#Height Adjustable Changing Tables

[k12academics]

ULTIMATE RESTROOM ACCESSIBILITY Everyone deserves safe, comfortable accommodation. MAX-Ability offers complete restroom solutions that provide comfort, safety, and dignity to wheelchair users and caregivers, including ergonomic adjustable changing tables, sinks, toilets, and shower seats for total accommodation for everyone.

[littlelamy]

title: rafe's personal playboy bunny

warnings: 18+, smut

background: before moving to obx with your best friend, you were featured in a small playboy spread. when rafe found out about your past gig, he decided he needed to take some photos of his own.

the first purchase was a camera. top of the line, mirrorless, sleek in his hands like it belonged there. he spent too long in the store testing lenses, zooming in and out, asking questions he already knew the answers to. but it wasn’t just about the camera—it was about the setup, the lighting, the fucking vision he had in his head of you spread out and glistening under a spotlight, looking like something out of a magazine, but better. raw. real.

then came the tripods, the softboxes, the LED panels. he wanted precision, control over every shadow and highlight. you weren’t just a girl in front of his camera. you were a masterpiece he was going to create, frame by fucking frame. he tested angles in his room before even bringing you into it, adjusting the height, the placement, imagining the way the light would kiss your skin, the way the shadows would carve out every perfect line of you.

by the time he called you in, the room was transformed. not just a bedroom anymore, but a set. the walls lined with blackout curtains, the bed pushed to the center like a stage, soft sheets rumpled just enough to look inviting. and then, there was the table—laid out with more than just camera equipment. a collection of toys, sleek and glistening under the studio lights, each one carefully chosen. he wanted to see you use them, wanted to capture everything.

“strip,” he said, adjusting the focus, not even looking at you yet. the camera clicked as you peeled away your clothes, the sound sending a jolt of heat straight through you. his voice was low, measured, but you could hear the edge to it, the hunger buried beneath control. “slow. take your time.”

he guided you, not with touch, but with words. told you where to sit, how to arch, where to let your hands wander. the camera clicked with every motion, freezing you in time, making you immortal in pixels. and then, his voice dipped lower, dark amusement curling around each word. “pick one.”

your eyes flicked to the table. so many choices. some familiar, some new. you hesitated, and he caught it, a smirk tugging at his lips as he zoomed in, the lens capturing every little flicker of anticipation across your face. “don’t be shy now. you posed for strangers before, didn’t you? this is just for me.”

heat coiled in your stomach as you reached out, fingers grazing over the cool surface of a toy before wrapping around it. the moment you held it up, the camera clicked again, a satisfied hum escaping him. “good girl,” he murmured, stepping closer, adjusting the angle. “now show me how you use it.”

his voice guided you, steady, unwavering, the authority in it making your breath hitch. “start slow,” he instructed, eyes never leaving the viewfinder. “press it to your skin first. tease yourself.”

you obeyed, trailing it over your thighs, over the soft dip of your stomach, your lips parting when you felt the first shiver of pleasure. the camera clicked. “yeah, just like that. drag it lower.”

his breath was audible, heavy through the silence, the sound of the camera shutter filling the space between you. “spread your legs wider. let me see everything.”

your pulse pounded as you followed his orders, your fingers trembling slightly as you brought the toy exactly where he wanted it. the moment it pressed against you, a sharp inhale echoed from behind the lens. “fuck, that’s beautiful. turn it on.”

the vibration jolted through you, and the camera caught the exact second your mouth fell open, your eyes fluttering shut. “keep them open,” he reminded you. “look right at me. let me see what it does to you.”

his commands were precise. “circle it. slower. now press it in—yeah, just like that, princess.” the camera clicked with every change in your expression, capturing the way your brows knitted, the way your lips trembled. “use your other hand,” he murmured. “play with your tits. make it pretty for me.”

heat coiled tight in your stomach as you did exactly as he said, teasing and touching as he dictated, the pleasure intensifying with each passing second. the room was nothing but the sounds of the toy, your own soft gasps, and the rhythmic snap of the shutter as he immortalized every filthy moment.

“push it deeper,” he ordered, voice thick. “fuck yourself on it.”

you whimpered at the words, legs shaking as you moved the toy in and out, every motion perfectly timed to his direction. “yeah, just like that,” he praised, the camera still clicking. “God, you’re gorgeous honey.”

he didn’t stop until he had everything he wanted. until you were spent, trembling, and completely undone beneath the heat of his lens, captured forever in a way only he would ever see.

tags: @rafesbabygirlx @namelesslosers @drewsephrry @maybanksangel @averyoceanblvd @iknowdatsrightbih @rafesheaven @anamiad00msday @ivysprophecy @wearemadeofstardust0 @rafesangelita @rafedaddy01 @bakugouswaif @skywalker0809 @vanessa-rafesgirl @evermorx89 @outerhills @ditzyzombiesblog @slavicangelmuah @alivinggirl @rafesgreasycurtainbangs @lil-sparklqueen @rafessweetgirl

[flowercrowncrip]

Today (July 19th) is Changing Places awareness day!

[Image description: a photo of the changing places toilet with the features listed below /end ID]

What is a changing places toilet?

A changing places toilet is a toilet which can be used by disabled people like me who can’t use a standard accessible toilet. This may be because someone needs extra equipment, and/or room for carers to help them. The main features of the changing places toilet are:

Lots of room! Changing places toilet must be at least 12 square metres. This means that there is plenty of room for a wheelchair user to turn around as well as room for up to 2 carers.

A peninsular toilet! This is a toilet which has enough room on each side were wheelchair to be positioned for transferring. As with standard accessible toilet there are grab rails on each side.

Accessible washbasin! The washbasin must have room underneath for a wheelchair user. An adjustable height washbasin is preferred.

A ceiling hoist! This allows people who cannot transfer independently to be able to safely get out of their wheelchair. A person brings their own sling which is hooked onto the hoist allowing them to be lifted.

An adult size changing table! This allows people need help with undressing to use the toilet, or help changing incontinence pads to have their needs met safely and with dignity. Without a changing table, many people have to resort to lying on the toilet floor to change their pads which is unsafe, undignified and unhygienic.

Why raise awareness?

The lack of changing places toilet means it’s hard for disabled people like me to leave the house. It’s limits our ability to socialise, access work/education, exercise, travel, and even attend hospital appointments. (In the UK there are only 93 hospitals with a registered changing places toilet).

I have to plan my entire life around the few changing places toilet that exist, which massively shrinks my world. It’s incredibly difficult for me to travel (less than 2% of train stations in the UK have a changing places toilet), go days out, visit the hospital, and otherwise experience the world outside my house. Hopefully one day every event like Pride or music festivals will have a mobile changing places toilet, and there will be public changing places toilet with 24/7 access in every town, as well as changing places toilets in public buildings like leisure centres, libraries, museums, cinemas, tourist attractions and shopping centres.

More info including what you can do to help the UK campaigns for more changing places toilets can be found at changing-places.org

[seospicybin]

TASTE.

CHAPTER I: PIQUANT.

Lee Know x reader. (s,a)

TASTE MASTERLIST

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Enter Lee Minho.

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

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

Only time would tell.

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Someone’s taken his seat.

You.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Minho follows, his interest piqued more than ever.

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But you don’t.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I'll be working,” you simply answer.

“What time you get off work?”

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

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

“Around midnight.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

“Who is he?”

“Is that the new head chef?”

“He looks... intense.”

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

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

“This is Chef Lee Minho.”

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

One by one, the staff steps forward.

“Seo Jun, Sous Chef, Meat Station.”

“Ha Yura, Sous Chef, Pasta Line.”

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

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

“I'm in the pasta Line.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, chef!” Everyone responds in unison.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Seungwan swallows hard. “It was a mistake—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

But Minho notices.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

“Morning,” she mutters, her voice hoarse.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thanks,” Minji murmurs, finally looking up.

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Vongole!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

Chef Choi Sara.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Recognize this?” he asks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sara looks away, her silence speaking volumes.

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You stay silent for a moment before nodding.

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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[saltcxrcle]

white collared ✮ s. winchester

summary: you can't stop staring at sam in his priest getup

pairings: established sam winchester x reader, sam winchester gn afab! reader

word count: 1.1K

warnings: no use of 'y/n', no mention of pronouns besides a "good girl", cursing, making out, sam in the priest outfit (yes thats a warning), dean being a menace as per usual, implied smut, kinda edited

a/n: got inspired from a edit of priest sam i saw on my feed and i wrote most of this in class and then in the library, so enjoy :p

enjoy the fic! please like, comment, and reblog! your feedback fuels me <3

𝘴𝘢𝘮 𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘮𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘵

YOU WERE STARING. Scratch that. You were practically devouring Sam with your eyes as he came out of the motel bathroom, adjusting the clerical collar that was around his neck.

Your eyes followed Sam as he bustled around the motel room, barely registering that Dean had gone into the bathroom to change himself. You couldn’t tear your eyes away from Sam, your mouth feeling dry as you swallowed thickly, trying to pull your gaze away from the taller Winchester. 

Christ almighty, how could someone look so good in a priest outfit?

You thought to yourself as Sam sat down at the table near the kitchenette in the room. Your eyes trailed up and down Sam’s broad figure from your spot on the bed. The black slacks were tight around his thighs, and you could only imagine how good his ass looked in those pants. 

The white clerical collar was starch white, contrasting the tanned skin at the hollow of Sam's throat. You bit your bottom lip as you saw Sam’s dexterous fingers pull at the collar, adjusting it before your eyes followed his hand as it fell back onto his thigh. 

A low chuckle coming from the man you were staring at snapped you out of your stupor, and you met Sam’s hazel eyes, filled with amusement. You could recognize the familiar look of desire that lingered in the greens and golds that colored his gaze. 

Sam’s plush lips were pulled into a sly smirk as he shook his head, a piece of his hair falling in his face as he did. “See something you like?” He asked, his tone teasing. 

You felt your cheeks fill with heat at being caught staring at Sam. But you tried playing it off, rolling your eyes as you sat up, making your way to the table he was sitting at, and resting your hip against the edge of it, looking to your left at him. Sam had to tilt his head up a bit to meet your eyes. 

It’s unfair how his height barely changes when he sits down. 

“Maybe I do.” You let your eyes trail over Sam’s body again before meeting his gaze again. 

Sam’s lips twitched before slowly rising in his seat, the chair scraping against the carpeted floor, and he leaned forward, his hands resting on the table as his face got closer to yours. Now, you had to crane your head back to make contact with his eyes. 

“This is doing something for you isn’t it?” He questioned, Sam’s head tilted slightly as the sly smirk turned into a grin. The white of his teeth almost distracted you from the devilish expression on his face as his eyes darkened and his tongue peaked out to wet his bottom lip. 

You narrowed your eyes at him, trying to resist the urge to clench your thighs together at the lust filling his eyes as he stared at you, feeling heat pool in your core. 

“Unfortunately.” You grumbled as you broke the eye contact the two of you were sharing as you crossed your arms over your chest. 

You heard another chuckle escape Sam’s lips. You listened to some shuffling and felt one of his fingers push your jaw to look at him. Sam was standing in front of you as he took your chin in between his index finger and thumb. His lips stretched into a lewd smirk as he leaned closer to you, his cologne filling your senses as you felt his breath fan over your face. 

“Who knew that you have a thing for priests?” 

You uncrossed your arms and scoffed at him before hooking your fingers into the belt loops of his pants, pulling him closer to you. “I have a thing for you in this getup, not the other way around.” You clarified, your lips pulling into a half-smirk. 

Sam raised an eyebrow at you. “You sure?” 

“Shut up, you know how gorgeous you are.” You rolled your eyes at him. “It’s honestly unfair how good you look in anything.” 

Sam huffed a laugh through his nose. “Mhm, sure.” He rubbed his nose against yours before capturing your lips between his, pulling you into a fiery kiss, his tongue invading your mouth. You let out a low moan as you pulled him closer to you and felt his bulge grind against you. 

Sam always had this hold on you every time he placed his lips on yours. The only thing that was on your mind was always Sam. It was like there was a giant neon sign that flashed his name every time he touched you. 

Suddenly, Sam pulled himself away from you. What you didn’t realize as Sam was making out with you was that Dean had finished changing into his own priest getup and stepped out of the bathroom.

You heard him clear his throat, and you looked over at Dean. Though you would never admit it out loud or to anyone ever, Dean looked as good as Sam did in the white collar (but you had a bias towards your boyfriend because, well, he's your boyfriend).

Dean raised an eyebrow at the two of you. “You two done defiling each other?” 

“Shut up.” Sam shot a scowl at Dean's smirking face.  

“Nope." Dean said, popping the 'p' obnoxiously. "Next time don’t make out in the same room as me.” He came over to the table and smacked his hand onto Sam’s shoulder before brushing past him and left the motel room. 

You let out a small laugh as Sam’s face twisted into his bitch face before sighing. But a smile slowly appeared on his face at the sound of your laugh. 

He turned around to face you again. You looked at him with a smile. His smile got wider before he leaned in and placed a soft kiss against your lips. Sam pulled away, letting his forehead rest against yours. 

“You should probably get another room before we get back.”

Your eyebrows furrowed. “Why?” 

The edges of Sam's' lips threatened to curl up before his face became serious.

"Because I have plans for you and I don't want to share this room with Dean."

"Oh?" A smirk grew on your face. "What kind of plans?" You asked coyly.

Sam let out a soft laugh before pulling back and cupping your face with his warm hand, his thumb stroking the apple of your cheek softly.

"The kind of plans that require you to be on your knees repenting and confessing all the naughty thoughts that your mind conjured up about me ever since I came out of the bathroom."

The heat in your core grew brighter as you clenched your thighs together at the low rumble of Sam’s voice. 

“You understand?” You nodded dumbly at his words, and Sam pecked your lips. 

“Good girl.” Sam sent you another smirk before letting his hand fall from your face and exiting the room. 

You swallowed thickly as you stood frozen in your spot. “Well, fuck me.” You breathed out before leaving the room and getting another, just like Sam asked. 

[here's my taglist; read rules before sending in an ask]

[a-little-revolution]

oh shit i’m aware! :0 happy October!

what sort of society wide structural accommodations would you like to see in place to help/make more accessible for little people?

Aaaaah this ask is so old now I'm so sorry!! (Things can get lost among all the hate messages lol) But gosh so many things!!

• The first is step stools EVERYWHERE!!! Public access to step stools would solve most of the problems little people face with access. I'm talking bathrooms, service desks, cash registers, libraries, clothing stores - the list goes on! They could fold away for easy access, or blend in as universal design.

There's even these amazing fold up ones I've seen that get automatically tucked away to prevent tripping hazards:

The second is for grab bars such as these (see bellow) for easier toilet access to be more widespread. It's important that toilets remain the height parallel with the average wheelchair, but grab bars can make it much easier for shorter people to hoist.

Public bathroom/change room stalls that go close to/all the way to the floor! As a little person, the average stall door ends at my waist (sometimes higher) so I am not guaranteed privacy. I much prefer stalls with minimal viewing access. And as a trans person, stalls that are more private create added safety.

I would love for extended grabbing handles to be standard practice in vehicles!

These would make getting in and out of cars much easier for a little person, not to mention elderly folks, children, and other disabled people. Extra foldable steps in cars is also something I've seen and loved.

Adjustable foot hammocks on public desks and tables would be sooo goood! A big source of leg pain for me is that my legs are dangling in every chair I sit in, which cuts off circulation and semi-dislocates my loose joints. Some sort of ledge or hammock would solve this issue.

I'm sure there are many more but this is what comes to mind for now!

-Elliot (they/them)

[uniquexusposts]

The one-off | Carlos Sainz Jr. x reader (1)

Summary: She’s not from the world of F1, she’s a sunshine-soft emergency medical specialist used to cracked ribs and bloody football pitches. But when a one-time case calls her into the paddock, she ends up face-to-face with the man she once loved and left behind. Carlos drives for Williams now. She’s just here to fix a shoulder. It’s clinical. Temporary. Professional. So why does it feel like everything unfinished between them is waiting just under the surface?

The paddock buzzes with nerves and noise, full of sleek bodies and sharper egos. It’s like walking into the belly of a machine that’s forgotten how to breathe.

Y/n steps out of the taxi, the sun pressing down hard on her shoulders, and adjusts the strap of her med bag. She smiles politely at the security guard who stood next to the gate, a smile that’s met with confusion. She scanned her pass and walked through. Her bright energy doesn’t quite match the paddock’s stiff professionalism. She doesn’t mind.

She’s used to being the odd one out.

Her badge reads: Dr. Y/N Y/L/N – Emergency Medical Specialist Temporary Access – Williams Racing

Field hockey, football, high-contact chaos; that’s her usual beat. Fast-paced games, cracked ribs, adrenaline surges, bloodied faces. She thrives in the mess. Her reputation has grown not because she’s loud, but because she’s always calm when everyone else panics. Kind to the athletes. Brutal with the rehab.

F1 wasn’t supposed to be on the list. It never has been.

But a call came three days ago.

"It’s urgent. One-time case. Discretion preferred. The driver requested someone with your record."

She didn’t ask which driver.

But now she knows.

She read the file that morning and felt the breath catch in her chest, even if her face never changed.

Carlos Sainz. She hadn’t heard that name out loud in almost two years.

The Williams motorhome is sleek and sterile, like someone tried to design a hotel lobby for robots. She’s led through a glass corridor by a young staffer who speaks fast and avoids eye contact.

"You’ll have the physio suite for the hour," he says, flustered. "Carlos will be in shortly. Let me know if you need... uh... water, towels, whatever."

"Thanks, I’m all good," Y/n says brightly, flashing him a warm smile.

He blinks like he doesn’t quite know what to do with that. She gets that reaction a lot. People expect someone harder. Sharper. Someone who barks orders.

They don’t expect her, sunshine voice, soft features, heart-shaped face. They don’t expect the shift that happens the second she starts working.

She enters the room, alone now, and exhales quietly. Clean table. Blank walls. Only a small Williams logo on the cabinet. She sets up fast, gloves, oils, pressure tools, ice packs, all lined up in practiced rhythm. Her fingers move automatically, but her thoughts are slower.

Carlos.

She hasn’t seen him since Madrid, some rooftop birthday, some too-warm July night where his laugh carried over the crowd like it still belonged to her.

She left before he saw her.

She had meant to forget him.

The door clicks open behind her, soft and deliberate.

She doesn’t turn.

She doesn’t have to.

"Didn’t expect you," Carlos says quietly, his voice lower than she remembers but just as steady.

Y/n adjusts the table height like it’s the most important thing in the world. "Didn’t expect you to be at Williams."

"I needed a change."

She nods once. "So did I."

Finally, she turns. And there he is, leaning against the door like he owns the oxygen in the room. Polo shirt hugging his frame, jaw sharper, hair longer than she remembers. There’s a new tiredness in his face, hidden behind his usual calm.

He blinks once when he sees her properly. "You look-"

"Don’t." She cuts him off, gentle but firm. "Shirt off. Lie face down."

A flash of amusement tugs at the corner of his mouth. "Still bossy."

"Still injured."

He obeys without protest, pulling his shirt over his head and settling on the table with the practiced ease of someone who’s done this a hundred times.

But not with her. Not like this.

"Why you?" he asks, voice muffled by the cushion under his cheek.

Y/n pulls on her gloves. "I’m called in for emergencies. Fast recovery. High pressure. You know. All the things you attract."

"You usually do football."

"And field hockey. And dislocated shoulders at 3am in random cities." She starts pressing gently along the edge of his spine. "This is a one-time thing."

A beat. Then: "Is it?"

She doesn’t answer.

Instead, her hands shift , from soft to surgical, mapping his shoulder like she’s reading a story in the tension. She finds the problem immediately: strain, deep in the rotator cuff, masked by compensation along the upper trap and back.

"You’ve been protecting this too long," she says gently. "Probably since your last crash."

Carlos hums. "Didn’t want to sit out."

"You’ll sit out if this tears."

"You always talked like that," he mutters, half amused. "Soft voice, scary hands."

Y/N smiles faintly. "You used to like that."

Silence.

She applies deeper pressure, focused and precise. Her energy softens between movements but tightens on contact, he flinches once when she hits a knot, but he doesn’t make a sound.

"You’re quiet," she says, half-teasing.

"Trying not to curse," he mutters into the table.

"That’s new."

Carlos huffs a breath of laughter, low and rough. It almost makes her lose rhythm.

"You always remembered how to hurt me."

Her hands pause.

Only for a second.

He says nothing.

She finishes the session in silence, professional to the end. When she steps back and peels off the gloves, her whole body feels like it’s buzzing, not from the work, but from everything unsaid.

Carlos sits up slowly, bare chest rising with each breath. He moves carefully, not because of the pain, but like he’s searching for words he doesn’t want to waste.

"You’re still the best," he says finally.

"And you’re still reckless," she replies, reaching for the ice pack.

Their fingers brush for a second.

He looks at her, really looks at her, like maybe he’s searching for the version of her that once stayed up all night on balconies and laughed at his terrible Spanish pick-up lines.

But Y/n only smiles, kind and tired and distant.

"Apply this tonight. Stretch tomorrow. Don’t be a hero."

Carlos stands slowly, polo draped over one arm. "I didn’t ask for you, by the way."

"I didn’t come for you."

Another silence.

But it feels different now. Not heavy, just unfinished.

At the door, he turns. "You ever think about Madrid?"

She tilts her head. "Only when I need a reason to say no."

He winces. Laughs once, under his breath. "Still sunshine with a bite."

And then he’s gone.

The door clicks shut behind him, and Y/n finally lets her shoulders drop.

She sits on the edge of the table, ice pack pressed to her own wrist where she’d overworked it from the pressure, and stares at the empty wall.

It was supposed to be clinical. Quick. Efficient.

But it wasn’t.

Not with him.

Not with Carlos.

And the worst part?

It didn’t feel over.

Part 2

Taglist: @itsjustkhaos @crashingwavesofeuphoria @maryvibess @ironmaiden1313 @sltwins @heart-trees @npcmia @llando4norris

[monster-disaster]

[orc] Örök 2/4

orc!Örök x human!Reader Good to know: smut

Summary: Örök has dinner with you. And more.

A/N: I read your comments (thank you for loving Örök), but I don't do tagging (I know myself, I couldn't keep up with them). But if it's any help, I upload the new parts every Wednesday. :)

Örök's story // Main Masterlist // Monster March on my Patreon

The hallway is quiet, bathed in a soft glow. The polished leather of his shoes catches the warm light in a gentle sheen. Örök stands in front of your door, shifting his weight every now and again. He wears a dark blue button-up, neatly tucked into the waistband of his jeans. It clings to his chest and stomach a little more than he would prefer, but leaving it untucked had looked even worse, messy in a way that didn’t suit him. He exhales slowly, rolling his shoulders in an attempt to ease the tension that had settled there since he knocked. His posture is tense, not from discomfort, but from anticipation. It’s just dinner, but as he waits, he catches himself adjusting the cuffs of his sleeves and brushing invisible specks of dust from his jeans. Yeah, he is nervous.

"I'm coming." Your voice is muffled, followed by the soft click of the door opening.

And then, you are there. Just as breathtaking as you were two hours ago.

You are wearing the dress you bought earlier, the white one with delicate blue patterns and that daring slit up at the side. The long cut gives him glimpses of your thigh with each shift of your stance. The strappy high-heeled sandals make the length perfect, and the warm glow of the hallway makes the soft curve of your bare shoulder even more inviting. Örök's gaze lingers, admiration flickering in his dark eyes, but before he can say anything, you let out a soft, thoughtful oh, your expression shifting as you glance down.

His brows knit together. “What?” He instinctively smooths a hand over his shirt, suddenly self-conscious. Maybe the fit really is as bad as he feared. The fabric pulls a little at his stomach. He knew it!

You hesitate, nibbling your lip before offering, "I can change into flats if you want."

Örök frowns, thrown off. "Why would you do that?" His gaze drops briefly to your sandals, then back to your eyes. "Are they uncomfortable?"

No, but..." You shift your weight slightly, choosing your words carefully. "I'm taller than you in these."

There is a brief pause. He blinks at you, then lets out a short, amused scoff. "And? Does that bother you?"

You shake your head instantly. "No. But I thought maybe it would bother you."

A low rumble of laughter echoes in his chest as he holds out his arm for you to take. "Don’t be ridiculous, sweetheart. You look amazing in them."

And the truth is, he was so focused on everything else; your smile and the way the dress hugs your curves that he hadn't even noticed the height difference. And even now, as you take his arm with a bright, dazzling smile, he couldn't care less.

By the time you arrive at the dining hall, the place is already alive with the low hum of conversation and the gentle clinking of silverware against porcelain. The warm, golden glow inside contrasts beautifully with the inky darkness beyond the windows. Outside, the desert stretches into the night. The sand dunes rise like black shadows, and above, the sky glimmers with stars.

The familiar table from the other day is empty, and as you approach, Örök steps ahead, pulling out the chair for you just like last time.

"Thank you," you say, looking up at him with a smile.

Örök only nods before settling into his own seat, lifting the menu with a furrowed brow. His eyes scan the unfamiliar dishes, but the more he reads, the less he understands.

After a moment, he exhales through his nose, feeling a touch of embarrassment creep in. "I know nothing about these," he admits gruffly.

But instead of laughing at him, you grin, eyes sparkling with amusement. "Me neither," you confess, leaning in slightly like it’s some shared secret. "But the steak looks safe enough."

Örök huffs a small laugh, relieved. "Steak it is," he agrees.

A comfortable silence settles between you for a beat before he adds, voice teasing, "Let’s just hope we didn’t accidentally order something raw and still kicking."

Your laughter rings out, light and warm, and just like that, the night already feels perfect.

Your food arrives, steaming and delicious, and soon, you both settle into an easy rhythm; forks clinking against plates, occasional laughter bubbling up between bites, and despite spending the entire day talking, it feels as though there is still more to share.

At one point, as you take a sip of your drink, you let your gaze linger on Örök, and without thinking much about it, you say, "I'm glad we met."

"I'm glad too," he admits with softening eyes. "To be honest, I was worried about what I’d do in a place like this." He gestures vaguely at the elegant setting. "I mean, this is all… nice. But I spent decades in my shop, covered in oil and sweat. I know how to work. I know how to keep my hands busy. But just sitting back and relaxing? That’s... different."

"Me neither," you admit, tapping your fingers lightly against the table. "I even brought my laptop just in case I got restless. Thought maybe I’d sneak in some work if nothing else. But I have to admit, it’s beautiful here."

Örök watches you, the way your lips curl at the edges, the way your fingers trace circles on the rim of your glass. "And the company is great too," he adds, fondly, teasingly.

"Agreed," you say, meeting his gaze with a smile that lingers longer than necessary.

The night stretches on, unhurried. Plates get cleared and replaced with fresh drinks that glisten under the soft lighting. The hum of conversation around settles as a band begins to play, blending seamlessly with the low murmur of laughter and clinking glasses.

Örök watches as a few couples rise from their seats, drawn by the rhythm, but what truly catches his attention is you. Your gaze flickers toward them, lingering just a little too long, and the orc doesn't think, doesn't hesitate. He pushes his chair back, standing tall before you as he extends his hand. The light catches the roughness of his knuckles, the calloused fingers that look better suited for holding wrenches than holding hands, but when he speaks, his voice is steady and warm;

"Would you like a dance?"

Your face lights up, and he swears he could never tire of it. It’s a reaction that makes his chest feel too small for the way his heart presses against it.

"Love to," you say, slipping your hand into his without a second thought.

His grip tightens just enough to guide you onto the floor, weaving effortlessly between the other dancers. He turns to face you, placing one hand firmly on your waist while your free hand settles on his shoulder. Your fingers entwine more securely with his, and the rhythm of the music draws you both into a gentle sway.

"Are you still not bothered by me being taller?" you tease, gazing down at him with a playful glint in your eyes.

Örök barely hesitates, his lips curling into a slow, confident smirk. "Not even for a second, darling," he murmurs. His grip on your waist tightens just enough to draw you closer, your bodies moving in a slow rhythm.

You tilt your head, eyes glinting with mischief as you drag your fingers slowly along the back of his neck, letting your nails scrape ever so lightly. "You know," you murmur, your voice just loud enough for him to hear over the music, "I think I like this."

Örök exhales sharply through his nose, his fingers flexing slightly against your waist before he regains control of himself. "Yeah?"

"For someone who claims he wasn’t sure what to do on a trip like this… you are awfully good at sweeping a girl off her feet."

Örök huffs out a quiet chuckle. "I don’t know about that," he rumbles, though there is a flicker of something in his expression. After his wife, he has forgotten how it feels, this mix of intrigue and warmth.

As time passes, the crowd slowly begins to thin. A few couples break apart and head toward their rooms. The sound of laughter and chatter fades, replaced by the soft shuffle of footsteps, but you and Örök remain, swaying. Only when the last few people leave, do you two decide to end the night too.

When you get back to your room, Örök stays at the doorway, watching you with an intensity he can’t quite hide. His eyes linger on you, taking in the way you move, the soft curve of your lips, and the unspoken invitation in your gaze. He is not sure what’s happening between the two of you, but he feels it deep in his bones, like a slow burn that starts low in his gut and builds with every second. There’s a tension in the air, thick and palpable, but he can’t bring himself to cross that threshold, to make the first move. Instead, he waits, giving you the space to decide, to tell him what you want.

When you turn to face him, your smile curling softly at the edges of your lips, it’s like the world tilts just a bit. That smile, that quiet confidence in your eyes, makes his heart race. His breath catches for a moment, but it’s the words that you speak next that send a shiver down his spine.

“Would you like to come in?”

_

Örök lies beneath you, broad and solid, his massive frame sinking slightly into the mattress that smells like you. His chest rises and falls with ragged breaths. The orc watches you, caught between awe and raw hunger. His dark gaze drinks in every inch of your bare body as if committing it to memory. His tusked mouth slightly parted. His large hands rest on your plush hips, calloused fingers kneading your softness, savoring the way you feel under his rough touch. He can't help but marvel at the way your curves spill over his grip, how warm and supple you are in his arms. Every time you shift, rolling your hips in a slow, deliberate motion, he groans. His fingers tighten, just for a moment, fighting with the primal urge to grip you harder and take control.

His dark eyes are fixed on the way your body moves above him. "Look at you," he grunts. "Beautiful." His breath hitches as you rise up slowly before sinking back down, enveloping him in your wet heat. A deep, shuddering groan escapes him, his massive body straining, every muscle coiled tight with pleasure.

He wants to move, to flip you over and take you with all the force thrumming in his veins. The urge is nearly unbearable, but the need to watch you, to see you like this, is even stronger. Your breasts bounce with every motion, your stomach and thighs quiver as you ride him.

"You are driving me mad, girl," he growls, thick with need. His fingers flex, digging into your soft flesh, reveling in the way your weight presses him down in the most intoxicating way.

His sharp eyes catch the shiver that runs through you at his words. A deep, satisfied rumble vibrates in his chest as he feels your pussy flutter around him, gripping him tighter with every movement. His mouth waters at the sight of your nipples hardening even more. He reaches up, rough thumbs flicking over your sensitive buds in small circles while your hips roll again. It forces a guttural groan out of him again.

"Örök!" His name spills from your lips in a desperate rush. Your voice is dripping with impatience and need. Your palms press flat against his broad chest, fingers raking through the coarse gray hair scattered across his warm skin. The movement pushes your breasts together, drawing his hungry gaze to the way your damp skin glistens in the low light.

The sight makes his lips curl into a wicked grin. "Do you need some help, pretty girl?" he teases, amused. His large hands slide down to your hips once more, rough fingers pressing into your soft flesh, grounding you in his grip.

"Please," you breathe barely more than a whimper as you sink down on him again. The stretch, the heat, it’s all too much, but not enough all at once. You tremble above him, trying to quicken your pace, chasing the pleasure that coils tighter with every movement.

"Whatever you want," he grunts as he sits up. His feet brace against the mattress, giving him the leverage he needs. The new position forces you down onto him even deeper, ripping a sharp gasp from your throat as he fills you completely. Your walls pulse around him, and he throbs inside you in answer.

"That's it," he rasps against your ear, breathing hot on your skin. "Let me take care of you, pretty girl."

Örök shifts beneath you, climbing further up the bed until his broad back presses against the sturdy wooden frame. You instinctively clutch onto him tighter, as if the small movement could somehow make you lose your balance. Even the thought of slipping from him makes your body react; your pussy clenches around his thick cock. He groans at the sensation while he adjusts his hold on you, thrusting up into you with a newfound vigor. His powerful thighs flex beneath you as he bucks into you, grinding deep inside. The sheer force of his movements sends jolts of pleasure through you, making it impossible to do anything but cling to him. His lips find your neck, hot and searching, his tusks grazing your skin, catching at the sensitive spot where your pulse pounds wildly. He groans at the taste of you, warm and slightly salty, his tongue tracing over your heated flesh before he nips at you, teasing and claiming. He trails lower, dragging his mouth along the line of your collarbone, savoring every inch of soft, supple skin beneath his lips. When he reaches the swell of your breasts, he growls low in his throat and buries his face between them, inhaling deeply.

Every part of you made to be touched, to be held, to be adored.

"Fucking perfect," he mutters against your skin, voice muffled by your tits.

He bounces you on his lap, lifting and dropping you in sync with the powerful thrusts of his hips. The sheer strength behind every movement has you gasping. The slick slide of his cock inside you, the way he stretches you open with every stroke, is utterly overwhelming. Your walls flutter around him, clamping down tightly, making every drag of his length more intense.

Örök knows exactly when you are close. Your head falls back, and your back arches as you teeter on the edge. The movement pushes your breasts even closer to his face, and his instincts take over. His lips latch onto one of your stiffened nipples, sucking the sensitive bud into his hot mouth, his tusks grazing your soft skin. You grow impossibly tighter around him, your body seizing, gripping him so fiercely that it hits him right then and there. His teeth sink into your flesh, not enough to hurt, just enough to claim. A guttural groan rips from his throat as his entire body tenses, every muscle locking up as he throbs inside you. The heat of his release floods you, thick and heavy, and you take it all, trembling in his hold, wheezing as pleasure wracks your body. His arms tighten around you, keeping you pressed close as you both ride it out together.

Even as the pleasure fades, he doesn’t let you go. His lips trail lazily over your damp skin while you lay on his chest. Your breath is warm and heavy on his sweatí skin as you pant, shivering from the aftermath of your orgasm.

"Do you want me to leave?" He asks. No part of him wants to move, to put a distance between you, but he feels like he needs to ask.

"No," you tell him immediately, slowly slipping down next to him onto the bed, arms and legs still holding onto him. "Stay."

[yinora]

how do you think the spn boys ( Sam, Dean, Cas) would separately react to a reader who needs reading glasses. like it's boring long ass research time and reader just pulls out their glasses and the boys are like '??? when was this'. I just think it would be very cute 😭🫶

a/n: OMG YES!! i love this request sm <3 though personally i dont have reading glasses, i tried to make this accurate, i hope this is good T.T i hope you enjoy!!

pairing: Sam, Dean, Cas (seperately) x gn!reader

Dean Winchester

it was just another ghost case, a vengefull spirit that's pissed off, so ofcourse, you had to figure out who this ghost was, when they died and where the remains were burried.

you were in a small town, the ghost was killing people with what they feared, so far, there were three victims, one was a woman who was scared of heights, she got pushed off a building. the second was a man who was scared of tight spaces, he got suffocated in a closet, and lastly there was a young girl that was scared of deep water, and she drowned in the deep side of a pool, all over the span of a month.

Sam offered to go get you three some proper lunch from the local store, so you and Dean have to do most of the research, or atleast make a start on it.

Dean is making himself comfortable on one of the two motel beds, with Sam's laptop for research.

you sit down next to him, with a book on vengefull spirits, because you mentioned something about how this spirit could be a different kind than usual.

Dean glances at you for a second, a small smile on his lips, but quickly, his expression changes to one of absolute surprise as you whip out a pair of glasses and put it on, opening your book, though in the corner of your eye you can see him looking at you.

"what?" you raise an eyebrow.

"you have reading glasses?" Dean asks in a surprised tone.

"yeah, obviously" you glance at him.

"got a problem with that?" "what? no, no ofcourse not" he replies, though he has a teasing smile on his face, which makes you roll your eyes. yeah, he was so gonna use this against you for teasing.

Sam Winchester

its been over an hour since Dean said he was gonna go and check out the scene once more with Cas, and you and Sam are still sitting there in a motel room.

Sam has been researching for the past 45 minutes, on his laptop. you two are quiet, save for the occasional typing from Sam.

you made yourself a cup of tea, before sitting down at the small table in the room, pulling a book. you also pull out your reading glasses, putting them on and adjusting them slightly before flipping your book open.

Sam, being so engrossed on his laptop, doesn't notice for about 20 minutes, untill he looks up to ask if you've found anything, but the words die on his tongue as he looks at you, focused and reading... with glasses? since when?

"uh... did you find anything yet?" he ask with slight hesitation. he doesn't want to mention the sudden glasses, because what if you take offense? or get embarrassed? he doesn't want that, the least he wants is feel like an absolute idiot.

"no" you respond with a sigh, putting your book down and sliding off your glasses to be ontop of your head, grabbing your now room temperature tea, though you know Sam, and you can see in his eyes that he's confused about the glasses.

"i've had them for years, though they make researching on a laptop even shittier, and usually i borrow yours for research, so i don't put them on. besides, they don't do much for anything else, and i usually inspect the items we find at a scene, so, don't feel bad you didn't notice them before" you explain, smiling a little to yourself when he lets out a silent, relieved sigh.

"okay, okay, so i'm not a terrible boyfriend for not knowing you had reading glasses, good to know" he says with a slight laugh at the end of his sentence.

"you look cute in them, they suit you"

Castiel

Dean and Sam left to get dinner, leaving you in the motel room alone to research some more, because why not.

you were peacefully reading some newspapers, checking for any details you might've missed. the glasses you were wearing sliding down every once in a while, so you adjust them to sit back up on your nose properly.

you suddenly hear the sound of wings fluttering, and low and behold, Cas is standing across from you, though instead of the usual greeting, you're met with silence as you two look at eachother, the angel tilting his head to the side as he usually does when he's curious about something.

"....hello [name]..." he finally says, his eyebrows furrowing subtly.

"i didn't know you needed reading glasses." he mentions rather bluntly, making you smile.

"yeah, i know. you haven't been around much lately during research" you see him furrow his brows even more.

"i... think i should've known." he mumbles.

"isn't it normal for someone to know those things about their partner?" he asks you.

"yeah, but its not a big deal if you simply haven't noticed, its just a pair of glasses i barely use, its nothing to feel bad about" you say reassuringly.

[wintersnwnderlnd]

Hot and Bothered

Max Goof x Reader (implied), PJ x Reader (referenced)

Bodies moved to the beat of the music of the club. Lights flashing slightly with the beat, setting an upbeat mood. The sound of laughter glided through the air as I looked around the room, spotting Max and the guys sitting at a table off to the side.

Waving, I made my way through the crowd, sliding in beside Max.

"Hey guys. Did you already order?" Just as the words left my mouth, a waitress stopped by to drop off an order of nachos, "Never mind,". Bobby laughed, digging into the chips as Max wrapped an arm around my shoulders.

"How are you, today y/n?" Max questioned, leaning down breath warm on my ear causing it to twitch. I smiled up at him, reaching of a chip.

"I'm good, Max." I notice Bobby getting up from the table, chasing after a familiar girl in a beret, "Hey, check out Bobby.". We laughed slightly as she turned away from him.

"Hey, you wanna sit with us?" Max called out, saving Bobby from embarrassing himself.

She smirked, coming over, glancing over us all, "Your cool balances out his fool." She snapped, emphasizing her words causing me to snicker into Max's shoulder quietly. Bobby shot me a look of fake hurt causing my snickers to deepen as she took a seat beside PJ. "Well, if it's all the same... I, uh... I forgot your name."

PJ cleared his throat, moving to rest his elbows on the table, "It is endemic of the current culture that these with large stature are overlooked, except by vultures, with no regard to the depth to their souls, the height of their passion, the beauty of their moments."

Max, Bobby and I stared at him in shock, not expecting those words to leave the usually funny and casual guy's mouth. I shivered slightly, leaning into Max's side, swallowing hard. Her smirk grew as she leaned towards him, "O wise Buddha Boy, could anyone overlook such a bundle of "yes-ness"?" She paused for effect before holding out a hand, "Let's dance.". The two got up, moving towards the dance floor.

"W-well fuck." I stammered, shifting in my seat a little, adjusting my skirt. I cleared my throat missing Bobby's smirk as he glance at me.

Max looked down at me in amusement, "Seriously, that does it for you?".

A flush grew on my cheeks as he and Bobby laughed softly, smacking his arm, "You know I like poetry. Don't judge me, otherwise I'll bring up your degradation kink.".

Bobby snorted, coughing slightly as he inhaled a chip.

"Y/n!" Max whined, pulling me against his side. We all laughed, watching as the music and lights changed, a smooth disco beat filling the air.

[bangs-coffee-fandoms-unite]

I think a really underrated trope is "character gets shrunk to adorable size and hijinks ensue," and I especially want to see this used in the 2003 iteration of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. Picture this: Leonardo, either through some villain of the week, freak accident, or alien technology, gets shrunk down to roughly the size of a Barbie doll.

Donatello calls Raphael and Michelangelo into his laboratory, looking all grim and serious. The absence of their eldest brother has the younger two convinced that something horrible has happened.

Raphael: [bursts in, all worried] Donny, what the shell happened? Where's Leo?!

Michelangelo: [close on his heels, equally concerned] Yeah, where's Leo? Did something happen?

Donatello: [holding up his hands to calm them] Yes, but it’s not what you think! He’s fine. He's just... gone through a bit of a change.

Raphael: [squints] What kind of change?

Donatello: [sighs] Now, I’m going to bring him out, and you two better be on your best behavior. No laughing—this is serious.

Raphael: [crosses arms, suspicious] Serious how?

Donatello gives them a look that screams, "You'll see." He reaches under the table, carefully picks up something (or rather, someone), and gently sets Leonardo down on the table. Leonardo—now barely the height of a Barbie doll—straightens his gear and adjusts his mask, trying desperately to maintain his dignity.

Raphael: [silent, staring] ...

Michelangelo: [jaw drops] ...

Raphael: [deadpan, trying not to laugh] ...I’m not supposed to laugh, right?

Michelangelo: [slowly grins] He...is...so...AWESOME! Dude, he’s like the ultimate, super-realistic action figure! [jumps excitedly] Let me hold him! Let me hold him! Please, just for a minute!

Leonardo: [scrambles to climb up Donatello’s arm, in full panic mode] DO NOT let him hold me! DO NOT let him hold me!

[five-rivers]

Funeral

“I’m sorry,” said Danny, speaking to the headstone in lieu of anything else to talk to.  He certainly wasn’t going to speak to the empty and expectant grave a few feet away.  “I wanted to wait.  I want to wait.  It’s just–”  He cut himself off, curling his hands into fists.  “There are so many things I haven’t seen, haven’t done.  Jazz got married, you know?  She’s pregnant.  If I was– I could have–”

He fell silent and adjusted the collar of his overcoat, trying to keep the frigid Ghost Zone wind away from his currently human neck.  

“Sam and Tucker are thinking about getting married, now that we’ve all graduated,” he said softly.  “I would have liked to see that, too.  And have a career.  Travel.  I know you wanted to do that, too.  But–”  

He broke off as his voice pitched weirdly, too high, too loud.  Sparks jumped off his fists as his emotions rose.  He flickered in and out of sight and tangibility, and his skin started to–

With an effort, he wrenched himself back together.  

“I’m sorry,” he said again.  “This is why I have to go.  I’m too unstable, and it isn’t like you.  I’m not just a danger to myself.”

(A premonition: Disturbed soil, a hand reaching out, a solid body… but there was nothing there now.  The ground was troubled only by slowly growing grass.)

He turned away from Dani’s grave and walked back to the mortuary shrine.  

The wind kicked up again.  There was ice in it.  

A motto was carved above the threshold of the shrine.  It read, LET THE DEAD BURY THEIR OWN DEAD.  Appropriate.  No one fully living would be here tonight.  Sam, Tucker, and Jazz had all wanted to be, just like they had all wanted to be there for Dani, but there were rules about this kind of thing, old rules, and–

Ice feathered out from under his feet.  And it wouldn’t be safe for them.  

The mortuary shrine was cozy on the inside, not at all like a morgue, or an embalmer’s studio.  There were some similarities, overlaps in function, but the shrine was not organized with decaying fleshy bodies in mind.  The central altar, for example, was high off the ground, for ease of access by the celebrants, but it was soft, bed-like, for the sake of the one who’d lie there.  The other altars were filled with other things, like candles, foods, oils and wines, salt, cloth, books, and strange implements Danny couldn’t name.  All things needed for a burial.  

There was other furniture, too, and the associated accouterments.  Elegant ghost lanterns and a fireplace, burning with cold fire.  Lovely chairs and small tables carved from bright wood.  Plush footstools.  Tapestries and curtains, softening the stone walls.  

Three ghosts waited for him there, the proper number for a rite like this.  Frostbite, his horns only inches from the ceiling.  Pandora, who had taken a smaller form for the occasion.  Clockwork, who looked much the same as he always did, except that he wasn’t changing forms, instead wearing a guise of solid middle age.  

(Danny still had to look up at all of them.  He'd managed to catch up to Jazz, but he'd never reached his father's height.)

“You are ready,” said Clockwork.  

It wasn’t really a question, didn't necessarily call for a response, but Danny understood.  This was his last chance to back out without any more consequences than the ones he was currently experiencing.  

But those consequences were bad enough.  He shuddered as intangibility and invisibility rippled through him again, and he just barely kept a grip on his more destructive powers.  

“Yes,” said Danny.  He looked around the shrine, nervous.  He hadn't been here when Dani did this. He didn't know what came next.  Not in any detail.  “Should I change?”

“No,” said Pandora.  “Not unless you feel the need to.  The ritual will be a guide, as it was for your younger sister.”

“Then we shall begin,” said Clockwork.  

Danny nodded.  

Frostbite came forward fist, and leaned all the way down to kiss Danny’s forehead.  “You are dead, Great One, and we will remember you.”

He stepped back, and Pandora took his place.  “You are dead, little warrior, and we will send you on with honor.”  She pressed a kiss to his forehead as well.  

Then, Clockwork came up.  He looked down at Danny for longer than the other two.  “You are dead, Daniel, and the time comes for all the dead to be laid to rest.”

When Clockwork’s lips brushed against Danny’s forehead, he felt the first strands of the ritual wrap around him like silk.  Still thin and tenuous enough that he could break free, but not without damage to both the weaving and himself.  

Frostbite, meanwhile, had turned to one of the lesser altars.  There was a small teapot chilling there, above a braiser of cold fire.  Frostbite poured its contents into a large mug, then added three scoops of shimmery white powder, each from a different small pot, before stirring three times.  

He held the mug out to Danny.  “For your nerves.”

“Is this drugged?” asked Danny, taking the mug.  He kept his tone light.  Considering the parts of this Danny knew were going to happen, that was really the least of his worries.  

“Drugged and poisoned,” said Frostbite.  “We did research into the best way to ritually account for your continued life.  This is it.”

If Danny was younger, he’d ask if it was going to kill him.  He knew better, now, about how durable half-ghosts were.  Memories of long-ago history lessons, of trivia, of drugged drinks and gentle, honored deaths on cold mountains ghosted through Danny’s mind.  But those were children.  

He raised the mug to his lips and took a drink.  It tasted of chocolate, cream, and a bewildering array of spices and herbs, from capsaicin to vanilla to rosemary.  There was also a bitter undertaste, and Danny would have pulled away instinctively, but as soon as he’d started the reflexive motion, Frostbite put a friendly but firm hand on the back of his head, and another on the bottom of the mug, keeping it tilted back.  

(A premonition: Other hands hovered nearby, ready to assist if Danny resisted.  He could feel them.  One over his nose, another stroking his throat, taking advantage of the remaining reflexes of his human body.  But they weren’t there.  Not yet.)

The rites, now started, would not be so easily refused.  

Danny drank deeply, finding a strange sort of enjoyment in the extended physical contact.  He’d been avoiding touch ever since a nasty scare with his ice powers and Sam’s skin.  There had been close calls before that, too, with his newer, more esoteric powers, but until then…

Frostbite tilted Danny’s head all the way back, ensuring the last few drops of the drink fell past Danny’s lips, then pulled the mug away.  Danny licked his teeth and lips, and swallowed one more time.  He didn’t feel anything yet.  

“What next?” he asked, wincing at the edge of power behind the question.  He should probably just.  Not talk.  Especially not with drugs in his system.  

“After a death, the first step is to clean and prepare the body,” said Pandora.  

Of course.  Danny nodded.  The mortuary shrine… wobbled.  

Frostbite swept Danny up into his arms - which would have been more embarrassing if Frostbite wasn’t huge - and carried him to one of the lesser altars.  It was smooth-surfaced and the neighboring, even smaller altars had bars, bottles, jars, basins of water, and washcloths, all arranged to stand at precise angles from one another.  He was laid down on the altar, and Frostbite and Clockwork started to undress him.  

At first, Danny tried to help, peeling out of his overcoat and sweater quickly.  But then, his movements seemed to… blur.  His mind was still sharp, as far as he could tell, but his limbs were becoming clumsy, slow.  

It was Clockwork who untied his boots, and Frostbite who unbuttoned Danny’s shirt.  By the time they got to his underthings, it felt like there was a barrier between him and his body.  Not anything solid, he could still move, still react, but something muffling, slowing.  Frostbite laid him down so that he was flat on his back on the lesser altar.  Clockwork started going through Danny’s hand with a wet, lightly perfumed, comb.  Frostbite, meanwhile, took out a set of dentists tools and eased Danny’s jaw open with one claw.  

Across the room, at the main altar, Pandora laid layer after layer of cloth.  Some of them were patterned, others plain.  Some were thick with embroidery, others were gossamer thin.  Some were edged with beads or woven with gold, others looked tattered, as if they’d been previously used for something else, the scrupulously cleaned.  

Clockwork, done with Danny’s hair for the moment, moved on to his feet.  It was hard to describe the intimacy of being cleaned like this by someone else.  By someone he knew.  He wasn’t a patient, Clockwork wasn’t a nurse.  He wasn’t an infant, and Clockwork wasn’t his parent.  But this was an act of care and love, offered without judgment.  It was also embarrassingly efficient and thorough.  When a body was cleaned, prepared for internment, it wasn't just the normal surfaces that were cleaned, but areas generally considered private.  

As Clockwork moved upwards, the powers that churned along the surface of Danny’s skin quieted.  They did not go silent - they never did, these days - but they were no longer so maddeningly active.  

Finished with Danny's mouth (which now felt much more clean than it ever did after the dentist's) Frostbite moved on to his nails, clipping and cleaning them, smoothing rough edges and cuticles.  Danny tried to be helpful with this, to at least hold his hands in the right way, but the effects of the drugs were progressing.  His movements were slowing, growing smaller.  

He should be panicking.  The loss of control, at least, should bother him, given the constant vigilance his rapidly growing powerset required.  But, as a human, his emotions were still principally dependent on physical systems and chemical reactions.  His heartbeat was slow, and growing slower.  

They turned him over to work on his back, and Danny half-dozed, eyes barely open, as they diligently scrubbed him clean.  

Then, he was on his back again, anointed with oils and perfumes, smokes and incense wafted over him.  Something wet drew a line from his lips to his groin.  

Danny's heart twitched to a stop. 

Blue-white rings flared from his core in an instant, painfully arresting the moment of death, then swept out to Danny's extremities.  He flinched, twisting on the table, onto his side, suddenly able to move again.  Everything was too bright, too loud, too close, too present.  He covered his face with his arms.

The panic he’d missed earlier was in full force now, shining bright and pure and crystalline in the way only ghostly emotions could.  He was in danger.  He was dangerous.  He could feel his powers coiling, ready to strike, whether it be his will or against it.  He fought them, and paid the price, bones and skin going soft, their fine, detailed structures destabilizing, running like wax, like the flesh of a caterpillar in a cocoon.  

A hand scooped through his sticky, melting flesh and pressed a cool, hard, surface to his lips.  He drank.  It was the same thing Frostbite had given him before, but without the bitterness.  With every gulp, the ritual spun onwards, strands thickening, multiplying.  By the time he was finished drinking, his skin was sticky and damp, but solid again underneath that.  

“No poison this time?” he asked.

“Just because you cannot taste it does not mean it isn’t there,” said Frostbite.  “Do you know what separates a medicine from a poison?”

“Dosage?” hazarded Danny.  Jazz was an MD.  He’d picked up a few things.

All three of the older ghosts chuckled.  Frostbite went as far as to ruffle his hair.

“He does learn,” said Clockwork, unzipping Danny’s jumpsuit (it had grown with him) and gently pushing aside Danny’s hands when he moved to help.  

Whatever was in the second drink, if there was anything at all, it didn’t act nearly as quickly as the first.  He could feel so much more, his sense of touch unblunted.  It made the process of Frostbite, Clockwork, and Pandora undressing him all that much more, especially when they chided him (ever so gently) for trying to help them, for doing anything but lying there like a corpse.  

(Deja vu: Rituals as old as humanity, reaching back, reaching forward.  The preparation of the dead, laying them to rest.  The duty of the family, to clean and prepare, to stand watch, sit vigil, to March the wake, to mourn, to celebrate.  The dead did not move to help.  They did not move at all.)

They washed the spaces between his toes and fingers, his teeth, the backs of his eyelids, the insides of his ears, every nook and cranny they had cleaned when he was in human form was cleaned again.  The stickiness from his earlier destabilization was wiped away, replaced with a dry, fresh feeling.  Invisibility and intangibility stopped wisping across his skin, too tightly bound by the ritual to be used even by accident.  

The perfumes they used now were different, they tickled at his brain and core both, summoning feelings of nostalgia, regret, longing, grief, quiet, peace.  They traced symbols in them, in languages Danny didn’t know but could feel the meanings of, of linear past and spreading future, of the pinpoint present, of decay and rot, of the loosening of muscles, of the blurring of boundaries, of reconstruction, of change, of stability, of things remade, of things caught in time forever.  

Frostbite picked him up and brought him to the main altar.  It was soft, piled high with cloth.  They felt cool and silky on Danny’s bare skin and there was a pillow under his head.  Absently, he ran his palm back and forth across the top cloth.  Or, no, not quite the top one.  The main one he was touching was large, large enough to hang off the altar and pool on the ground, but there was a smaller strip of embroidered cloth, almost like a long belt or ribbon, at the height of his biceps.  

There was, he noted, another such ribbon under his ankles, and another under his knees.  He wondered what they were for.  

He didn’t have to wonder for long.  Clockwork picked up the long ends of the ribbon and wound it around his ankles in a complicated fashion.  The twists and turns showed off the intricacy of the abstract embroidery.  He finished it off with a knot that disappeared under the rest of the ribbon.  

The strings of the ritual gathered faster, wound thicker, tighter, with a physical anchor.  

Clockwork moved on to the ribbon at Danny’s ankles.  The weaving was slightly different, but had the same effect. 

He expected the one under his arms to go the same way.  But instead Pandora, Frostbite, and Clockwork gathered flowers from another altar.  They were all black and white, so it took Danny a moment to recognize them.  Lilies, roses, marigolds, carnations, asphodel, nettle, nightshade, poppies, lycoris.  Flowers for death, for funerals, for mourning.  

Clockwork wrapped Danny’s hands around the bouquet, and pressed the ring finger of his left hand against a rose thorn.  A drop of blood welled up.  Blood, not ectoplasm.  Danny stared, surprised.  But he didn’t get to stare long.  Clockwork produced another ribbon, and wrapped it around the flowers and Danny’s wrists.  

Then, he picked up the other ribbon under Danny and tied it around his upper arms and elbows before tucking the ends into the ribbon around Danny’s wrists.  

It all felt very secure.  

Under normal circumstances, Danny would have been able to escape such flimsy restraints in a hummingbird’s heartbeat.  But it wasn’t just the ribbons that held him.  He could still escape, yes, but it would take a great deal of effort.  

He twitched his shoulder, just to check that he could.  The motion was slow, heavy, and smaller than he expected.  

Pandora put a stilling hand on his shoulder and held a coin up in front of his face.  It was large and silver, inscribed with symbols from languages both long dead and never alive.  Danny wondered if they had made it just for this occasion.  

“A last chance,” said Pandora.

His last chance to back out, is what she meant.  To say something.  He could do it.  He could stop the ritual and suffer the consequences.  He could be a danger to everyone around him for the rest of his existence, however long or short that was.  

He gave Pandora the tiniest shake of his head.  She smiled and pressed the coin against his lips.  He opened his mouth, just enough to take the coin.  It fit comfortably on his tongue, in between his teeth but not jostling against them.  If it wasn’t custom made and sized, it might as well have been.  It tasted metallic and sweet, as if, given enough time, it would dissolve on his tongue. 

Pandora took out one more embroidered ribbon and wrapped it around his jaw and the top of his head, holding his mouth closed.  There was enough tension in the ribbon to press, but not enough for its edges to dig into tender flesh.  Taken together, the coin and ribbon made an effective gag.  

His wail was now bound just as effectively as his intangibility and invisibility, as effectively as his tongue and voice.  For the first time since the incompatibility between his powers and his body became clear, the stress of keeping his wail under control was lifted away.

(A possibility, unraveled: Danny standing at the center of a crater made with his own voice.  No, kneeling.  No, weeping, curled on the ground, head touching dirt and fractured concrete.  He knew those buildings, teetering on the edges of new cliffs.  He knew them.)

This was the right decision.  

The three older ghosts busied themselves at the other, smaller altars briefly, allowing Danny to collect himself and sink deeper into that sense of relaxation.  The wail wasn’t the only thing that had been taken off his shoulder.  All his other voice-based powers were similarly locked away, and he hadn’t even noticed losing his shapeshifting, but he couldn’t touch that, either.  

When Pandora stepped back into his field of view, she was holding a mask.  A death mask, more specifically, styled after Danny’s own face.  Frostbite, next to her, held a small, square cloth, like a handkerchief and a small bottle.  

Clockwork reached out and touched Danny’s face, briefly tracing each of his features.  His lips, his nose, his eyebrows.  He slid his fingers down, pressing Danny’s eyelids closed.  The motion was gentle, but held a strange sort of finality.  

Danny found that he could not open his eyes.  

Fabric, soft and smooth, whisper thin, covered his face and was adjusted, straightened.  Something fragrant dampened it from above, near his nose.  More perfume.  He inhaled.  Exhaled.  Stopped.  

Stopped.  

Stopped.

Before he could have any more thoughts about not being able to breathe, the death mask was pressed into place.  The weight of it pressed the thin shroud over his face snugly into his skin.  It made his other limitations - his eyes, his breath, his general immobility - more acceptable, somehow. 

Other talismans were placed on his skin or tucked into the ribbons.  Some, he could identify by touch.  The ticklish barbs of a feather.  The cold roundness of another, smaller coin.  The familiarity of his childhood stuffed bear.  Others, his powers identified for him.  The sparkling wonder of a lunar meteorite.  The shiver of a carved piece of ghost ice.  The thrumming power and glory of a vial of ectoplasm shed by a god Danny had fought and defeated.  He hadn’t known they’d kept that.  

But other things were too strange to identify by touch alone.  He could make guesses.  Maybe that was a flower petal, maybe this other thing was a coil of string, and while he was sure that last was paper, he couldn’t say what was on it.  

With every token placed, another one of his powers was called up and locked away, like bound by like.  His awareness of the stars winking out as the meteorite was placed was sad.  The powers he’d ‘earned’ from that god being placed firmly out of his reach, however, was only a relief.

He was verging on helplessness, now.  Helpless, but unburdened.  

Clockwork started to speak.  None of the words were recognizable, but Danny knew the feeling of a prayer.  This one was old.  Old old.  Old even by the standards of ancient ghosts.  They hummed briefly in his bones before settling in them like lead weights.  Or golden ones.  

The edges of the sheet he was lying on were lifted up and folded over him, then tucked under him.  Wound around him.  It was a winding sheet.  Of course.  Of course.  The next cloth, too, was pulled up and over him, the motion a little more brisk now that the tokens were held in place by the first sheet.  Then, the next.  Cerecloth and cerements.  

Danny twitched a little, at first, at certain unexpected touches, but when the third wrapping added  its comforting, soothing pressure he was reduced (or, perhaps, elevated) to a state of perfect limpness.  

They added more tokens between the third layer and the fourth, but Danny couldn’t even begin to guess what they were.  They were too muffled by layers of silk - those layers being both the literal layers of cloth and the figurative layers of the ritual.  

Clockwork’s prayers were getting harder to hear, but Danny felt like he could recognize some of them, now.  Snippets of Akkadian, Egyptian, Greek, Latin, a word or two off the Oracle Bones.  Prayers for the dead, for their revenge and their remembrance, for their reverence and their reward, for their repose and their return.  

He was wrapped again and again, until the pressure, the gentle rocking motion necessary to wrap him, and the nearly unintelligible rhythm of Clockwork’s prayers threatened to lull him to sleep.  

He could hear snatches of Esperanto, now, and English.  

“... rest, and rest in peace… until waking… to hope… blessing in memory…”

Some parts of it felt familiar.  Others were strange, so strange, but he was bound so securely, now, that he almost felt as if he was floating.  

“... iron and wood, we entrust this most precious… an embrace… the hallowed graves… deliver and defend…”

No, he was floating, sort of.  He’d been lifted up, sheets and all, and now he was being moved sideways.  Sideways, and now down, down, into a snug cavity.  Was he bordered by flowers?  Pillows?  Both?  He couldn’t tell.  

“... into silk… like dust by sunlight into gold… changed… after a long day, to sleep…”

A faint weight draped over him, a final sheet covering him.  He felt, with a strange sense that lay deeper than instinct, further down and closer to his heart and soul, that Pandora, Frostbite, and Clockwork had drawn closer, that they were kneeling beside his casket or coffin, heads bowed.  

“Now we lay thee down to sleep,” whispered Clockwork, words startlingly clear despite his voice being harder to hear than ever, “we pray thy grave thy soul to keep, until thou choose the form thou take, and the hour thou shall wake.”

“And should thou never wake,” whispered - someone.  It was getting harder to tell the muffled voices apart.  “We shall mourn for thy sake.”

Very slowly, the force pushing in and down on Danny increased, deliciously.  It was almost enough.  

(Danny didn’t know where that thought had come from.)

A loud thump shuddered through Danny.  Another.  They were nailing him in.  Another restraint.  Another limitation.  Another step towards the cumulation of the ritual.  Almost.  Almost.  

Thirteen nails sealed Danny into the coffin.  

(He had been snug before.  Now, he wasn’t sure he could have moved even if the ritual hadn’t removed the ability from him.)

(All his powers were bound.  There was no more sense of responsibility keeping him awake.  His body was cocooned in every way possible.  There was no more fear about destabilizing and melting.  None of his choices would change what would happen to him next.  Only a curiosity about what it would feel like to be buried kept him from succumbing to his soul-deep exhaustion then and there.)

Vaguely, ever-so-vaguely, Danny could feel his coffin lifted, moved.  He knew where he was going.  Out of the mortuary shrine, across the lawn, down the rows and rows of graves, and to one grave in particular.  He’d wanted to be buried next to family, and Dani was his only family available.  

They stopped.  He was lowered.  Down.  Down.  Stopped again.  

A chill stole over Danny, like the cool side of a pillow, but all over his body, as if it meant to draw out the last of the warmth of life from his ectoplasm.  Restful.  

The dirt came down in sifted shovelfuls, like rain on a roof, like distant thunder.  And– he did have more powers, either so subtle he didn’t notice them as such or as of yet undiscovered.  These were buried as thoroughly as the others.  

Up and up the dirt piled, until he could barely feel it as it came down.  Until all that was left was the weighty, solid thump of a headstone coming down.  

Then there was nothing.  Nothing but silence, stillness, silk… and sleep.

.

Danny woke with the comfortable confusion of someone who had gotten their blanket wrapped around them unevenly while they slept.  Slow, unhurried, well-rested, but just slightly less cozy than expected.  

He shifted, mumbling and rolling over.  No, that wasn’t any good.  He made a face.  There was something on his face.  He reached up to wipe it off, and the sheets wrapped around him tore like cobwebs.  

That roused him further.  This… he did not think this was his bed.  It was his, but not his bed.

He wiped something thin and crackly off his face and inhaled deeply.  Dust.  Salt.  Dust, salt, and something like decay, but sharper, fresher, cleaner.  

He breathed, remembering.  His mouth tasted like silver and sugar.  His hands quested outward, seeking, seeking, until he found the edges of the space he was in.  

This was his grave.  His coffin.  

It was bigger than he’d imagined.

His eyes opened to a darkness relieved only by his own faint glow.  The many sheets he had been wrapped in had been reduced to fragile scraps, except a very few that remained stubbornly wrapped around his shoulders.  His mask was a thin shell.  The flowers were desiccated, colorless strands and flakes.  The pillows were flat and torn, showing the wooden sides of the coffin in places.  The only token he could see and identify was the plush and pristine form of Neil Bearstrong.  He gathered the toy close, pressing him against his chest.  

He’d made it.  He was awake, aware, and apparently stable, when before he’d been bracing himself for death.  He breathed out, breathed in.  His breath caught in his throat, and he giggled.  

Did that mean Dani had made it, too?

He rolled onto his back and put a hand against the lid of the coffin.  It looked strange there.  Disproportionate.  But of course it did.  His body had just finished reformatting itself into a stable form.  Frostbite had told him that he’d probably look different, maybe even radically different.  Clockwork had even confirmed that medical opinion, from a temporal perspective.

Positives: his hand was a recognizably human hand.  He was awake.  

He didn’t dare turn human - if he even could - until he had Frostbite and the others look him over.  He wouldn’t be able to phase through the Ghost Zone’s soil.  Teleportation was inadvisable while he was this disoriented.  So were portals.  And most powers, really. 

He’d have to dig his way out.  

Bracing himself, making sure his limbs were free of restraint, he drew back his fist to punch the lid.  The dirt would come in fast, and he wasn’t sure how deep he was.  Six feet was traditional, of course, but it was also traditional for the dead to stay that way.  So.  

The lid flew upward under the force of his strike, all the dirt overhead bending away.  He grabbed the edges of the hole and pulled down, widening it enough for him to claw his way out without warping his body.  He… wasn’t quite ready for that, after the whole melting thing.  

He burrowed upward, feeling like something between a worm and a badger, batting away dirt, crawling, squirming, reaching upward.  Despite his best efforts, some of the winding sheets came with him, clinging, slowing his passage.  Still, his hand hit free air.  Grass tickled at his fingers.  He set his palm down on the ground, and pulled.  

The dirt did not want to let him go.  It pulled back, its embrace offering an eternal peace, but Danny was firm, eager to go, to see, to live.  He pushed himself up, and out, then lay, panting, on the ground.  

That had been… more tiring than expected, actually.  

Someone propped him up, large hands bringing him into a sitting position.  “Daniel,” said Clockwork.  A loose and oddly cut robe was wrapped around him.  

“Mm,” said Danny, his voice cracking.  

A cup was raised to his lips.  He drank greedily, the sweet, floral liquid soothing his dry throat.  

“Shall we get you cleaned up?” asked Pandora, another hand, laid on the center of his back.  

“Can you walk?” asked Frostbite.  “Or fly?”

“Yes,” said Danny, hoarsely.  He reached up to put his hand on Clockwork’s shoulder.  It took some to get it there.  It was further away than he’d thought.  

He was smaller than he had been.  Not entirely unexpected.  Returning to one’s appearance at death was, apparently, one of the more common ways for this to go.  But had he really been this small at fourteen?

They did not go to the mortuary shrine, but made their uncertain way to the other shrine in the graveyard: the revival shrine.  The structure was much the same inside and outside, but it had only one altar.  The rest of the space was reserved for a bath, bed, and mirrors.  

Pandora guided him to a chair in front of one of the mirrors.  Danny stared.  He wasn’t much to look at right now, but what he could see of his body… 

It hadn’t been a winding sheet dragging at him as he’d crawled through the dirt.  It had been wings.  He shrugged the loose robe off his shoulders to see them better.  They were patterned with white and black, star and moon shapes on a dark background. He had antennae.  Long, soft, feathery looking things curving up and back from his temples.  

Clockwork brought a damp cloth to his face and, slowly, began to clean away the dirt.  

“Surprised?” asked Clockwork.  

“Are you?” 

Clockwork chuckled.  

“Did Dani– Is Dani–?”

“She woke seventeen years ago,” said Clockwork.  “She is quite smug about technically being older than you in terms of lived experience.”

“She would be,” said Danny.  

He pulled away from Clockwork’s ministrations to get another look at the mirror.  He had about the same proportions he did when he was a teenager, and his hair was as white as it ever was in ghost form, but it sparkled, as if someone had dusted it with silver glitter.  His antennae matched the color pretty well, too.  Star-shaped freckles littered his cheeks, and when he tilted his head this way and that…  There was an effect like a hologram, depending on the light, of a dark or glimmering domino mask around his eyes.  

And, beneath that, his basic features, the structures of his bones…  They looked about the same as they had when he was young.  Except… softer, somehow.  More neutral.  The change, as subtle as it was, gave him a genderless mien.

(The idea of that trend continuing elsewhere on his body didn’t bother him nearly as much as he would have expected before this.)

He wondered what he would look like in human form.  But… later.  Later.  

For now, Pandora was running a tiny brush though the delicate hairs of his antennae, removing irritating bits of soil and grass.  

“In fact,” said Pandora, “I would wager that she will be smug about physically appearing older than you.”

“She looks older than me, too?” asked Danny.  “That’s hardly fair.”

“That is the way of things, I’m afraid.  She hadn’t truly died until she was buried.”  

“But she’s okay?”

“She’s doing very well, last I saw her,” said Frostbite.

“And Jazz?  Sam and Tucker?”

“All fine,” said Clockwork.  “They visit you frequently.”

Pandora did something complicated with telekinesis that pulled most of the dirt from Danny’s skin and left him feeling distinctly fluffed.  The fuzz along the bases and upper edges of his wings stood on end.  He shook himself all over, then plucked the washcloth from Clockwork’s hands so he could clean behind his ears and in-between his toes.  

“Clothes?” asked Clockwork.  

“Cut for wings?” challenged Danny.  

“Of course.”

[chunkypossum]

Strange water - Part 2

Azriel x Eris

@azrisweek Day 1: Creatures

1,400 words

Part 1 Part 2

“You hear it too,” Eris observed when Lucien was silent for too long. The wind crudely ripped his younger brother’s hair from his braid, whipping around his handsome face, the more adventurous tendrils pulling toward the sea. 

Lucien blinked, his brown eyes adjusting to the sight of his brother as he turned away from the deep blues and grays of the waves.  

“No.” 

Eris watched him walk away from the cliff's edge and back toward the one-room hovel Eris now called a home. The wind slammed the door shut behind him. 

The grasses brushed his ankles where they slipped under his trousers as he made to follow. He stepped toward the salt-cured shack when a prickle of irritation crawled up the back of his neck. Eris paused and faced the waves once more. 

The sound of them crashing against the rocks far below echoed in his ear until it was all he could hear. 

+++

“You’re coming home.” Lucien’s voice forced him back into his body as Eris walked in the door. It shut behind him, and the silence made his ears ring.

Every step had the floor creaking around his boot as Eris approached the sink. He filled a glass with water as his eyes trailed back to the sea. A small, round window sat above the sink at just the right height for him to see outside without having to stoop; he was too tall for this place otherwise. Caked with years of salt and neglect, the view was still obscured. 

“Eris.” His tone was impatient, but patience was all Eris felt like offering. 

He drank deeply, the water cool against his lips, if not a little harsh from the minerals. Only when it was empty did Eris turn and face his mother’s youngest. The glass clacked pleasantly against the worn counter. 

“Home.” He repeated the word as if he didn’t understand its meaning. When his amber eyes met Lucien’s, his brother’s spine straightened like he saw something in them he hadn’t wanted to face. “I’m not interested.” 

“This has to stop.” Lucien protested, standing from his seat at the tiny kitchen table and following Eris to the far end of the room where he had begun tidying the papers on his desk. 

Eris felt the signal was clear. 

'I’m busy. Not today, thank you. '

He had no desire to throw the only family that he could stand out the front door, but he didn’t want the man to stay either. 

“Yes, it does.” Eris placed a stack of papers, just so, on the top of his desk, obscuring the titles of the books his brother would disapprove of. “If you’re staying in the town, I will have lunch with you tomorrow before you leave.” He knew something flashed in his eyes as he hissed the last words through his teeth. Lucien took a step back from him, his muscles going rigid. 

“Mother,” Lucien started, trying to appeal to whatever softness remained in him. “She didn’t want this. She made you promise, I was there, Eris I—” 

“She’s dead, Luci, and it wasn’t the water that killed her.” He said in a low, threatening voice. Air heaved from his lungs, and it took him some time to collect himself before he could continue. “Whatever her reasons were for not returning here were her own.” 

“You’re changing.” With Eris turned away, he easily snuck past and took a book from his desk. “Going mad more like it.” He mumbled, reading the title.

From the corner of his eye, Eris could see face after face of all the creatures that had been haunting him these months as Lucien flipped through the pages. He snatched the book away before his brother could settle on any of them.

“She’s gone, and her ghost is not worth this,” Eris repeated. “Live your life, Luci. Go north, where the flowers still grow, and find something worth living for.” 

“What are you living for?” Lucien asked, as if the answer might help him understand. 

Eris pressed a trembling finger down the book's spine in his hands. 

He didn’t answer.

+++

Silence settled in the immediate wake of Lucien’s retreat. Whatever his parting words had been, they were lost to the buzzing quiet in Eris’s head, the blissful moment of calm beckoning him to his notes. He sat in the desk chair, hoping it would hold his weight once more while he pored over the creatures tucked between the pages. Mystical and strange, legends and monsters, the kernel of truth he was chasing felt so far away. 

Quiet gave way to the howling wind as it whipped across the roof and rattled the walls, a familiar lullaby that rocked him into his dreams. 

+++

Eris was alone, or so he thought. It was rare to have the house in the forest all to himself. His father had gone on a business trip, taking his younger brothers with him. His mother must have gone too; the youngest still too attached to her. It felt strange to be left behind. 

He wasn’t a child anymore; at fourteen, it was about time he got to stay by himself. Their father was grooming the younger boys for a life in the business, training he had already been through. Still, he wished his mother had stayed. 

It was that emotion that pulled him toward her rooms at the far end of the house, a place he rarely entered, and never without her permission. 

As he drew close, a soft humming, his mother's delicate voice, flitted out to greet him. Like magic, it never failed to pull him in and toward her waiting arms. Smiling, Eris rushed to greet her, glad she stayed behind after all. He was only a few steps from the door to her bedroom when he paused, peeking through the crack in the door.

He spotted his mother instantly; her long russet hair cascaded down her back as she brushed it. When he found her face in the mirror, Eris’s smile fell. There was something strange about her. It was his mother’s eyes he saw first; they were sharp and cold, not softened by the smile on her face as she sang to herself in the mirror. Her pupils were large and slashed through the center of her eye. The normal pale skin he shared with her had a strange tint and almost shone when she moved.

A gasp fell from him, and Eris ran before she could catch him there. He ran and he ran, feeling his childhood catch up to him as he crawled back into his favorite hiding place. A little spot in the garden behind the shed that he hadn’t used since he was small. He didn’t move even as his mother called to him, becoming increasingly panicked, not even when she sang to lure him out, especially not then. When he finally dared to re-emerge the next morning, she was gone. 

The garden around him dimmed, and the colors melted together in a wash of grays and blues. His too-skinny teenage arms shivered with the sudden cold, growing back into his adult body. Suddenly, he was surrounded by the sea. Waves roared below him, and the air was thick with salt from its spray. 

Violence surged in the swells as salty ocean waves cracked between the rocks and broke across the faces of the cliffs. It reminded Eris of his father and the brutal strength of his love, both natural and expected things. 

It didn’t seem natural for the violence to extend beneath, where he wanted gentle arms to hold him in a peaceful weightlessness. The same things he had always asked of his mother. 

Both had disappointed him. 

Eris watched the turbulent waters swirling in a mass of blues and grays, hinting at the deepest greens underneath, which he wanted to see. The cliff crumbled underneath his feet, bits of rock falling away to join the surf like an offering. 

No longer able to tell if he was awake or still dreaming, Eris tried to focus on the sounds of the door creaking behind him or the winds ripping through his hair. What drew his attention instead was the call of whatever waited for him below the waves. Loneliness rattled through each of his breaths as he fought the pull. 

He was so tired of being alone, but didn’t seem to mind it then, when it was just him and the sounds of the night mixing with his laughter, as he fell. 

Holla at ya boi if you want on or off the Azris tag train :

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[toonedupfiction]

There You Are

I have posted this picture before but wanted to share some writing for context. This was drawn to go with a Chapter 9 of Legacy Disowned Book 2 that was all in Sebastian's POV. The bit below is a fresh piece I wrote that is the same chapter but through Maggie Darling's POV. Maybe a tad spoilery, but I prefer to think of it as sneak-peaky:

Maggie followed Garreth through the winding tunnels of Jackdaw’s tomb back towards the main cavern where the Halloween party was still in full swing. The white ears and fluffy tail of her “rabbit” costume bounced with each of her hurried steps. Despite her rather intense moment with Vincent Burke being interrupted, she was glad that Garreth had been able to find her. Apparently Sebastian had downed a dangerous amount of one of the self proclaimed potion geniuses' concoctions and would be descending into mind shredding hallucinations at any moment.

Sure enough, when Garreth led her around the potions table where Sebastian was sitting, she found him staring at his hands as if he had never seen them before and was trying to determine where they had come from. 

"Oh thank goodness," Samantha Dale sighed with relief from where she had been waiting beside him. Her voice seemed to pull his concentration from his hands and his brown eyes met Maggie’s.

Fuck.

He looked utterly terrified. She needed to get them out of here. "How long we got?" Maggie asked Garreth as Sebastian averted his gaze, a shameful red flush creeping up his face.

"Well," Garreth said, "it builds up pretty slow, it may have already started but it wont reach a point of being too debilitating until about twenty minutes in, at that point you'll want to be somewhere safe. The height of the effects shouldn't last too long, and after that it should mellow out... it's just getting over that peak." 

Maggie nodded, she knew what to do. "Do you have more?" 

He showed her the remaining vials and she took one. "Darling," Garreth said uncertainly, "I don't think there is time for an antidote." 

She ignored this and bent down offering Sebastian a hand. "Come on now, no need to lose your head." 

It took Sebastian a long time to finally take her hand. He looked so anxious and uncertain, and Garreth and Samantha gawking certainly didn’t seem to be helping. But Maggie was determined, she would get him out of here and away from all these prying eyes. Without sparing the others another glance, she began leading him through the crowds, passing right by the floo bonfire at the center of the cavern. It would do no good to take him back to the castle. No, Maggie knew just the place. Somewhere quiet, and peaceful, a memory from a truly pleasant day.

Sebastian remained silent for the entire trek up and away from the noise of the party to the swirling pattern carved into the stone wall that marked the cave’s hidden entrance. 

"Intra muros," she said confidently, and the stone swirl began to grind against itself, spiralling open to reveal the vivid blue portal, cool mist cascading from its depths. 

Sebastian stared at it as if trying to decide if it was real or not and Maggie couldn’t help but grin at the look on his face. "Come on," she said before stepping into the void, her fluffy rabbit's tail being the last thing to vanish into the mist before she emerged into the fresh night air on the other side. 

A moment later, Sebastian followed, blinking as he adjusted to the sudden change in atmosphere. She watched as his eyes filled with awe, taking in the enchanting little clearing, lightning bugs hovering all around them and over the pond, their luminous bodies reflected on the water’s still surface. 

"Better?" Maggie asked, smiling as she watched the calm settle over her friend’s features. 

He looked down at her, and though he nodded, she saw something strangely bittersweet in his eyes. It made her feel… something she couldn't quite name. It made her nervous.

"I–I'm sorry you had to—" he stammered, and she couldn’t help but laugh. Was that really what he was so worried about? Ruining her night? 

"Don't be," she said brightly, flashing him a smirk before uncorking her vial and downing its contents without a second thought. Like hell she was going to let him feel like he was all on his own. "Now we can have our own fun." 

Sebastian stared at her, his mouth hanging open in shock. "Are— are you sure that was a good idea?" 

"Nope," she laughed. "That's half the fun! —and besides, now you won't have to go through this alone." 

That bittersweet look filled Sebastian’s eyes again, but Maggie wasn’t going to let all these strange, unidentified emotions make him feel bad. They were going to have an amazing fantastical night together.

"Now," she declared, clapping her hands, "we should probably get out of the forest full of dangerous creatures before this stuff kicks in." And with that, she grabbed his hand and skipped into the darkness, pulling him along with her. 

As she led him through the twisting earthen paths, she could sense the potion slowly starting to take effect. Everything was beginning to take on a bizarre kind of shine, like the old knotted trunks and fluttering foliage were becoming oddly… juicy.

They burst out of the thickness of trees into unfiltered moonlight and she heard Sebastian gasp behind her. Maggie couldn't blame him. The entire landscape was positively shimmering with life. Having taken the potion so much earlier than her, she could only imagine what he must be seeing at this point. 

She felt him stumble as they crossed the old wooden bridge leading out of the forest, and gripped his hand tighter, pulling him through the twisted wooden arch, determined to get him to safety as soon as possible. They were met with the imposing silhouette of the castle, set starkly against the night sky, the shimmering surface of the black lake laid out below. They had made it to the Road to Hogsmeade.

Maggie veered right, towards her chosen destination. She knew he had visited the place plenty before they knew each other. But that had been such a fun day, surely he would only be able to think of pleasant things, and of course, it would look pretty—

Sebastian came to an abrupt halt, stopping them in their tracks. "Darling,” his tremulous voice came from behind her, “Am I...special to you?" 

Maggie turned to look at him, utterly bewildered. Was he special to her? It seemed like such an absurd question. Of course he was—

Sebastian’s hand abruptly wrenched from hers as his hands flew to tangle in his hair, his eyes going wide with horror. 

She was too late.

Sebastian was looking around in every direction, on the verge of tearing his own hair out as he jumped and shuddered at something unseen. “I didn’t want to,” he muttered frantically. “But I did, I did want to— I did hurt her—”

“Sebastian!” Maggie said desperately, rushing forward to tug at his arm, to pull him to the safe space. She called his name again and again, trying to snap him out of it, but it was no good. He wouldn’t budge and she was running out of time. The edges of her own vision were starting to dance like tongues of fire. She needed to find some way to get him to where they needed to be before she followed him into madness.

With an effort that wrenched at her heart, she forced herself to release him and sprint down the path till the place was in sight. She turned, pulling out and spinning her wand in her hand as she cried, “Accio!”

Maggie knew the sensation of being ripped through space was probably not the best thing for Sebastian right now, but it was all she could think to do. He came flailing towards her where she caught him, sort of. He more careened into her, knocking the rabbit ears right off her head as they both stumbled to their knees. He was murmuring incoherent apologies as she pulled him around to face her, but he’d suddenly squeezed his eyes shut, his entire body racking with sobs.

Sebastian!” she tried again hopelessly, gripping his arm tighter, trying to ground him, to bring him back. One of his eyes peered open at her, and she bore her own into it, willing him to stay with her, but then it squeezed shut once more, his head shaking emphatically as if trying to ward off the unseen vision.

Maggie grit her teeth, forcing them both to their feet and dragging him with all the might she could muster without hurting him. Finally, she managed to get them behind the stone wall where she let them both collapse to the soft grass, nestled between two bushes full of lacewing flies. Tears and sweat were streaming down Sebastian's face as she laid him down, resting his head in her lap. 

The words he was muttering to himself were completely unintelligible now, and the pained look contorting his usually easy features made her chest ache unbearably. Whatever he was seeing behind his eyelids was hurting him, horribly. 

"Sebastian!" she practically sobbed. "Open your eyes!" 

He did. 

It was almost funny how quickly his expression shifted. All the distress and fear evaporating in an instant, replaced with a look of wide eyed awe and wonder.

Maggie felt a wave of relief so powerful wash over her she thought she might melt straight into the ground. "There you are," she sighed breathlessly.

"There you are,'' Sebastian replied, a delightfully familiar inflection to his voice. 

Maggie couldn’t help the giggle that escaped her. He was himself again. She smiled warmly as she watched him go cross-eyed to look at a lacewing fly that had landed on his nose. She’d known this place would be perfect. The same little patch that he’d shown her the day they met.

Then, without warning, Sebastian started laughing, a full, genuine laughter that seemed to have a life of its own. 

"What's so funny," Maggie giggled, looking down at him in bewilderment. 

"I don't know," he replied breathlessly. 

Maggie felt her smile begin to slip, she was glad that he was ok, but just what kind of horrors had he just lived through? "I'm sorry I didn't get you here sooner," she almost whispered. 

Sebastian’s eyes softened. "I don't think it would have mattered where we were," he said gently, and she hated herself for taking solace in it. They were here, in this beautiful safe place, but she’d meant to get him here for the worst of it, and now she was starting to feel nervous for herself. The lacewing flies around them were starting to blur into something more like stars than insects and Maggie felt an odd sense of teetering on the edge of something. 

"I think I might be getting there soon too," she admitted, her voice quavering shamefully, but Sebastian didn’t miss a beat. Lifting his head from her lap, he shifted over, making a space for her to fill. 

Unable to deny the offer of comfort, Maggie snuggled up to him as his arm moved around to nestle her in the crook of his shoulder. With a wave of her wand, she conjured a big, fluffy, down filled blanket that momentarily blocked out the sky before settling over them. 

It was rather nice. 

The stars in the sky and the stars fluttering all around. That ever present iridescent blue light that had always shimmered through everything seemed to be breathing gently along with the two of them. She let her eyes begin to follow the pathways it carved, beautiful dancing spirals that wove their way across the fabric of Sebastian’s shirt, through the leaves of the bushes surrounding them and the dancing lacewing stars and up into the ether. 

Maggie gasped as her eyes took in the heavens. That beautiful, primal, ancient magic was revealing itself to her more clearly than it ever had, flowing out in every direction, spiralling in and back out onto itself in infinite fractals that seemed to web their way out into… everything. 

She could somehow see it moving through all things all at once. Through castle halls and the sound of laughter. Through ribbons of crimson in water. Through shimmering feathers and lightning raining from the sky. Through aspen leaves fluttering in the wind. Through the dust kicked up by sun stitched boots. Through leathery black wings under moonlight. Through eyes the colour of the sky before a tornado. Through the silhouette of a dark figure hovering above. Through an all too familiar archway on a pond with no ripples…

Was she here again? Wait… Had she been here before? Or was this the first time… again?

The arch ahead of her positively thrummed with that iridescent blue light more strongly than anything else ever had. It seemed to sing to her, beckoning her beyond to what she knew deep in her soul was the single greatest adventure that any living being would ever take. Her heart was racing with fear or excitement? She couldn't tell. It didn’t matter

She took a step forward. But then a voice… or perhaps voices… or perhaps her own thoughts seemed to echo across her very existence.

“Don’t go!”

Don’t go? But why? She was here. Whatever lay beyond that arch and at the end of that infinit flow of light was just ahead of her to discover. What possible reason could there be not to go?

But then suddenly she became aware of warmth and she could smell something… familiar. Like foresty cedar and evergreen soap mingled with… homework? Or perhaps… Hogwarts? That wasn't quite right…  It spoke of old books and sitting by the common room fireplace, complemented with a subtle hint of green apples. 

Whatever it was it made her feel… something unfamiliar to her. Something that made her think that perhaps she could hold off on going just yet. Perhaps that adventure on the other side of the arch could wait. As if that mere thought had flipped a switch, she blinked, and the archway, and the pond with no ripples were gone.

She was staring up at the night sky once more in a comfortable bed made of starlight and she let out a breath she hadn't been aware that she’d been holding. Then, as if drawn by a magnet, her eyes found the source of that warmth, and that familiar scent.

Sebastian.

"There you are," he said, smirking down at her, his warm brown eyes full of fondness. 

Maggie laughed. She couldn’t help it, despite the fact she wasn’t entirely sure what it was she thought was funny. All she knew was that she was so very happy that he was here.

"Before it hit you," she breathed, finally catching her breath. "You asked if you were special to me." She saw Sebastian's face fall slightly, so she hurried to continue. "Do you remember that day you took me into Hogsmeade?" 

"Uh— Of course," he said slowly. 

"Did you know that Professor Weasley let me choose who I wanted to go with?" 

Sebastian blinked in surprise.

"I know it's silly, but—" Maggie spoke softly, recalling the way that strange emotion had bloomed within her when Professor Weasley had offered her that simple, yet profound, new freedom. 

"I remember once,” she began quietly, “when I was young we stayed at this inn next to a school house. I remember watching the kids out the window, they had drawn these boxes into the dirt and were hopping from one to the other… I couldn't make sense of it." a soft chuckle escaped her. "It seemed such a frivolous thing. But... I found myself wondering what it might be like... to introduce myself, to— to see if maybe... they might be willing to teach me how to play..." 

Maggie had to pause for a moment as something uncomfortable seemed to squeeze at her heart, the bittersweet memory suddenly giving way to more recent ones… like the first time coming to this place… and even before that— when the boy now laying beside her had told her about the book he’d been reading. 

From the very beginning, Sebastian had been so willing to teach her… Inviting her to his illicit dueling club, showing her useful spells, even trusting her with his secret hideout. Why did thinking about it all at once make her chest hurt like this? But she swallowed that question down. She musn't cry. 

"You are very special to me Sebastian." She said looking up at him, willing him to understand this thing that she didn’t quite understand herself. "You are the first person that I ever got to choose for myself."

He didn’t speak, instead he just pulled her closer and she allowed herself to melt into that warmth and that scent that was so inexplicably comforting, but then Sebastian suddenly stiffened.

"I–I didn't mean to— to say that out loud—" he stammered, his face practically glowing red and she could feel his heart thundering against her. 

"Say what out loud?" she asked, tilting her head curiously. 

"I– nothing! Nevermind," he said quickly. Then he seemed to relax and let out a nervous chuckle. 

She giggled in response. He was so weird. 

Sebastian’s laughter redoubled and then they were both just laughing, the sound making the lacewing stars dance around them. She wasn’t entirely sure why they were laughing or even if they were laughing at the same thing— but it didn’t matter. It felt good. Finally, the gasps of them trying to catch their breath settled into contented sighs. 

"Do you want to go back to the party?" Sebastian asked half heartedly. 

"No," Maggie sighed. "I don't know about you, but I feel a bit—" her words were cut off by a yawn. Normally, she would never let herself do something so foolish as fall asleep in a place as exposed as this, but it was so nice here, and she felt so comfortable she could feel her eyelids growing heavy. And before she knew it, she was drifting off into an indescribably sound and peaceful slumber. Legacy Disowned

[anzuhan]

hi anzu!! i love your art so so much and seeing it makes me want to try my best🥹 i was wondering where do u get like,, the textures and pngs you use to decorate your art? it looks so so pretty

if they are like actual textures, then they are all from the ibis paint media gallery! otherwise, a lot of the stripes, dots, cliparts (of all sorts, like bats in the last art or any sort of food and whatnot) etc are also drawn in by anzu 🙏

the 3 below have the bg fully drawn by anzu for example (except the keyboard in the distance on the panda virus one, which is an image from the ibis gallery)

for the stripes, on a new empty layer go to FX > frame > table (size); set the height to 0 then you can change the amt of stripes & their thickness individually!

for dots, color in where you would want the dots to be, and on the same layer go to FX > pixelate > dots (square) and then adjust everything as needed.

these are for ibis only, so they may work differently or not exist on other apps.

if there are other repeating patterns that are not availble in the ibis gallery, anzu also makes them individually...! for example in the art below, once again, everything is drawn individually for it.

for the repeated pattern circle, that was made using the symmetry ruler; the setting is even still set for this circle because anzu did not use it besides it since then.. w

[little-pondhead]

Clockwork sneezed.

Then he paused. He never sneezes. He’s a ghost; ghosts don’t get sick. Not since he locked up the last Ghost Virus in his vaults. Why did he sneeze?

He sneezed again. Oh no, was that a headache coming on? His eyes felt tired and his skin was itchy. Was that a tickle in his throat?? Were those spots on his arm?? Shit, time to go check on his vaults to make sure nothing escaped. All hell would break loose if there was a ghost epidemic again.

Clockwork turns to leave the room, and in his haste, his scepter taps the very edge of a tall and thin grandfather clock he’d just been working on. The clock was made from a red-stained cottonwood he’d procured from the heart of Kansas many years ago, and it was gilded in delicate gold that shone with age and looked well-loved. Despite its height, the clock was a strong one, and didn’t tip over when the Ghost of Time bumped it.

It did, however, shift a few of the loose cogwheels inside. A few of them dropped out of the clock, and one even fell to the floor and rolled away. The ones that stayed inside rattled ominously for a moment before settling into their new spots. The clock kept ticking, but the time was off now. It skipped a few seconds, just enough for a listener to notice, before suddenly reversing the hour and minute hands.

Too bad there was nobody nearby to pay attention to the now-broken clock.

—

Danny was a strange boy. He knew that. Everyone in Amity knew that. Even his mentor, Clockwork, called him strange every once in a while. He liked being strange. It was fun being unpredictable. Having a Time Medallion stuck in his chest certainly helped in his shenanigans, since it meant he was technically separate from the time streams. He had pulled off more than one prank on his pseudo-grandfather by using this to his advantage.

Sometimes, however, Danny’s freedom from the time stream caused him more trouble than he thought it was worth. Like right now, for example.

He was simply at home, battling dinner with his sister while his parents were making a batch of fudge. Suddenly, Danny felt the time stream shift and writhe in a way he’d never felt before. He shivered and sneezed, thinking nothing of it. Clockwork made tiny adjustments all the time, there was nothing to worry about.

Except there was. When he opened his eyes, there was now a baby in his house.

One minute it was just him and Jazz at the table, the next, a baby in a red high chair was giggling and clapping along with Jazz as she tried to cut up the double-dead hotdogs into smaller bits for the child to eat.

The baby wasn’t a ghost, Danny knew. But when he looked around, evidence of a baby living in the Fenton house laid everywhere. The rocking chair in the living room now had a side table with two empty bottles on it. Pictures hanging in the hall had been changed to include the child. Toys were scattered around every corner, just waiting to be stepped on. Neither Jazz nor his parents had blinked at the sudden change.

In fact, Danny discovered, everyone in Amity Park seemed to think that this baby had always been with them. Even his best friends and rogues didn’t bat an eye! Danny was now a middle child, while everything else stayed the same.

But Danny knew. He knew something was wrong. This baby didn’t belong here.

He had to talk to Clockwork. He had to find out who this child was.

The child named Clark K. Fenton.