlist on Wooyoung mid-shift. Twice. Once during a second date and once during what I thought was a second date.”

You snorted. “What was it actually?”

“A job interview.”

“Oh my god.”

“Yeah. She thought he was trying to recruit her to bartend.”

“Was he?”

“…Yes. But that’s beside the point.”

You bit your lip, trying and failing to keep a grin contained. “So you’re saying you’ve earned this meddling.”

He gave you a look—dry, exasperated, and far too charming. “I’m saying I deserve better retaliation than this soundtrack, but yeah.”

Your laughter bubbled up again, easy this time. The tension from earlier—your nerves, your doubt, your half-second impulse to bolt at the door—had thinned into something manageable. Familiar, even.

Maybe you were still a little off-balance. But he was matching your rhythm. Not pushing. Just being—warm, wry, and steady, like he could give back all the grounding he took with that smile.

Dinner settled into something surprisingly easy.

Conversation came and went in waves—sometimes light, sometimes a little strange, always dancing just around the edges of personal without crossing the line. The food was incredible. Your drink was nearly gone. Mingi never once made you feel rushed. He was just there, relaxed and present, like you were the most interesting part of his night.

The plates were mostly cleared now, your fork resting at an angle on the edge, drink in hand. You caught yourself leaning in a little—chin in your palm, shoulder crooked toward him, more at ease than you had any right to be.

Then Mingi’s voice dropped just slightly.

“Can I ask you something a little personal?”

Your posture straightened a hair. A flicker of wariness as you nodded, slow but open. “Sure.”

He didn’t pounce on it. Just met your gaze, calm and steady.

“I can tell you’re part vampire,” he said, quiet but not secretive. “But I haven’t figured out the other part yet.”

The words hung there for a second—delivered without judgment, but with genuine curiosity. Not invasive. Just interested.

“Is it that obvious?” you asked, not quite sure whether to laugh or brace.

Mingi gave a one-shouldered shrug. “I’ve met a lot of people. I can usually tell.”

Usually, people registered that hint of vampire scent or the way you moved and relegated you to that box. But, you were caught between two parts. Not entirely vampire, not wholly witch. Something blurred and half-functional and a little disappointing depending on which side you asked.

You almost didn’t answer. Not because it was a secret—but because it always changed the way people looked at you. But…well, better to say it now so he could leave before you got attached.

You looked down at your drink. Swirled it once. Then said, “My mom’s a witch. Coven-born. My dad was a vampire. Left before I was born.”

Mingi’s brow twitched faintly, but he didn’t speak. You appreciated that.

“So I got the worst of both,” you added with a crooked smile, dry and practiced. “Can’t cast spells. Can’t compel. I just get the enhanced senses and better night vision.”

And the hunger. But you didn’t say that part. It was a common enough trait of dhampirs, and not exactly fun. Just part of that ‘worst of both’ bit. Plenty of witches treated you like a fluke. Plenty of vampires didn’t treat you at all when they knew about your mother.

Mingi didn’t offer pity. His expression didn’t soften into something saccharine or apologetic. He just frowned slightly.

“Your dad’s an asshole.”

You blinked—startled more by the certainty in his voice than the curse itself.

Mingi didn’t look away. If anything, his gaze steadied. “It’s not easy, you know. For vampires to have kids.”

You frowned, caught off guard by how gently he said it

“I mean—biologically, sure. But it’s rare. When it happens, most don’t take it lightly.” He gave a small, almost dismissive shake of his head. “Walking from someone carrying your kid? Can’t imagine.”

You blinked again, trying to process that. You’d never heard it framed that way before.

“I always just figured it was… I don’t know. Complicated,” you said, voice quieter now. “Witches and vampires aren’t exactly known for getting along.”

“That’s true,” he admitted. “Different rules. Different magic. People get weird about it.”

A dry laugh escaped you. “Yeah. Tell me about it.”

Mingi’s expression softened—not pity, not even sympathy. Just understanding.

“You get more side-eye than you deserve, don’t you?” he asked.

You shrugged, a little defensive. “People just don’t know what to do with it.”

“That’s on them.” He said it simply. Like it wasn’t up for debate.

You didn’t know what to say to that. So you just watched him carefully for a moment.

“You are…not what I expected,” you admitted.

Mingi didn’t look surprised. If anything, he looked like someone who’d heard that before. He leaned in, elbow on the table, chin propped in one hand like he had all night to wait for your answer.

“Yeah?” he said, the corners of his mouth twitching. “What did you expect?”

There was a glint in his eyes now—teasing, but not unkind. Like he already knew, and just wanted to hear you say it.

You flushed. Because the whiplash was real. And it was accompanied by a flash of annoyance. The sort that drove you to reply honestly with a bite.

“A fuckboy looking for a good time.”

Mingi barked a laugh—loud and delighted, his head tipping back for a second before he grinned at you, crooked and amused.

“Oh damn,” he said, still grinning. “You really weren’t expecting dinner.”

You sipped your drink, eyes narrowing just slightly as you watched him over the rim. The warmth from earlier lingered, but now it was tangled up with that same old flicker of caution—that annoyance curling under your ribs like a reflex.

“I’ve been on dinner dates before,” you said, setting the glass down with a quiet clink. “With guys who thought they were buying their way into bed.”

Mingi’s smile didn’t falter. If anything, it softened.

“Baby,” he said, voice low and easy, “the only thing I’m hoping to buy is some respect for my cooking.”

Your brows rose—caught between surprise and a laugh you didn’t mean to let slip. He grinned again, almost proud of himself.

“I mean, I did put actual effort in,” he added with mock seriousness, gesturing to your plate. “I simmered things. I plated. There was a garnish.”

You fought another smile and lost. Just a little. But he noticed.

“So you’re not a fuckboy, then,” you muttered, but not unkindly.

“Didn’t say that,” he chuckled. “But I’m not trying to win anything that isn’t offered.”

He didn’t push the moment. Just leaned back slightly, watching you with that same steady calm he’d carried all night. Then—quietly, almost like an afterthought—he reached into his pocket, pulled out a small folded card, and slid it across the table.

Your fingers hovered over it for a second before you picked it up.

A name. A number. Scrawled in neat, looping handwriting.

“If you ever wanna find out if I’m serious,” he murmured, voice low but warm, “you can call.”

He held your gaze—not intense, not expectant. Just honest. Soft around the edges.

“Or,” he added, the corners of his mouth tilting up, “you could always come back. Another night.”

Your pulse stuttered, just a little. Because he didn’t say if you want to see me again. He said if you want to know if I’m serious.

And—God help you—that sounded like an invitation to something real.

“Still too smooth,” you muttered, sliding the card into your pocket.

He grinned at that, giving you a lazy wink.

“Well…If it works.”

He stood, gathering their empty plates with an ease that made it look practiced. Natural, like he’d done it a hundred times before.

“Talk to you later, baby,” he said, low and warm, like a promise.

And then—without waiting for a reply—he turned and walked away. No glance back. No hesitation.

Just a calm, unhurried stride through the bar and behind the curtain to the kitchen. Like he knew exactly how good he looked walking away. Like he wanted to give you a moment to watch.

Which you absolutely did. Because it should be illegal for a man to have those proportions.

Your drink sat forgotten in your hand as you tracked his retreat, the lingering heat of his voice curling around your ribs like smoke.

You blinked once. Twice.

Then muttered, mostly to yourself, “What the hell just happened.”

The next morning at the boutique was… suspicious.

Which was saying something, considering you were surrounded by vintage denim, velvet capes, and a mannequin named Fergus that someone—probably Lale—had dressed in fishnets and a pearl choker before the lights were even on.

The fae was reorganizing the spell-stitched scarves by “emotional vibe” instead of color palette again, humming to herself like she hadn’t ghosted you the night before. Nico stood at the register, expression unreadable behind a pair of gradient sunglasses, flipping through the sales log with one perfectly lacquered claw.

Neither said a word when you walked in.

No apology. No explanation. No mention of any nonexistent “car troubles.”

Just—

“Well, well,” Nico murmured, not looking up. “If it isn’t our little heartthrob.”

You blinked. “I—what?”

“I sensed romantic tension in the air,” Lale added dreamily, still not turning around. “Like cinnamon and bad decisions.”

“I texted you,” you said flatly.

“Oh, I got it,” Nico replied, finally looking up with a smirk. “We just figured you were in the middle of a formative experience and didn’t want to interrupt.”

“You bailed on me.”

“Bailed is such a… human word,” Lale said vaguely, as if that excused anything.

You stared at them.

They stared back.

Then Nico leaned both elbows on the counter. “So. How was he?”

“Was who?”

Lale gasped, spinning around like it was her romance on the line. “Don’t play coy. Was it candlelit? Was there music? Did he smolder? Did you get laid?”

You can’t help the visceral jolt that goes through you. Good hell.

“No! There were plates,” you muttered.

“And were you on one of them?” Nico asked sweetly.

“Oh my gods, stop.” You scrubbed a hand down your face. “There was dinner. It was really good. He made the food from scratch. He—he didn’t even make it weird.”

Lale sighed like you’d just read her a bedtime story. “That sounds so romantic.”

“He also casually mentioned my dad’s an asshole.”

“Tell me he was wrong,” Nico said, though they didn’t sound like they expected you to.

You paused. “No.”

“See?” they said, smug. “Cheekbones and emotional intelligence? We stan.”

You groaned, retreating behind the curtain to sort new inventory before one of them hexed a lace bralette to fly at your face in celebration.

Fortunately, they didn’t press further as the shift ticked by. Customers came and went. You participated in no fewer than four squabbles over the choice of music for the day. It felt normal.

And you weren’t thinking about him.

You definitely weren’t.

You were folding a stack of retro band tees while Nico alphabetized the jewlery shelf like it personally offended them, and Lale floated by humming some song that definitely did not remind you of the one playing when Mingi looked at you seriously and asked if he could get personal.

You were not thinking about the way he’d smiled at you like you were the center of gravity in the room.

Definitely not the way he’d walked away.

And absolutely not about the card in your pocket. That had somehow made it to your bag. Then to your hand. Right along with your phone.

You hesitated. Debated. Swore softly under your breath.

Then typed:

[You]: hypothetically what’s for dessert

You stared at the screen, already regretting it.

Then the three dots appeared.

[Mingi]: That depends. Are you asking about actual dessert or the kind that gets me banned from texting you during work hours?

Your breath caught. Laughter tugged at your mouth before you could stop it.

[You:] actual dessert for now

The reply came instantly.

[Mingi]: Then I’m offended you think I’d serve anything less than caramelized pears and dark chocolate mousse. Also I got halfway through prepping crème brûlée before realizing I wasn’t sure if I’d see you again. Kinda glad I didn’t throw it out.

You paused.

That… wasn’t a line.

That was—sweet. Like, genuinely sweet. No swagger. No bait. Just…

Warm.

You barely resisted the urge to press a hand over your chest. Instead, you typed:

[You:] still too smooth

[Mingi]: not trying to be you’re just really easy to want to cook for and flirt with but I can stick to dessert

Your screen timed out before you looked away, jaw tight, pulse fluttering.

Lale floated by again and smirked at the look on your face.

“Nico, she’s got his number,” she trilled.

“Oh shit. Man moves fast.”

You didn’t dignify it with a reply.

But you did text back.

[You]: I finish at 3. If you’re still open

[Mingi]: Baby, you know we are

The next time you walked into Fantasy, you didn’t pause at the threshold. No lingering. No nerves.

You just stepped through the haze of glamour and lowlight, cut a clean path between velvet booths and candlelit tables, and slid into a stool at the bar like you’d done it a hundred times before.

Like you belonged there.

Which—judging by the two very obvious vampires watching you from across the room—you very much did. One you recognized- San, the events coordinator. And judging from the chaotic glee on the other’s face, you were guessing that was Wooyoung.

“Damn,” San whispered behind a glass of something suspiciously pink. “She came back.”

“I didn’t even bet on tonight,” Wooyoung hissed, eyes practically glowing with delight. “Do you think she’s here for the mousse? Or the Mingi?”

“Definitely the Mingi,” San replied. “But, like, she’s playing it so cool—look at that posture. Power stance.”

“She’s on a barstool.”

“Still a power stance.”

You pretended not to hear them.

The bar wasn’t too crowded—unsurprising. It was a Sunday night. Which meant it didn’t take long for movement to catch your eye behind the swinging curtain that separated the lounge from the kitchen.

And then there he was.

Mingi.

He emerged without fanfare. Just a casual roll of the sleeves and a hand towel tossed onto the counter as he took one long stride toward you—eyes already on yours.

His smile was slow. Lazy. Dangerous only if you weren’t ready for it.

“Look who’s back,” he said, voice low and warm. “Miss me, baby?”

You tilted your head, letting your lips curl just a little. It didn’t feel as overwhelming this time. Not after texting with him during the day.

“Maybe a little.”

Mingi leaned forward, bracing one elbow on the bar like the rest of the world didn’t exist. His eyes sparkled—affectionate, amused, and just a little dark around the edges.

“You here for dessert?” he asked, voice like melted sugar and velvet sin.

You folded your arms on the bar, chin tilted just enough to match his energy.

“Depends,” you said. “You offering?”

“Always,” he murmured.

Something in your stomach swooped low at that tone.

His gaze flicked—just once—past your shoulder. You didn’t have to turn to know who he was looking at.

“This is better than reality tv,” Wooyoung whispered, way too loud.

San hummed in agreement.

Mingi’s smile didn’t falter. But something in it shifted. Just a touch.

He leaned in a little more, voice dropping to a murmur meant for you alone. “Is it bad that I don’t feel like sharing you?”

Your fingers curled loosely around the edge of the bar.

“Um…no,” you replied, a little breathless.

His eyes lingered on yours a moment before dropping to where your lips were slightly parted. He seemed to consider for a moment.

And then he straightened, smooth and easy, like this was just part of the rhythm. One large, ringed hand reached across the bar, brushing deliberately along yours as he spoke.

“Come with me.”

You barely had time to register it before he was already moving—stepping out from behind the bar, palm offered. Not demanding. Just expectant. like he knew you’d take it.

Which, of course, you did.

Because how could you not?

He led you through the curtain and into the kitchen—but not the busy, bustling center you'd seen most of the waitstaff using. No, this was some quiet alcove to the side. An auxiliary prep area with low shelves, a cutting board, and a soft golden sconce above a marble counter. The hum of the bar faded behind you, replaced by stillness.

You heard, distantly, the shuffle of footsteps as one of the line cooks peeked in—and then promptly noped out without a word.

Mingi didn’t speak right away. Just turned, hands braced on the counter behind him, posture relaxed. Like he wasn’t cornering you—he was offering you a space away from everyone else. A moment that was yours alone.

“You okay?” he asked, quiet again. “They didn’t make you uncomfortable, did they?”

That threw you a little. Not the question. The tone. Like he meant it. Like he cared. Like this wasn’t just about banter or heat or seeing if you’d kiss him first.

You stepped closer, heart stuttering a little as you said, “They’re just loud.”

Mingi smiled. A little crooked. A little smug. But still soft at the edges.

“Can’t blame them,” he said. “I’d stare at you too.”

“You already do,” you murmured.

He hummed—equal parts sinful flirtation and the softer charm he’d let slip through his texts. Like he didn’t mind being caught. Like he wanted you to know.

“Yeah,” he said, shameless and warm. “You’re right.”

He didn’t try to disguise it. Didn’t look away. Just leaned back against the counter like his attention belonged to you already—and he was content to let you keep it.

“I do stare,” he added after a beat, tilting his head slightly. “Because you’ve got this look when you’re thinking something you’re not sure you should say. Your mouth does this thing.” One hand lifted, fingers ghosting over the corner of your lips. “Right there.”

Your breath hitched, and the flush that had been threatening to rise all evening finally made its way to your cheeks. Because he’d noticed. Not just how you looked—but the subtleties. The edges. The things most people didn’t catch unless they were watching closely.

You gave a small shake of your head, lips quirking despite yourself. “You’re really not trying to be smooth, are you?”

Mingi chuckled, low and pleased. “I told you. You’re just easy to talk to.”

Then, after a pause, quieter: “And you’re fun to learn.”

That stopped you.

Not flirt. Not prize. Not puzzle. Fun to learn.

Like he wasn’t here to crack you open or unravel you—just to see what was there. And maybe, if you let him, to be part of it.

You didn’t answer right away. But you did take a slow step closer. Just enough that you were nearly toe to toe, close enough to feel the warmth radiating off him like sunlight on tile.

Close enough that if he leaned forward…

Well.

You didn’t have to finish that thought. Because the possibility hung in the air between you—ripe and golden and heavy with want.

But Mingi, for all his flirtation and easy charm, didn’t move.

He just waited.

Giving you the opportunity. Waiting to see if you'd take it. And it was so, so tempting—just lean up and kiss those stupidly full lips.

Instead, you looked away.

“I’m pretty sure you said something about dessert.”

He huffed a soft laugh, amused but not disappointed. Then he turned—easy, unhurried—and crossed to the small fridge tucked against the far wall.

You watched him move. Not for the first time, and definitely not the last. There was something unfair about the way he made even mundane things look good. Like he’d trained at the sultry culinary school of “Accidentally Hot in Every Motion.”

He pulled out a small ceramic ramekin and set it on the counter beside you. Then a spoon.

“You really made crème brûlée,” you said, more breath than voice.

“Told you I wasn’t bluffing.” His grin was crooked, knowing. “Torched it right before you came in.”

He stepped closer—not crowding, just enough that your hips brushed the counter behind you as he angled himself in. Not trapping. Not looming. Just there.

And just like that, the moment shifted. The heat between you twisted tighter, winding through your ribs like silk ribbon pulled taut.

Then, smooth as sin, he lifted the spoon. Scooped a bite. The caramel top cracked with the faintest sound.

And with a look so warm it practically melted, he murmured, “Open for me, baby.”

You froze. Not out of discomfort—just stunned by the intimacy of it. That voice, that look, curling through your chest and sending a tremor down your spine.

The spoon hovered just centimeters from your lips.

You leaned in. Slow. Unblinking.

The bite slid past your lips.

Vanilla and caramel, custard and fire. The barest tang of blood. Rich and sweet and perfect. You closed your eyes for just a second.

When they opened, Mingi’s expression had shifted. Just a little.

Still smiling. But quieter. A little wrecked. Like he hadn’t quite prepared for that response.

“Good?” he asked, softer now.

You swallowed. His gaze tracked the movement down your throat.

“Very,” you murmured.

His eyes snapped back to yours, teeth catching his lower lip. Then he exhaled.

“Fuck, baby. C’mere.”

You barely had time to register what he was doing before he was there—closer, closer still. The dessert forgotten on the counter behind you.

“Let me taste,” he whispered, breath cool against your lips.

That heat inside you flared—hot and sharp and sudden. You nodded, barely breathing, already leaning into the space between you.

And then he kissed you.

Slow, at first. Testing. The soft press of lips and the faintest hum from his chest like he’d been waiting all night for this. One of his hands braced on the counter beside you, the other settling—gentle but firm—against your waist. Like he wanted to keep you close without holding you still.

But you weren’t going anywhere.

You melted into it, your hands curling in the fabric of his shirt as his mouth moved against yours—sure and smooth and tasting faintly of sugar and flame. He kissed like he cooked: intentional, layered, a little sinful. He didn’t just want your mouth; he wanted the sound you made when he deepened it. He wanted the way your breath hitched when his hand skimmed lower. He wanted you.

You gasped when he shifted, pinning you gently between the counter and the firmness of his body, and he took full advantage—tongue brushing just enough to drag a soft, needy sound from your throat. His fingers tightened on your waist, and you felt him groan more than heard it—deep and ragged and entirely not okay.

You broke the kiss only because your lungs started filing complaints.

When you pulled back, he chased your lips for a second before resting his forehead against yours, both of you breathing hard.

“Jesus,” you whispered.

“I mean,” he said, still catching his breath, “if he wants to file a complaint, he can come say it to my face.”

You laughed—shaky, breathless, and wrecked.

He leaned back just far enough to look at you. Really look at you. And the heat in his eyes wasn’t just hunger now. It was fondness. Curiosity. That soft fascination he’d shown in the texts, now wrapped in every ounce of desire you’d just tasted.

He leaned back just far enough to look at you. Really look at you. And the heat in his eyes wasn’t just hunger now. It was fondness. Curiosity. That soft fascination you’d felt in his texts, now wrapped in every ounce of the desire you’d just tasted.

“I knew you’d be sweet,” he murmured. “Didn’t think I’d get addicted this fast.”

You swallowed, your pulse still rabbiting in your chest.

“What time do you get off?”

Surprise flickered in his eyes—brief, genuine. Then hunger chased it away.

“Not soon enough,” he rasped.

His grip on your waist tightened, eyes narrowing like he was weighing options. Then he huffed a soft laugh, low and conspiratorial.

“I’m gonna bend the rules.”

You blinked up at him, breath still catching. “Bend the rules?”

“Yeah.” That grin was back—slow and sinful and just a little smug. “Gonna borrow one of the guest suites. Lock the door. Just you and me.”

You didn’t answer right away. Didn’t have to.

Because when he offered his hand again—open, steady, waiting—you took it without hesitation.

And the moment your fingers closed around his, Mingi’s smile softened. Just a little. Like this wasn’t just about hunger. Like you’d just given him something precious.

“Lead the way, baby,” you said, voice low.

The way his smile widened was worth everything.

The room Mingi led you to was tucked near the back of the hall—quiet, luxe, and dimly lit by wall sconces that gave everything a golden glow. You barely registered the click of the lock behind you before you were backed against the door, Mingi’s mouth on yours like he was starving.

You didn’t even pretend to be composed this time. You didn’t want to be.

His hands were everywhere—broad and warm, one braced by your hip, the other tilting your jaw just enough to deepen the kiss until you were gasping. You clawed at his shirt, dragging it halfway off before he finally broke away long enough to yank it over his head and toss it aside.

“Want me to stop?” he murmured, voice wrecked, eyes blazing.

You answered by grabbing his belt.

“Don’t you dare.”

He swore lowly, watching as you undid his belt with hurried hands. You could feel his hardness already, pressing into the front of his pants. A soft groan escaped him every time your fingers brushed it. Fuck. It was obscene how much those sounds affected you—how fast it sent heat pooling low and made your underwear cling like a second skin.

You’d only just gotten his belt off when he was dragging you against him again, mouth pressing over yours like he meant to consume you.

“Gonna taste you,” he rasped against your lips, “Need to. Baby, please. Let me taste you.”

The way he said it—like it was a need, not a favor—sent heat spiraling low in your belly. The moan you gave in response was more wanton than you’d intended.

He rocked his hips against you in response, hardness twitching against your stomach.

“Fuck, please,” you whispered.

You’d never been so grateful for a vampire’s strength or speed. One moment you were still against the door. The next, your back hit the bed—soft, luxurious, sinful like everything in this place. Then he was on top of you, the coolness of his skin almost needed as your own body threatened to overheat. He wasted no time peeling your clothes from you, his lips at your throat. One thigh pressed between your legs, perfect in the pressure against your dampness.

You let your head fall back, exposing yourself to him. His fangs brushed the fragile skin but didn’t pierce. Not that you would have minded if he did. Not when his bare front pressed to yours. Those large hands came up to squeeze your breasts and he moaned against you.

“Fuck. Fuck, your tits. God.”

He nipped the swell of the left, just barely drawing blood. His tongue immediately followed, lapping over the beading red with a filthy groan.

You’d never been with someone this loud—like every groan was instinct, every praise a reflex he couldn’t hold back. Now that you’d heard him, you were certain there would be no going back.

“Don’t tease,” the words were less a demand and more a plea, because he’d already given you the promise of his tongue against your heat and you needed him to touch you.

“Sorry, baby,” he breathed, sucking one more kiss into your breast before his lips found your nipple and latched.

You arched with a gasp, grinding your hips down against his thigh.

It was good. Too good. But it still wasn’t what you needed. Especially not now that you could feel how he used his tongue.

Your fingers threaded into his hair and tugged. You didn’t expect the way he let you pull his head back, mouth open in a sound that was positively obscene, eyes dark and hazy with want. It sent a jolt through your entire body, straight to your core. Wetness trickled down your bare skin, soaking into his slacks where he pressed against you.

“You said you were gonna taste me,” you breathed, “So do it.”

He shivered on top of you, moaning again. Like the command had hit just right.

“’m sorry,” he murmured, sliding down your body, “Made you wait…”

He certainly didn’t make you wait any longer. The rings on his fingers were cold as he wrapped his arms around your thighs, hands gripping the soft inner part. Then he pressed a filthy kiss to your folds, groaning against you like he’d been waiting for this. You barely had time to gasp. Your back arched. And then—his tongue pressed in, filling your entrance.

“Fuck, fuck, please—”

Another sound was muffled against you, his hold on your thighs tightening. Even if you’d wanted to move, you wouldn’t be going anywhere. Not that the thought crossed your mind. Not when he was devouring you so thoroughly. Not when that devastating tongue dragged over your clit in a slow, luxurious taste.

Your grip on his hair tightened, drawing a growl from him. He rewarded you by sucking languidly in a way that had you nearly sobbing. Desperately, you dragged your eyes back down. He was watching you, hazy and satisfied and needy. His hips rolled in slow glides against the bed, undoubtedly to relieve some of the pressure on his cock. You whined softly at the sight, already thinking about what it might feel like to have that hardness dragging over your tongue.

“Wanna taste you, too,” you gasped.

He groaned, his hips giving a sharp thrust against the covers.

“You felt big. Wanna try to take it all. Wanna feel you leaking on my tongue.”

The grip on your thighs tightened with a bruising force and you gasped again as he redoubled his efforts. Almost as though he were begging you to stop talking. You didn’t, just giving his hair another tug and futilely trying to rock your hips to meet the strokes of his tongue.

“Fuck, baby. Like that. You’re so good. God, you feel so good. Just like this..”

His eyes rolled and he tensed, a low sound vibrating against your heat. Then the motion of his hips stopped. Your eyes widened as you registered the implications.

“You just…did you just come?”

He didn’t reply, only gave your clit a particularly harsh suck that had your head falling back again. A few moments later, you followed him over the edge, clenching around where he pressed his tongue back into you. Everything blurred—sound, breath, time. Just the heat of him, the ache, the aftershocks still pulsing through you. He stroked you through it, slowly thrusting in and out until you were whining with oversensitivity.

Only then did he pull back, panting softly, lips and face wet with you.

“Goddamn,” he rasped, “You’ve got a mouth on you.”

You giggled, a little deliriously.

“Pot, meet kettle.”

He huffed in amusement, gently releasing his hold to ease your thighs back down.

Mingi rested his forehead just above your belly, still panting faintly, his arms curled beneath your hips like he couldn’t bear to let go just yet. You gently carded your fingers through his hair, letting your breathing slow, your heartbeat even out. The scent of caramel and sweat and sex hung in the air like heat after a thunderstorm.

Eventually, he shifted—just enough to look up at you.

“You okay?” he asked, voice hoarse, but softer now. Stripped of any pretense.

You nodded. “Yeah. Better than okay.”

Something flickered in his expression. Something like relief and disbelief all at once.

“You were… incredible,” he added, earnest and breathless. “Not just—” He gestured vaguely. “All of it. You. Just you.”

You blinked at him, chest aching with something unfamiliar and warm. “You too. That didn’t feel… casual.”

A crooked smile tugged at his lips, but he didn’t try to play it cool. “No, baby. It wasn’t.”

He leaned up, kissed your cheek—then your jaw—then your lips, soft and slow and lingering. Then he pulled back, brushing a knuckle down your thigh.

“I should clean you up,” he murmured. “Give me a sec to grab—”

Knock .

You both froze.

The knock came again. Sharp. Measured. Disapproving.

Mingi groaned, low and anguished, collapsing forward onto your stomach like a man who realized reality was a thing.

“That’s Seonghwa,” he mumbled into your skin. “I’d bet real money.”

You stared at the door in horror. “What’s he doing?”

“He knows.” Mingi looked up at you with genuine dread. “He’s giving us a chance to pretend nothing happened. This is your one free pass.”

“…and if we don’t take it?”

“He’ll show up with a bottle of holy water and a lecture on professionalism.”

You buried your face in your hands with a groan. “We’re never going to hear the end of this.”

Mingi dragged a hand over his face and sighed. “On the bright side—” he reached for a throw blanket to drape over you—“I regret absolutely nothing.”

Another knock.

“Song Mingi,” came the velvet-lined blade of Seonghwa’s voice through the door, “If you’ve finished defiling the guest room, you’ll escort our guest to the front, or I will.”

Mingi flinched like it physically hurt. “Yep. That’s our cue.”

He moved fast after that—like a man who knew damn well he was on a rapidly depleting timer.

He tossed you his shirt without looking, muttering, “Put that on, please, before he stakes me on sight.”

You caught it and pulled it on as Mingi reached for your underwear—only to freeze mid-motion when he saw the state of them. His face twitched. You watched the moment play out like a live drama in real time.

He looked at the door.

Then at you.

Then, with all the grace of a man who’d definitely not planned ahead, he balled them up and shoved them in his pocket .

“Mingi.”

“Look, I panicked.”

You covered your mouth, half to hide your grin, half to muffle the sound of it.

Somehow, both of you managed to get halfway decent in record time. Mingi ran a hand through his hair and paused in front of the mirror to grimace at his reflection. “Do I look like I just—?”

“Yes,” you said immediately.

He groaned. “We’re walking into a firing squad.”

You stepped beside him, tugging the throw blanket around yourself to cover what the shirt didn’t. “Correction: you are.”

“Cold,” he muttered. “So cold.”

Then—deep breath—he opened the door.

Sure enough, Seonghwa stood just across the hall, arms folded, expression somewhere between I’m not mad, just disappointed and I’ve fought wars for less nonsense than this.

He gave Mingi a slow once-over. Then his gaze slid to you, pausing—just for a second—on the fact that you were very clearly wearing Mingi’s shirt, a blanket, and nothing else.

“Really,” Seonghwa said, tone like velvet pulled too tight. “The guest suite, Mingi?”

Mingi cleared his throat. “It was…available?”

“Was being the operative word,” Seonghwa replied. “It will now need to be sanitized. Twice.”

You pressed your lips together. Mingi didn’t meet your eyes.

There was a long pause.

Then Seonghwa stepped aside and gestured toward the stairs. “Escort our guest out. And do try to behave like a professional. For once.”

“Yes, hyung.”

“And get your hands out of your pockets,” Seonghwa added.

Mingi flinched. His hand immediately dropped to his side like he’d been burned.

You bit your lip to keep from laughing.

As you passed Seonghwa, he gave you a small nod and a polite, practiced smile. “I trust you enjoyed your stay. Next time, do schedule through the proper channels.”

You weren’t sure what possessed you, but you giggled. “I will.”

Behind you, Mingi sighed.

Seonghwa, of course, didn’t return to his office.

He followed the two of you down the corridor in silence at first, the tap of his shoes unnervingly precise. Then, under his breath—quiet enough to sound like he was talking to himself, loud enough for you both to hear—he muttered:

“This is exactly how it started with Wooyoung.”

Mingi didn’t look back. “Hyung—”

“First it was a coat closet. Then a dressing room. Then the back of a moving limousine during the Lunar Gala.”

You blinked. “...Wait, what?”

Seonghwa ignored you both, expression tight, voice steady as he continued. “Do you know what I had to do to smooth over that incident? The ambassador wouldn’t set foot in the club again for three years. I had to send an apology bouquet laced with gold dust and petrichor. Petrichor, Mingi. Do you know what that costs on the open market?”

“Hyung,” Mingi said again, more softly this time. “I wasn’t trying to cause trouble.”

“No,” Seonghwa said with a long breath. “But you did.”

There was no real venom in his voice—just that quiet resignation of someone who’d cleaned up after far too many messes that weren’t his.

Mingi’s hand tightened around yours. He didn’t rush, but his pace didn’t slow either. He guided you toward a side corridor marked Authorized Personnel Only—this one quieter, lit in soft amber that reflected off sleek dark walls and the occasional polished brass fixture.

“The guest suites are a courtesy,” Seonghwa said, more composed now. “Even for founding staff. Use the schedule and proper booking system next time.”

Mingi didn’t argue. He just opened the staff exit for you, his hand lingering warm against yours as the door swung wide. The air outside was cooler—cleaner—carrying the distant sounds of nightlife and the soft scent of early morning.

“I’ll take you home,” he murmured, still close, still grounding.

Behind you, Seonghwa came to a stop just short of the doorway. Arms crossed. Dressed to perfection. He let out a slow breath, like he’d wanted to say more and chose not to.

“Be safe. And be on time tomorrow.”

Mingi waved over his shoulder as the elder closed the door. He laced your fingers with his and led you toward a sleek, low-profile car waiting in the staff lot.

The ride back was quiet.

Not uncomfortable. Not exactly. Just… quieter than it should’ve been for two people who’d just done what you’d done.

Mingi drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the console between you—close enough to touch but not quite making contact. His hair was still a little tousled. His lips were still swollen. He didn’t look at you much, but when he did, it lingered. Like he wanted to say something and kept changing his mind.

You looked out the window, watching the neon blur by in soft streaks of color. Your heartbeat had settled, but your mind hadn’t. Not really.

Because what was that?

A fling? A one-time moment of heat behind a locked door?

Or the start of something you didn’t know how to name yet?

When he finally pulled up outside your apartment, he killed the engine but didn’t move to get out. The silence stretched.

“Get home safe?” you offered, voice soft.

He gave a half-smile. “Always.”

You hesitated—just for a second—then leaned in and kissed his cheek. Not playful. Not teasing. Just something warm you didn’t know how to explain.

“Thanks for the ride,” you said, reaching for the door.

He watched you go. Said nothing.

But he didn’t drive away until you’d made it inside.

It had been three days.

Three days since you walked into work the following evening with your shirt tucked in wrong, a dreamy look in your eyes, and the kind of aura that screamed got wrecked and loved it.

Lale had pounced immediately. Nico followed with the precision of a sniper, armed with cold brew and a side-eye sharp enough to cut glass.

And yet—you held the line.

No details. No confessions. Just a mysterious smile, perfectly arched brows, and a casual, “It was a nice night.”

“You’re being obnoxious,” Lale declared now, draped across the boutique counter like a Victorian ghost cursed by your silence. “Just tell us if it was the bartender with the voice like molten honey and hands built by the gods.”

“You said it was possibly the bartender,” Nico added, perched near the display rack, watching you with a predator’s patience.

“I’m not saying anything,” you replied sweetly, sipping your tea like the chaos gremlin you were. “You two have very active imaginations.”

Lale made a sound of pure betrayal. “You came in here humming. Humming.”

Nico squinted. “You hate evenings.”

You didn’t respond. Just smiled into your cup, letting the warmth distract you from the fact that, yeah—Mingi had been texting. A lot.

He’d taken you out for lunch the night before. Called it casual. Ordered for you. Rested his hand on your thigh under the table. Smiled like it was a secret just for you. Then taken you back to his apartment and let you make good on that fantasy of tasting him. Before leaving you deliciously sore from the stretch of him inside you.

Nope. Not the best time to think about that.

The bell above the front door jingled.

Both Lale and Nico froze.

You hadn’t even looked up yet, but you felt the shift in the air.

“Oh my god,” Lale whispered.

“Called it,” Nico said smugly.

Then you heard it. That familiar, smooth-as-sin voice.

“Hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

Your head snapped up.

There he was. Mingi. Framed in golden window light like a Pinterest thirst trap come to life. Casual black slacks, dark shirt rolled to the elbows, and a lazy smile that said I meant to do this.

He stepped inside like he’d done it a hundred times—and he was already looking at you.

“Mingi,” you managed.

“Hey, baby.”

Nico’s smirk widened. Lale made a noise that might’ve been an excited death rattle.

You, meanwhile, stared like your brain had blue-screened. “What are you doing here?”

“Had a meeting nearby. Thought I’d stop in.” His gaze flicked down and up again, warm. “Need help picking something out. Thought maybe you’d style me.”

“You want me to style you.”

He stepped closer to the counter. “I’ve got plans. Want to look good. Might be meeting someone special.”

Your mouth opened. Closed. Betrayed you with a smile.

Behind you, Lale gasped—delighted.

Nico muttered, “Taking credit for introducing them.”

You sighed and motioned toward the fitting rooms. “Fine. Go. I’ll pull a few things.”

Mingi leaned in, voice low. Just for you. “I’ll take whatever you want to see me in. Or out of.”

Then he walked off like he hadn’t just obliterated your brain chemistry.

“You’re dating the bartender,” Nico declared.

“You’re banging the bartender,” Lale corrected, still beaming.

“I hate you both,” you muttered, flustered and absolutely not okay.

But your pulse hadn’t stopped fluttering.

Because if he was showing up here like this?

It wasn’t just a fling.

Whatever this was—it was far from over.

You sighed, stepping around the counter to find something for your maybe-boyfriend. And to mentally prepare for whatever he tried to pull while he was here.

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