#vegetables in disguise

[idrawtooslow]

Happy shmoo hunting, Tumblr!

[kathaelipwse]

Contract, Cooked & Kissed | C.Seungcheol

Pairing: Chef!Seungcheol × Journalist!Reader

Requested: Yes

Word Count: 8256 words ; Reading Time: 30-ish mins

Trope: Arranged Marriage | Strangers to Lovers | Mutual Pining | Secret Softies

Warnings: angst, mentions of family pressure, suggestive language, slow burn, Mingyu is cheol's bestie and woozi is the the reader's bestie, NO PROOF READING WAS DONE

Synopsis: A rising journalist. A quiet chef. Thrown into a contract marriage to please their families, neither expected the late-night meals, soft silences, or stolen glances. But what happens when pretend becomes too real… and time runs out?

Author’s Note: This one’s for the foodies and the pining girlies. Cheol is soft, hot, and fully whipped—just how we like him. Hope you fall in love bite by bite.

The scent of freshly baked bread hit you before anything else. But it wasn’t the comforting, cozy kind that made you think of home, of cinnamon and shared laughter. No, this was the suffocating kind—the kind that followed a man who showed up forty minutes late to a dinner you didn’t even know was a marriage meeting.

You stared across the meticulously set table, chopsticks frozen mid-air, the half-eaten plate of what your mother had enthusiastically described as "a very auspicious pasta with a secret family sauce" suddenly tasting like ash. The front door creaked open, and in walked him.

Rolled-up sleeves revealed forearms dusted with a fine layer of white. A flour-dusted apron was still tied firmly at his waist, a testament to whatever culinary emergency had delayed him. Dark hair, usually neat in the photos your mother had subtly (and not-so-subtly) shown you, was ruffled like he’d run his fingers through it repeatedly in the car. His expression didn’t read "sorry I’m late." More like, “I’d rather be elbow-deep in fish guts than here.”

Same. A silent, emphatic agreement settled in your chest.

Your mother turned to you with that practiced smile—the one she only pulled out when she was scheming, a smile that promised both sugar and a hidden agenda.

“Y/N, darling, this is Seungcheol. Seungcheol, this is my daughter.” Her voice was saccharine sweet, the kind that usually preceded a request to call some distant relative you’d never met.

You managed a tight smile, the muscles in your cheeks protesting the forced pleasantry. “Wow. What a totally casual and not-at-all-orchestrated dinner. The surprise element really adds to the charm.”

He raised a dark eyebrow, a flicker of amusement dancing in his eyes. “Nice to meet you, Y/N. Did you also get tricked into this elaborate carb-loading session?”

“Absolutely. I was promised jjajangmyeon and a quiet evening with Netflix, not a proposal disguised as a pasta night.”

A snort escaped him, a genuine, unguarded sound that surprised you. His eyes crinkled at the corners, softening his otherwise sharp features. “Good. Then we’re on the same sinking ship.”

You didn’t expect to laugh. But there it was, bubbling up like a secret understanding between two strangers thrown into the same ridiculous, sauce-splattered situation.

Dinner passed in a blur of polite conversation that felt anything but. Your mom gushed about your burgeoning writing career, exaggerating your freelance articles into the next great literary sensation. His father, a stern-faced man with kind eyes, boasted about his son’s Michelin-starred potential, his words painting a picture of a culinary prodigy. You exchanged increasingly bewildered looks with Seungcheol every five minutes, a silent language passing between you that translated to: is this real life? Are our parents actually serious?

And then came the bombshell, delivered with the same casual sweetness your mother reserved for offering you a second helping of suspiciously healthy vegetables.

“We’ve drawn up a six-month agreement,” your mother said, her smile unwavering. “Live together. Get to know each other. See if… compatibility blossoms. If it doesn’t work, no harm done. We’ll simply consider it a well-intentioned experiment.”

Your wine glass hit the table a little too hard, the clink echoing in the suddenly tense silence. A splash of red stained the white tablecloth like a dramatic punctuation mark. “I’m sorry—what agreement?”

Cheol didn’t look surprised. Just… resigned. A weariness settled on his face, etching lines around his mouth.

“They talked to me about it last week,” he muttered, his gaze fixed on the intricate pattern of the tablecloth. “I said no. Several times.”

“So did I,” you echoed, the absurdity of the situation hitting you with the force of a rogue wave.

A beat of silence hung in the air, thick with unspoken expectations and parental determination.

Then:

“We’re still doing it,” your mom said, her tone leaving no room for argument. That was that. The finality in her voice was a familiar, frustrating force of nature.

The next few weeks were a whirlwind of hushed phone calls between your parents and his, logistical nightmares disguised as helpful suggestions, and a growing sense of surreal detachment. You found yourself signing papers you barely read, nodding along to conversations you only half-heard. It felt like you were sleepwalking through a bizarre play where you’d somehow landed the lead role in a romantic comedy you definitely hadn’t auditioned for.

Then came the day you found yourself standing in a sterile, brightly lit room, the scent of industrial-strength cleaner overpowering even the nervous sweat prickling your skin. A justice of the peace, a woman with tired eyes and a no-nonsense demeanor, droned on about the legalities of marriage. Your parents beamed from the front row, their faces radiating a triumphant “we know best” glow. His parents, while less overtly enthusiastic, offered polite, if somewhat strained, smiles.

Beside you stood Seungcheol. He looked… surprisingly calm. He wore a simple but elegant dark suit, the flour long gone, his hair neatly styled. He looked like he belonged here, in this official setting, taking these serious vows. You, on the other hand, felt like an imposter in the borrowed cream dress your mother had insisted on, your hands clammy as you clutched a small bouquet of white roses.

You hadn't had a proposal, no romantic declarations, no whispered promises under a starry sky. Instead, you had a late dinner, a shared sense of being tricked, and a six-month agreement. Yet, here you were, about to legally bind yourself to a man you’d met less than a month ago.

The justice of the peace turned to you. “L/N Y/N, do you take Seungcheol to be your lawfully wedded husband?”

Your throat felt dry. You looked at Seungcheol, really looked at him. Beyond the initial annoyance and shared disbelief, you saw a flicker of something… else. A quiet understanding, a shared burden, maybe even a hint of reluctant curiosity.

Taking a deep breath, you said, your voice surprisingly steady, “I do.”

Then it was his turn. “Choi Seungcheol, do you take Y/N to be your lawfully wedded wife?”

He met your gaze, his dark eyes holding a depth you hadn’t noticed before. There was a seriousness there that went beyond the absurdity of the situation. “I do.”

And just like that, with a few signatures and the exchange of simple, unadorned silver bands that felt more like handcuffs than symbols of love, you were married.

The apartment you moved into together a week later was bigger than you expected. Minimalistic, all neutral tones and clean lines, with a kitchen so pristine it clearly belonged to someone who knew how to use it. Aka, definitely not you.

“You take the left room,” he said, lugging in a surprisingly heavy box labeled “Spices – Handle with Extreme Care.” “I’ll take the right.”

“Thanks. Also, no offense, but if you burn something past midnight and set off the fire alarm, I will throw you and your precious spices and you off the balcony.”

“Fair. And if you leave so much as a single strand of your hair in the drain, I’m reporting you to the housing gods for crimes against plumbing.”

You smiled, a genuine smile this time, as you set your suitcase by the door of your designated room. “Sounds like the beginning of a beautiful fake marriage.”

He turned away, his shoulders slightly hunched as he wrestled with another box. But not before you caught it—a small, real smile playing on his lips.

That night, you lay in bed, the unfamiliar silence of the apartment amplifying the frantic spinning of the ceiling fan. From the kitchen, a soft clinking of pots and pans drifted through the thin walls. Maybe he was cooking, a late-night creation born out of habit and passion. Or maybe, like you, he was stress-baking his way through the sheer, unbelievable reality of it all.

Your phone buzzed on the nightstand.

Woozi : please tell me this isn’t real please tell me he’s not hot You sighed, picking up your phone and typing back, a small, reluctant smile tugging at your lips. You: he showed up with flour in his hair and he made me laugh. and yeah… he looked surprisingly decent in a suit today. so yes. I’m doomed.

Deadlines felt less like a ticking clock and more like a pack of rabid badgers gnawing at your sanity. You’d been surgically attached to your laptop for what felt like a geological epoch, the blue light from the screen tattooing itself onto your retinas.

Eight hours. Eight glorious hours spent wrestling with the elusive nuances of Seoul’s underground supper club scene, a world apparently fueled by more secrecy than the CIA and questionable amounts of soju. Your editor, bless their demanding soul, had graced your inbox with a string of three increasingly frantic question marks.

Your stomach, meanwhile, had long since moved past rumbling and was now emitting a low, mournful groan that echoed the general state of your existence. You were too caffeine-addled and deadline-induced to even register hunger as a tangible sensation.

So, when the unmistakable aroma of garlic sautéing in sesame oil began to snake its way under your door and infiltrate your cramped office-slash-bedroom, your initial reaction wasn’t a Pavlovian surge of appetite.

No, it was a sharp pang of guilt, the kind that usually accompanied forgetting your best friend’s birthday or accidentally liking a tweet from 2012. This guilt, however, had a distinctly culinary origin. You knew exactly who was responsible for the tantalizing scent assaulting your senses.

With the slow, deliberate movements of a zombie emerging from its digital grave, you swiveled your chair around.

The kitchen lights blazed with an almost aggressively cheerful brightness, illuminating Seungcheol as he navigated the small space with an unnerving level of calm. Olive oil hissed gently in a pan, a soft sizzle that spoke of practiced hands and controlled heat. With a casual flick of his wrist, he sent a shower of perfectly diced carrots into a gentle, aromatic tumble.

He looked… composed. Unflustered. Like he wasn’t currently orchestrating a meal for a roommate who had communicated with him solely through a series of increasingly desperate Slack messages to her editor and the occasional frustrated sigh that probably vibrated through the shared walls.

“I… didn’t ask you to cook,” you mumbled from the hallway, your voice raspy from disuse and the sheer effort of forming coherent words.

He didn’t even glance up, his focus entirely on the sizzling vegetables. “Didn’t ask for your permission either.”

You blinked slowly, the sarcasm bubbling up despite your exhaustion. “Wow. How utterly… romantic. Should I expect a serenade next? Perhaps a sonnet dedicated to the exquisite aroma of sautéed onions?”

“I’m not trying to be romantic,” he said, his voice flat, devoid of any playful inflection. “I’m trying to prevent you from collapsing face-first onto your keyboard and leaving a permanent imprint of the ‘shift’ key on your forehead.”

His bluntness, while undeniably practical, still managed to make your ears burn with a faint blush. You opened your mouth to deliver a suitably withering retort, something about the inherent dangers of unsolicited culinary interventions, but the way he was now meticulously plating fluffy white rice into a bowl stopped you. There was a quiet focus in his movements, a deliberate care that seemed at odds with the forced nature of your cohabitation.

Then, with a silent grace that felt almost theatrical, he slid the filled bowl across the countertop towards your designated spot at the small kitchen table.

You froze, halfway between the hallway and the kitchen. The aroma hit you then, fully, and it was like a punch to the gut. It was your comfort food, the culinary equivalent of a warm hug on a bad day. Soy-braised beef, cooked the way your mom used to make it.

The meat was impossibly tender, glistening with a hint of honey in the rich, savory glaze. And the carrots… the carrots were cut into perfect little stars. Your mom had always insisted on that flourish, a ridiculously time-consuming detail that had annoyed your younger self to no end, but now… now it just felt like a memory, warm and unexpected.

“How did you—?” The question hung in the air, a mixture of disbelief and something akin to… gratitude? You weren’t entirely sure.

He finally wiped his hands on a clean kitchen towel, his expression still neutral. “You mentioned it in passing last week. Something about childhood comfort food and the psychological benefits of star-shaped vegetables. I Googled a bit.”

“You… Googled the recipe of my childhood comfort food?” The absurdity of the situation almost made you laugh, a dry, humorless sound.

You sat down slowly, the wooden chair scraping against the linoleum. You picked up the offered chopsticks, the smooth bamboo feeling strangely foreign in your hand.

You didn’t say thank you. The words felt too inadequate, too… real for this bizarre, orchestrated reality.

But you cleaned the bowl. Every last morsel of tender beef, every star-shaped carrot, every grain of rice soaked in the sweet and savory sauce. You even used a stray piece of lettuce to mop up the remaining glaze, a testament to your unexpected hunger and the undeniable deliciousness of the meal.

Later that night, the glow of your laptop screen finally fading, you padded out of your room in search of water, your bare feet silent on the cool wooden floor. Sleep clung to you like a heavy blanket, blurring the edges of your vision.

The faint sliver of light emanating from beneath Cheol’s closed bedroom door caught your attention. You were about to shuffle past, heading straight for the blessed oblivion of the kitchen sink, when a soft sound made you pause. The rhythmic click-click-click of a mouse. And then… a familiar headline.

Your name.

Curiosity, that insidious little gremlin, nudged you forward. You stepped closer to his door, your ear pressed lightly against the cool wood. The soft glow intensified, illuminating the space just beyond the frame.

He was reading your article. The one that was currently three frantic question marks away from being submitted.

You peeked just enough to see his screen. Your opening paragraph, the one you’d rewritten approximately seventeen times, was highlighted in a soft blue. His head was tilted slightly as he read, his brow furrowed in concentration, his mouth quirked in that thoughtful way you’d briefly observed during your disastrous first dinner. Then, a small, almost imperceptible huff escaped him. Was he…? Was he actually… smiling?

Panic, swift and sharp, shot through you. You backed away from the door as if it had suddenly become electrified, your bare feet padding silently back towards your own room.

Once inside, you leaned heavily against the closed door, the frantic rhythm of your heartbeat echoing in your ears.

He made you your mom’s ridiculously specific dish.

He was reading your work.

You were so utterly and completely screwed. This wasn't just a bizarre living arrangement anymore. This was… something else. Something unsettlingly domestic. Something that threatened the carefully constructed wall of sarcasm you’d erected around your unwilling participation in this matrimonial farce.

Whereas, cheol's phone kept buzzing.

mingyu: sooooooo mingyu: she licked the plate clean, didn’t she? Those star carrots really did the trick, huh? You're practically a culinary Cupid. cheol: shut up mingyu: OH MY GOD HE RESPONDED. The silent chef speaks! And with such eloquence! This is progress, my friend. Next thing you know, you'll be holding hands and gazing longingly at each other over a shared bowl of tteokbokki. cheol: blocked

This was going to be a long six months. A very, very long six months filled with unexpected acts of kindness, the lingering scent of delicious food, and increasingly uncomfortable eye contact that hinted at a reality far more complicated than a simple agreement.

Next Morning <3

You’d barely managed to peel your eyelids apart when the email notification chimed, a digital herald of the day’s impending absurdity.

Subject: New Series: Love in the Everyday—Couples Who Cook Together, Stay Together Your marriage is adorable. Myself as a editor, I am obsessed. First article & content due next week. Go wild, Mrs. Choi ❤️ Your lovely, Unhinged editor!

You stared at the glowing screen, the word “adorable” practically dripping with saccharine irony. Your contract marriage. Adorable. The sheer audacity of it made you want to bang your head gently against the headboard.

This was supposed to be a strategic alliance, a mutually beneficial arrangement built on tax breaks and convenient cohabitation, devoid of any genuine sentiment. Yet, your professional life was now hinging on convincing the world that you and your fake husband were the poster couple for domestic bliss.

Your life had officially devolved into a poorly written rom-com where the leads were constantly improvising a love story they weren’t actually living.

You found Cheol in the kitchen, a serene island of culinary focus amidst your internal storm. He was meticulously chopping vegetables, the rhythmic thwack-thwack-thwack of his knife a stark contrast to the chaotic thoughts swirling in your brain. He looked effortlessly domestic, a stark reminder of the role he was about to play.

“Hey,” you began, the laptop clutched under your arm like a shield against the impending awkwardness. “So, about this video series… the editor really wants us to lean into the ‘adorable married couple’ thing.” You cringed internally at your own words.

He didn’t look up, his concentration unwavering. “Adorable, huh? Should I start wearing matching aprons with little hearts on them?”

“Please, no,” you pleaded. “Just… you know… the usual. Cooking, maybe some light banter. But she specifically mentioned wanting to see the ‘husband and wife dynamic’ shine through.”

Cheol finally paused, wiping his hands on a pristine kitchen towel. “So, more… ‘my wife this’ and ‘my wife that’?”

You nodded, a wave of secondhand embarrassment washing over you. “Pretty much. Apparently, the readers are eating it up.”

He raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Eating up a lie. Fascinating.”

“It pays the bills,” you reminded him, a weak justification for the charade.

“True,” he conceded with a sigh. “Alright, Mrs. Choi. Let’s give the people what they apparently crave: a heaping serving of marital fiction.”

The first video shoot felt like a masterclass in forced intimacy. Every time you fumbled a step, Cheol would smoothly step in, his hand briefly covering yours as he corrected your technique, murmuring a casual, “My wife always struggles with this part.” The phrase felt foreign and yet… strangely natural coming from him.

“My wife has a particular fondness for extra garlic,” he’d declare to the camera, adding another clove with a knowing smile that wasn’t directed at you.

“Actually, my husband here sometimes overdoes it,” you’d retort, forcing a playful eye roll that felt about as genuine as a three-dollar bill.

By the third video, a strange rhythm had developed. Cheol seamlessly integrated the “my wife” moniker into his explanations, his tone a casual blend of affection and mild exasperation that, you had to admit, sounded surprisingly convincing.

“My wife insists on adding this much chili,” he’d say, holding up a generous pinch of red pepper flakes, a slight shake of his head that somehow conveyed years of loving compromise.

“Well, my husband has the taste buds of a toddler,” you’d fire back, a genuine smile tugging at your lips despite yourself.

The fan comments exploded with even more fervor. @ KitchenGoddessFan: OMG the way he says “my wife” # marriedlife # soinlove @ KDramaObsessed: Their chemistry is OFF THE CHARTS! He’s totally whipped for his wife! # husbandgoals @ SwooningStans: Every time he calls her “my wife” I get butterflies! This is the cutest couple ever!

You tried to remain detached, reminding yourself that it was all an act, a carefully constructed performance for an audience that believed your carefully curated online persona. But with each casual “my wife,” a tiny crack seemed to appear in the wall you’d built around your emotions.

One evening, while filming a particularly chaotic attempt at making homemade pasta, flour dusted both of your faces. Cheol reached out, his thumb gently wiping a smudge from your cheek.

“My wife is a disaster in the kitchen,” he said to the camera, his voice softer than usual, a genuine smile gracing his lips as he looked at you.

Your breath hitched. The warmth of his touch lingered, and the casual endearment, spoken so naturally for the camera, resonated in a way it shouldn’t have.

Later, while editing, you replayed that moment countless times. The way his eyes had crinkled at the corners. The almost imperceptible tenderness in his touch. The easy, possessive way he’d said “my wife.”

It was all for show. You knew that. But a small, treacherous part of you couldn’t help but wonder if, somewhere beneath the layers of performance, a sliver of something real was starting to emerge.

Your phone buzzed.

Woozi : okay that “my wife” compilation your fans are making is genuinely concerning it’s like watching a train wreck in slow motion You: tell me about it i think i need to move to another continent Woozi : maybe just… stop letting him call you his wife so much on camera? You: easier said than done bestie the editor is OBSESSED with the “husband and wife dynamic” i think i’ve created a monster

One month after the “Love in the Everyday” videos had inexplicably turned your bizarre contractual arrangement into internet gold, you found yourself wishing for the sweet oblivion of a root canal. Family gatherings on your mother’s side were less about familial warmth and more about a meticulously orchestrated judgment parade, with you and your life choices invariably taking center stage.

And tonight’s special guest of honor? Your husband. Your arranged husband. Choi Seungcheol. The chef. The infuriatingly talented, quietly observant, and undeniably attractive man who had a disconcerting habit of positioning himself just slightly behind you in social situations, as if unsure if he’d been granted permission to occupy the spotlight.

Apparently, some things never changed, even with a burgeoning online fanbase and articles dissecting your “adorable” marriage.

“Ah, the literary sensation graces us with her presence,” your Aunt Hyemi sang out as she greeted you at the door, her arms opening wide in a gesture that felt more performative than welcoming. “Still churning out those little think pieces that set the internet ablaze, dear?” Her smile didn't quite reach her eyes, which held a familiar glint of condescension.

Then, her gaze slid to Cheol, lingering for a moment as if he were an unwelcome piece of furniture she hadn’t noticed until now.

“And the… husband,” she drawled, the word stretched out like a particularly unpleasant note in a poorly sung song. “Still… playing with food?” The implication hung heavy in the air: while you were out conquering the world with your intellect, he was merely toiling away in a kitchen.

Your grip on Cheol’s hand tightened instinctively, a silent offering of solidarity. He, as always, responded with a gentle squeeze and a polite bow, his expression serene.

"Still cooking, yes, Auntie. Someone has to ensure Y/N eats something other than lukewarm coffee and deadline-induced anxiety,” he replied, his tone even and devoid of any defensiveness. “Her work is important. I’m just here to… support her endeavors.” His choice of words, “support her endeavors,” felt deliberately understated, a subtle deflection of the implied slight.

You knew that smile. It was the carefully neutral mask he wore when people became too loud, too invasive, too prone to making assumptions based on outdated societal norms. It was the smile that preceded his polite but firm deflections when people asked him what it felt like to be married to someone “more successful” or when they patted him on the back and told him he’d “landed himself a good one.”

Your aunt tilted her head, her gaze sharp and probing. “Mm. Must be… peculiar, though. To be constantly in your wife’s shadow. A man… defined by his wife’s accomplishments.”

You choked on the lukewarm tea you’d just been handed, a sputtering cough escaping your lips. Cheol, however, didn’t so much as flinch.

He simply chuckled softly, the sound surprisingly genuine despite the underlying tension. “I find immense satisfaction in Y/N’s achievements. Being ‘in her shadow,’ as you so eloquently put it, doesn’t bother me in the slightest. We’re a team. Her wins are my wins.”

You weren’t sure if the sudden heat rising in your chest was pride at his quiet strength or a simmering fury at your aunt’s blatant rudeness. Perhaps it was a volatile cocktail of both.

Your aunt snorted, the sound akin to a cat hacking up a hairball. “That’s what men with no ambition say. A man content to stir pots while his wife ‘conquers the world’ with her… little articles?” She punctuated her statement with a loud, brittle laugh that echoed through the suddenly hushed living room. “He’s practically dirt under your heels, sweetheart. A charity case you keep around for the cooking and… well, whatever else a docile husband is good for.”

The room went utterly silent. Forks paused mid-air, halfway to pursed lips. Snippets of conversations died mid-sentence. Every eye in the room swiveled towards the unfolding drama.

Something inside you, something you hadn’t even realized was holding itself together with frayed edges, finally snapped. It didn’t crack subtly; it shattered into a million sharp pieces.

You stepped forward, your grip on Cheol’s hand tightening until your knuckles were white. Your voice, when it finally emerged, was low and sharp, each word clipped and cold as glass. “Say that again, Auntie.”

Your aunt blinked, her painted eyebrows arching in feigned surprise. “What, dear?”

“No, I want you to repeat it. Every single condescending, belittling word you just spewed about my husband. Go on. Say it again so I can hear just how utterly pathetic and small-minded you sound.” The polite facade you usually wore at these gatherings had completely crumbled, replaced by a raw, protective anger.

She recoiled slightly, a flicker of uncertainty in her eyes. “Excuse me, young lady—”

“No, you excuse me,” you interrupted, your voice rising slightly. “You think because he chooses to work in a kitchen, because his passion lies in creating something tangible with his hands, that he’s somehow less of a man? He runs a kitchen that feeds hundreds of people every single day. He manages a team of skilled individuals. He knows more about the complexities of human nature in an hour of observing his diners than you’ve learned in a lifetime of judging others over lukewarm tea and stale gossip.”

You could feel Cheol’s steady gaze on your back, a silent presence of support.

“He has more strength, more integrity, more sheer grit in his pinky finger than half the men in this room who are currently trying to impress each other with their fancy business cards and hollow boasts. And if you genuinely believe that the size of someone’s bank account is the sole measure of their worth, the only reason to marry someone—then frankly, Auntie, I’m eternally grateful that your husband chooses to sleep in a different room, likely to escape your poisonous opinions.”

A stunned silence descended upon the room, thick and heavy. Your aunt’s perfectly painted mouth opened and closed soundlessly, like a fish gasping for air. Someone coughed nervously. Another relative muttered a low, impressed “damn.”

Cheol was still quiet, but the tips of his ears were flushed a delicate shade of pink, a rare outward display of his usually well-contained emotions.

You took his hand, your grip firm and possessive, and turned to address the rest of the room, your gaze sweeping over their stunned faces. “Anyone else have something they’d like to add? Any other insightful commentary on my husband’s chosen profession or his supposed lack of… backbone?”

They didn’t. The silence remained unbroken, save for the faint clinking of silverware as someone nervously resumed eating.

Later that night, after the tense atmosphere had (somewhat) dissipated and you’d retreated to the guest bedroom, you found a small tray outside your door. On it sat a bowl of still-warm stew, the comforting aroma filling the hallway. A neatly folded napkin lay beside it, and beneath it, a simple, handwritten note.

“You’ve been standing for me since day one. Let me be your place to fall. – Cheol”

You found him in the kitchen, the familiar quiet of his sanctuary enveloping him. His elbows were resting on the cool countertop, his dark hair tousled as if he’d been running his fingers through it, his gaze fixed on some unseen point in the distance.

He didn’t look up when you walked in, his posture radiating a quiet weariness. “I didn’t expect you to go that hard.”

“I didn’t expect her to be that… cruel,” you admitted, the anger from earlier having receded, leaving behind a hollow ache.

“She’s your family,” he said softly, a statement of fact, not an excuse.

You walked over to him, the silence between you comfortable and understanding. You pulled out the chair next to his and sat down, the wooden legs scraping softly against the floor.

“You’re my husband,” you said, the words spoken softly but with a newfound conviction that surprised even yourself.

Cheol finally looked up, his dark eyes meeting yours. For the first time since the ink had dried on the ridiculous contract, his carefully guarded expression cracked, just a little. A flicker of something vulnerable, something real, softened the sharp angles of his face. It was as if the lines between the performance and the unexpected connection you shared were finally starting to blur beyond recognition.

He smiled. Not the polite, reserved smile he offered to the world. This was a different smile. A real one. A smile that reached his eyes and held a hint of something… more.

You didn’t sleep in the guest bedroom that night. You found yourself drawn to the quiet comfort of the hallroom's couch. You fell asleep with your legs tangled together, your head resting on his steady chest, his hand gently resting on your waist, a silent promise of support and understanding passing between you in the darkness.

Next day, you find woozi's texts, you had vented to him….you always did. After all he is your bestfriend.

💬 Woozi : You defended him in front of your entire family? Like a freaking knight in shining armor? 💬 You: I wasn’t about to stand there and let her talk about him like he was disposable. Like his worth was tied to a paycheck. 💬 Woozi : Girl. You are so screwed. You know that, right? This isn't just some cooking show anymore.

The silence in the apartment had become a tangible thing, a heavy blanket suffocating the vibrant energy that had once flickered between you. It wasn’t the comfortable quiet of shared understanding, but a hollow echo in the spaces where laughter used to bounce off the walls. A silence that felt stolen, a temporary reprieve before the inevitable storm.

Two weeks. Fourteen days. Three hundred and thirty-six hours ticking down with agonizing slowness until the contract expired. Until the apartment keys were exchanged, his worn leather apron would be folded away into a box, the subtle, comforting scent of his cologne would vanish from the bathroom counter, leaving behind only the ghost of his presence.

You’d meticulously constructed a narrative of readiness in your head, a mental checklist of practicalities and detached acceptance.

It was a lie. A pathetic, paper-thin fabrication that crumbled a little more each day.

You felt his absence in the way your hand instinctively reached for his when you navigated crowded spaces, only to grasp empty air. In the way your footsteps hesitated outside his closed bedroom door at night, a silent plea for connection warring with a stubborn refusal to acknowledge the ache in your chest. It intensified with the muffled sound of his laughter during phone calls with Mingyu, a pang of longing twisting in your gut because that unrestrained joy wasn’t directed at you.

And then Woozi, bless her oblivious heart, had dropped a conversational grenade with the casualness of commenting on the weather.

“You gonna write about his Paris job in the last article?”

Your feet had slammed to a halt in the middle of the living room, the mundane task of watering the wilting basil plant suddenly forgotten.

“His what?” The question hung in the air, laced with a dread you couldn’t quite articulate.

Later, with a trembling hand, you’d navigated to his open laptop, the screen glowing with an email that felt like a betrayal waiting to be discovered.

Subject: An Invitation to Paris – Chef Choi Seungcheol Chef Seungcheol, We are thrilled to extend an invitation to join our esteemed team in Paris… Our establishment boasts three Michelin stars… We offer a long-term residency with full creative freedom…

It was everything a chef of his caliber dreamed of, the pinnacle of his profession. A chance to truly shine.

And you hadn’t heard a single word.

He walked in later, the familiar comforting scent of cinnamon and star anise clinging to his clothes. His sleeves were rolled up, revealing the familiar dusting of flour, his dark hair endearingly messy, his cheeks flushed a healthy pink from the kitchen’s heat. He looked vibrant, alive, on the cusp of something extraordinary.

You stood frozen at the counter, his laptop screen a silent accusation between you.

He stopped dead in his tracks, his easy smile fading as his gaze landed on the open laptop.

“You got an email,” you stated, your voice flat, devoid of inflection.

Cheol didn’t move, his eyes locked on the glowing screen. “You… you read it?”

You nodded, your fingers gripping the cool edge of the marble countertop as if it were the only thing anchoring you to reality.

“You weren’t going to tell me.” The words were a quiet accusation, a stark contrast to the turmoil raging within you.

“I was going to,” he said, his voice low, defensive.

“When?” you pressed, the question laced with a bitter edge. “Before you packed your knives? Or after the plane took off, with a casual postcard saying ‘Wish you were here, wife’?”

His jaw clenched, the muscle ticking visibly. He finally broke eye contact, his gaze fixed on a point somewhere over your shoulder. “Why does it matter? This… this was always fake. Right?”

The air in the kitchen seemed to thicken, the comfortable warmth replaced by a glacial chill.

“You made it very clear from day one,” he continued, his voice tight. “We do the contract. We play the part. We get what we need. Then we leave. No strings. No… expectations.” He still wouldn’t meet your eyes, and the avoidance felt like a physical blow.

You opened your mouth to argue, to deny the sudden, sharp pain that pierced through your carefully constructed indifference, but the words caught in your throat. He was right. That had been the agreement.

But the agreement hadn’t accounted for the unexpected warmth of his smile, the quiet understanding in his eyes, the way your lives had inexplicably intertwined in the shared space of your fake marriage. The agreement hadn’t factored in the terrifying realization that you were falling for the man you were contractually obligated to leave.

That night, for the first time in what felt like a lifetime of shared meals, you cooked. You hadn’t done it in months. Not since the wedding, a distant, surreal memory. Not since he’d started anticipating your hunger, feeding you without a word, without expectation. Not since you’d realized how much you’d come to rely on his quiet care.

You made something simple, something that tasted of home before home became this strange, temporary space with him. A comforting kimchi jjigae, the familiar spicy aroma filling the silent apartment.

He took one tentative bite, his eyes closed, and then slowly, deliberately, set the spoon down.

“What?” you asked quietly, your voice barely a whisper in the echoing silence.

He shook his head, his gaze distant. “Tastes like… distance.” The word hung in the air, a heavy, unspoken truth.

The apartment became a battleground of unspoken words and averted gazes. He retreated to the comforting chaos of the kitchen, the clatter of pots and pans a stark contrast to the heavy silence emanating from your closed bedroom door where you furiously typed words that refused to capture the storm raging within you. Dinners were eaten hours apart, cold and solitary affairs. Your carefully synchronized routines, once interwoven like delicate threads, now lay untangled, frayed at the edges.

But your heart, that stubborn, foolish organ, never stopped searching for him in the empty spaces.

Two nights later, with a heavy heart and trembling fingers, you submitted the final article draft. The one your editor had eagerly anticipated – the grand finale of “Love in the Everyday,” featuring you and your adorably, undeniably real-seeming husband.

But the words on the screen weren’t the lighthearted anecdotes she expected. You didn’t write about the joy of shared cooking, the enthusiastic fan comments, or the viral videos that had chronicled your fabricated romance.

Instead, you wrote about him.

About the quiet strength with which he carried your world, never demanding center stage. About the way he’d wait patiently outside your office with a packed lunch, a silent gesture of care amidst your chaotic deadlines. About the fierce, unwavering support he’d offered that night with your family, standing steadfastly behind you, unflinching in the face of their cruel judgment.

You wrote about the terrifying, gut-wrenching realization of falling in love with someone who had never explicitly stated if he was allowed to love you back, within the confines of your bizarre, temporary arrangement. You poured your raw, vulnerable truth onto the digital page, a confession disguised as a farewell.

You hit send before your courage failed you, the click of the button echoing the finality of the impending goodbye.

💬 Mingyu : You really gonna leave without telling her how you feel, you idiot? She practically went to war for you. 💬 Cheol: What if… what if the ‘my wife’ thing was just for the cameras? What if the comfort food was just a nice gesture? What if I’ve completely misread everything? The contract ends in two weeks, Mingyu. Two weeks and this whole… performance is over. 💬 Mingyu : She made you dinner, Cheol. After finding out you’re leaving for Paris. A home-cooked meal filled with the taste of… distance, according to you. That’s not just a friendly gesture. That’s practically a declaration in Y/N-speak. She might as well have proposed with a side of kimchi. Don’t be a fool.

--

Choi Seungcheol, a man who could coax flavor from the simplest ingredients, had become a master of emotional suppression, a skill honed in the demanding heat of Michelin-starred kitchens where sentimentality was a weakness.

He had meticulously constructed a fortress around his burgeoning affection for Y/N, each brick a layer of logic, practicality, and the stark, unyielding reality of their contractual arrangement. Mingyu’s hopeful pronouncements, filled with the saccharine optimism of a K-drama fanatic, had been dismissed as mere fantasy. Love? A dangerous delusion.

Their entire relationship had been a carefully orchestrated performance, a series of “my wife this” and “my wife that” delivered for the insatiable gaze of the internet, a cruel pantomime of intimacy. The absence of a single genuine kiss, a fundamental act of connection, underscored the hollowness of their charade.

And a persistent, agonizing question gnawed at him: did she even need him beyond the occasional recipe critique and the shared performance of marital bliss?

And so, with a heart heavier than any cast-iron skillet, he had adhered to the cold, unyielding terms of their agreement. On the fourteenth day, the expiration date circled in his mental calendar since their first disastrous dinner, he had placed the signed divorce papers on the pristine kitchen counter, the crisp finality of the document a stark counterpoint to the messy tangle of his emotions.

The silence as he’d closed the apartment door behind him had been a deafening testament to the chasm he was leaving behind. The gleaming promise of a prestigious kitchen in Paris, a lifelong ambition realized, felt like ash in his mouth, the bitter taste of what he was sacrificing lingering on his tongue.

The journey to forget Y/N, the woman he had sworn to protect his heart from, stretched before him, a desolate and seemingly endless road.

Your final article went live at 7:00 a.m., a digital ghost released into the vast echo chamber of the internet. You didn’t refresh the page, didn’t dare to scroll through the comments section, a battlefield of opinions dissecting a love story that had never truly been yours. Woozi’s frantic texts remained unanswered, each unanswered ping a testament to your profound emotional exhaustion.

Instead, you remained on the cold kitchen floor, a fetal curl of despair amidst the sterile normalcy of the apartment. Your gaze was fixed on the empty space where Cheol’s favorite skillet had hung, a phantom weight pulling at your chest.

He was gone. The silence he’d left behind was a suffocating shroud, each breath a painful reminder of his absence. You replayed the soft click of the closing door in your mind, a sound that had severed the fragile thread connecting your lives. The image of his neatly packed suitcase leaning against the door the night before was a fresh wound.

And so, as the sun climbed higher, casting long shadows across the empty rooms, you didn’t move. You simply let him go, the unspoken words and unacknowledged feelings a leaden weight in your soul. The future stretched before you, a vast and terrifying expanse devoid of his quiet presence.

But what you didn’t know, as you sat amidst the ruins of your almost-love story, was that miles above the earth, suspended in the sterile cabin of an airplane, your raw, vulnerable words were finding their mark.

[YOUR ARTICLE: EXCERPT] "He always used to say the right meal could mend a broken spirit. I was skeptical, a cynic of grand gestures and easy comfort. But then there were nights when the weight of the world pressed down, when the carefully constructed walls around my heart threatened to crumble, and he would simply offer a warm bowl, a silent presence, a tangible act of care that spoke volumes without uttering a single word of forced comfort. He held space for my anxieties, my exhaustion, the messy, unfiltered parts of myself that I usually kept hidden from the world. He saw the cracks in my facade, the vulnerabilities I fought so hard to conceal, and instead of recoiling, he offered a quiet understanding, a shared meal that tasted of acceptance. He never demanded explanations, never pushed for vulnerability I wasn’t ready to offer. He simply was, a steady anchor in the turbulent sea of my emotions. And now, the thought of a future without the comforting aroma of his cooking filling this apartment, without the quiet strength of his presence a constant reassurance, without the unexpected warmth of his hand brushing mine in a fleeting moment of shared laughter… the thought is a vast, echoing emptiness. The idea of navigating life without his quiet support is a chilling prospect, a flavor of profound loss that no amount of professional success or fleeting internet fame can ever hope to mask."

Seungcheol sat rigidly in seat 14A of his first class, the leather of his worn satchel digging into his clenched fists. The plane remained stubbornly grounded, the pre-flight announcements a distant, meaningless drone. Outside the window, the grey expanse of the tarmac mirrored the desolate landscape of his heart.

His gaze was fixed on the illuminated screen of his phone, your words a searing indictment of his carefully constructed logic. Each sentence was a fresh wound, tearing through the layers of denial he had so painstakingly built. He saw the quiet moments you described, the unspoken language of shared meals, the fragile connection he had so readily dismissed as mere performance.

A wave of agonizing regret washed over him, a bitter taste of what he was so carelessly leaving behind. He had prioritized a lifelong ambition over the quiet, unexpected love that had bloomed in the most unlikely of circumstances. He had chosen the glittering promise of Paris over the raw, vulnerable truth reflected in your words.

With a sudden, visceral certainty, he knew he was making a catastrophic mistake. The Michelin stars, the accolades, the culinary triumphs – they all paled in comparison to the simple, profound connection he had shared with you.

He unbuckled his seatbelt with a trembling hand and stood abruptly, his bag clutched like a lifeline.

“Sir, we are now preparing for departure—” the flight attendant began, her voice laced with professional concern.

“I can’t,” he choked out, the words a raw whisper torn from his throat. “I have to go back.” He didn’t meet her questioning gaze, his focus solely on the urgent, desperate need to return to the woman whose quiet strength had unknowingly become his own anchor.

You heard the hesitant knock around noon, a fragile sound that barely penetrated the heavy silence of the apartment. You remained curled on the floor, a hollow ache where your heart used to be.

Then another knock, slightly more insistent, followed by the soft, hesitant murmur of your name. His voice. The sound, so familiar yet so unexpected, sent a jolt of disbelief through your numb despair.

With a slow, almost agonizing movement, you pushed yourself up, your limbs heavy and unresponsive. He stood in the doorway, his breath ragged, his dark hair disheveled, the familiar fabric of his apron peeking out from beneath his rumpled jacket. He looked like a man who had run across continents for a single breath of air.

“I… I came back,” he said, his voice thick with emotion, his eyes searching yours with a desperate intensity.

A single tear traced a lonely path down your cheek. “Why?” The question was barely a whisper, laced with a fragile hope you didn’t dare to believe.

He held up the small bento box, his hands trembling slightly. The warmth radiating from it was a tangible reminder of his quiet care. Inside, nestled amongst the carefully arranged ingredients, was the simple, comforting stew he had made on the night your carefully constructed world had threatened to shatter.

“I made you this,” he said, his voice low and raw. “Because… because you once said it helped you survive. And… and your words… they made me realize… I don’t want to just survive without you, Y/N.”

He took a hesitant step closer, his gaze locking onto yours, his dark eyes filled with a raw vulnerability you had never witnessed before.

“You… you’re more than just someone I cooked for. You… you help me breathe,” he confessed, his chest rising and falling with each ragged breath. “I was so afraid… afraid of ruining what we had, even if it was… unconventional. I didn’t know if I was allowed to feel this… this real. I was so terrified of being rejected, of misreading every small gesture…”

Before he could unravel further, you reached for him, your fingers tangling in the soft fabric of his jacket, your face pressing into the familiar comfort of his chest. The scent of him, a blend of spices and something uniquely his, filled your senses, a lifeline in the suffocating emptiness.

“You always were,” you whispered, your voice thick with unshed tears, the words a fragile affirmation of the feelings you had both tried so hard to deny.

He leaned down, his lips finding yours with a desperate tenderness, a kiss that tasted of regret, of longing, and finally, of a hesitant, burgeoning hope. It wasn’t tentative, wasn’t careful, wasn’t a performance for an audience. It was real, raw, and a promise of something more than a contract.

That night, the silence in the apartment was finally replaced by the comfortable hum of shared presence. He moved around the kitchen with a familiar grace, preparing a simple meal while you sat on the counter, legs swinging, watching him with a newfound tenderness. You stole bites from the simmering pans, and he didn’t stop you, his gaze lingering on you with a soft smile. When you burned your tongue on a particularly eager taste, he leaned in, his lips brushing against yours in a gentle, lingering kiss that tasted of forgiveness and the promise of a future finally worth savoring.

💬 Woozi : So… real marriage now? No more pretending for the internet? 💬 You: Real everything, Woozi. Finally. And it tastes so much better than any viral video. 💬 Woozi : My best friend’s finally whipped. Beautifully, irrevocably whipped. About damn time.

THE END.

[crystalandparrot]

Kpop demon hunter x Chef! Reader

Part five << Part six << Next

Eventually, when (Y/n) calmed down, the girls got dressed in their pajamas and sat huddled together on the large white couch. They sat in silence with (Y/n) rubbing her hand anxiously. The elevator dinged when Rumi finally got home—hours later when the moon was high in the sky.

Mira, Zoey, and (Y/n) said nothing still. They only got up, walked quickly to Rumi, and embraced her gently.

Zoey led Rumi to her room and softly told her to change while (Y/n) cooked and Mira set the table.

By the time Rumi was dressed in a tan hoodie and cute pajama pants there was pork ramen and tea on the table. Vegetables, tofu, rice, and sauce decorated the table as well. A warm and comforting dish that (Y/n) felt like Rumi needed at the moment. All of the girls sat down to join her.

Rumi quietly took a sip of her broth before speaking, “I…I’m sorry about the show.”

“Rumi, it’s okay. I’m sure everything will be fine,” Zoey waved off Rumi’s anxiety, “Bobby can handle it.”

As if on cue, Zoey’s phone rang with Bobby’s ringtone.

“Hi, Bobby!” Zoey shouted cheerfully.

“Girls, I can’t handle this! There’s thousands of disappointed fans and the network is losing their minds! Okay, this is why you pay me 3%. Okay, back off! My girls will sing when they’re ready—“ Zoey quickly ended the call before it could get too crazy.

“It’ll be okay!” (Y/n) said optimistically, “Can’t you guys schedule another concert in a few days?”

Rumi sighed, “I-I don’t know if that’s going to be possible. My voice, it’s in trouble.”

“Wait, in trouble?” Mira guffawed, “Then why did you push up the “Golden” release?”

“Because we’re so close, and it’s so important.” Rumi drifted off.

“Okay,” Zoey started, “how do we handle this? What do we tell the fans? Maybe we should call Celine?”

(Y/n) flinched at the mention of telling her mentor what was happening.

Mira rolled her eyes, “You know what she’d say, Zoey.”

“Oh, right,” Zoey cleared her throat, “We are Hunters.”

Mira began to join in, “Voices strong. Your faults and fears must never be seen.” The two laughed.

“Whoa, you sound exactly like her,” Mira chuckled.

“Yeah,” Zoey nudged Mira, “that’s exactly how she says it.” Suddenly, the girls got serious, “But for sure. We have to hide it. Mm-hm.”

“No, but we gotta hide it and fix it.” Mira added.

“Maybe just fix it?…” (Y/n) added quietly.

“Rumi, why don’t we take a break? We’ll skip the Idol Awards this year and—“ Zoey started.

“No. No way. It’s our most important show. It’s when we strengthen the Honmoon for the entire year. We can’t skip it. We just can’t. Not when I’m so close.” Rumi practically begged.

Zoey put a hand on Rumi’s shoulder, “Hey, we’ll get through this. We can get through anything. Together.”

Mira got back on topic, “Okay. We have two weeks to fix Rumi’s voice. Any ideas?”

Zoey grinned, “I do have one idea…” she began pulling out her phone.

Mira deadpanned at Zoey, “Just one?”

“Actually, 57!” Zoey floundered, “But let’s start with my favorite. Don’t worry. It’s totally legit,” she promised, pointing her phone at Rumi. “His name is Doctor Han, he’s got this special voice tonic.”

“Perfect, we’ll go into town tomorrow to check it out,” Mira nodded.

“Wait, tomorrow?” (Y/n) spoke up, she groaned, “I start my new job tomorrow…”

“But you’ll still be with us, right?” Zoey asked.

“I have to go shopping for their ingredients tomorrow and then meet them after.” (Y/n) said downcast.

“Maybe you can go with us and then go shopping?” Zoey asked hopefully.

“I…” (Y/n) watched as Rumi, Mira, and Zoey used puppy dog eyes on her. She was pretty sure Mira shed a fake tear. “Okay.”

“Yay!!”

“Yes!”

“(N/n)!!!”

“I’ll walk with you guys to your tonic place then go shopping, deal?” (Y/n) ‘set her foot down.’

“Deal!”

The next morning Zoey, Mira, Rumi, and (Y/n) all walked through downtown. The pop-stars wore disguises that hid their typical looks while (Y/n) wore a (f/c) sundress and white flats. While the girls tried to make themselves smaller and unnoticeable, (Y/n) stood out all the more.

“It’s down this alleyway!” Zoey pointed to an alley and pushed the group forward.

“I still have to go to the store,” (Y/n) whined.

“There’s one right here…” Mira pointed next door where there was a secondary entrance to a grocery store.

“Then I guess I’ll see you guys tonight?” (Y/n) offered.

The three singers sniffled and then cried loudly and dramatically. Then they all hugged (Y/n) tightly.

“You’ll call us if anything happens, right?”

“Don’t let those boys sweep you off your feet, okay? You come back to us.”

“I’m gonna miss youuuu.”

With tearful goodbyes, the group departed.

(Y/n) enjoyed shopping. Not clothing or makeup shopping, she enjoyed grocery shopping. She came up with more ideas the more she scanned the aisles. (Y/n) bought meats, cheeses, fruits, vegetables, spices, dairy, eggs, and snacks. As she was passing by the last aisle she saw a case of assorted fruit sodas and couldn’t resist. (Y/n) checked out, grinning at the thought of Jinu’s face when he saw his dinner. She was unaware of the events outside, of course.

Outside Rumi, Mira, and Zoey had walked out of the doctor’s office with a box of tonics they became startled by four shadows that were about to walk into the same alley.

“Fans!”

“Be cool, look normal!”

Mira and Zoey pulled up Rumi’s hood and hid behind her as she shuffled forward in an awkward penguin walk.

The four figures—Abby, Mystery, Baby, and Romance—walked into the alley, an air of confidence surrounding them. Time seemed to slow as Mira and Zoey gawked at them all. With excellent timing, the boys all flipped their hair at the same time, adding to their attractiveness. Abby subtly stretched his arms behind his head causing his top shirt button to pop open. While Zoey drooled, Abby popped another button open and his shirt flew open, exposing his chiseled chest.

“You guys are so gro…” Before Rumi could finish her degradation, another figure—Jinu—turned the corner. Rumi was so enchanted by him that she hadn’t notice him getting closer and closer until his shoulder met hers. Rumi, feeling weak on her knees, fell easily, the tonics slipping out of her grip and spilling onto the ground.

Jinu looked at Rumi curiously as she fell. He stretched out his hand….Rumi, still encapsulated, reached out to grab it….

Jinu retracted his hand to brush his shoulder free of any dust or debris Rumi might have passed to him. He scoffed and looked down at Rumi with a hum, “Watch yourself.”

Rumi gaped at the retreating boy.

The rest of the boys had turned around to wait for Jinu, not noticing (Y/n) leaving the building in front of them. When Jinu caught up, the boys parted to make a path for him, and he bumped straight into (Y/n)

Zoey, Mira, and Rumi watched as bags of groceries flew into the air in slow motion. Soft music seemingly came out of nowhere. They saw Jinu’s chest push (Y/n) harshly towards the ground and they stepped forward—only to gasp when they saw Abby coming up from behind the girl to steady her. Mira’s eyes narrowed on Abby’s hands when they tightened around (Y/n)’s hips.

Time was still moving slowly as the bags of groceries finally hit the ground, produce (luckily still in their containers or skin) bounced onto the pavement, spices clacked on the ground, canned drinks rolled around in all directions, and (Y/n)—she was not happy.

“Ah!” (Y/n) immediately shot to the ground to pick up her fallen goods.

Both of the groups blinked owlishly at (Y/n). It seems that everyone was moving in slow motion, except for her…

Romance smirked when he glanced back at Huntr/x, getting a devilish idea. He quickly bent down and began helping the (Y/n), secretly telling the others to follow. Soon each boy stood up holding a bag of groceries except for Jinu.

“Look at our little chef, hard at work,” Romance used his free hand to frame his face attractively, “were you planning on carrying all of these this whole time? You’re so adorable…”

Out of nowhere Mystery held out a large black tote bag with a hot pink lion symbol decorating the front. Baby pulled out a separate bag in the reverse colors. Abby and Mystery put the two paper bags they were carrying in the first tote bag while Baby and Romance did the same to theirs. Jinu took both of these large tote bags and gently put them on (Y/n)’s shoulders, adjusting the straps to make sure they were comfortable.

(Y/n) was unaware of the glares coming from the girls behind her, but the boys were. While Jinu was distracting (Y/n), the other four boys had glanced at Mira, Rumi, and Zoey with golden glares and sharp smirks.

“There,” Jinu looked deep into (Y/n)’s eyes, “better?”

(Y/n) smiled at Jinu, “Maybe you should watch where you’re going.” She chuckled at Jinu’s surprised face.

Jinu quickly fixed his face, “If I did, I wouldn’t have run into you…” he used his index finger and thumb to tilt (Y/n)’s chin up and look her straight in the eyes. This further accentuated how much taller he was than her. He chuckled seductively, “Until we meet again, gorgeous.”

The group slowly began to walk out of the alley, Abby, Baby, Romance, and Mystery winking, smirking, blowing a kiss, and nodding (respectively) at her as they passed.

(Y/n) shook her head, “Weirdos,” she said, amused at the boys’ antics.

“That was so…”

“Hot…”

“Disgusting…”

“Gross…”

Mira and Rumi looked at Zoey curiously.

“I meant, blehh…” Zoey chuckled nervously.

While the three gathered Rumi’s tonics, (Y/n) tilted her head at them in question, “What happened?”

“It’s nothing, (N/n).” Mira forced a grin at (Y/n), Rumi and Zoey following.

(Y/n) blinked, “Okayyy…I’ll see you guys tonight?”

“Bye, (N/n)!” The three waved as (Y/n) walked out of the alley. When she was gone the girls took a breath of relief.

“So we hate them, right?” Mira asked.

“Absolutely.”

“100%.”

“Did you see the way they touched her? Ughh…” Rumi gagged.

“And the whispering? Blehh…” Zoey fake threw up.

“No, it was more like, ughhhhh…” Mira added.

All three of the girls gagged in unison, utterly disgusted by even the thought of the attractive men. It was then that they heard music from behind them.

“What’s that?” Rumi asked, standing up with the box of tonics safely returned to her hands.

The three girls walked into the square a crowd building around a large cloud of pink smoke. Pop music began to play from speakers hidden around the area. The five boys from earlier began to dance to the beat, perfectly in sync.

Don't want you, need you

Yeah, I need you to fill me up

마시고 마셔 봐도

성에 차지 않아

“It’s those stupid jerks again!” Rumi growled. A woman hurriedly pushed past only to be blown back by Jinu’s dance moves. He was untouchable. “These guys are a boy band?”

Got a feeling that, oh, yeah (Yeah)

You could be everything that

That I need (Need), taste so sweet (Sweet)

Every sip makes me want more, yeah

Lookin' like snacks 'cause you got it like that (Woo)

Take a big bite, want another bite, yeah

너의 모든 걸 난 원해, 원해, 원해

너 말곤 모두 뻔해, 뻔해, 뻔해

Jinu cracked open a can of soda and began drinking it, causing Rumi to gasp. “That jerk stole one of (Y/n)’s drinks!”

When you're in my arms, I hold you so tight (So tight)

Can't let go, no, no, not tonight

지금 당장 날 봐 시간 없잖아

넌 내꺼야 이미 알고 있잖아

'Cause I need you to need me

I'm empty, you feed me so refreshing

My little soda pop

You're all I can think of

Every drop I drink up

You're my soda pop

My little soda pop

Cool me down, you're so hot

Pour me up, I won't stop

You're my soda pop

My little soda pop

Zoey began bobbing her shoulders, causing the others to notice and glare at her. She quickly stopped…but the beat went too hard and she softly continued. Rumi followed.

“It is annoyingly catchy, though.” Rumi admitted.

Mira started as well, “It’s infectious.” They noticed the boys occasionally glancing at one spot in the crowd. The girls peered around and over heads in the crowd to follow the boys eyes. There they saw (Y/n) grinning and bobbing her shoulders.

Romance and Baby blew hearts to the crowd. Mira caught one and squeezed it, “They can make hearts out of thin air?”

Another heart hit Zoey straight in the face.

Just barely, the girls eyes caught something. A stray beam of light through the buildings illuminated a specific feature on the band’s skin; dark purple patterns. They then noticed their eyes briefly flash gold. With a gasp, the girls realized:

“They’re demons!”

“Magicians���Demons. Obviously demons.” Zoey corrected herself.

My little soda pop

Uh, make me wanna flip the top

한 모금에 you hit the spot

Every little drip and drop, fizz and pop, ah

소름 돋아 it's gettin' hot

“Dang, they’re good.” Zoey complimented.

“Incredible. But a demon boy band? Why?” Rumi asked.

“I don’t care. A demon’s a demon. We kill them.” Mira charged forward only to be held back by Rumi.

“No, it’s too public.” Rumi said.

“What if they try to kill all these people?” Mira asked.

“It doesn’t look like they’re gonna hurt anyone.” Zoey pointed out.

The three watched as the band helped a girl with her street food and gave children gifts.

Yes, I'm sippin' when it's drippin' now

It's done? I need a second round

And pour a lot and don't you stop

'Til my soda pop fizzles out

꿈 속에 그려왔던 너

난 절대 놓칠 수 없어

널 원해 꼭

“In fact, it almost seems like they’re nice demons?” Zoey suggested.

“Demons are never nice!” Rumi and Mira shouted. The three hurriedly threw the street food and presents on the ground, destroying them.

I waited so long for a taste of soda

So, the wait is over, baby

Come and fill me up

Just can't get enough

Oh

A large stage decorated as a soda can rose up underneath the band. On the next down beat, the boys jumped and when they landed the world seemed to grow more colorful, saturated even.

Rumi quickly walked up to the stage, “They’re coming after the fans. We gotta stop this now.”

You're all I can think of

Every drop I drink up

You're my soda pop

My little soda pop (Yeah, yeah)

Cool me down, you're so hot

Pour me up, I won't stop (Oh, oh)

You're my soda pop

My little soda pop

Ooh, ooh

Ooh, ooh

You're my soda pop

Gotta drink every drop

Rumi stopped in front of the stage, a wall of people blocking her from going any further.

Jinu looked around the crowd, eyes lingering on one spot for a bit too long before his eyes caught Rumi’s. With a smirk he dusted off his shoulder again, making Rumi growl.

“That’s it for now. See you tonight on everyone’s favorite variety show.” Jinu gestured to the large display behind him where the title of the show, ‘Play Games With Us’, danced. “Saja Boys love you!”

My little soda pop

At the last note, the Saja Boys posed and Jinu put on a pair of pink sunglasses. While the fans cheered, the stage lowered, allowing the band to safely get off. Calmly they walked through the crowd, thanking fans for their support while they did so.

Rumi’s eyes followed a smirking Jinu until she saw what their path led too.

“Did you like the show?” Romance asked (Y/n). Placing a hand on the small of her back, he led her through the crowd.

“It was great! You guys are gonna be popular for sure!” (Y/n) grinned.

“The Saja Boys…that’s the band (Y/n) works for now!” Zoey realized.

“Of course it is…” Mira glowered.

“Hey, how did you do that thing with the hearts?” (Y/n) asked as she was led into an alley by the Saja Boys.

“We have to do something.” Mira stepped forward again.

“Tonight.” Rumi decided.

“But what if they—“

“They won’t do anything to (Y/n). Not yet. They wouldn’t have made a big show of coming off the stage and going straight to her. They were making a point…now we get to make one back.”

When the Saja Boys were hidden from the crowd their demeanor changed just slightly.

Without a word, Baby took both of the tote bags from (Y/n)’s shoulders.

“When we get back to the house we have to be fast. Let’s put away the groceries then get ready to go live.” Jinu decided. He was unaware of (Y/n)’s surprised look.

“What do we wear?” Abby asked.

“Something pink?” Romance suggested.

“Do we have to wear pink all the time?” Baby asked bluntly.

“Do you guys know what time you’ll be back?” (Y/n) asked quietly.

The boys immediately stopped walking and chatting to stare at (Y/n) curiously. She blushed and stuttered at their intense looks, “J-just so I know what time to have dinner ready! I know that the game show host likes to do spicy challenges sometimes so I thought you’d like something to soothing when you got home and—“

“You’re coming with us.” Mystery said, interrupting (Y/n)’s rambling.

“I…what?”

“Did you think we were just gonna leave you home alone all day? We’re not monsters.” Jinu smirked and continued walking.

Abby threw an arm over (Y/n)’s shoulder to force her to keep up with the group. “Jinu can’t get enough of your cooking—“

“Shut up.” Jinu muttered.

“So he told the host that he was gonna bring a personal chef—“

“Shut. Up.”

“Because he didn’t trust anyone to handle food on account of his ‘allergies’…” Abby used his free hand to make air quotes.

“Chul, if you don’t shut your mouth—“ Jinu growled.

“Hey, just being honest.” Abby shrugged.

(Y/n) smiled, a new wave of emotion, of belonging, flooded into her chest. “So is Bulgogi still on the table for dinner tonight?”

A/N: I hope you guys like this chapter! The next two chapters are going to be longer and lead up to non canonical events.

Once again, a lot of you have clocked that (Y/n) seems to be a side character in this story, that’s because it’s not her story, but it’s about to be.

I really appreciate all of your suggestions! The taglist is reached its first limit so I’ll reblog this post with the second taglist at the bottom! Thank you all for reading! Let me know if I forgot anyone!!

Taglist : @ashleygryffindor @alastor-simp @whimsiecat @nev-valkyriesdottir @kashasenpai @yuurisfavblog @dancingpotatolol @vipxl @introvertathome @luv1ayala @galaxygurlll @insideoutjulie @tyresedidujsfart @katzline @boldlyenchantingfox22 @sidewalkenforcer @maroonanddelulu @eyes-ofhell @maryloudiaries @jennypenny-19 @raineandcl0uds @bubbabobabubbles @redkitsu03 @creativecupcake @sirens-and-moonflowers @tumblblob @asakiyu @mouchie @meowsertrix @nightlark100 @snowy-violet @t-wylia @littlemissfix-itfic @call-me-prodigy @bunniotomia @the-ultimate-supreme-gremlin @desiree-lee @a-cozy-little-home @mybradontfit @waltermis @gremlinartstudio @asillysimp @yayahufflepuff4life @theyaremorethanjustfictional @tsukimoon-chan @ari-mary @lostsomewhereinthegarden @thestardeli @beal-o @dukeacid

Edit: Sorry for the weird question, but do you guys like Frozen??? It MIGHT be getting used for a later chapter, but I’m still debating…

[just-a-little-unionoid]

Okay yeah that's what I thought

Well maybe then you should read the op again bc it was very much about companies being like "oh we're so proud of using plastic instead of animal products 🥰" like they gave a single shit about it, bc no matter what plastic is STILL bad for the environment, and if they did gave a single shit they would use durable methods of tanning, make more durable products and work only with materials from organic and animal wellbeing focused farms, and makes it so it's still somehow affordable.

Corporations don't give a single shit about animals or environment and that was what the post was about, not about the consumer side of the problem.

companies will be like “we’re so proud we don’t make anything with feathers, leather or fur” and then make stuff out of synthetic materials that will not decompose but will shed micro-plastics with every wash like…..yas so good for the animals so animals rights

[theobservatory]

i love the way you write about jason, especially in the confession post- can i request jason with a very very talkative SO??

Thank you pookie !! Hopefully I didn't make reader annoying, I kinda based her off myself when I start feeling manic lmaoo, it's the only time I really get talkative IRL so it was kinda all I had to base it on

｡⁠.ﾟ✧ ˎˊ˗

Talkative｡⁠.ﾟ★ ˎˊ˗

｡⁠☆Synopsis: a few snapshots of you talking Jason's ear off

｡⁠☆Cw: mention of harassment, inane conversation topics, mention of body horror

You're sitting on the couch. One of Jason's large hands is rubbing little circles on your thigh, the other is holding his phone as he gets as much work done as he can without his computer. He would go get it, but you've already gotten comfortable laying your head on his shoulder.

"So then Alyssa- you remember Alyssa, don't you?" No, he does not. "So Alyssa tells Jackson to go file the rest of the reports, right?"

"Mhm."

"Right, only for him to quit, right on the fucking spot. Like I don't like this job either, but I'm still giving my two weeks because some of us still have courtesy! It's not about the business, it's about our coworkers, our kinda friends who we'd rather not inconvenience because they're pleasant enough, but would never hangout with outside of work. God, he was an asshole anyway."

"I believe it."

"And then- wait oh my God, Jason! I completely forgot to tell you about Anna! The new girl! Turns out she's sleeping with our boss's son!" Oh, that guy he remembers.

"The guy who slapped your ass?" The same one who you said isn't bothering you anymore, and he's trying to trust you, but he doesn't really believe it.

"The one and only." You groan. "Must've moved onto fresh meat, poor Anna. She's a sweet girl y'know?"

"Mhm."

｡⁠.ﾟ✧ ˎˊ˗

"Jay."

He grunts, turning over in bed to look at you. Your eyes are wide in the moonlight, not a speck of the sleepiness that was there just a few minutes ago. Jason wishes he could share the sentiment. Frankly, he's exhausted, and he's been looking forward to sleeping all day.

"Do you ever think about the fact that we're all brains puppeting fleshy meat suits? How crazy is that?!"

Jason sighs. Half of his job in your life is to protect you from the horrors of the world, but sometimes he believes you are the horrors in question. Not that he minds. You can be a worm and he would love you all the same.

"Baby, go to sleep."

"But Jay, I can't stop thinking about it! We're just a bunch of nerves disguised by a vaguely animal flesh bag and-"

He presses a gentle kiss to your lips before pulling you into his chest.

"Sleep." He grunts again.

You laugh. "Okay."

The blissful silence doesn't last long.

"Jay?"

"Yes, nuisance who won't go to sleep?"

"Rude. I just wanted to tell you that you're my favorite meat puppet in the world, but maybe I take it back now."

"I'm okay with that."

"Jason!" You pinch his arm.

"If I tell you you're my favorite puppet will you go to sleep?"

"Yes."

"Then you're my favorite." Quieter he mumbles, "for some fucking reason."

｡⁠.ﾟ✧ ˎˊ˗

"Okay, now the recipe requires two eggs, a cup of water, and vegetable oil. Can you grab the eggs out the fridge for me."

"I got it."

"Thanks. Did you know my mom wanted to raise chickens when we were kids, even though I've never lived on a farm? Plus, I don't even like chickens, they're like tiny predators! If I had to-"

"Sweetheart, mix the eggs."

"Oh, right. If I had to choose between fighting one chicken sized horse, or one horse sized chicken, I would choose the horse every time!"

"Mhm."

"Well, I'm still biased because I like horses, but still! I don't know, maybe I should use the analogy with a wolf, because I'm still choosing the wolf every time."

"The next step?"

"Mix wet and dry ingredients together. Actually, while we're on the topic-"

New blog theme new me, y'all. Do we like it ? I made almost all the dividers myself (⁠◕⁠ᴗ⁠◕⁠✿⁠)

Not proofread as usual, posting this right before bed so I'll see y'all in the morning. I have a post about baby names ready for tomorrow, so look forward to that, and PLEASE give me your input I don't wanna give them dumb names 😔💔

｡⁠☆Requests Open...?

[l00kingatthem00n]

Since two times is canonically creepy can you write him being creepy in a cute way towards reader

━━ EYES LIKE ANGELS.

WARNINGS: whatever is up with two time 🙄 /j none, if i've missed anything lmk.

There's always been an air of unease when it came to Two Time; even if you're their lover, you've felt as much as the other survivors have, too. Tonight, you're most aware of their abnormalities when you catch them staring at you. From your window.

TWO TIME HAS A STARING PROBLEM. It’s not exactly some sort of egregious secret of theirs that they’re deciding to take to their first, their second and their eventual last death. For goodness' sake though, they’re not even subtle about it or even try to be. Certainly, it’s uncomfortable to have a cultist so admittedly off-putting stare at you as if they’re thinking about making you their next sacrifice. After all, widened eyes, dilated pupils and an unwavering gaze don’t exactly entail a friendly interaction. Furthermore, a follower of Spawn, so devoted and so passionate, who’d been bestowed a dagger that too leisurely hangs around their hip doesn’t exactly ensure the most pleasant perceptions  And so, of course, the others would find discomfort with their presence, especially with their eyes. When it comes to drawing Two Time’s gaze, you can sense the divide you and the others must have. To them, it’s looking anxiously into an abyss. To you, it’s looking into a blinding light; that of an angel with their burning gaze. 

The survivors all expressed their concerns about your relationship with them. Some were reasonable, some a little less so. You’re not sure what to make of their worries. You suppose you can’t exactly judge them too critically for their distrust of Two Time. You would have to be beyond foolish not to see what is so evidently present about them. It doesn’t help that their complicated history with romance only heightens the unease. And you understand, somewhat, Two Time is reserved despite how much they seem to prattle. Though there’s nothing that exempts them from their strange relationship with that dagger, that glossed-over look in their eyes on certain days. Even then, you have your faith and trust in them, and thus your love is to be assured too. But, you recollect their regards for you; complaints, concerns, many of the sort. 

The first was Elliot, ever-considerate and ever-caring for your well-being. It was in the morning or what you would consider the morning in this otherworld. And courtesy of the pre-established routine, the two of you were responsible for breakfast. You’d been chopping away vegetables with a dull knife. He’d been whisking some of the eggs he’d cracked. A faint clicking noise of the utensil against the plastic bowl accompanied by his inquisitive concerns and quiet concerns. “You know, it’s pretty sweet that you so quickly have a lot of faith in Two Time. It would take a lot for me, haha!” It surely wasn't the intention to come off so harsh. That aside though, the choice of words had you somewhat bewildered. Shouldn't Elliot already have much trust in someone who tries to watch over him?

Then, it was the gambler, Chance, who whispered in your ear one evening A smooth, confident drawl to disguise their evident worries and concerns for your relationship with Two Time, concerns for whatever entailed in your relationship. “Hey, just let me know if they’re treating you badly, kid. I’ll have at ‘em, show ‘em who they’re messing with,” They’d reassure you, raising two balled fists before mimicking a punching movement. A charming sentiment, an unnecessary one too. You’re hopeful they wouldn’t do anything impulsive, and you’re also sure that Two Time would win against them even without their pristine blade. You’ve seen Chance manage to throw a swing or two, only to be met with complete failure.

As for the latest individual to offer their opinion, it was Builderman. That harsh, Southern drawl of his wasn’t exactly sugarcoating any feelings he had about your relationship with Two Time. Maybe, it’s a bit of that authority from being a de-facto leader of your group. Or he’s thoroughly dedicated to looking out for you, seeing as he’s way older and presumably wiser than you are. Regardless, he had gruffly told you so in a passing conversation. The two of you were sitting on the dock over the lake, briefly going over the blueprints of his inventions to see what could be improved– Should the Spectre not interfere that is. Then, he’d just said: ”Kid, I have to be honest, that Two Time feller ain't exactly looking like the sweetest partner. Are ‘ya sure this is what you want?” It was a colourful conversation after that, to say the least, with lots of comments you couldn’t discern as his accent only thickened from his complicated feelings for them.

But, is this truly the most trifling matter? It could be that your acceptance of Two Time’s strange character could come from something of the like within yourself. Their unsettling carrying of themselves isn’t too frightening, at least to you. And that gaze of theirs, never daring to stray from yours, hasn’t become too intrusive either. Well, not yet, anyway. Regardless, it isn't exactly the perfect opportunity to think about all of that now, especially when the cultist themselves should be coming by soon. So far, you’re all by your lonesome in the decrepit cabin. Your roommate, Dusekkar, had left a while ago to find Shedletsky for whatever purpose. 

Your purse your lips together, pacing around the cabin as each step creaked the floorboards beneath you. It’d been a while since you’ve told Two Time to meet with you as scheduled, but there’s no sight of them. Last you saw of them was when they were assigned for a match, though they should have been here by now. You let out a long, exasperated sigh. With hasty steps, you move your way over to the windows of your cabin. Your head falls into the palms of your hands, massaging the sides to try and remedy your hurrying mind. 

There’s no reason for you to worry, truly. Two Time is capable of handling themselves, especially when death has become but a minor inconvenience when undergoing some kind of immortality. And if it was something to do with the survivors, you’re sure they would’ve told you themselves, or you’d hear from one of the others about their whereabouts. Neither of those feel like they’re perfectly applying at the moment, and so you find yourself frantic. You go to rest your head against the windowsill, letting out a loud groan. 

You tilt your head upwards. What you were expecting to see was the fabricated woodlands the Spectre had made, but what your gaze actually meets startles you. You jolt backwards, nearly stumbling onto the wooden floor as you see the display of the cultist you’re so worried about: Two Time. Their eyes are beyond wide, with shaky dilated pupils and a wide grin curled across their lips. Grasped between one hand, they use the bottom of their dagger to tap on the window, a loud rhythmic thudding accompanying their movements. The other hand is used to eagerly wave for your attention. Despite the glass muffling their speech, you can make out their pleased greeting with ease. As they speak, their breath briefly fogs the window.

“Hello, my love!” 

You blink; Once, then twice. Then, your startled expression softens at them. With light-hearted exasperation, you shake your head as you undo the latches of the window. A heavy groan from the window hinges as it's pried all the way upward. You lean along the window frame, closing some distance between the two of you. Though Two Time continues to smile at you, the corners of their lips never reach their eyes and too many teeth bared towards you. Something creeps down to the base of your spine, something unsettled. Such a feeling doesn’t linger for long, at least, or doesn’t make itself present for long. 

Mindlessly, your hands lazily hang from the window as you try to return their wide grin. Once more, to your surprise, Two Time’s hands hastily clasp around yours. It’s not reverently gentle, more like overly eager. Tight, firm, with almost no intentions to even consider letting you go. They squeeze and you have half the heart to tell Two Time that they’re squeezing way too hard. Yet, you disregard your worries and swallow them like the lump in your throat. It’s not that they intend to harm you in any way, even if you’re alarmingly beginning to feel a loss of sensation from your fingertips to your palms. In a meek attempt to match their vice-like hold, you squeeze their fingers back and lean forward as you press a kiss against their cheek. You receive a content hum from them. 

“Did something happen? It took you longer than usual, honey.” 

Two Time offers an upbeat hum, “Oh, Spawn may forgive me for my tardiness in seeing you. I was admiring you from afar from the window until you noticed.”

“Oh,” Your eyelids droop as you process their words, something akin to a lazy blink before tilting your head to the side. “Were you doing this for a while…?”

“Of course! It would not be right if I weren’t to adore you at your most candid. Spawn forbid!” 

“Two Time, you…” You can feel the cogwheels spin in your head. “You spent the last…What? Ten minutes? Just looking at me through the cabin window?” 

They enthusiastically nod. “As I have said, yes.” 

You also nod along. Then, Two Time releases you from their hold all of a sudden. Your nerves adjust to the absent tension, awakening your nerves with an odd tingling feeling. But, you don’t worry too much about that for they practically drag themselves inside. The worst way possible too. You can only watch what unfolds. A painful witnessing. Of course, you offer a hand for assistance but you’re met with Two Time dismissively waving your hand away. Their dagger wedges between the gnarled logs of the cabin, used as leverage to slip themselves through the frame. Exasperated breaths and irritated grunts are the only sound that envelops what's happening between the two of you. 

Eventually, Two Time crawls through and tumbles onto the floorboards with a loud thud. You’re about to sink to your knees to try and help them up. Yet, they’re hasty to prop themselves up from the floor. They immediately go to loom over you, or at least make themselves as imposing– you assume, unintentionally –possible. Then, without any warning, you feel their frigid hands grasp at your shoulders. At the very least, Two Time is gentle this time as they usher you towards your bed. With a heavy groan from the springs in the mattress, you’re guided to lay across plushness before they promptly cling to you. Their hands ensnare your waist, pressing themselves flush against you. While the warmth of their cheek is pleasant as they rest atop your chest, allowing you a momentary comfort, they tilt their chin and directly dig into your sternum. A sharp yelp follows from the blunt sensation, though Two Time doesn’t even flinch.

Their unblinking gaze is drawn to yours once more, along with that wide, toothy smile of theirs. They just stare at you, stare at you for so long that you’re compelled to return whatever it is that they’re observing about you. You can make the dark rings beneath them, the crust that hasn’t been rubbed. And before you can note anything else about your peculiar partner, the familiar alto of their voice hums to bring you from your thoughts. 

“I must say I enjoy it when you look at me as I do you.” 

You raise your brow, letting out a chuckle, “Really now?” 

“Of course!” They chime. “If it were up to me, I’d ensure that you’d never look at anyone else! Ever.” 

“You’d just be with me and only look at me, my love!”

It was a charming declaration of love. For a moment. For as genuine and as honeyed as their words can be, there’s an undertone of something else. Something else that allows shivers to creep down the base of your spine, something that allows an uncomfortable knot to tighten in your chest. Sure, it hasn’t been long since you’ve become partners and maybe you should be more considerate to them– This demeanour could be unintentional, for all you know. 

Nevertheless, there’s no denying the dread that lingers from this exchange. And as you can only surrender yourself to Two Time’s whims, letting those piercing eyes like angels observe you, with no regard that you’re uncertainly returning their gaze. You softly sigh. You know what? You’ve finally come to something of a conclusion. Maybe you can see why they were worried in the first place.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: hi everyone!! hope you're all doing alright and taking care :) excuse my yapping down below, but if you'd like to read go on ahead

this request was actually pretty fun to write. but oh my god, characterizing two time was so hard, mainly because I'm not really into their lore as much as i am others. and also i think i struggled to captured a sort of "creepiness" so i'll be improving on that 🗣️🔥

considering that two time might be getting a lore re-work from what i remember??? i've just been unsure of how to write them. i do think for the most part, with the current tidbits of lore, they're very tragic?

they seemed really kind before the cult really started brainwashing them, and even now when they're of a fragile mental state and pretty creepy too. i think they're just a byproduct of all that Cult Stuff. either way, i hope it was enjoyable lol!!!

[justcat-judging]

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐨𝐧𝐞- 𝑵𝒂𝒈𝒊 𝑺𝒆𝒊𝒔𝒉𝒊𝒓𝒐

"𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝒇𝒊𝒓𝒔𝒕 𝒕𝒐 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝒄𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒉𝒊𝒎 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒏𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒔, 𝒃𝒖𝒕 𝒂 𝒓𝒂𝒏𝒅𝒐𝒎 𝒔𝒄𝒉𝒐𝒐𝒍 𝒈𝒊𝒓𝒍 𝒘𝒉𝒐 𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒍𝒐𝒘𝒍𝒚 𝒇𝒆𝒍𝒍 𝒊𝒏 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉." 𝑷𝒕 𝟏

The first time you talked to Nagi Seishiro, it was because of a stupid school project.

"You're my partner," you said, standing in front of his desk while he half-slouched over it, phone lazily balanced in his hand.

He barely lifted his head. "Hassle..." he muttered.

You didn't care. "We're doing it at your place."

He blinked, slow and disinterested, but didn't argue — it was easier to just let you handle it.

The next afternoon, you followed him home. His apartment was... depressing. Empty walls, barely any furniture, and when he opened his fridge, you swore you felt your heart break a little.

Jelly. Bread. And some half-empty sports drinks.

"Is this... all you eat?" you asked, eyes wide in disbelief.

He shrugged, scratching his head. "S'fine. Easy."

You didn't push him — not then — but something about the way he lived stuck with you all night. It wasn't independence. It was loneliness disguised as laziness.

The next day at lunch, you marched over to him with a packed bento.

He stared at it, suspicious. "What's this?"

"Food," you said flatly, dropping it on his desk. "Real food. You're not surviving on jelly while I'm your partner."

Nagi poked at the box like it might explode. You just crossed your arms and waited.

Slowly, he opened it — rice, a little bit of chicken, some vegetables neatly packed in bright little sections. It smelled good. Warm.

He took a bite without much thought — and paused.

"...Tasty," he mumbled, almost to himself.

You didn't make a big deal out of it. Just grinned and tapped the table. "You're welcome, jelly boy."

After the bento incident, it became a quiet, unspoken thing — you kept showing up.

At first, it was just for the project. Notes spread out on his living room floor, your voice filling the silence as Nagi lazily leaned back and let you do most of the talking. He didn’t mind. Listening to you was easy.

But it changed the day you noticed him struggling.

You caught him in the kitchen, standing in front of the microwave, staring blankly at the buttons. A packet of frozen dumplings drooped sadly in his hand.

"...You don't even know how to use that, do you?" you asked, half exasperated, half amused.

Nagi scratched the back of his neck, muttering something under his breath.

You didn't tease him. You just walked over, took the dumplings from his hand, and showed him step by step — how long to heat them, what buttons to press, even how to set a simple timer on the stove.

"There. Now you won't starve when I'm not here," you said, flashing him a grin.

Nagi leaned against the counter, watching you move so easily in his space. His apartment, once cold and quiet, felt smaller now. Warmer. Like it was made for two.

When the microwave beeped, you grabbed a pair of chopsticks from the bag you'd brought — because of course you'd thought of everything — and handed them to him.

He stared at them, then at you.

No one had ever helped him like this before. Not because they had to. Not because they were paid to. Just... because they wanted to.

"...Thanks," he said, voice low, almost shy.

You smiled again — not bright or loud, just soft, like you didn't even realize how much it meant.

"Anytime, Seishiro."

𝑨/𝒏: 𝒊𝒕 𝒃𝒓𝒐𝒌𝒆 𝒎𝒚 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕 𝒐𝒌𝒂𝒚... 𝑻𝒉𝒂𝒕'𝒔 𝒘𝒉𝒚 𝑰'𝒎 𝒘𝒓𝒊𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒂𝒃𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒊𝒕.

[softlytowardthesun]

he's the court jester at Castle Statler-Waldorf.

There's an idea: the party needs to break him out from the castle, and have to evade the acid-tongued lords and their guards, sentient fruits and vegetables who eat you back if they don't find you sufficiently entertaining.

As a bonus, the commanding officer is a mysterious man who speaks only in vaguely Northern grunts and wields a cleaver at all times.

For the past few months I’ve been working on a gothic/folk horror D&D campaign setting based on European fairy tales.

The heiress wereboar daughter of the Three Little Pigs is having an illicit affair with the nephew of the Frog Prince and I want to see how long it takes my party to realize that it’s just Miss Piggy and Kermit

[throughdoegaze]

Unpopular opinion —

Cute but overpriced skincare products, trendy supplements, and aesthetic workout gear won’t be the key to your glow up.

Taking retinol but not eating your vegetables will not make your skin age less

Hydration isn’t just about serums; it’s about drinking water

Collage production isn’t just about fancy creams, it’s about eating nutrient rich foods like leafy greens and berries

Glow doesn’t come from overpriced skincare, it comes from balanced meals, less sugar, and good sleep

Moving your body consistently, even if it’s walking is better than bying every workout set you’ve seen on instagram

Don’t give in to the trap of consumerism disguised as self-care. Your glow up isn’t for the sale. It’s in the basics.

[slvbum]

ᤢ ♥︎⠀ 03⠀‌⸻ angel tears / rafe cameron!

content WARNING: controlling behaviour, toxic!rafe, misogyny, psychological abuse.

The air hummed with the low murmur of men’s voices, punctuated by the occasional clink of whiskey glasses. Rafe had invited his business partners over for another of his informal gatherings, handshakes disguised as hospitality, deals sealed over cigars and Y/N’s cooking. She’d spent the day in the kitchen, her apron dusted with flour as she perfected a new recipe: herb-crusted pork tenderloin with a red wine reduction, paired with roasted vegetables she’d plucked from her garden. The maids would handle the snacks later, and she would usually retreat to her bedroom, her presence unnecessary once the food was served. But tonight, she wanted to be seen.

She smoothed her pale blue dress, the silk skimming her slender frame, and checked her reflection in the kitchen mirror. She carried the platter of sliced pork into the living room, her heels clicking softly, her smile practised but genuine.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” she said, her voice light, almost musical, as she set the platter on the dining table. “I tried a new sauce tonight—hope you like it.”

The men glanced up, their eyes lingering on her with that familiar mix of admiration and something darker, something that made her skin prickle. She didn’t notice Rafe’s smile, too tight, too forced, his jaw a hard line as he watched her from his seat.

She moved with grace, serving each man a portion, her hands steady despite the flutter in her chest. She wanted to impress them, to be more than Rafe’s pretty shadow. She’d seen other wives at these gatherings, perched confidently at the table, laughing with their husbands’ friends, their voices carrying weight. Why couldn’t she be like them? If she could win these men’s trust, maybe Rafe would see her differently... maybe he’d let her sit beside him, not just cook for him.

“The herbs are from our garden,” she said, offering a shy smile to a man with a buzzcut, a thick beard, and a moustache. The only man at the table who wasn’t looking at her as a piece of meat. “I hope it’s not too bold.”

The buzzcut man grinned. “Smells like heaven.”

She beamed, her heart lifting, and didn’t notice Rafe’s fingers tightening around his glass.

As she poured the sauce, her attention drifted to the buzzcut man’s conversation with another partner.

“My wife’s off on a business trip with her father,” he said proudly. “She’s closing a deal in Raleigh—been planning it for weeks.”

Her hand faltered, the ladle hovering midair.

A business trip.

A life outside the home, a purpose beyond serving dinner and keeping the mansion spotless.

She pictured it: a woman in a sharp blazer, striding through an airport, her name on a contract. The thought tugged at something deep inside her, a longing she’d buried under layers of obedience. She didn’t notice the sauce dribbling from the ladle, pooling on the buzzcut man’s polished loafers, until Rafe’s voice sliced through the room.

“Y/N!” he snapped, his tone sharp enough to make her jump.

The ladle clattered against the platter, sauce splattering the tablecloth. Her eyes widened, darting to the mess, then to Rafe. His face was a dangerous shade of calm, his smile gone, his eyes glinting with something cold.

“What the hell are you doing?” he said. “You’re making a goddamn mess in front of my guests.”

The room went quiet, the men shifting awkwardly, their forks pausing mid-bite. Her cheeks burned, her throat tightening as Rafe’s words hit her like a slap.

“Fucking dumb,” he muttered, low but venomous, “stupid girl, can’t even pour sauce without ruining everything.”

The words were new, crueller than anything he’d called her in private, each one a barb that sank into her chest, making her feel small, insignificant.

She opened her mouth to apologize, but her voice caught, her eyes stinging with tears she fought to hide.

“I—I’m sorry,” she stammered, grabbing a napkin to steady herself. “It’s no trouble,” she said, forcing a smile, her hands trembling as she reached for another cloth. “I’ll clean it up.”

The buzzcut man waved her off and laughed.

“No harm done,” he said, wiping his shoe with his napkin. “Accidents happen.”

He stood, brushing past her toward the bathroom, his demeanour light, as if Rafe’s outburst hadn’t a storm that had shaken the room.

But Rafe wasn’t done.

He leaned back in his chair, his eyes locked on her. “Go back to the kitchen,” he said, “and try not to make a mess this time.”

She nodded, her throat raw, and fled to the kitchen, her heart pounded in her ears. The warmth of the oven did nothing to soothe the cold spreading through her chest. She leaned against the counter, her hands trembling as she wiped her cheeks, smudging her mascara.

Why had Rafe done that?

He’d never humiliated her like that in front of others...

She replayed the moment, searching for her mistake, but found only the sting of his words—stupid—looping in her mind, eroding the confidence she’d built for the night. She splashed cold water on her face, forcing slow breaths, and began scrubbing the platter, her hands moving on autopilot to calm the panic clawing at her.

Footsteps interrupted her thoughts. The buzzcut man appeared in the kitchen doorway, his frame filling out the space. She straightened, wiping her hands on her apron, and forced a smile, though her lips quivered.

“Sorry about your shoes,” she said, barely holding together.

He chuckled, a kind sound that eased her nerves.

“Oh, that’s nothing. I’ve done worse—dropped my wife’s favourite teacup once, vintage porcelain from her grandma. Thought she’d have my head, but we ended up laughing ‘til we couldn’t breathe.” Her smile warmed. “Your baking, though,” he continued, nodding toward the tray of lavender shortbread she’d set out earlier, “it’s marvellous. My son, Theo, would go wild for those. You got a gift.”

Her cheeks flushed, a spark of pride igniting.

“Thank you,” she said. “I’ve been experimenting with the recipe—lavender’s tricky, but I love how it turned out.”

“Tricky’s right,” he said, his eyes crinkling. “My wife tried baking with lavender once, ended up with soap-tasting muffins. Disaster.” He laughed, and she giggled, the sound surprising her.

And for a moment, the kitchen felt less like a cage, the air lighter.

“You should come to the country club sometime,” he added, his tone warm, sincere. “My wife’s been taking Pilates there since she got pregnant with our second. Says it keeps her sane. You’d like her—she’s always looking for new friends to drag to class.”

The invitation hit her like a breeze through a cracked window. Pilates at the country club. Other women, laughter, a morning that wasn’t scripted. She could almost see it: stretching in a sunlit studio, her body moving freely, her laughter mingling with others’. Her lips parted, an answer forming...

“That sounds wonderful, I’d—”

But Rafe’s voice cut through, sharp and cold, from behind the man.

“She’s busy,” Rafe said, stepping into the kitchen, his eyes locked on hers. His presence sucked the air from the room, his smile a thin, brittle thing as he clapped a hand on the man’s shoulder, steering him out. “Big house, you know,” Rafe added, his tone light but his grip firm. “Keeps her hands full.”

She forced a smile, her heart sinking.

“Yeah,” she echoed, her voice hollow, “It’s a big house.”

The buzzcut man nodded, oblivious to the tension, and left, his footsteps fading down the hall. She stared at her hands on the counter, the invitation echoing in her mind like a door she’d glimpsed but couldn’t open. She didn’t know she could want something like that.

After the guests left, the mansion was suffocatingly silent. She tried to fill it, trailing Rafe as he moved through the living room, gathering his phone, his keys.

“Dinner went well, didn’t it?” she said, seeking his approval, anything to bridge the gap his words had carved. He grunted, ignoring her, his silence a weapon sharper than his earlier outburst. She followed him to their bedroom, her heart hammering as he stripped off his tie and jacket, his movements sharp, deliberate.

“Rafe, I’m really sorry about the sauce,” she tried again, her voice small, her fingers twisting together. “I didn’t mean to—”

He turned, his eyes cold, and said nothing, his silence a punishment that left her grasping for her crime.

“Just think about what you’ve done,” he said finally, his voice low, almost pitying, as he grabbed his gym bag and walked out of the room. “I’ll sleep downstairs tonight, don’t want to see your face right now.”

The door clicked shut behind him, leaving her alone in the echo of his absence.

She sank onto the bed, her dress crumpling around her legs, her hands trembling as she stared at her reflection in the mirror across the room.

What had she done?

She’d spilled sauce, yes, but Rafe’s reaction felt like a warning. Her mind raced, replaying every moment, every glance, searching for her mistake she couldn’t find. Tears welled up, but she blinked them back, swallowing the lump in her throat. Curled up on the empty bed, she wondered what she’d done to deserve that.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ©slvbun(m) — written with love.

[vivid-dreamscapes]

Can I make a request please? KiriBaku or just Bakugo (if your not a fan of poly 🙈) noticing y/n hasn't been eating, suffering from ED since she was young but something triggered it again. I read one fairly recently and as someone struggling with the same issue, it just hit me in all the right places. I totally understand if you give this a hard pass since it can be triggering for others. Thank you

Yes, ofc! Ty for the request, and I’m happy to write this! I hope it can help bring comfort to people struggling with eating disorders. ❤️‍🩹

Kiribaku x Gn!Reader

Tw: Eating disorder, angst, cursing

Bakugou wanted to kill Mineta. He wanted to put a palm in his face and let out the biggest fucking explosion he could even muster. The only reason he hadn’t yet was because Kirishima reminded him that you probably didn’t want attention brought to you. And because, you know, potentially killing a classmate was a horrible idea.

It had all started two weeks ago, on a Wednesday. It had been your turn to make dinner for the class that night, and after a lot of studying, you were too tired to prepare a full-on meal. So, making a quick stop to the convenience store at the base of the hill UA was perched on, you made a bowl of instant ramen for every member in class 1-A.

Sure, you added certain vegetables, spices, eggs, or other ingredients to certain people’s bowls to make them a little fancier. But it was low effort, and honestly? Instant ramen didn’t sound too bad to 1-A either. Who wouldn’t want something so simple after one of the most hardcore week of training this semester?

Once you had set out everyone’s bowls, you sat down to eat your own. You had just been happily talking with Eijirou about some new move of his, when Mineta finally came and joined the group dinner.

“…wow [name]. Instant ramen? Is this what you eat regularly, cause that would explain why Mina looks skinned next to you.”

Instantly, Mina threw her fried egg at his face, shouting at him about how wrong he was, and how he’d really crossed a line. Everyone actually started yelling at him and defending you. But honestly…you didn’t even notice. You just stared at the food in front of you, suddenly feeling a loss of appetite.

And following that night, you’d slipped into an unfortunately all too familiar pattern. Checking the food labels. Eating the bare minimum. Checking the weight scale. Skipping out on meals.

The worst part? Nobody noticed. Not one person. You pushed it off as anxiety. Blamed it on the protein bar you told everyone you ate at the school gym earlier. That protein bar was never actually there. You said the meds you were taking came with loss of appetite as a side effect. You said you were fine.

It wasn’t until a couple nights ago, when it was Katsuki’s night to make dinner, that he finally took notice. The thing about your boyfriend…he’s a good fucking cook. And he damn well knows it. So he usually doesn’t give a shit about whether or not people like it.

But you and Eijirou are different. You’re his partners, his significant others. He wants you to like his food, craves your validation. So when he sees you barely ever touch his Horumonyaki, he’s kinda pissed.

“Oi.” He said, and you looked up form the napkin you had been fidgeting with. “Don’t like it or somethin’?”

“Oh no, Katsuki, it’s really good.” You said quickly, flashing him a nervous smile, which you disguised to be sheepish. “It’s just a bit spicy for me.”

Bullshit. He didn’t add any spice tonight because stupid Racoom Eyes kept complaining about how he always made his dinners, ‘too damn spicy’.

But he didn’t press anymore. He just told Eijirou. And for the next few days, they watched. They watched you eat lunch. They watched you eat snacks. They watched you eat breakfast, and they watched you eat dinner.

They watched you eat.

Or rather…

They watched you…not.

Until today. They decided they needed to do something about this. So they waited for the elevator to reach the floor your dorm was on. Katsuki had his fists clenched at his side, foot tapping impatiently. Eijirou looked at him in concern, placing a hand on his shoulder in an attempt to comfort him.

Once the entire door opened with a Bing, Katsuki stormed over to your dorm, Eijirou jogging in surprise to catch up.

“Oi!” Your angrier boyfriend of the two shouted, pounding on your door. “Open up idiot!”

“Katsuki, maybe they don’t want to be approached so aggressively.” Eijirou said, trying to reason with his explosive partner.

Regardless, you opened the door with a tired sigh. Your eyes were a little red rimmed, form being tired or having been crying, they couldn’t tell.

Originally, Katsuki had planned on giving you a very loud lecture and telling you that Mineta was fucking blind, and was spewing shit from his mouth. But seeing you so low, so out of energy, so…sad. It made him pause. And before he knew it, he was stepping forward, embracing you tightly.

You stumbled back a little in surprise, eyes wide before hugging him back. Eijirou quickly joined in on the hug, shutting the door to your dorm so nobody could spy on this personal, private moment.

So, after some gentle persuasion, you told them everything. How you’d struggled like this before. How you’d even trapped in this dark place for years, and had only been able to leave it a few months before coming to UA.

“I thought I was done with this.” You said through your tears, fists clenched on your knees. “I thought I was past this. God, it’s so stupid, and childish, and-“

“Hey, hey, hey.” Eijirou quickly cut you off, putting a hand on one of your trembling fists. He gently rubbed a calloused finger over your knuckles, giving you a soft look. “Nothing about this is childish. People having eating disorders though all ages in life, and not one of them is any more or less valid then the other.”

“Yeah, and not one of them is necessary.” Katsuki scoffed, and Eijirou threw him a look. “What?” The blonde asked gruffly, taking your other shaking fist in his two larger hands. “I mean that there’s no need to be so worried. Every body is beautiful. Just because one person says someone body looks one way, doesn’t mean the next person is going to see it the same way. And maybe they do. But maybe they find it attractive.”

You wiped a stray tear, trying to keep yourself from breaking down again. “B-But Mineta said-“

“Oh, Mineta said this?” Katsuki said, voice suddenly dark and angry. “Ohoho, I’m gonna fucking murder that little shit.”

Eijirou shot his boyfriend another warning look before rubbing your arms gently. “Listen, what Mineta said was out of line, and untrue. Remember when he called Jirou ugly? She’s not ugly, is she?”

You looked at him before shaking your head, wiping your eyes as your bottom lip grumbled a bit. “No. She’s really really pretty.”

“Exactly.” The redhead said with a smile, tilting his head. “So we already know Mineta’s judgment is pretty clouded.” He smiled, his words eliciting a laugh from you. He held up his hand, hardening it with his quirk. “Here. Squeeze it as hard as you need too, it won’t hurt.”

So you took his hand and squeezed the shit out of it, letting off some tension you hadn’t even noticed was in your shoulders. Smiling, you pulled back.

“Better?” Eijirou asked, and you nodded. Smiling, he and Katsuki scooted closer to you from both sides, wrapping their arms around you.

“We’re here for you every step of the way, [name].” Katsuki said gruffly, wiping a tear away with a rare smile.

Eijirou smiled and nodded, hugging you tighter. “We’re going to help you get through this. You’re not alone.”

!Not proofread!

Requests welcome and wanted! :)

[p0orbaby]

Hey there! Can I request a short blurb where reader and alexia are visiting England and reader introduces jacket potato to Alexia. (Cheese and beans) At first she’s like wtf is this food and why is it named after a clothing item, but she ends up loving it.

Love love love your work!!!

-

The café is aggressively beige. Beige walls, beige tablecloths, beige chairs with beige cushions. Even the napkins are beige, stacked neatly in a stainless steel dispenser that somehow still looks out of place. A fly buzzes lazily by the window, doing figure eights over the plastic plant that’s been positioned to disguise a crack in the sill. It smells faintly of over-boiled vegetables and nostalgia.

You slide into a booth opposite Alexia, who’s watching the laminated menu in your hand like it’s going to bite her. She hasn’t touched her own.

“What’s a… jacket potato?” she asks, her eyebrows drawing together. Her accent makes it sound like jucket potehto, and you can’t help but grin.

“It’s a baked potato,” you explain, setting the menu down. “With stuff on top”

“Stuff?”

“Cheese. Beans. Sometimes tuna, if you’re feeling brave.”

She blinks at you, utterly horrified. “Why is it called a jacket potato?”

“Because it’s baked with the skin on. Like it’s wearing a jacket”

“That’s strange”

“No, what’s strange is how you think patatas bravas are a meal,” you shoot back, flagging down the waitress before she can argue.

Alexia narrows her eyes at you but doesn’t protest further, leaning back in the booth with an air of someone deeply unimpressed by her surroundings. She looks wildly out of place in her tailored coat and pristine trainers, her hair styled in effortless waves that probably took forty-five minutes. You, by comparison, are in a hoodie and jeans, blending in with the locals like a chameleon.

The waitress arrives with a tired smile and takes your order: two jacket potatoes, one with cheese and beans, the other with cheese and tuna. Alexia doesn’t bother hiding her distaste at the mention of tuna, but she stays silent, scrolling idly through her phone while you chat with the waitress.

When the food arrives, her reaction is immediate.

“This is it?” she asks, staring down at the plate in front of her.

“Yes”

“It’s… a potato”

“Correct”

“With beans”

“And cheese. Don’t forget the cheese”

She prods at it with her fork like it might spring to life. “Why does it look like that?”

“Like what?”

“Sad”

You snort, picking up your own fork. “Just try it”

She hesitates, her fork hovering over the mound of shredded cheddar melting into the beans. The potato itself has been split open, its fluffy insides spilling out like a crime scene. She looks at you, her expression a mix of suspicion and resignation, before finally taking a bite.

The silence is deafening.

“Well?” you ask, trying to sound casual, even as you watch her every move.

She chews slowly, her face unreadable. Then, without a word, she takes another bite. And another.

“You like it,” you say, grinning.

“I didn’t say that”

“You don’t have to. You’re eating it like it’s you haven’t eaten in a week”

She glares at you but doesn’t stop, finishing her plate in record time. When she finally sets her fork down, she looks at you, her expression unreadable.

“It’s not bad,” she admits reluctantly.

You laugh, leaning back in your seat. “Welcome to England”

She shakes her head, wiping her mouth with the beige napkin. “I still think the name is stupid”

“And yet you ate the whole thing”

She doesn’t reply, instead picking up her phone again, no doubt to Google how to burn off the calories from her very first jacket potato.

Later, as you’re leaving the café, she stops by the counter to pay and glances back at you, her tone deceptively casual.

“Do you think we could make this at home?”

You smirk, wrapping your arm around her waist as you step out into the drizzly English afternoon. “I’ll teach you”

[5000stars-in-reach]

One of my favourite things about Wind Breaker is that it's actually all about the community but is disguised as a delinquent fighting anime/manga.

Like the main character is a feral kitten of a boy that gets adopted by his new school/town and shown love and understanding from his community for the first time in his life. They teach him that he is no longer alone and is supported and cared for by everyone around.

It shows people to coming together to not only physically protect the town and its people but also their hearts and dreams. They continuously help and support each other without expecting anything in return. They are always lifting each other up.

They even have community events where they help clean up the town or have a huge feast.

Even the leader's hobby is community focused as he established a community garden on the roof of the school and gives all of the vegetables back to the community. The first time he speaks he tells everyone that it's their responsibility to help protect the town then starts planning a group beach trip.

The reason why everyone is so strong is because their community supports and influences them. There are examples of other teams failing and losing to Bofurin because they lost their sense of community (I'm looking at you Shishitoren).

The depiction of community is truly beautiful.

Honestly, I probably could write an entire essay on the importance and impact of community in Wind Breaker.

[fanfictionismyaddiction]

Fishy Business

Word count: 1.4k

Pairing: Lando Norris x reader

Summary: you are Lando Norris' girlfriend, determined to get him to try fish despite his stubborn refusal

______________________________________________________________

Lando Norris, your boyfriend and an undeniable force on the Formula 1 circuit, was also the most stubborn eater you’d ever encountered. For all his daring maneuvers on the track, he approached food with the caution of someone facing a life-threatening situation. His diet was the carefully curated mix of nutrients and proteins that a professional athlete needed to stay in peak condition, but there was one thing you couldn’t get him to eat: fish.

It wasn’t that he was allergic or that he’d had a bad experience with it in the past—Lando simply detested the idea of eating fish. The mere mention of it had him crinkling his nose in distaste. You’d tried multiple times to introduce it into his meals, always to be met with that same stubborn resistance. It was the one challenge he refused to take on, no matter how much you teased or coaxed him.

But tonight, you were determined to change that.

You had carefully planned the meal, choosing a recipe that would be impossible for anyone, even Lando, to resist. The centerpiece was a perfectly seared salmon fillet, seasoned with lemon, garlic, and herbs—flavors you knew he loved in other dishes. You’d paired it with his favorite roasted vegetables and a light, refreshing salad, hoping that the overall appeal of the meal might disguise the fact that the main course was, in fact, fish.

As you set the table, the delicious aroma filled the kitchen, making your mouth water. You knew Lando would be home soon, fresh from a day at the simulator, and you were eager to see how he’d react. Would he recognize the scent immediately, or would he only realize what was on his plate once he sat down?

The door creaked open, and you heard the familiar sound of Lando’s keys hitting the table in the hallway. He called out for you, his voice light and filled with the warmth that never failed to make your heart flutter.

“Hey, love, where are you?”

“In the kitchen!” you replied, trying to keep your voice casual, as if you weren’t plotting to get him to finally eat something he’d spent his whole life avoiding.

Lando appeared in the doorway, still in his workout gear, looking adorably disheveled with a few strands of hair falling into his eyes. He grinned when he saw you, walking over to wrap his arms around your waist and press a kiss to your forehead.

“Something smells amazing,” he murmured against your skin, his voice a mix of hunger and affection.

You turned in his arms to face him, unable to suppress the smile that spread across your face. “I made dinner. I think you’re going to love it.”

He gave you a skeptical look, his nose twitching slightly as he sniffed the air again. “What is it?”

“Why don’t you sit down and find out?” you teased, gently pushing him toward the dining table.

Lando raised an eyebrow but complied, taking his seat and looking at the beautifully arranged plate in front of him. The roasted vegetables and salad caught his attention first, but then his gaze landed on the salmon, and you saw the exact moment he realized what it was.

“Is this… fish?” he asked, his voice tinged with a mix of disbelief and mild horror.

You nodded, doing your best to keep your expression innocent. “It’s salmon. It’s really good for you, Lando. High in protein, rich in omega-3s—all the stuff you need to stay fit and healthy.”

He looked at you like you’d just suggested he eat a plate of raw liver. “You know I don’t eat fish,” he said, pushing the plate slightly away as if it might bite him.

You placed a hand on his, your touch gentle and persuasive. “You’ve never even tried it, babe. How do you know you don’t like it?”

“I just… know,” he replied, his voice lacking the usual confidence he had when making decisions. “The smell, the texture… it’s just not for me.”

You tilted your head, giving him a look that you knew he had a hard time resisting. “But you trust me, don’t you?”

“Of course I do,” Lando said immediately, his brow furrowing slightly as he tried to figure out where this was going.

“Then trust me when I say you’ll like this,” you said, your voice dropping to a soft, almost seductive tone. “Just one bite. For me?”

He hesitated, clearly torn between his aversion to fish and his desire to please you. You could see the internal battle playing out on his face, and you decided it was time to up the ante. Slowly, you stood up and walked around the table, stopping behind him. You leaned down, your lips brushing against the shell of his ear as you whispered, “If you try it, I’ll make it worth your while.”

Lando shivered under your touch, his breath hitching slightly. You could feel the tension in his shoulders as he considered your offer. He was being stubborn, as usual, but you knew you were close to winning him over.

With a dramatic sigh, he finally picked up the fork, speared a small piece of the salmon, and lifted it to his mouth. You watched as he hesitated one last time before taking the bite, his eyes closing as if bracing himself for the worst.

He chewed slowly, his expression shifting from one of grim determination to mild surprise. After a moment, he swallowed and set the fork down, looking up at you with a mix of resignation and amusement.

“It’s… not as bad as I thought,” he admitted reluctantly, his voice laced with a hint of defeat.

You grinned, wrapping your arms around his neck from behind and pressing a soft kiss to his cheek. “See? That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

He chuckled, leaning back into your embrace. “Okay, you win. But I’m still not eating another bite.”

“Oh, come on,” you teased, your lips grazing his earlobe again. “Just one more bite? For me?”

Lando sighed, but you could tell he was starting to relent. “You really don’t play fair, do you?”

“Never,” you whispered, your voice low and suggestive. “But you like it when I don’t.”

His hands found their way to your hips, pulling you around to sit on his lap. You let out a soft laugh as you straddled him, your hands resting on his chest as you gazed down at him. “I knew you’d be stubborn about this,” you said, your voice teasing.

“I’m not stubborn,” he replied, his hands sliding up your back, pulling you closer. “I just know what I like.”

“And you like me, right?” you asked, leaning in so your lips were just inches from his.

“More than anything,” Lando murmured, his eyes darkening with desire as he closed the distance between you, capturing your lips in a slow, heated kiss.

You responded eagerly, your fingers tangling in his hair as you deepened the kiss. The taste of him was intoxicating, a mix of warmth and sweetness that made your head spin. Lando’s hands tightened on your hips, pulling you even closer as the kiss grew more passionate, more demanding.

When you finally pulled back for air, both of you were breathing heavily, your foreheads pressed together as you tried to regain some semblance of control. But the hunger in Lando’s eyes told you that any attempt at restraint was futile.

“I tried the fish,” he whispered, his voice rough with need. “Now, about that reward…”

You grinned, trailing your fingers down his chest, feeling the way his breath hitched under your touch. “Oh, I haven’t forgotten,” you replied, your voice filled with promise. “But first, you have to finish your dinner.”

Lando groaned, dropping his head back against the chair in exasperation. “You’re really going to make me do this, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” you said, your tone playful but firm. “But just think about how good the reward will be when you do.”

He sighed dramatically but picked up the fork again, spearing another small piece of salmon and bringing it to his mouth. You watched with satisfaction as he chewed and swallowed, his expression less pained than before.

“See? It’s not so bad,” you teased, leaning in to kiss him again, this time softer, more lingering.

Lando hummed against your lips, his free hand slipping under the hem of your shirt, his touch sending a shiver down your spine. “I’m only doing this for you,” he murmured between kisses. “You know that, right?”

You smiled, pulling back just enough to look into his eyes. “I know. And that’s why I love you.”

His expression softened at your words, a warm, adoring smile spreading across his face. “I love you too,”

[heartfullofleeches]

does the community know sheep reader ain't a real sheep and just pretend they do? did sheep reader think of the idea of being sheemp or did the community make them do it? lore bls, lore

Rabbit, Mouse, Swan, and Mayor Elk are the only one who know without a shadow of a doubt that sheep is not an actual sheep. It's only a speculation amongst the other townspeople and even then it's not one most believe. This is partially due to everyone aware continuing the lie and coming up with excuses for them and their odd behaviors/appearance. With just the first three, it may not have worked as well, but with the Mayor backing "Sheep" up, no one wants to falsely accuse them of being something they're not.... Besides the recently deceased Mr. Possum that is.

"Sheep" Reader appeared one day at the Mayor's doorstep begging to be let into the community for reasons they refused to elaborate on. The town is comprised almost solely of herbivore/omnivore hybrids who's diet mostly consists of fruits and vegetables to keep the peace. To proof they weren't a threat, "Sheep" filed down their own teeth and had physical ripped out each claw. The Mayor, pitying the poor thing, accepted them, but he knew not everyone would have the same open heart. Sheep's disguise was entirely his idea which he sewed for them by hand.

-

"Is it just me...or does Sheep kinda look like..."

Rabbit: The cuddliest thing imaginable?

Mouse: A sweetheart?....

Swan: They look like any other sheep I've seen...Though, I suppose they are more appealing to the eye than the rest.

Mayor Elk: Be mindful of our neighbor's feelings before you speak.

"Ah....never mind then."

[rottiens]

are we havin' fun yet?┊ s. getō ft. s. gōjō

✫ word count. 5.1k

✫ summary. you get caught up in the unresolved argument and tension from years ago between two old best friends.

✫ tags. (18+) — explicit content. no curses au, bisexual panic and denial, female reader + afab (the reader wears painted nails and has somewhat long hair), mostly geto-centric narrative, objectification, praising, cucking.

✫ notes. ok this is born thanks to the idea of this ask, a drabble that i lost control of heh. there are many things i love about this piece and i hope you enjoy it kiss kiss. divider creds: cafekitsune.

From food and video games to shirts and colognes, Suguru and Satoru have always shared everything. It's adorable, to a certain extent, how close the two of them are and how others perceive them as brothers from the outside. It's an unbreakable friendship that was born spontaneously when they were both little. They met in elementary school, when Satoru decided to share his crayons so Suguru could color the house he had drawn, and since then, the affection that began then has only grown along with them.

The only time the two were apart was during their time at university where Satoru was inclined to study history while Suguru, with his tendencies towards human relations and his great empathy, decided to study social psychology. However, after graduating and starting work not far from the city center, they both decided it was time to live together again, at least for a while, with the intention of saving expenses.

Suguru has never minded sharing. His shampoo, his food, his bath gel. So it was only natural to expect his friend to do the same for him, to share everything, right? Just like back then.

That afternoon, Satoru was returning to the apartment after a long day at work. The backpack slung carelessly over his shoulder as his footsteps echoed in the hallway. He unlocked the door with his key, which turned with a familiar, comforting sound. Upon entering, he was greeted by the scent of the incense Suguru always lit to keep the atmosphere calm and cozy.

Suguru was in the kitchen, chopping vegetables with precision and care. Hearing the door, he looked up to greet and greet him, as usual, only the greeting died on the tip of his tongue, turning into a long sigh.

“Oh.” Disappointment disguised in a subdued tone, so Suguru decides to add. “You bring company.”

Again. He wants to say, but he bites his tongue and harshly splits the onion in two. You're here. Again. The friend Satoru has been bringing home every weekend for a month now. Suguru thought it was going to be casual, like all the times before, something that would last a week or two at most, because Satoru isn't the type to have long-term relationships. But seeing you here after a full month surprises him, no, it bothers him, and he can't explain why.

Satoru smiles, seemingly oblivious to the tension in the air.

“'Hi, Suguru,” you greet him, accompanying your words with a nervous twitch that leads you to squeeze Satoru's intertwined fingers. You look adorable, and he avoids rolling his eyes. You're wearing a tight-fitting black knit-and-button blouse that highlights your figure, and a short black skirt that exposes your legs that he can't help but admire before focusing on his friend.

“Will you stay for dinner?” Suguru asks out of politeness and breaks eye contact with you to look at Satoru, who struggles to hold back a smile.

His fingers tighten around the knife just as a muscle in his jaw does.

“Later. We'll be in my room.”

Unable to add anything else, Satoru tugs your hand towards the hallway along with a slight nod that has you following him like a lost puppy. A few seconds later, the slam of the door rattles the walls and minutes later a pop song reaches the kitchen. It's the voice of a familiar artist, high and raspy, and Suguru wants to rip out his eardrums.

He plunges the knife down on the onion hard, hitting the board with a dull thud that gets louder and louder. Even over the noise of the knife, his thoughts, and the woman now singing another song from the same album, Suguru can hear it: those sounds Satoru tries to muffle with his hand, the breaths, the moans.

The hot oil bubbles in the pan rising with the anger cooking in the top of his stomach, the olive oil toasting the onions and garlic, while Suguru pretends he doesn't know what's going on a few feet away from him. He doesn't hate you, not really. You're sweet, you're kind, and he thinks that makes it worse. What really runs across his skin from the inside, like fingernails scratching a chalkboard, is the fact that Satoru doesn't talk about you. Of what he does, what he doesn't do, that he doesn't offer you as an offering from which he can take. Like one of his toys, like his shirts, like the other partners he's had before you.

It is the exclusivity with you that irritates him to such an extent that his thoughts corrupt him and make him completely forget about the garlic that is now dark and smells burnt.

“Fuck this,” he growls to himself, wrinkling his nose at the smell and the plume of smoke rising to the ceiling. Suguru scoops up the burnt ingredients with the spatula and pushes them into the trash can. He puts the pan back on the fire and grabs a new onion to chop. As he cuts, he hears your laughter, that bubbly, mischievous, genuine laughter that comes out of your belly and echoes throughout the apartment, as if Satoru is making you cry from the tickling. Suguru peels and chops the onion harder, throwing it into the pan once more, his eyes red and watery, his nose full of the peculiar stench of onion.

Satoru laughs, says something (perhaps in your ear, even against your thigh) that Suguru can't decipher. A door opens and closes. Then he hears the shower water, and the words of the song come through more clearly thanks to Satoru leaving the door open, as he always does. Suguru adds the ginger and concentrates on the curry, and on nothing else but cooking, showering and getting out of there. And that's what he does.

He waits for you to finish playing newlywed couple in the shower, takes off his clothes, ignores his erection and steps into the shower that still smells of you. To the shampoo you both share, to your perfume, to the minty toothpaste and- it's the first time it happens, as an irony of fate, as if life is mocking him, suguru finds your panties lying on the side of the shower, he is stepping on them and looking at them as if he has discovered something horrifying, they are soft, white and lacy around the edge and have a sticky, almost white he might say, fluid on them.

Suguru picks them up. He watches them a few feet away, he knows he shouldn't do it, he would never take anything his friend doesn't offer him first and he doesn't because his pride is stronger.

He throws them on the floor a little further away from where he picked them up, steps into the shower and cums silently in his clenched fist as he drowns in the smell of you.

Suguru wraps the towel around his waist when he's done, lets his hair cascade loose dripping droplets down his back and looks in the mirror to see his cheeks stained red and finally exits the bathroom.

You are with Satoru in the living room, apparently arguing about something, you catch a glimpse of him out of the corner of your eye entering the room and closing the door.

Suguru takes off his towel and looks at his hand. Okay, he did it. He tries to justify himself but there's no reason other than, he thinks he has the right to taste you, to smell you, to know what has satoru coming back to you, so he brings the used panties to his nose shyly at first, full of embarrassment, but when he spits on his hand and starts fucking his cock harder he realizes as he sniffs you like he's a stalker pervert, he notices there are no inhibitions now, it's just you, your panties, his hard cock and his imagination telling him the different poses he could take you in if satoru would let him.

He cums silently as he hears the front door close and the shame returns to him as if it has always belonged to him. Suguru hurries to clean up his mess with napkins he keeps hidden in the room and moves to stow your panties in one of the drawers where he keeps his underwear, way down low.

Suguru's face is hot and his chest tight. His naked body as an accusation reminds him of the crime he just committed, so he moves to pick up some shorts and slides them up his muscular legs until the heat in his chest is descending.

He lies down for a moment on the mattress that makes no noise when he moves and stares at the ceiling until his vision blurs and he stops thinking and, then, remembers the curry.

——

The second time it happens it's not even his fault.

This seemed like a joke of fate or some divine plan to punish him for being thirsty for water he can't drink.

You are sitting in front of him, on the floor, legs slightly spread while wearing a satoru t-shirt too big for you which helps him discover that you have nothing on underneath except for black panties. Suguru can see for a moment how your pussy lips swallow some of the material and thinks of the excuses he can come up with to justify if asked about the blush or the amount of sweat pearling his temples.

“ UNO!” Shouts satoru victoriously placing the last card in the center of the floor and you feign indignation as you tap him on the shoulder, moving into your space, and flashing him again your panties. “Are you okay, man?” asks Satoru still laughing, he has your wrists clutched against his chest to keep you from hitting him again as you accuse him of cheating.

He was. But Suguru didn't care to discuss that now.

“Suguru, say something to him!” You chuckle slowly as you do when he sucks too hard on your clit and he leaves you breathless. He knows because he saw you, a couple of weeks ago when satoru was eating your pussy on top of the counter when he thought suguru was asleep, you were right where he was preparing the curry just a couple of nights ago.

Suguru closes his eyes for a second erasing that mental image and gets up, before anyone notices what's going on and is grateful for the baggy t shirt he's wearing that hides his semi erection.

“Yeah; it's the curry… I think, I'll be back,” he excuses himself.

The third time it happens Suguru looks around the room for cameras. This had to be a joke.

A pair of black panties were attacked at the bottom of the washing machine, mixed in with his clothes, kept there since the last day you visited them. Suguru knows he must return them and he will…. soon.

He slips them into the back pocket and finishes placing the clothes he will wash that day inside the washing machine. Then he closes it harder than he should.

——

It's incredibly hot, so he's not wearing a shirt. You're close to Satoru, as usual, huddled a few feet away from Suguru as you watch the soccer game. The fan is barely enough for the three of you, but Suguru prefers to stay away from you for his own good.

The game's narrator announces halftime and Suguru takes the opportunity to blink and stretch his legs. He raises his arms above his head with a groan, and his shorts are pulled down a little, revealing the beginnings of the short hairs on his abdomen.

“Man, this is getting boring,” Satoru grunts with a yawn. You two look at him.

“What do you mean? The match is 2-4 right now…”

“You've really given up already?” Suguru frowns, looking at the back of your head but unable to see the expression with which you watch your boyfriend… or whatever you two are now.

“Huh?” he replies in confusion.

“I thought you wanted to fuck my girlfriend,” blurts out satoru, as casually as if he's talking about the weather, his eyes now on the commercials playing on TV.

Suguru thinks that if he were still drinking from the water bottle he'd be coughing right now. Instead, his eyes widen to such an extent that they could pop out of their sockets and roll on the floor, his throat goes dry, his heart leaks out of his chest and a whiplash hits his cock. Satoru laughs noting the expression he finds comical. “Funny you act so surprised when you've always been so easy to read,” he says.

“Babe, come on,” you murmur as you stroke Satoru's chest in circles, your short red nails contrasting with the Red Hot Chili Peppers tank top he's wearing.

Suguru turns on the couch to get a better look at you, his blue eyes locked on yours intimidating. They always have. However, with a deep breath you steel yourself not to break eye contact.

“Why didn't you say anything before?”

Satoru smiles sideways. Hearing him say this last, you turn to position yourself perfectly in the middle of the two of you, avoiding the gaze of either of them, and fixating on the commercial about the energy drink they're promoting now.

“I thought you were going to ask, as usual,” he says with a shrug, still talking as if you weren't present.

“I thought it was different now.”

“Well, are you going to ask?”

Suguru pushes his cheek with his tongue and his fingers gently grip the couch.

“Satoru…” you warn, averting your gaze to the floor. Suguru notices how fast your breathing has become, his friend's long fingers playing with the edge of your denim shorts, sometimes hiding under the fabric as they scratch the fat of your thigh from time to time.

“Say it,” Satoru encourages him gently, looking up at you through his eyelashes and with determined eyes that mimic those of an eagle.

Suguru bites his cheek gently, perhaps to make sure he's not dreaming. He has a slight feeling that this is a trap, that Satoru is leading him to a place he won't be able to get out of, and yet he decides to sink his feet into what is probably quicksand.

He's always wanted this, clearly, and to have it in front of him, being offered on a platter for him to take and satiate his hunger- there's very little a hungry man can take.

“I want to fuck her,” Suguru spits and his voice doesn't tremble. There's a slight frown on his forehead and the summer heat prevents him from breathing normally.

You bite your lip as you watch Suguru, feeling the knot in your stomach tighten as Satoru continues to tease you underneath the material of the shorts. Your eyes widen slightly and your cheeks heat up, anticipation and nervousness mingling in your expression.

“How badly you want it?” asks Satoru, his voice barely a whisper.

Suguru closes his eyes for a moment, his jaw tensing. “I'm dizzy just thinking about it,” he replies, opening his eyes slowly, his gaze fixed and determined on him. He hasn't even dared to look at you. “I want to fuck her so hard and deep, you have no idea.”

“Fuck,” Satoru's fangs are visible for just a second, a wolfish grin warning danger. “Atta boy…” he purrs, sliding his fingers over your jawline to force you to look at him. There's something about Satoru that has always made you feel intimidated. His blue eyes, as deep as the sea, and his cotton-white hair give him such a peculiar appearance, he almost looks like the divine character from some book you must adore. His touch is firm, but not aggressive, and the intensity in his gaze leaves you breathless, as if you're under a spell you can't break. “You still want to fuck my best friend?”

“Satoru…” you beg in a trembling voice.

“Don't be shy, angel. If you can ask for it, it's yours,” he replies with an indulgent smile.

You had discussed this before, once… well, maybe it was twice. You remember it clearly because it's impossible to forget how the idea made you feel. The first time, you were drunk and thought it was all a joke; but when Satoru brought it up again, whispering it close to your ear while you were both sober and cuddled in the dark your room, you thought it was just a fantasy that would fade away and stay just that.

“You know… we used to share everything,” he told you.

The idea of being shared between the two of them is… overwhelming, to say the least. Just thinking about it takes your breath away; both men are huge, tall and muscular, not to mention how handsome they are.

“You know I do. We've talked about it,” you confess in a low voice.

Suguru barely manages to hear you over the hiss of a whistle on the TV, but what he does manage to catch makes his heart beat wildly and his thighs tense.

Satoru examines you up and down, perhaps looking for some trace of doubt about what is about to happen. Finding no sign of uncertainty, his eyes fall on Suguru and, with a wave of his hand, he beckons him closer.

“C'mere, Suguru. Don't be shy.”

Suguru moves like a magnet towards you, shuffling his legs over the couch until his warmth envelops you. Suddenly, you are acutely aware of the heat that has built up in the room, of the sweat on your back and the sticky feeling on your skin. The atmosphere becomes dense and suffocating, each breath feels heavier, Suguru's bare knee touches yours and the friction of your bodies makes your skin burn, intensifying the crushing sensation that overcomes you.

Expectantly, you both look at Satoru as if waiting for the next command anxiously, like animals about to be tamed.

Satoru makes an effort to pretend that he does not enjoy the situation, that the idea of devouring you both in one go does not excite him. However, he takes the first step and reaches for you with his hand, placing it on your cheek to force you to look at him. Lips half-open and eyelashes messy, you feel his lips pull you close and kiss you, filling you with a palpable intensity. Suguru beside you gasps.

Your boyfriend's fingers push at the thick denim fabric of your shorts and your needy core reaches for his open palm, swaying your hips in need of more.

Suguru doesn't know what to do; he seeks Satoru's permission, unsure if it's okay to kiss you, if he can touch you. Fists clenched in his tight shorts, he pauses to watch as Satoru's tongue hungrily thrusts into your mouth, creating a mess of saliva and moans. The intensity of the moment draws you into a new kiss, as his mouth fills with water, caught up in the maelstrom of desire that is unleashed.

In the midst of a new kiss that ends with Satoru gently biting your lower lip, he reaches out to grab his friend's jaw, delicately inviting him towards you. Leaving your mouth inches from his and with your eyes still closed, you barely make out the change in mouths, except for the difference in the way they devour you.

Suguru feels very different; his lips are harder and thicker than your boyfriend's, and his skin, rougher from the recent shave. Unlike Satoru, he sucks your tongue with precision. Each movement, though laden with desire, feels carefully planned, not so messy and the sensation of his mouth molding yours has your pussy soaking wet from satoru's long fingers now playing with your drooling pussy directly.

“You're this wet? Just from kissing him?” Satoru bites your neck and you release suguru's mouth to moan and expose your throat even more. “Such a naughty girl.”

Suguru's kisses mark the other side of your throat making you clench around the pair of digits with which satoru explores your insides, a couple of jerks of his fingers inside you has your back hunched for both of them and just as you begin to ride the wave of your orgasm, so close, the fingers are hastily withdrawn from you to show them to the room as proof of how wet you are. A long transparent string ties his fingers together.

“Look what you did to her, suguru.” Satoru brings the fingers to his friend's mouth who after hesitation circles them with his tongue with his eyes closed and face burning.

The heat is as unbearable as the erection in his shorts and suguru is grateful to feel some pressure on the throbbing bulge while still sucking on his fingers. You spit on your hand and cover his cock in saliva jerking it up and down, satoru drags his fingers out of his friend and sees the desire in his cinnamon eyes, lust overpowering shame.

Satoru spits into his own hand and curls it around suguru's throbbing cock, you masturbate his base, he swirls the sensitive tip, your left hand massaging his balls and the whole haze of new thrills and sensations whip him, and make him dizzy.

“Fuck you,” Suguru gasps with his eyebrows drawn together and mouth a distorted circle looking at his friend.

“Don't you want to cum?” you ask, innocent at the dueling gazes battling in front of you.

“Agh, fuck. No, not yet…” selfishness wanted him to continue, not so soon, he couldn't finish now.

“Oh no?” Satoru presses harder, stroking his slit with his thumb. ”Because you want to cum in her tight pussy, don't you? Fuck man, you don't know how hard she squeezes when she's about to cum, it feels like she wants to keep you there and have you fill her over and over again with your fucking cum.”

“Satoru shut the fuck up!” he yells through his teeth.

“Or do you want to cum in me?” as they both look at each other, his balls twitching, no words to respond other than pent up emotions from years ago.

“Please…” is all he can say, unsure of exactly what he's pleading for.

The waves of pleasure that Satoru's fingers give him descend, allowing the pressure in his lower stomach to cease, and he can breathe normally again.

“Stop,” Satoru says, kissing your temple. You obey instantly, getting Suguru to groan with painful longing, cock twitching visibly a mess of his saliva and precum. “Do you want to ride him?” he asks you directly, catching your gaze as he grabs the back of your neck firmly to give you a soft kiss on the lips.

“I do,” you reply, slightly light-headed from the kiss, the physical contact and the heat. Your breath brushes against his mouth and Satoru looks at you proudly, or so you think; you fail to decipher what's really in those eyes, though many times you can't.

Suguru lies down on the couch just as Satoru orders him to. He finishes removing his shorts awkwardly and hurriedly, becoming completely naked. It's not the first time Satoru has seen him without clothes, but it's the first time he's contemplated him in this way, almost like you are.

Suguru is handsome, that's a fact you can freely acknowledge. Seeing him like this, fully exposed, a sense of awe comes over you. His body is toned, with muscles worked by hours in the gym. His legs are covered with short hair that is growing, and a line of hair descends from his navel to his pelvis, where you find a tangle of short, curly hairs. The sight of his naked body is breathtaking, a mixture of strength and vulnerability that takes your breath away.

A few feet away, satoru jerks his cock with his own hand, long rather than thick, pale pink at the tip with a drop of pre cum in the slit and suguru, head cocked to the side and leaning back on the couch licks his lips in his direction watching him satisfy himself.

You grab his cock with one hand and then, the realization has your body tingling the moment you brush the tip at your needy entrance. All three of you moan in unison, connected together by the same thought and it is lewd, it embarrasses you but at the same time excites you to have the attention of both men pouring into you alone, suguru thrusts his hips upward in search of some kind of release and satoru takes a few short steps forward to admire the scene more closely, then sitting down on the ground a few feet away from you to better admire the scene he has set up for himself.

His cock plunges into you, thrusts and expands your pussy, spills your arousal around the thickness. Suguru is much thicker so you feel so full the moment you're sitting on him completely, his warm hands on your thighs massaging you up and down bringing comfort as he thrusts his hips to grind against your clit.

You hold onto his stomach like an anchor, feeling the sweat make your hair stick to your forehead and tangle around your face. Your hips move harder, riding him with increasing intensity, selfishly seeking climax. suguru finds your clit with the hard pad of his thumb and rubs it back and forth as you do all the work. For a long minute it's just the two of you staring into each other's eyes, the open-mouthed panting chanting turns to grunts and moans that gets lost in the noise of the forgotten match in the background; suguru struggles to concentrate on you, watches your lip being punished by your teeth, your tits covered by the thin fabric of the summer tank top and on the way his finger fiddles your nub of nerves lazily.

You lose yourself in him, in the rhythm at which his hips join yours; you feel his desperation, his hunger. Suguru grunts and carelessly grabs your hips to turn you around and place you now on your back on the couch, your thighs spread wide by his wide hips and his hands make prisoners of your wrists above your head.

You moan, with his forehead against yours and his body bending yours in half you feel like you might break beneath him, he notices, feels you tighten which makes him grin devilishly.

“Too deep?” He asks, as if he doesn't know the answer, pounding you harder and more precisely. “I like it like this, perfect for breeding you…. I like how tight you get.”

“Uh-huh,” you reply biting your lip, sharing the sweat from his frown.

“Tell him,” he orders you without looking at satoru, sharing a secret between your open mouth that can't be heard by your boyfriend.

You had almost forgotten him for a moment, too wrapped up in the fantasy. Turning your attention to satoru you realize that he fucks his cock to the rhythm in which suguru thrusts into you, he licks his lips as he watches you come back to him, to the giddy and disoriented and a smile curving the corners of his mouth appears on his face.

“Hi, angel.” Satoru gasps, “Do you have something to tell me?”

“He's so deep,” you gasp, suguru becoming more beast than human with every second you let him take you, caught up in the idea of fucking his friend's girlfriend, now you were no longer his property, you were his; his for that moment. He pushes back to get a better look at you from another angle and pulls up your tank top and exposes your tits, pinching your nipples without remorse.

“Yeah? And you like it?” you look back at suguru, the bun tying his hair back is starting to unravel, black strands falling down his back and you're not sure which one you want to look at first. “Are you having fun?”

“Yes…”

“I can tell… I love that face you're making, you're going to cum soon….. How about you Suguru, tell me how you feel?”

His eyes wander to your crotch, to your panties pulled aside so he can slip inside you, and he loses his rhythm for a moment as he watches his cock thrust in and out of you. He spits right on your clit for extra lubrication and takes his thumb to start massaging you, squeezing even tighter the tension binding your guts.

“She's so beautiful, and this fucking pussy, god…” his back arches and he rolls his eyes, feeling his own orgasm come hard. “She's squeezing me so hard.”

“Don't cum in her,” satoru warns.

Suguru bites his lip coming back to the present, the violent sound of wet skins meeting and the invisible steam of heat overwhelming him and urging him to take his own orgasm soon.

“Suguru…”

Another warning.

Satoru's voice sounds so sweet yet so commanding that it's almost annoying. It's just like before, when he ordered him things like he was his puppet and he was always so grateful to obey him, just to remain his friend. But you feel so good now, so tight, so wet, he doesn't remember the last time he fucked someone raw that nothing feels more like it now than filling your pussy with his load however, he forces himself to pull his cock inside you and fuck his cock on top of your stomach while you watch him with eyes full of adoration, he lets his cum run on your stomach making puddles on your belly button while someone behind him shouts “goaaaaaal”.

Then Suguru leans over, his fingers tangling in the mess that is your hair as his hair trails down his sweaty back, this with the intention of kissing you but he feels a brute hand on his shoulder pulling him away from victory, meeting that warm bluish gaze that reminds him of nostalgia.

“No kisses… those are another thing you'll have to ask for like a good boy.”