#especially commit to Italian

[concerningduolingo]

well…

[indiangp]

everyone saying they associate enea w me in the '3 things you u associate w prev' post 😭 my work here is donee

[seospicybin]

TASTE.

CHAPTER I: PIQUANT.

Lee Know x reader. (s,a)

TASTE MASTERLIST

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Enter Lee Minho.

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

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

Only time would tell.

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Someone’s taken his seat.

You.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Minho follows, his interest piqued more than ever.

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But you don’t.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I'll be working,” you simply answer.

“What time you get off work?”

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

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

“Around midnight.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

“Who is he?”

“Is that the new head chef?”

“He looks... intense.”

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

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

“This is Chef Lee Minho.”

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

One by one, the staff steps forward.

“Seo Jun, Sous Chef, Meat Station.”

“Ha Yura, Sous Chef, Pasta Line.”

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

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

“I'm in the pasta Line.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, chef!” Everyone responds in unison.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Seungwan swallows hard. “It was a mistake—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

But Minho notices.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

“Morning,” she mutters, her voice hoarse.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thanks,” Minji murmurs, finally looking up.

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Vongole!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

Chef Choi Sara.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Recognize this?” he asks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sara looks away, her silence speaking volumes.

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You stay silent for a moment before nodding.

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

[illbegottenfaith]

walking away with your kiss on my cheek...

your relationship with theo starts to sour as you begin to suspect him of keeping secrets from you (theo nott x reader)

Part 1 | Part 2

a/n - first part of a two-shot I've written! Ngl this thing has gone through wayyy too many drafts and revisions so it’s barely an u healthy relationship, more like unhealthy coping mechanisms, but I have a couple of slightly more intense takes on the trope lined up as well :)

tropes/warnings - mildly (veryyy mildly) toxic/unhealthy relationship descriptions, established relationship, mentions of infidelity, miscommunication, angst

word count - 1.9k

When it came to love languages, Theodore Nott’s was distance. Many of his past relationships had failed once he'd deemed them too suffocating. Nobody had suited him quite like you did. The two of you had somehow stumbled into a mutual understanding of what you wanted out of a relationship. Some considered what you shared too casual to be considered a relationship. You had your separate schedules and commitments, and in your downtime, you kept one another company.

But it worked for the two of you. The best relationships are built between people on the same page, and your perfectly aligned perspectives made the little time you spent together that much sweeter. In fact, things had been going along swimmingly until Katherine entered the picture.

She, or at least the idea of her, entered your life one foggy morning. You were dead on your feet. The aconite you had been tending to as part of your Herbology project demanded your every waking moment outside of your classes. You were just about to fall asleep into your soft-looking, pillowy scrambled eggs when Ivy half-yelled into your ear, as she was prone to doing.

"Didn't know Theo got a new girlfriend!"

Your head snapped up and you groaned. Okay, maybe she wasn't yelling as much as everything sounded ten times louder with that throbbing behind your right temple. You blinked blearily at your friend.

"Huh?"

"Someone's been spending an awful lot of time with Katherine."

It took you a moment to register that you had no idea who Ivy was talking about.

"Katherine Sawyer," she repeated. "Theo's been getting pretty cosy with her, hasn't he?"

Something must have shown on your face, because she immediately dropped the suggestive lilt to her voice.

"I mean - I'm only kidding. It's just that I saw them in the library again last night for, like, the third time this week. I thought you knew." She peered closer at your dark eye bags. "Damn. Are you getting any sleep?"

You shook yourself out of the shock and gave a small smile. "Of course I knew," you lied. If being with Theo had taught you anything, it was how to lie convincingly. "I'm exhausted, that's all."

"Yeah, you look it," Ivy agreed sympathetically. "But really, I was kidding. It's not like he'd do anything. Not Theo."

"Right." You smoothly changed the subject. "So how's your project coming along?"

Still, it bothered you for the rest of the day. Why hadn't he told you about Katherine? He knew you weren't the jealous type, especially when it came to perfectly innocent interactions with the opposite sex. Unless there was a reason for him to keep it from you. You had thought that neither of you was the type to keep secrets from the other, but maybe you had thought wrong. And if he hadn't told you about Katherine, well, what else was he not telling you about?

You dismissed the thought. You were too sleep-deprived for this. It just wasn't like him. Theo would never pursue another girl, not while he already had one on his arm.

Right?

These thoughts were still circulating in your head when you found him reading in the Slytherin common room that evening. You approached him as you always did, but something about what Ivy had said that morning made you hesitate. He didn't look up from his well-worn copy of The Divine Comedy in the original Italian until he felt you sink into the couch beside him. He gave you a strange look before pulling you into his lap, nestling his head in the crook of your neck, the way the two of you usually curled up together when one of you was reading.

"Don't be going shy on me now," he teased lightly. You shushed him, tapping the paperback. As you settled your head on his shoulder, he glanced at your face. "You look tired," he noted quietly. You pulled a face.

"Who knew aconite could be such a bitch?"

Theo turned the page. "I knew. I'd say I told you so, but - ow."

You had sharply tugged at the short hairs at the nape of his neck as a warning. You laughed softly as you ran a soothing thumb over the mildly irritated skin, kissing it better. It was moments like these that made it difficult to harbor any sort of suspicion or resentment towards your boyfriend. As moody and mysterious as he liked to come off, to you he was an open book.

But he still hadn't told you about Katherine.

A few weeks later, Theo and a few others were about to leave for a two-week cultural exchange trip to Durmstrang's. Ivy had dragged you down to the Great Hall where everyone was saying their goodbyes, before disappearing into the crowd in search of Ivan.

Somewhat reluctantly, you walked up to your own boyfriend. Between his trip preparations and your Herbology project, the two of you hadn’t had a minute together for the past week and a half, a new record, even for a relationship as casual as yours.

“Got everything?”

Theo nodded. In his soft, fitted navy blue sweatshirt pushed halfway up his forearms, he looked effortlessly put together. You weren’t scruffy yourself, either. That was why you had any kind of relationship at all, wasn’t it? The two of you made an attractive couple, at least when you acted like one.

You looked over at Ivy, whose boyfriend was humoring a much sappier farewell than yours and Theo's. Scratch that, Ivan lived for Ivy's oddities and eccentricities. Right now, Ivy was kicking a fuss over a fortnight being simply too long of a time to be apart while Ivan promised to call every single night. Occasionally, you had wondered what it would feel like to be in a relationship like theirs, where two weeks apart would be nothing short of agony rather than routine.

As you turned back, you noticed Theo had been following your gaze. He cleared his throat delicately.

"So...two weeks."

"Mhm." You weren't the type of couple to explicitly express affection, especially of the vulnerable kind. You'd miss him, of course, even if you didn't say it. Would he miss you? You shook your head internally. No, you decided, you wouldn't ask. You'd only seem clingy and that wasn't the kind of couple you were. "Be good, have fun."

He adjusted the strap of his duffle bag. You fixed the collar of his jacket. You wondered if he'd tell you about Katherine before he left. From somewhere else in the Great Hall, one of his friends called him over. He pressed a final chaste kiss to your cheek. You watched him walk away with a hollow sort of feeling in your stomach. Merlin forbid you express any kind of attachment to your boyfriend.

He glanced back at you one last time, fidgeting with the strap of his bag, and just like that, he was gone.

Gone.

He didn't say a word about Katherine.

As the two weeks crawled by achingly slow, you tried to convince yourself that you didn't feel the lack of Theo. You had gone longer without talking to him. Hell, before you started dating, you'd only occasionally meet through mutual friends.

But you had never spent time apart feeling this acrid bitterness towards him.

Unbeknownst to you, your friends had picked up on your frutration, especially in the way you had thrown yourself into your work with renewed vigour, doing your best to keep conversations from straying to topics related to Theo.

"I'm going to the owlery to check for letters from Ivan," Ivy was saying one evening, pulling a woollen hat onto her head. "Wanna come with?"

You barely spared her a glance, writing carefully. "Can't. I have this essay to finish."

Ivy deflated visibly. "Don't you want to see if you have anything from Theo?”

You shrugged. You couldn’t be disappointed if you didn’t expect anything.

“Have you heard from him at all?” Ivy pressed.

You gave her a warning look. “Ivy. Stay out of it.”

“Come on, Y/N. Why don’t you call him? I'm sure he misses you."

You laughed derisively, nearly stabbing a hole in the parchment. You might have done that any other time, but you were too mad about his imaginary affair with Katherine.

“Miss me? Theo doesn’t miss me.”

“How can you be so sure? You don’t know what he’s-“

“Because if he missed me,” you finally snapped, "he’d call. Or send me an owl. But he hasn't, alright? He hasn't called and I haven't gone to the owlery because no one's missing anybody. He's doing perfectly fine without me, just as I'm doing perfectly fine without him."

No one's missing anybody.

Tears prickled behind your eyes. You stubbornly watched Ivy turn blurrier and blurrier as you failed to blink them back. Your gaze landed on your essay, and the spots where your tears had caused the ink to run. Your essay was ruined.

You pressed a trembling hand to your eyes as you finally caved in, a pair of warm, comforting hands almost immediately coming to rest on your shaking shoulders. As miserable as you had been, you hadn't acknowledged the pain, let alone how it was eating away at you. Once you started crying, it was as though you didn't know how to stop.

“Why won’t he call, Ivy?” you choked out. "Doesn't he think about me?"

"Of course he does," Ivy soothed. "He's probably just insanely busy."

You sniffled. "How busy can a person be? One phone call, one letter, anything - is that really too much to ask?"

Ivy hesitated. The silence stretched out between you like the confirmation of a truth neither of you wanted to admit. She said it anyway.

“Maybe he thinks you don’t need that from him."

You laughed, the sound sharp and humorless. “Well, he got that part right.”

You sounded ridiculous even to your own ears. It was a testament to your friendship that Ivy didn’t try to argue with you. She gave your shoulder one last squeeze before standing, her footsteps soft as she made her way to the door. “I’m going to the owlery,” she said, lingering for a moment. “If there’s anything for you -"

"- burn it."

" - I’ll bring it back.”

You focused on the ruined essay in front of you. Messy smudges had formed where your tears had fallen. It was beyond repair, much like the knot in your chest that no amount of rationalising seemed to untangle.

As the door closed behind Ivy, an unbearable silence descended upon your dorm. You pressed your hands against your temples, willing yourself to stop thinking about him, about how easy it seemed for Theo to carry on without you. Maybe that was the worst part—the inescapable realisation that you weren’t half as essential to him as he was to you.

You stared at the blurred words on the parchment, feeling the ache settle deeper into your chest. There was no scintillating revelation, no blinding eureka moment. Just the quiet, gnawing thought that maybe this was all you’d ever be to him—an afterthought.

And maybe, you thought bitterly, crumpling your essay, you deserved it for letting yourself believe otherwise.

Part 2

[avis-writeshq]

hellooo <3

can i request a lil something for hotch about that one trend on tiktok “calling my bf my husband to see his reaction” thxx!

pairing: aaron hotchner x fem!reader genre: fluff, established relationship warnings: talks about marriage + commitment a/n: thank you for requesting lovely <3 wc: 650

Aaron’s confusion is palpable when he watches you prop your phone up by the corner of the car so that the front camera faces the both of you. He’s well aware of how you make videos of yourself to post on the internet – it’s actually how Penelope set the two of you up – but he’s never really been in any of the videos you’ve posted. The two of you are just going on a fast food trip and as soon as you step into the car, he finds himself incredibly underdressed. Granted, you always look lovely, but you still look far too overdressed to go to a drive-through. 

“Are we going somewhere after this?” He asks slowly, his eyes raking over your figure and the way you fix up your hair. 

“No, honey, I just wanted to dress up.” You smile at him, leaning over the console to kiss his cheek. 

He frowns, a stark contrast to the brilliant blush on his cheeks and the redness of his ears. “This seems like a plot.”

“No plot,” you laugh again and turn to your camera. “Guys, my husband thinks that I’m plotting something. Can you believe that?”

Aaron’s brain short circuits as soon as the words register. His fingers go lax on the steering wheel and his jaw unhinges. He’s staring at you like you’ve got three heads and his blush travels all the way down his chest. He likes the sound of that. An entire lifetime with you flashes before his eyes and all of a sudden there’s a ridiculously wide smile on his face and his eyes are crinkled at the corners.

“You’re beautiful.”

You’re giggling. A hand over your mouth and your eyes have lit up with mirth. He spares a glance at the camera and he manages a small groan, covering his face with one hand in an effort to shield his reputation. You’re still laughing quietly, although your own cheeks are hot from his breathless compliments. 

“Was this all just for a video?” Aaron asks, moving his free hand to your knee and squeezing. “Sweetheart, that’s cruel.”

“No, it isn’t! It’s just a silly video, Aaron, it’s not cruel,” You say through a smile, and you stop recording and pocket the phone. “You reacted really nicely though, I’m sure the video will do well.”

“Do other people not react well?” He asks, concerned. He doesn’t really want to think about how other boyfriends react to their significant other calling them ‘husband’, especially when he can’t imagine ever having a life without you in it. 

You shrug as you respond, “one guy didn’t let his girlfriend finish her sentence before he was yelling that he ‘isn’t her husband’. Which is true, but he responded really quickly and really seriously that it didn’t seem like a joke. I don’t know how they are in real life though, so it could have been staged.”

His concern turns into one of mortification, mainly for the couple. “I don’t understand how someone could get into a relationship and have no end in mind.”

That alone is enough to have you swooning, and he leans over to kiss your forehead. You’re beaming at him, almost slyly, and he brushes your hair out of your face. 

“We should go somewhere nice,” He decides, sitting back in his seat. He puts the car into drive. “You’re too pretty to go to a drive-through.”

You’re laughing again as he starts driving in the direction of your favourite Italian place, one hand on the wheel and the other on your thigh. You don’t know about the velvet ring box hidden underneath the drivers’ seat. 

Two weeks later, the video you recorded garnishes a whopping 23.6 million views, pinned beside another with a ring as the thumbnail. That video has a terrifying 43.9 million views, and Aaron is not spared any teasing. 

reblogs are always appreciated !

events page

[rottenstrawberrigirl]

Oh, my God, my eyes have been blessed. Nikolai content? In this economy? From the hands of Quality? Never let this Valentine's Day end. 🥺

Nikolai on Valentines Day

Mornings with Nikolai were never peaceful.

Today was no exception. You were woken abruptly—and rudely—by a flurry of kisses: light as air, insistent, pressed to every inch of skin he could reach. Your cheeks, your forehead, the tip of your nose, even the hollow of your throat—safe to say, you were kissed thoroughly before you even had time to object in indignation.

Then came the roses. One hundred and one, in fact. Blood-red, overwhelming, and filling the room with their cloying fragrance. You barely had time to process the tawdry display before Nikolai, beaming from ear to ear, bragged that he had arranged them himself the previous night.

“Why one hundred and one?” you asked, still groggy and a little dazed.

“Because an even number is for funerals, and you, my love, are far too alive for that!” He sang, tapping your nose.

You might've appreciated the sentiment more if it weren't for the headline flashing across your phone screen, which read: 'Local Flower Shop Broken Into—No Signs of Forced Entry.'

You gave him a suspicious look.

Nikolai simply smirked, dropping his head to a pretense of innocence. “First of all, I didn’t break anything! And I paid for them too. So basically, no harm done—just creative procurement!”

Before you could pry further, Nikolai, ever the whimsical spirit, had already set his sights on a new whim.

One moment, you were reaching for your coffee; the next, you were being were swept into the living room, your still-sleepy protests drowned out by his unchecked enthusiasm.

He placed a vinyl on the record player—the very same one that you'd both picked out together at the flea market a few days earlier. The needle settled into the grooves, and a golden, crackling melody filled the room—an old Italian love song, rich and mushy.

Nikolai stepped forward, facing you, mismatched eyes gleaming with roguish charm.

"I will and I shall take this dance," he declared, raising his hand and bowing his head dramatically low.

“Kolya, wait—” you tried, laughter spilling from your lips.

But he was already twirling you, his movements more enthusiastic than coordinated. You stepped on his toes once, twice, but if it hurt, he didn’t show it—too preoccupied with belting out the song’s lyrics in an off-key, utterly butchered rendition.

Neither of you had any idea what the song was about, but it didn’t matter. It felt romantic. And that was enough.

What were you going to do with this lovesick fool?

Most likely love him just the same.

Dividers: saradika-graphics

[doeyedeer]

as someone who is 1) autistic and 2) has a special interest in language and linguistics, BOY do i love the mixture of english and french in étoile!!!! made me want to commit to learning french again! the swearing especially tbh

im farrrr from fluent in french but i know bits and pieces, enough to appreciate the interesting bits of translation in the subtitles or know when cheyenne randomly speaks italian in one scene (obsessed w her)

wont get into everything linguistically interesting about this show in this one post or itd end up unmanageably long, but one thing: in his first scene, gabin speaks exclusively french (apart from when he shows off how good his english is), even when geneviève and cheyenne are speaking english*. but for the rest of the show we see him speak almost exclusively english, just because of how much time he spends with tobias (who speaks very little french). cute :)

*sidebar: why do geneviève and cheyenne speak english for some of this scene? both of their first language is french?

[cash-111]

Random filth,

My hcs for the Slytherins

Pairings: female reader x Theodore/Mattheo/Draco/Enzo/Blaise/Tom

CW: explicit talk of sex and kinks under the cut.

A/N: it’s that time of the month. Don’t come for me.

You can tell I got tired near the end lol

Theodore is an absolute munch. I see him being obsessed with oral far more than any of the others. He’s had a rough day? Smothering your lips until you squirm, and everything else is drowned out by your cries of pleasure, will cheer him up. He’s had a particularly good day? Gotta celebrate with his favorite activity, which, coincidentally, includes his favorite person.

on this line of thinking, I could see him being into food stuff. Especially for Italian!theo, food is super important in Italian culture and I can see it being a big comfort for him, if not just something he finds pleasurable. He’ll feed you strawberries, fill you a nice glass of wine, and ‘accidentally’ spill some chocolate fondue over you… well, your clothes are ruined now, so you might as well take them off? Just lay down and let him take care of the sweet mess he made, just for him to make an even worse one out of you. <3

Hot take, but I think Mattheo is a switch. He’s got that sweet burnt out golden child flare: high expectations and in turn high standards for himself, all the while upholding a public reputation (good or bad). I think this flows into spikes of dominance and/or submissiveness; he can absolutely be arrogant and imposing, he’ll have you melting and behaving for him one way or another, but we all crave intimacy and the freedom to be vulnerable too, and he’s no different.

Those times he wishes you would take care of him too, let him be whiny and delicate, breakable. He’ll grip at your flesh like a thirsty man grapples at water, thrusting up with you lazily, whimpers against your soft skin about how “you feel so good… so good” spilling over and over from his mouth.

I also think he carries a lot of guilt with him, so on a particularly bad day he’ll let you completely ruin him, rub him so raw he cries for you to stop. His throat is soar, his chest puffing, and his lips a slick blood red from all the biting and drooling. The overstimulation is too much, but even though he could easily break free, he surrenders, hoping the hot of his skin will burn down all of his impurities.

I’m sorry to all my tall girlies, but I think he’d have a thing for size difference. If you’re shorter, it’s just so perfect to him: he loves to make fun of you, rile you up and savor the cute spectacle you make for him; he loves how he can encompass you when you sit on his lap, and has to fight the urge of eating you up every time you’re in public; and when you hug his waist, hold his bigger hand, or do anything stupidly cute, he just wants to scoop you up and whisk you away. And he probably will.

Draco is similar in the way he also has high expectations to deal with, but I think he’d see it more as a loss of control, with his father cutting out a perfect path for him, his wish is to take his fate into his own hands. This results in a more domineering nature during sexy times, but I don’t think he’d ever be outright disrespectful, even on the spur of the moment.

Unless you ask for it, he’s not the type to let all instinct take over and risk hurting you. I adamantly believe in mama’s boy Draco, he may not respect dreadful Potter, or be influenced by a strict purist household, but he surely respects women.

One word. Possessive. What’s his is his and once you commit there’s no going back. He’ll guard you like a dragon does to his stash, a hand unconsciously always searching for you: an arm draped over your shoulder, curled around your waist, fingers laced with yours, or a firm grip on your wrist when he’s more nervous.

For this reason I think he’s hand-dominant when it comes to pleasure. He wants to feel, feel, feel. When he’s caught up in the delicious delirium you cause him, his hands will be all over you: your breasts, neck, arms, thighs, waist, there isn’t a stone left unturned. He’ll definitely lose himself in the trance of all the sounds he can get from you while his fingers are buried deep into your warm, pulsing core. And don’t you dare look away from his eyes, Merlin knows what happens when you do.

Some would have you believe Enzo is the most innocent of the group, but I actually think that boy is a wolf in sheep’s clothing: with a fervid imagination and a lot of love to give, Enzo is helpless to his mind’s work when it comes to you.

He will try not to let it show, but images of you plague his mind and blur his vision, so much so that he tries to avoid you, but, instead of toning it down, your absence just makes his fantasies that much more desperate.

Only one freaky (and with a solid parental background) enough to consider sharing you. He’s obsessed with your pleasure, he wouldn’t mind sitting back for a bit and just observe you, he knows all the sweet sounds you make are for him.

Hot take, but kind of a sadist (in a sweet way). Mf loves to watch you unravel and ‘humiliate’ you about it; would coo and say filthy things in your ear, a hand to the neck or on your hair when you both get really into it. I see him having switch up moments sometimes where something more primal engulfs him, it’ll have him rail you to the end of tomorrow in a way so contrasting to the sweet person he is, you’d wonder if it’s even him, but you can’t really think during those times…

Blaise is a chill man, I don’t think he’d have many depravities, but he’ll try anything at least once, if it’s to your liking. And you can bet he’ll give it his all, he just wants to have a good time with you, so it’s only natural he’d give everything a fair shot. Very soft top of him.

Only more out there thing I really see him actively bringing into your relationship, would be semi-public escapades. I think he loves the thrill of having you two almost caught, and certainly enjoys making it into a game of who can get the other to break first, before going back to a more secluded, private, area.

He will have you squirming in your seat during meals, or in the back of the classroom, hand stuffed down your panties. You’re helpless to stop him, a hand gripped tightly around his wrist, while the other tries to muffle any whimpers he tears from you. He’ll smirk as he wets his lips, acting like you’re the only compromised one (while his cock strains painfully in his tight uniform trousers, tip leaking and crying for attention), and whisper into your ear, his other hand tracing featherlight on your other side. “Just admit you need me”. He’s an ass, but you do.

What I need you to understand for Tom, is that, in French spirit, his whole stigma is about being grand and iconic (💅) , he’s a psycho and you’re his devoted pet.

Will hold you a collaring ceremony. You’re his pretty little thing, in the literal sense. You’re his possession, and as such you will do anything for him. If you’ll be good, he’ll make sure to take care of you. Since you’re an extension of him, he can’t have you being damaged or neglected (in the face of the public. That’s very important). You need to shine for him, like a pretty jewel: make him proud. Unless you want to be bad, reject him, demean him. Then he’ll have no mercy, using you as an outlet, bullying you with his cock, until you forget where you are, and throwing venomous words at you, until you remember your own place. (… and who knows, maybe you planned for it)

Isn’t affected much by physicality, but is absolutely obsessed with lingerie. He finds it classy, intriguing. He’ll bring you endless racks of it: you’re expected to try each and every one, and always wear it when meeting him. Also perfumes, he’s very opinionated and has a sensitive nose, which he’ll push deep into your neck when he unravels upon you, groaning against your marked skin.

[navillee]

hiii i've been an avid fan of your tumblr hehe and i've been meaning to request you this >< so we know that zayne is a teetotaler but BUT do you perhaps have any ideas/headcanons on how he would act if he's drunk? bet he can get drunk with just a sip of an alcohol and be a clingy mess towards mc 🤤

Oh, sweetie, it will be a pleasure to tell you Zayne has different dimensions depending on the levels of alcohol on his blood. The facade of his demure behavior would start presenting fissures, escalating to a total decay.

❆ Level 1 tipsy Zayne ࿐

• As a person who's not into any sort of vice — despite being ready to fight a god just so he can get laid by his woman every life possible, that doesn't count — Zayne only drink alcohol at social gatherings, more specifically, when someone makes a toast or when his colleagues bother to insist;

Zayne doesn't drink for two reasons: he thinks alcohol is very much overrated — sugar taste better 100% of the time, it doesn't need to keep forcing ingestion to start feeling palatable — and second of all, he's terrified of not being able to control his own mind;

But surprisingly, when he participates in a toast or just gives a little sip on some drink, he doesn't lose composure at first. Rather than that, he feels even more shy. He's trying too hard not to sink into the suave fluttering sensation that small sip of champagne/wine gave him;

He feels like he's committing a sin. How dare him? Making himself so vulnerable to his own profane thoughts, lingering into his brain like a sweet, sweet poison, making his eyes remain seconds more on your frame at the other side of the room;

He's a sinner. His pure as the driven snow facade falling abruptly from grace when he realized he's already unable to control his body temperature. That evil poison flows through his blood, making he feel so hot. It's like the room is gradually turning into a representation of hell, where sinners like him belong to;

The things gotten even worse when you approached him again, randomly giving him praises such as "pretty" or "handsome" just because he's wearing a suit you picked out for him. Oh, that heat comes up from his torso to his ears and cheeks. He's not the confident demure Zayne anymore. That's why he can't look into your eyes like the sober version of himself. He's just a corrupted shadow from a twisted world where everything is just in flames, and he's not able to control his own body temperature nor face you;

Make sure to make him look into your eyes, watch that needy glimmer on his eyes while his cheeks and neck turn into a pretty shade of red. He'll try to avoid you, but again, the warm feeling is so good that he knows that he physically needs to let the control go at some point;

He wants to let go. But would you accept him as your devoted? When all he is, is nothing but a dirty sinner?

❆ Level 2 tipsy Zayne ࿐

That's a level further, that, just as level 3, only you had witnessed. It's already rare to see level one tipsy, so you got surprised when you watched that dimension of Zayne blooming in front of you;

It usually happens when you two go out together to a new restaurant, especially the ones that have Italian or French cuisine, the ones that offer high-quality wine cellar. When you got sweet-grape-based alcohol drink and a doctor's sweet teeth together, you know, because the next day is his day off, that you're the one driving Zayne home tonight;

It takes the right conditions for him to get himself that tipsy; it's like seeing a double rainbow or else;

Tipsy Zayne is the dictionary's definition of a simp;

If he was already crumbling on level one, at level two, he's a whole new demeanor. That's the level he's not able to hold his thoughts — and tongue — anymore, so even though he's still a blushing mess, he will share with you how needy he truly is;

Zayne will compliment you, confess that the fact you didn't send him any sort of message/meme/emoji during his shift got him worried and upset, would reveal how many times he thought of you that day...he just will keep mumbling in simp language;

"Mamit- Manipja***...that's a word. learned last week? ...can't remember. It'sooo trusfating...I feel that every.time. we'retogether." *intensively blushes while looking deep into your soul. Looks away, all blushed and randomly change the topic.*

Will land you his coat anyway cause this man can lose an arm he'll still be top tier gentleman;

Zayne would grab your hand from the other side of the table and kiss it, rubbing his cheeks on the palm of your hand. It's a sign to head home;

The last time you delayed heading home when he start doing that hand kissing thing you two ended up fucking in the car;

Zayne is more desperate when he's like that. He always gets this urge under control when he's sober. However when he's tipsy, his beggingmometer would have a lower resistance;

Entering his home, stumbling on every corner, not knowing if it is the alcohol effect of the heat of the lustful kiss you're both sharing that's making his mind so foggy;

"Hmm...oh, fuck~~ᝰ.ᐟ𖹭ֶֶֶָָָ֢֢֢ Let me kneel, yeah? P-please let me kneel for you? I-i promise will be a good boy~ᝰ.ᐟ"

He would get more vocal, moaning depravedly, mumbling sweet nothings and revealing how much perverted thoughts he has;

Zaynw would get overwhelmed more easily, so he probably will cry during sex by how good it feels, and he can't take anymore orgasm denials;

It would be a total mess at the end, but a total cuddly boyfriend, asking for praises and drooling all over your collarbones at the aftercare;

Zyane would be an adorable vulnerable needy mess that deserves all the love and praise.

❆ Zayne Drunk level ࿐

It was only once in your lifetime that you witnessed this side of Zayne. And you never want to see it again, at least not at the setting of events that make it occur;

It was when you both had given at time to your relationship, not knowing exactly if you two would actually come back to each other. You and Zayne had broken up in some bad terms after a huge argument involving jealousy at work environment, plus you being wreckless as a hunter;

Two weeks after the break up, you decided to get back your things that still remained on his house;

When you entered his house — you still had the extra keys with you — you couldn't witness something more unexpected: the house that used to be all tidy up all the time was in a state of calamity. Zayne's dress clothes remained on the couch or careless on the floor, unwashed. There's work papers on every table surface possible, together with some high alcoholic elixir bottles here and there. All empty.

When you heard erratic steps walking towards you, you turned around to see Zayne failing his own gravity center when he tried to get closer. He was in a pitiful condition, the puffy red eyes announcing he probably had been crying or severely sleep deprived;

When he saw you, his eyes lighted up, and he desperately fell into his knees, begging forgiveness;

Even when he's on his most pathetic self, Zayne would never forget to kneel to you. After two weeks of trying to distract his mind, exhausting himself with work and alcohol, all he wanted was to have you back into his life again. He couldn't bear the idea of his life without your presence. So he cried and begged, and you hugged him, petting his hair, comforting him. He trembled on your embrace, warm tears soaking your neck as you, just like magic soothed him down. Poor doctor, bad as handling alcohol just as not being on mc's loving arms.

*** mamihlapinatapai: word to describe the feeling to people have when they're staring each other face a face, they wanna take action, but at the same time they both know none of them will make a move.

[stackslip]

Doctors Without Borders/Médecins Sans Frontières (MSF) announced today that it has ceased operations of its rescue vessel, Geo Barents, which had been operational since June 2021. MSF is suspending all search and rescue efforts until further notice, with the intention of restarting again next year with a new ship. Italian laws and policies have made it impossible to continue with the current operational model. MSF will begin the process of evaluating different operational models to respond to the needs of migrants in this challenging environment. MSF reaffirms its solid commitment to people on the move, especially those taking the dangerous journey across the Central Mediterranean Sea, a route where over 31,000 people have died or gone missing since 2014. “MSF will be back as soon as possible to conduct search and rescue operations on one of the deadliest migration routes in the world,” said Juan Matias Gil, MSF search and rescue representative. “We will come back to bear witness and speak out against the violations committed against people on the move by EU members states, particularly by Italy, and the other actors in the area.”  (...) In the past two years, Geo Barents faced four sanctions by the Italian authorities, imposing a total of 160 days of detention in port. These punitive measures came under the Piantedosi Decree, a law that was introduced by the Italian government in the beginning of 2023 that limits the operations of non-governmental (NGO) rescue ships in the Mediterranean Sea and undermines the maritime historical humanitarian and legal duty to save lives at sea. This month, Italy further intensified the sanctions by making it easier and faster to confiscate humanitarian search and rescue vessels.

[keto-keyes]

The Slytherins at Valentines

Imagine/preference

In celebration of the day of love, I have taken it upon myself to commit to paper how I imagine the Slytherins would celebrate Valentines with their S/O

Mattheo Riddle:

Mattheo would probably act like he'd forgotten until right at the last minute before it was time to head to sleep for the night

and practically dump a whole-ass pile of presents on his S/O's head.

definitely expects you to cuddle w/ him

he's the little spoon obviously

would constantly whisper things like:

"You thought I forgot, didn't you?"

"...Dumbass thought I'd forget the best day ever"

If you correct him, you lose your gifts

If you don't, smug ass bf forever

Choice is yours

He never really shows how touch-starved he is until Valentines Day, when he can snuggle with you and kick all the others out of your dorm without hearing you complain

not that you ever do

Basically, cuddles and rich-man benefits from the king of puppy eyes.

Tom Riddle:

This man... he is so romantic about how he spoils his S/O

A single rose, or a ring or some other piece of jewellery

Watch out, he'll present it at breakfast with a modest little card and expect you to wear it all day without fail.

might even buy you a crown fitting for the queen of the slytherins

doesn't like PDA, so none of that

Subtle smiles in your direction, maybe even a blown kiss

will love exchanging coded love letters with you like the little nerd he is

if you expected him to be cold like usual, he's not

other kids get time off from being victims, he's moony about you for a change

probably even brings small little things he finds to give you in-between classes

a feather, a dropped quill, some cookies he "borrowed" from some useless gryffindors

Mattheo couldn't stop teasing him after he caught Tom plucking nice-smelling herbs from the potions closet

You might need to stop him killing his brother

he's a gentleman, alright?

Theodore Nott:

Italians know how to Valentines Day

the saint is literally FROM Italy

and theo is rich. So....

Presents. lots of presents

anything you need

kisses also. lots of kisses

mans really loves kissing you. he'll never say no to PDA

staring at you for HOURS

dude has a stare like looking into the ocean - beautiful but somehow also makes you self-conscious

whispering to you in italian

even if you can't understand him, you know he's either complimenting you or whispering blasphemy about whichever first year last crossed his path

he likes to sit you on his lap when he can and rub your thighs or massage your shoulders

shoulder and neck kisses when you do

he doesn't like to be too far away from you, like any good clingy bf

will definitely need you to tell him to stop holding your hand or your waist before he does

maybe needs reminding multiple times. especially with other guys around

double the soft boy on the day of love

Draco Malfoy:

expect this boy to become very clingy

he's attention-starved, remember?

but he will give his S/O lots of gifts and presents to celebrate love

cards, messages via flying paper crane, roses, rings, ripped out passages of books from the forbidden section of the library, all the romantic gifts

he prefers to give little pecks on your cheeks when he can, but if not, definitely hand kisses.

i kid you not, he will get down on one knee with his usual gentlemanly demeanour just to kiss your knuckles

give this poor boy lots of kisses please

he needs them

play with his hair, let him be the little spoon

not that he isn't usually

he just won't let any of the others know that

holding hands

terrorising first-years

sending cutesy love letters to one another without the professor knowing

or zipping them right past mcgonagal's ear, if you live on the wild side

either way, he's so soft and squishy

Blaise Zabini:

i have come to inform you that this man will skip school for you

you're not feeling potions today, rather go out on the town? done

he does not care

you both get good grades anyway

all the sweets

sugar is his love language, and, funnily enough, your pet name

letting you wear his jackets

kisses. give this man some kisses

holding hands whenever you can.

i headcanon his hands are huge.

like giant sized

him smiling to himself whenever he sees you

"How did I manage to score this little sugarcube?"

yep, another sugar-themed pet name

you are like a little flower he needs to preserve (an icing flower, if you catch my drift)

another member of the touch-starved trio

he can do your hair for you (if you have long hair), but ONLY if you sit on his lap

this man knows french. and danish

did you know danish is one of the most beautiful languages on earth? well, you will soon

he likes muttering how pretty you are in danish. and how much he loves you

also, mans is a legit beanpole boy

he will rest his head on yours. he is just that tall

anyway, he loves you in 3 languages fam

Pansy Parkinson:

probably wants to make sure you both have the same number of presents

you'll always have one more than her somehow. like, how does someone forget they bought you the cat (or some other household pet) you always wanted?

isn't happy until she can constantly see a smile adorning your features

like Blaise, she will do your hair for you (if you have hair)

she buys THE NICEST necklaces and bracelets. not even Tom can compare

she can also speak french, but she'll only open up and start speaking it when you tell her you love her in your native language

will find pretty flowers to put in your hair or behind your ear so you can constantly smell of that flower

holding hands. there is no excuse

showing you off to the boys, making them pretend to have never met you before

no-one is allowed to make you smile except her. so, please stay away from Mattheo and Enzo for the day

will contain her anger and short temper for you

she's the little spoon.

you must comfort her. dealing with 6 boys everyday is tough

you're like royalty for a day, deal with it

Lorenzo Berkshire:

cheesy gifts. no cap

small flowers out of decorative bouquets? check

a flower or butterfly pin? yessir

constant hand-holding

teasing you

lip bites, squeezing your thighs, twirling strands of either of your hair

he is a major flirt, contrary to popular belief

he thinks you are the most adorable thing ever

loves to tell you how gorgeous you look

master gentleman in action, ladies and gents

singing cheesy love songs

mans will serenade you

he is the big spoon, for reasons you may never know

perhaps he likes holding his world in his arms

that's right folks, you are his WORLD

and nothing will stop him from telling you that as you nap in his arms instead of going to potions

[blindmagdalena]

What ways do you think he’d boundary test in the very intial stages if the relationship?

(Diff anon bouncing off the flirting ask—i love your insight!! “Chokes on anything more than scraps” is SO poignant and real wrt homie)

aahh thank you! re: this ask

it would be subtle at first. little things like not fully respecting your other relationships or your time commitments. he'd ask when he could see you, and you could say, "How about you meet me after my shift?" and while he says sure thing, he actually shows up on your lunch break and tells you he's going to treat you at the fancy italian place that opened up downtown.

that's very sweet of him, but you only get 45 minutes for your break, and it's not enough time to go somewhere to eat. you're free for dinner after your shift, though. he waves it off. he insists.

"C'mon," he pushes. "We'll be gone an hour tops. I promise they won't miss you for those fifteen minutes as much as I will."

naturally, you're gone for two hours.

and he'll do this often. he'll consistently put you in situations where he's asking you to choose between something else in your life and him. he's testing not only to see how much pushing he can get away with, but self-soothing his own frayed nerves with the dopamine he gets when you do choose him.

and you probably would choose him! a lot. especially when the relationship is new and you feel that excitement and that pressure to deepen the relationship and prove yourself.

he lavishes you in love and affection for it every single time. sure, you bailed on that thing with your friend, but you were with him, you two had fun, you're so in love, and that's what matters!

it's only a problem when you don't choose him. when those boundaries become less lenient. when you tell him, "No, I'm serious. I can't tonight." how dare you reject him. why are you hurting him like this when it would be so easy to choose him? when you should choose him because he's yours, and you're his.

that's when the gaslighting starts. the snide comments about how you're always making these plans without even talking to him. how he sacrifices so much for you, bends over backwards to fulfill your every wish and whim, but you're never willing to do the same for him.

he WILL turn it into a fight. he will push and push and push until you either relent or apologize. until you choose him. and if you don't, he'll sulk. he'll be miserable. there won't be a retaliation per se, but he WILL expect something grand to make up for it. he will turn these moments into such an exhausting ordeal that next time, and every time after, it's so much easier to just... choose him.

and god, does he ever love you for it. downright smothers you with it.

[flock-of-cassowaries]

One of my Cherished Mutuals reblogged a post about fanfiction in which Hannibal is portrayed as committing sexual assault.

Originally, I replied to it, but then I thought… perhaps it might be more polite to make a separate post.

So here we are.

TL/DR: I’m not a huge fan of Hannibal as a perpetrator of sexual assault, because it just gives me the ick.

But I also think it feels kind of discordant with the character (to me), even though, on the face of it, it seems kind of strange that a violent murderer might be like “…but I draw the line at sexual assault”.

CW for discussion of ways Hannibal’s actions in cannon could be interpreted as non-con -adjacent.

——

I don’t actually enjoy revelling in how amoral Hannibal is, but he nevertheless feels (to me) like a character whose distaste for sexual assault really wouldn’t be motivated by morality.

I think he would probably allow himself to feel like it was, at least sometimes - he certainly seems to feel superior to Mason Verger, for example.

To me, a key part of Hannibal’s character that a lot of people don’t recognize is the way he bullshits himself (“Eat the rude” - motherfucker, you ARE THE RUDE. Murder is NOT POLITE).

[ Why might this murderer draw the line at sexual assault ? ]

When you get right down to it, I think the reasons Hannibal wouldn’t actually perform an unambiguous, unalloyed sex act on a partner who had either:

- refused consent, or

- who was unconscious,

….are as follows:

1. I think it would hurt his ego not to feel desired during sex.

2. I think he gets a lot of his satisfaction from the emotional intimacy of sex with someone who at least sort of wants to be there.

[ The emotional intimacy angle ]

To expand on the second point - I think Hannibal gets off on manipulating his partners, based on their desire for him.

I think that’s partly just a power trip he enjoys (which, cool - go off, king 👍), and also partly because manipulating people is the closest he can get to forming a real emotional connection.

Parenthetically, I think Hannibal actually really wants an emotional connection, based on his interactions with Will, especially in Mizumono. But I think he’s terrified of giving up control of any situation, so… he’s gotta be the one doing the manipulating, and he needs to get as deep in their mind as possible to compensate for the uni-directionality of it all.

[ Hannibal Lecter, Basking in Receptive Desire ; or, “How Does this Obviously-Gay man manage to Fuck Women?” ]

Getting back to the first point - that Hannibal’s ego dictates that he *must* be desired during sex - I think this explains:

1. Why he was able to successfully fuck Alana (despite being seemingly ambivalent towards her, overall); and also

2. Why he and Bedelia did not appear to be having sex with each other during their Italian Murder Holiday.

While it’s kind of unclear how much Hannibal is attracted to the very lovely Dr. Bloom, it is very clear that Alana wanted him.

And I think that that probably made Hannipenis go brrrr (at least enough to somewhat rise to the occasion when it became strategically-advantageous for him to start fucking her).

Bedelia, on the other hand, obviously determined shortly after they landed in Europe that Hannibal was

A) still hung up on this Will Graham thing (gross), and also…

B ) probably going to kill her;

…and because Dr. Du Maurier is a sensible girl, that seems to have effectively canceled her desire for him.

And this seems to have led to Hannibal leaving her the hell alone, sexually. (Gleefully terrorizing her? Yes. But. They seemed pretty chaste together. Much to Anthony Dimmond’s dimmondspointment. It is not that kind of party. )

…but like… I also don’t think the Artist Formerly Known as The Chesapeake Ripper was the king of consent here.

[ Hannibal’s Strained Relationship with Consent ]

I’m going to preface the rest of this by disclaiming that I’m not twisting myself into knots about my murder-blorbo being a bad person. He is a very bad person.

I just find absolutely fascinating to explore the ways that bad people build intellectual-sophistry scaffolds to justify their badness.

With that out of the way—

[ Encephalitis ]

I feel like Hannibal would definitely have fucked Will mid-encephalitis hallucination, if he thought he could get Will to cooperate.

And like… that would have been sexual assault. Obviously, a person who is unaware of their surroundings cannot consent to sex, even if they’re sort of into it in their altered state.

But I think Hannibal would have gone for it without hesitation, and then justified it to himself through some pretentious bullshit about it being for Will’s own good.

Which like… sure, Jan Han.

[ The damn tube. ]

The tube scene also definitely feels both violating and sexual. There were a lot of ways Hannibal could have framed Will that would have been easier and more certain to work out (what if Will had digested the ear, ffs?).

So I cannot imagine that Hannibal chose that particular strategy for purely non-sexual reasons, but I do think it’s possible Hannibal refused to acknowledge that to himself.

[ Unnecessary wardrobe changes. ]

Hannibal also definitely changed Will’s clothes a few times while Will was unconscious, and I think it’s very likely he took a good look, and possibly an unprofessional feel, while doing that.

[ Conclusion : Murder is kind of…. not the vibe. ]

Also, zooming out - Hannibal clearly has no respect for the integrity of other people’s bodies or for other people’s right to emotional safety. He kills people, and quite literally objectifies them. It doesn’t generally feel sexual, per se, but… like, they did not consent to any of that. That’s… like… on the overall continuum of not respecting consent.

Also, the way he posed Cassie Boyle’s corpse was very sexually suggestive. While that feels more performative (to get Will’s attention) than directly about Ms. Boyle, it’s still deeply Not Okay.

[ Conclusion 2 - the sequel ]

So yeah. I don’t think Hannibal would think of himself as a rapist, and I think he would feel contempt for people he thought of as rapists. But… he’s uncomfortably adjacent to them, in many ways he would never acknowledge to himself.

[thiswomanshouldbewriting]

Ok I just saw The Old guard 2. There's so much I loved and several things I didn't, you can find everything under the cut.

I loved that there was a lot more more random Italian thrown in. I didn't like that there was exactly 0 arabic spoken between Joe and Nicky. Com on, let them call each other habibi.

I loved every damn second of Andy and Quynh. I need more. I can't wait to see more.

I am extremely perplexed by the fact that if they get a body part ripped off, they have to find it and re-attach it. It sounds like a major weakness. If someone cuts their head off and keeps it separated from their body... ouch.

I am not a fan of all the (unnecessary) lore introduced. A random legend (and HOW did that legend even originate?) somehow has all the instructions. Nile being able to take away their immortality does raise the stakes, but boy it makes her not only the last, but also the pariah. She can never spar with them again. Also I call bullshit on Andy becoming mortal because of the fight with Nile, that wound would have killed her if it hadn't healed right away. The first wound that Andy receives and doesn't heal is the one in the church.

I am so conflicted about Booker. On one hand, he has the right to say "you know what? Being immortal sucks. I want to be mortal again". It feels real, it makes sense, immortality isn't for everyone. So I really liked the idea of him giving his immortality to Andy, especially because he did say that his family resented him once for not sharing his gift of immortality. What I didn't like is how they went about it. He basically committed suicide and at the supidest moment possible. There was no need for him to go and try to take down those guys on his own. There was no reason to leave Andy and the others at such a critical time. No. The way I would have gone about it is having Andy and Booker take down the bad guys, only to be both shot by the last one. Andy prepares herself to die, but surprisingly discovers that her wounds are already healing, while Booker collapses to the ground: he explains the truth and dies in her arms, serene. He still saves Andy, he still dies, but it's not a suicide and it is so much more shocking this way.

I am so in love with the concept of building up this misterius figure of the most ancient immortal, one who is just so fed up with immortals getting involved in human affairs that she wants to stop it all, only to reveal that she wasn't some moralist with a bigger plan, she was really just an asshole who'd rather kill everyone else than give up her immortality.

The sequence where Andy is walking in Rome and we see it through the ages... poetic cinema.

Any fight with Quynh in it was 10/10, flawless, no notes.

I can't wait for the sequel.

[jamboree37]

TOG 2 THOUGHTS (I have so many)

spoilers under the cut

- Nile looks stunning in every scene. Shes badass and amazing and I love her so endlessly.

- Andy’s hair DID NOT grow that much in six months I refuse to believe it.

- in the first movie, Nile is so conflicted about the act of killing, and so in the first movie alone I was kind of disgruntled to see her immediately turn into a killing machine. I was hoping in the second we would have had a moment where this was reflected on in any capacity. (Like the team kill so many people that for all of the people they save and the good that comes generations down the line….they’ve cut off an equal amount of potential good from happening by killing everyone they see)

- I love that Andy is at peace with mortality. She has found a purpose. She is happy. All is well. The ultimate goal of life isn’t to live longer, but to make your like worthwhile while it lasts.

- I love Nile so much because she is so smart and perceptive and such an adaptive thinker. WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU DIDN’T THINK YOUR DREAM WAS IMPORTANT?!?! the writers really just made such a mischaracterization there.

- Okay I initially was so excited for the ‘I think I’m gonna take some space’ moment with Nicky and Joe because I think it would be SO interesting to understand how they remain as solid individuals while also in the most committed lifelong soulmates relationship to ever exist…and then they ruined it

- Off of that point. They chose the wrong immortal husband to be checking on Booker. We know from the first movie that Joe is so fiercely loyal and protective, and he holds his anger a little longer, especially when it’s being held to protect those he loves. We also know that Nicky is a softie who was…way less upset about everything even at the end of the first movie, so logically he probably would have reached out to Booker first.

- *edited addition* okay but now that I’ve thought about it…Joe absolutely is just a big ‘ol softy at heart and I don’t mind him checking on Booker compared to Nicky doing it. Because Joe’s loyalty does run so deep, so he would forgive quickly because he’s loyal to his friends?? And I do love Nicky’s Italian grudge holding abilities in this case. Anyway I’m actually more okay with this now that I’ve slept. Joe and Nicky can’t do any wrong imo

- I CACKLED when Nicky kidnapped Nile to go spy on Joe

- And I LOVED Nile just skedaddling the moment they started their argument. I too would make any excuse to leave that conversation.

- I NEED THE SCENE OF BOOKER CHANGING INTO THE TRACK SUIT PLEASE THAT MUST HAVE BEEN SO AWKWARD

- Tuah had the opportunity to be an interesting character and actually he’s just mostly irrelevant. What do you mean bro never shared any of his information with anyone?? What do you mean bro never researched anything else other than the immortals??? His whole character doesn’t have any depth.

- AND Tuah’s existence literally erases the need for Copley to exist. Like if Tuah knew all of these things about good things coming a few generations later, and he probably told Andy at some point in their friendship…then there is no basis for Andy’s entire character arc in movie one and no need for Copley as a character.

- I LOVE QUYHN’S RAGE like YES feel grief and pain and disappointment and anger and hurt and WANT vengeance. I too would be so upset after everything she’s been through and the betrayal she must feel.

- Quyhn’s fighting technique is beautiful. The description of her fighting like a pit viper makes so much sense. She’s so creative and fluid and unexpected!! Wow I became more queer just watching the alley fight scene with her and Andy.

- I feel like we glossed over the betrayal Nicky and Joe and Booker must have felt after Andy didn’t tell them about the older immortals. I also feel like Andy would have??? And also, would they all have been dreaming about the other immortals?? Like please the dreaming inconsistency is wild here.

- Loved the Joe and Nicky scene in the garden. Loved that Nicky got to be an incurable romantic. I did want some middle between the fight and the love declarations where they resolved the fight.

- Shout out Nile for reading Andy so well and always calling her on her bullshit. That’s why we love Nile.

- Discord is an app on my phone and a villain from My Little Pony. Bruh. What a sad, one dimensional villain. She has no substance, she isn’t interesting, etc etc etc. also if she was there when Jesus became a thing she probably shouldn’t be white.

- THE LEGEND/THEORY/PROPHECY THING MAKES NO SENSE! How did discord know Nile is the Last Immortal? The birth mark wasn’t there in the first movie?? How did Lykon die if Nile needed to injure him to turn him mortal? How did Discord turn mortal along that same line? Are you telling me Nile never once bruised the other three? Never once sliced them during training? Never once stepped on a toe?? I have questions about this.

- Similarly. I hate that Nile became an object due to this ‘destroyer’ theme. She lost so much agency. And also. Fuck you Booker and Tuah for NOT TELLING HER ABOUT IT OMG the amount of guilt she will eventually feel that she DOESNT DESERVE just because NO ONE TOLD HER.

- Booker. My man. I had SO MUCH HOPE. for his story line. But he had no arc. He was sad and suicidal in the first movie, was sad and suicidal at the end of the first movie but had much to contemplate, was sad and suicidal at the beginning of the second, and ended sad and suicidal. Which for being depressed is a natural character arc so like…I get it. Becoming less depressed takes time and a support network, which he didn’t have. But also. He was so selfish. And I was really hoping he wouldn’t be. I’m okay he chose to die. It’s what he wanted and that’s fine. I don’t like he never told Nile. I’m okay with him giving his immortality to Andy as like a reparations for his actions in movie one (not that it really counts) but then forcing Andy to watch him painfully die wasn’t very cool and was very selfish, and the selfishness part is was irritated me because there was no growth from movie one. (Also! Couldn’t bro have waited until AFTER the mission to save ten million people for this whole stunt??? Also the lack of communication on his end pissed me off)

- can’t believe Joe and Nicky got abducted again. Except this time they’re freeze dried??

- also Joe and Nicky just felt…less authentic this go around as a whole. Which makes me so sad. They were so three dimensional in the first movie and in this they just felt like cheap wish knockoffs. Not even store brand knock offs. GUYSSSSSS ughhhh

- Discords motives for being evil are LAME and ONE DIMENSIONAL

- Andy choosing to leave Quynh to go after the helicopters, even noticing that Quynh is mortal, is so complex and so in character I do love that decision.

- Bruh what a lame false ending watching the helicopters leave. Booo. Downvote.

- Andy’s version of doing research by flipping through pages and not reading a single word is an accurate representation of me every time I need to read a scientific paper.

- I LOVED the Quynh Andy scene at the end. It was cuttteeeeee

Can’t believe I waited five years for that. I’ve read fanfics that are so much better and the authors aren’t even paid, they just CARE about the source material, the characters, and their readers. Good art comes from a place of love and care, and this movie for me didn’t replicate all of the good work this fandom has produced in the past five years, and that disappointed me a lot.

Okay it’s 2:00 am and I must go to bed. May add to or edit these thoughts once I have a singular ounce of coherence in my body.

[deusvervewrites]

To non-comics fans I cannot overstate the damage the CCA did to comics as an industry, especially as the Big Two weaponized it to kill horror comics and reduce competition.

That's only for the US. Other countries weren't affected by the CCA, and I'm proud to say Italy produced series that could have never been made under the CCA, such as Diabolik (still going on, the main character is a master thief with such a body count and reputation that "King of Terror" and "Murderer With a Thousand Faces" are something of affectionate nicknames), Satanik (main character is a scientist that was tormented by her parents and beautiful sisters because she was ugly until she snapped and used literal magic to become beautiful and dedicate herself to a life of villainy and debauchery), and Sturmtruppen (a satirical comic about the misadventures of a German battalion during World War II. Includes things as a sergeant being introduced to the troops while literally beating up his own mother, officers burning down the warehouse before an inspection rather than explain the inspector why some material was missing, an Italian political officer sent to the battalion forging Mussolini's journals and selling them to a newspaper to pay his debt to a murderous quartermaster, an idiotic lieutenant that gets away with lethal amounts of stupidity because his father is a field marshall, the soldiers being unable to tell when the sergeant put motor oil in the lunch as part of his feud with the cook, the disgusting stuff said cook knowingly feeds the troops, and generally why war is hell. I purposefully left out the most horrific stuff), among many, many others.

Oh, and Disney Italy has the habit of putting real guns in the hands of its characters, with Scrooge and Donald both having shotguns and having SHOT people (with salt shells, but still), and published a comic where one of the heroes had the explicit intention of committing GENOCIDE against the aliens that destroyed her homeworld.

Glad to see that our bullshit for once did not affect anyone else

Funniest thing the CCA ever did was try to disapprove of a comic that had been commissioned by the United States Government.