#online excel reader

[carnalcrows]

STUDY ME

pairing: perfect student! male OC x male reader [faceclaim]

synopsis: No one’s ever ranked higher than Haruki Mikage—until you do. You’re new, unsettlingly smart, and partnered with him for a major project. Haruki’s trying to stay composed, but your odd habits, offhanded comments, and freakish talent in the kitchen are messing with his head. He should’ve ignored you. He doesn’t.

content warnings : 18+, academic rivals to something else, reader is creepy-smart and says weird shit unprovoked, golden boy Haruki smokes under pressure, slow burn with freaky tension, blowjob at the end of ch1 (reader giving), reader’s thoughts are not normal, shared trauma over academic excellence, high-school setting, light humiliation kink energy, some bullying, borderline-obsessive chemistry, they’re both unwell but in different fonts. also: the project does get submitted on time. barely.

word count: 3.4k

The paper wasn’t even all the way up on the board before someone in the hallway let out a low whistle.

“Yo, he’s not first anymore.”

The teacher pressed the last corner of the sheet flat against the corkboard with her palm, used a pin to anchor it in place. She stepped back. The crowd surged forward.

Haruki Mikage didn’t move from his desk.

He didn’t have to. He already knew what it said.

He’d been top-ranked every semester since middle school—longer, if you counted the city-wide assessments and mock entrance exams his mother used to post on the fridge like they were participation ribbons. Everyone knew his name. They whispered it before exams, hated him for it after. Professors adored him. Classmates tolerated him. His grades were a forgone conclusion.

But still, there was that whistle.

That murmur again.

The skin between his shoulder blades prickled with something unfamiliar.

He’s not first anymore.

He set his pen down.

Someone pressed a palm to the open door. “Mikage.”

Haruki looked up.

It was Kinoshita from 2-A. Always too loud, always too nosey.

“There’s a new name up there,” Kinoshita said, eyes wide, half in disbelief and half in that messy kind of glee people reserved for perfect students slipping. “You’re second.”

Haruki blinked once.

Kinoshita grinned. “They only wrote the family name. No one knows who it is yet.”

Haruki didn’t answer. He just turned back to his notebook and wrote the date in the top right corner. Kinoshita lingered in the doorway a second longer, waiting for something. A reaction. A twitch. Even a shrug.

He got nothing.

Haruki didn’t even look bothered.

But the tip of his pen was pressed too hard into the paper. Ink pooling.

∘₊✧

He didn’t go look at the list.

Not during lunch, not after school. Everyone else swarmed the board. The hall smelled like shoe rubber and shampoo and stress. A few people snapped photos. One girl squealed. Someone muttered your last name and said, “It has to be a mistake.”

It wasn’t.

Your name was written in blocky black print above Haruki’s, the gap between your scores barely two digits wide—but it was enough. It was real.

You weren’t in his class last year. No one knew who you were. You didn’t even have a photo in the club yearbook. No whispers, no rumors, no posts online. Just a name no one recognized and a score too high to ignore.

That should’ve been the end of it.

One test. One fluke.

People were curious, but curiosity burned out fast here. Unless you were someone interesting, someone visible, someone like Haruki—nobody lasted more than a few weeks before fading back into academic noise.

Except you didn’t fade. You didn’t do anything. You just existed in the background.

Quiet. Distant. Present. Like static. Like a blank space on a page that never stopped drawing the eye.

He should’ve forgotten it.

But your name kept coming up—softly, between other people’s conversations. No one knew where you were from. Or why your name was never on any club roster. Or what kind of person beat Haruki Mikage and then refused to show their face.

Someone in class said you were weird. That you mumbled to yourself. That you drew creepy shit in the corners of your worksheet margins and then never turned them in.

Another said you laughed in the middle of a chemistry lecture, and no one knew why.

Someone else said they saw you eating cold rice balls under the gym stairs, headphones on, eyes closed, mouthing the words to something that didn’t exist.

None of that made sense.

None of it matched the clean, precise writing next to the top score on the midterm report.

But Haruki remembered it anyway.

∘₊✧

The first time he saw you was two weeks later.

There was no grand entrance. You just walked in a little after the second bell, half-zipped jacket, hair a mess, notebooks clutched to your chest like a bribe.

Haruki was already seated. Already organised. Already done with the warm-up quiz.

You didn’t look at him.

You walked past him, past everyone, and sat in the back corner of the room by the window. The only desk that hadn’t been claimed.

You slumped down. Dropped your bag. Took out a pencil that had bite marks in it and started copying notes from the board with a half-lidded stare.

Haruki stared. He couldn’t help it.

There were no rumours about how you looked—no pictures online, no Instagram stories. But this wasn’t what he expected.

You weren’t particularly neat. Or polished. Your uniform didn’t fit right, like it had been ironed two days ago and then slept in. Your fingers were ink-stained. Your collar slightly crooked.

You were pretty. But in a way that felt… accidental. Or wrong. Like a painting flipped upside down.

There was something strange about your face. Or maybe your mouth. It looked like it wanted to smile, but didn’t know how.

You looked up once during the lecture. Your eyes met his.

Then you winked.

Haruki turned back to his textbook immediately, his throat dry.

He didn’t look at you again for the rest of the period.

But he felt you looking.

∘₊✧

The class project was announced the next week.

“Pairs of two,” the teacher said, holding up a glass bowl with folded slips inside. “We’re going to assign them randomly. You’ll have three weeks to put your presentations together. Graded on both content and performance.”

She walked between rows with the bowl.

Haruki reached in, pulled a number: 9.

He waited patiently while the others filed through their slips. Then your name was called.

You pulled yours out. Paused. Tapped it twice against your palm.

You looked right at him when you said, “Nine.”

Haruki’s fingers twitched around his pen.

∘₊✧

He didn’t say anything until after class.

You were still packing up, slow and disorganised. You dropped your folder and didn’t bother to pick up half the papers that slid out. A few had doodles in the margins. They looked like vines. Or veins.

“Haruki Mikage,” he said.

You blinked up at him, surprised. “Yeah?”

He stared. Then, “That’s my name.”

You tilted your head.

“I know,” you said. “You're the guy with the stupidly perfect eyebrows.”

He stared harder.

You reached for your bag, smiling faintly. “Are we gonna start working on this project, or are you gonna keep staring at me like I just spit in your bento?”

Haruki didn’t respond.

You laughed softly—barely audible. Like you hadn’t meant to do it.

Then you leaned forward and whispered, “You always look like you’re trying not to judge me. It’s okay. You can. It makes your mouth look sharper.”

His stomach twisted. He stepped back.

You turned and walked off like nothing happened.

Like you hadn’t just said the first thing that’s ever made him lose his breath.

∘₊✧

The two of you met for the first study session in the back corner of the library, because, of course, you suggested it, and of course, Haruki said yes, even though it went against his better judgment, instincts, and every fibre of his tightly-wound existence.

“This is where the ghosts live,” you said, dropping your bag to the floor and immediately sitting cross-legged on the chair. “They’re chill, though. As long as you don’t read anything out loud in Latin.”

Haruki blinked at you over the top of his textbook. “I don’t read Latin,” he said flatly.

You grinned. “That’s good. You’ve got exorcism hands, not summoning hands.”

“What does that even mean?”

“It’s a compliment.” It didn’t sound like one. But also—it kind of did?

You kicked your leg a little, humming under your breath. Then you reached over and grabbed his pen. Didn’t even ask. Just took it. Twirled it between your fingers like a wand and said, “Alright, Harvard. Let’s get this nerd orgy started.”

“…Excuse me?”

You looked at him innocently. “You’re telling me you don’t think studying is a group kink?”

Haruki did not dignify that with a response.

You leaned back in your seat and tilted your head, staring at him like you were taking inventory of something beneath his skin. Then:

“Have you always been like this?”

“…Like what?”

“Like a boy who was genetically engineered to be the president of every club. Like a human version of whatever’s in those vitamin gummies for your brain.”

Haruki frowned, flipping to the next page of the syllabus. “And you’ve always been like this?”

“Unfortunately,” you replied, deadpan. “I tried being normal once. Got a nosebleed.”

He didn’t believe a single word out of your mouth.

He also couldn’t stop looking at you.

Not in the overt, obvious way. Just… his eyes kept landing on the curve of your neck when you tilted your head back to think. Or the way your lips moved when you mouthed words to yourself under your breath. You chewed your pen sometimes, distractedly. 

You had a pretty mouth. Haruki wondered what it would feel like around his fingers.

You tapped your fingers against your leg in a rhythm he couldn’t decipher. You made references he didn’t understand.

“Did you know Freud had a raging thing for eels?”

“…What?”

“He dissected like so many of them. Never found the testes. Drove him insane. I feel like you’re my eel.”

Haruki slowly set his pen down.

“I’m… what.”

“I don’t get you,” you said, voice lighter. Not teasing now. Just honest. “You’re like this shiny, polished, student council-approved perfection android. But then you make these tiny expressions when no one’s looking. Like you’re pissed. Or bored. Or like you wanna scream into a pillow for eight hours.”

He stared. Speechless.

You tilted your head again. “Have you ever screamed into a pillow?”

“No,” he said slowly, carefully. “Have you?”

You smiled. “Only when someone's on top of me.”

Haruki’s brain short-circuited for a second.

You opened your notebook like you hadn’t just dropped a sentence that would require him to pray afterwards. “Okay, let’s start with the thesis breakdown. We can decide if you wanna present or I wanna present, but either way, I get to say the weird part.”

“There’s… a weird part?”

“There’s always a weird part,” you said, eyes sparkling. “It’s the whole point of writing anything. Gotta add the bite.”

He didn’t know what you meant, but his pulse ticked up anyway.

You worked surprisingly well together.

You were smart. Not just academically, but weird smart. You pulled random quotes from obscure films, recalled footnotes Haruki had skimmed past, and made connections he hadn’t even considered. And the worst part was—your instincts were always right.

You were completely unserious about your own reputation, but deadly serious about the work. Which meant that Haruki—perfectionist, ruthless, prideful Haruki—couldn’t even hate you for beating him.

All he could do was sit across from you while you explained why you thought the author used soil erosion as a metaphor for emotional decay and pretend his leg wasn’t bouncing under the table.

When the session ended, you leaned over his side of the desk to grab your drink—and stayed there.

You were too close.

Too casual.

Your hair was a little messy. Your breath smelled like melon soda and mints. And when you pulled away, you laughed like you knew exactly what you were doing.

“I’ll text you,” you said, swinging your bag over one shoulder. “Unless you’d prefer I send smoke signals from the roof.”

“I don’t have your number.”

You blinked.

“Oh. Right.”

You held your hand out. Palm up. Waiting.

Haruki hesitated. Then handed over his phone.

You typed something fast, then handed it back.

The name you saved in his contacts wasn’t your name.

It just said: [threat level: weirdly hot]

He didn’t correct it.

∘₊✧

Haruki stepped out onto the rooftop with his blazer slung over his shoulder, tie loosened just enough not to look sloppy. He didn’t really care if people saw the cigarette between his fingers — nobody ever said anything. Not to him. It was the kind of privilege that came with being him.

Top grades. National mock test finalist. MVP of the volleyball team. Editor of the student journal. The golden boy. Your mother’s favorite. Your teacher’s pride. The one who always knew the answer but never rubbed it in.

And here he was, burning through his second cigarette of the afternoon, hoping it would quiet the spinning in his head.

He hated that it didn’t.

The shouting started before he even made it down the last step.

“Why don’t you just eat somewhere else?” someone hissed.

“I’m not in the mood to deal with this freak show today—seriously, you always pick the corner seat like it’s your kingdom or something.”

Haruki’s foot hit the bottom stair.

He knew that voice. Loud. Entitled. A second-year student from the basketball team who walked around like he owned the school just because he had abs and rich parents. The group around him laughed, but it sounded more like barking.

You were sitting alone, lunch in your lap, face unreadable. Picking at your rice like you couldn’t hear them.

You didn’t flinch. Didn’t look up. But your hands had gone still.

Haruki’s voice cut in before he could think about it.

“You talk a lot for someone that far below average,” he said flatly.

Silence.

The air shifted.

The guy whipped around, only to pale when he saw Haruki standing there, jacket off, sleeves rolled, cigarette still burning between his fingers.

Haruki didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to.

“Keep walking,” he added.

The group scattered. No one apologised. No one even made eye contact. They just fled, like hyenas realising the lion hadn’t left after all.

You glanced up at him with a half-smile. “Wow. My hero.”

“You shouldn’t let them get to you.”

“I don’t.” You popped a cherry tomato into your mouth. “I just added them to the list.”

“…What list.”

You didn’t answer. You just chewed and smiled.

∘₊✧

Later that week.

You opened the door in a loose black T-shirt and grey sweatpants, hair wet from a shower and sticking to your forehead in damp, clinging strands. You looked cosy in a way that made Haruki’s lungs feel too tight.

“You made it,” you said, stepping aside to let him in. “Wanna see something cool?”

Haruki followed you in, expecting weird posters, weird books, and maybe an Ouija board or something.

What he didn’t expect was—

The kitchen.

Clean. Lived-in. There was a wooden cutting board already dusted with flour. Soy sauce, mirin, and sesame oil lined up neatly on the counter. A cast iron pot simmering quietly on the stove, steam curling like the first exhale of a ghost.

You tied an apron around your waist and turned slightly. “Sit.”

He did.

The scent was unreal.

Rich and savoury. Ginger and garlic blooming in oil, followed by a splash of sake and the quiet crackle of meat hitting the pan. Chicken thighs, if he wasn’t mistaken—bone-in, skin crisping in real time as you basted it with soy and sugar.

The sauce thickened into a lacquered glaze, caramel-dark and glistening. You flipped the pieces with casual precision, face calm in a way he’d never seen in class. Focused. Almost elegant.

You weren’t speaking. Just humming. A low, tuneless little rhythm under your breath.

He watched the way your fingers moved—quick and practised as you sliced scallions into fine curls, sprinkled furikake over the steaming rice. You moved like you lived in the kitchen, like it wasn’t a performance.

The food was simple, but the kind of simple that only comes from knowing what you're doing. Like you’d made this a hundred times for someone you cared about.

No one had ever cooked for Haruki before.

He didn’t realise how tightly he was gripping the edge of the chair until you set the plate in front of him and the smell hit him like a memory he didn’t have.

He blinked. “This is…”

“Chicken nanban,” you said. “I made the tartar sauce from scratch.”

Haruki picked up his chopsticks, swallowed something thick in his throat, and took a bite.

The chicken cracked at the surface, still hot enough to burn, still sweet from the soy and vinegar glaze. The homemade tartar had bits of pickles and onion, just sharp enough to cut through the richness. The rice underneath had soaked up some of the sauce, sticky and warm.

It was stupidly good.

He kept eating quietly. You sat down beside him with your own plate and started scrolling through your phone, legs tucked up under you.

“Why do you know how to cook like this?” he asked finally.

You shrugged. “I like taking care of things.”

“…People?”

“Depends,” you said, tone lazy. “You wanna be taken care of?”

He looked at you. You didn’t look up.

The silence between you stretched like sugar—warm, sticky, slow.

He put his chopsticks down.

You turned to him.

And smiled.

Haruki wasn’t sure what he expected your room to look like, but it wasn’t this.

Simple, mostly. Clean. A little lived-in. The walls were bare except for a stack of books pushed into a crooked shelf, a futon folded neatly in one corner, and a secondhand desk with a few pens left uncapped. A soft hum filled the silence — maybe a fan from the hall or the fridge ticking quietly through the wall.

You tossed your bag down and sat on the floor like you didn’t feel the shift in the air. Haruki did. His skin felt too tight. The space between your bodies suddenly felt loaded.

“So this is where you hide,” he said, trying to sound casual.

You looked at him. Really looked at him. Then shrugged.

“I like quiet,” you murmured. “It’s hard to find in school.”

Haruki didn’t know what to say to that, so he didn’t say anything at all.

You watched him for a long beat, then patted the space in front of you.

“C’mere.”

He hesitated. You raised a brow. And then he moved — sat down across from you with crossed legs and a heart that wouldn’t stop thudding.

You didn’t touch him at first. Just stared. Haruki stared back. He wasn’t used to that, either — being looked at like he was something to be read, not admired. It made him feel strange. Exposed.

“Haruki,” you said, voice softer now, almost uncertain. “Do you ever stop thinking?”

His mouth opened — then closed. He didn’t have an answer.

You leaned in, slow like a question. Gave him time to stop it.

He didn’t.

So you kissed him.

Just once, at first — a slow press, the kind that didn’t demand anything. Then again, this time deeper. Haruki inhaled sharply, hands hovering like he wasn’t sure where to put them. You pulled back only slightly.

“You can touch me.”

The words were soft. Not teasing. Just an offer.

Haruki’s fingers found your shoulders, then your jaw, then finally threaded into your hair like it made sense.

You kissed him again.

And again.

Until you shifted, pushed gently at his chest. He leaned back onto his elbows, lips parted, breath shaky. You sank to your knees in front of him, palms brushing the hem of his shirt.

He watched, stunned, as your hands moved with practised ease — unbuttoning, unzipping, until he was bare from the waist down. The air was cool against his erection. Your breath was warm.

“Wait—” he managed, voice a little broken. “Are you… sure?”

You looked up at him with the faintest smile.

“Very.”

And then you lowered your head.

The first touch of your mouth on his cock made his breath stutter. He’d never—no one had ever—

He clutched at the sheets beneath him, back arching slightly. You didn’t rush. Just took him in slow, deep, unhurried. Your hands on his thighs kept him steady, kept him grounded.

Haruki didn’t know where to look. Your lips, your eyelashes, the ceiling — nothing helped. His brain was static.

You hummed against him, the vibration sending a full-body shiver up his spine.

“Fuck,” he gasped, hands fisting the blanket. “That—wait—don’t—”

But he didn’t want you to stop. Not really. And you knew that.

You pulled back just long enough to whisper, “It’s okay. You can let go.”

And when he did, it was quiet.

His jaw went slack. His head tipped back. Your name curled off his tongue like something reverent. He was shaking.

You swallowed, slow and clean, and wiped the corner of your mouth with your thumb.

Then you looked up at him.

Smiled like it was just another Tuesday.

“You taste like stress and bad decisions.”

Haruki lay there, bare and ruined, heartbeat in his throat.

You stood, grabbed your water bottle, and stretched like a cat.

“Wanna stay for dinner?”

© carnalcrows on tumblr. Please do not steal my works as I spend time, and I take genuine effort to do them.

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[cutehoons02]

Forced roomates or forced to be lovers?

University series: Jungwon Jake Jay

*pairing: popular pervy gamer Heeseung x popular cheerleader

*trope: forced roomates/opposites attract

*synopsis: Heeseung, a slightly introverted nerd but popular in the world of video games and in his computer course, with a passion for video games, and Y/n, the most popular cheerleader on campus, they find themselves sharing the apartment due to a mistake in the allocation of rooms. They could not be more different: he loves to spend sleepless nights in front of the monitor with always in hand a bowl of ramen, immersed in role-playing games, while she lives between exhausting training cheerleaders, evenings at the various parties of the football team and stories on Instagram. Initially the two barely bear each other, but a series of funny and intimate events will lead them to discover that, perhaps, they complement each other.

*tags: A lot of humor, tension, fluff, spicy, pervy Heeseung, a little pervy reader, Unprotected sex (don’t horny ppl) pet names (Barbie, Baby, Good girl), pet names (Nerd, Loser), jealousy, teasing, possession, references to video games, cowgirl, +16,sweet moments at the end.

8.4k words

It’s the first time i write explicit scenes so i hope you like (🎮)

Heeseung’s room at that precise moment was full of mathematical forms and calculation sheets and various drawings of characters he invented, you could hear only the noise of the joystick and the various clilc he made in the mouse, with his excellent score in all subjects in the computer course and being one of the best video game players in the state, Hee had the chance to register for an online tournament for only nerds and professional gamers lasting a few months and the first 3 who had unlocked the level "Queen" they would have received a reward from one of the largest video game production companies and only 3 people would have had the chance with funding from the university and this video game production company to create their own virtual game, but he would not have imagined that his life at that exact moment could change with the entry into play of a noisy Cheerleader, who spent hours in their shared bathroom to make masks or to prepare to go out and tease him from morning to night.

He heard loud punches at the door of his apartment and when he took off his headphones he thought that those punches meant only one thing, His friends Jake and Jay had finished football practice and had come to disturb him or eat a cup of ramen together but when he opened the door he choked on his own because he found himself in front of a girl in a mini denim skirt and tight t-shirt with I ♡ HOT BOYS, Blonde as a ray of sunshine with a bright smile and a scent that left a sweet trail every time she shook her long tail of hair and with a bag of lacquered leather that had to cost more than her computer and a pink suitcase. It didn’t take a genius to figure out who he was. Y/n, one of the strongest cheerleaders on campus and perhaps all other universities, a marketing student and undisputed queen of the campus. She organized the best parties and seemed to always have the answer ready for any situation.

"Hey, i know you’re a nerd and you don’t deal with girls but are you listening to me instead of looking at me like i’m an alien?" Heeseung fixed Y/n’s shirt and felt the cheeks slightly redden when he read the entire I ♡ HOT BOYS writing and looked at how well it wrapped the shirt slightly tight in the breast of the girl in front of him.

"You’re kidding me, right? What if you are one of those perverts who come to the instant only at the sight of a girl in a slightly tapered T-shirt and a skirt? Did you hear what I just said a few seconds ago?"

Finally Y/n heard the voice of Heeseung «I don’t even know what you’re talking about Barbie, i think you’ve got the wrong apartment» replied Hee with an indifferent tone, returning to his room to continue his game of League of Legends. His online teammates were already complaining about his afk.

“Barbie? Are you serious?" Y/n entered his apartment and like a puppy followed the nerd and went into his room and stared at him with a mixture of contempt and disbelief.

"The lease says this is also my apartment and you will be my roommate for next year, Lee Heeseung."

Heeseung froze when he heard that sentence. He paused the game, ignoring the barrage of insults he was receiving in the game’s chat, and turned to her. «Wait. What would your apartment be like? This is my room for...now a year and in the option, i always put that i did not want roommates and then the other room sometimes I need!»

"Well, now that room will be mine. My parents bought the whole student building and the only apartment where there was only one person was yours. Congratulations, nerd. You’ve got the roommate of your nightmares or maybe your most perverse dreams" You whispered these last words near his ear and then you went to get your pink suitcase and to disturb your roommate I played one of the songs that you were supposed to dance on the football field for the beginning of the new season and sang until your room was slightly "Decent" and clean to your standards.

It was two weeks since the beginning of the partnership and you couldn’t stand Heeseung, he was a serious pain in your neck, You didn’t understand how he had so many followers in his profile and so many girls who commented on his life or who added edit about him while playing. Some girls stopped you to ask if he was engaged or if you had taken part in watching him in one of the many tournaments he did. You really hated that nerd especially when you found empty bowls of ramen around the apartment, colored electric cables scattered around the sofa, and Joysticks of shapes and sizes of verse scattered as well in the laundry but the thing you hated most was that he played until late at night and started laughing with his virtual friends at those stupid games or tournaments you always heard about.

The hatred was mutual also on the part of Heeseung, the cheerleader with whom he shared the apartment had monopolized the bathroom they had in common hair dryers, plates with strange shapes, tricks that cost more than the food she ate, glitter, and also bought a kind of mini refrigerator to put his masks or creams for skin care. Heeseung didn’t understand how everyone was following him or how he had so many friends or guys to go out with but the thing that he couldn’t stand about you was being perfect with everyone from the professors, To your friends, family and how you thought you were always the center of attention.

That late afternoon you and Heeseung were both in the apartment, trying to study business but as always when there was Heeseung at home there was never silence. You snorted and went into Heeseung’s room and watched him sitting in the gamer’s station with his hair slightly ruffled around the professional headphones, he had a slight grin but the thing that struck you most were his hands.

God since when did that boy have such attractive hands? They were large, slightly veiny, and wore a silver and black ring that sometimes tortured them for anxiety or maybe to wait for the next level, you recovered from that state and went near the desk.

Heeseung had noticed you but he didn’t want to give you the satisfaction of being in the center of attention and kept on wielding his joystick even though he was about to start a game. “Can you turn that down? I’m studying." Heeseung watched you speak, a slight puff came out of his lips as he took off his headphones and wore them around his neck. «What do you want, Barbie?»

"I said if you can please turn down that volume, I’m trying to study."

«And you can stop occupying the bathroom for three hours or sprinkling blue and gold glitter in the bathroom? The other day while I was training, i found a flurry of glitter in my gym shirt, and some thought i joined your flying spinner team!» He answered, not taking his eyes off the monitor while dodging a zombie.

Heeseung looked at you with those little deer eyes put his headphones back on and kept talking to his friends as if you’d never even entered his room until he saw you go under his table for a second and sit between his muscular legs, when you sat down you sunned yourself to look at him and observed the small ones that filled his face. Hee stood still for a moment, caught unawares, but he recovered immediately.

«What are you doing? Do you want to sabotage me? You can’t go to one of the many little friends» he asked with a somewhat grumpy tone. You wanted to take him by surprise and see how long it lasted not to give your attention

"I’m just checking your level of concentration. Don’t tell me I’m the first girl to sit over your legs or do this. You know, as an experienced cheerleader, I enjoy distracting nerds like you." Y/n moved slightly above Heeseung’s legs and watched him straighten his hair perhaps out of frustration or embarrassment.

Heeseung laughed slowly, trying not to show her that she was slightly in awe of the blonde sitting almost above her length.

«You know, I knew that I was a temptress and that I had no fear of anything Y/n but spoiler does not scare me either because I’m used to going into video games of wars, zombies, demons, etc» Y/n started laughing and looked at Heeseung

"How do you know those animated things are scary? Let me see I’m curious, nerd."

Heeseung pressed a button and an unsettling scene appeared on the screen: a dark corridor, distant moans, and a shadow creeping slowly into the bloodshot view with eyes out of its sockets. Y/n barely jerked, unintentionally clinging to Hee’s shirt.

"What the hell was that monster?" she exclaimed, opening her eyes wide as a zombie made a chilling sound and hurled itself toward the screen. Hee burst out laughing, holding the controller with ease. Oh, I thought cheerleaders were not afraid of anything. What happened to your courage?» Heeseung looked at you carefully and thought you were not as bad as his mind had painted you but he would never tell you

Y/n turned around, pretending to be upset. "I’m not afraid! It’s just... I didn’t expect it."

«Yes, Barbie. You were shaking like a cat in the rain.»

"I don’t tremble! and I’m not a coward, if I was afraid I would not be thrown by human beings for air as work," said Y/n, straining his shoulders in a theatrical move. " If you want, I’ll take the controller and I’ll kill that thing."

«Oh, yes? please, come in. Let’s see the cheerleader against the zombie. And it has nothing to do with people blowing you up Barbie, if you’re not used to a little horror you’ll always be afraid» You felt Heeseung whispering these things to you and where was the nerd from before who was in awe with you sitting between his legs?

Y/n took the controller with determined action and started playing. Hee looked at her with a restrained smile as she moved nervously through the virtual corridor. «Why are you moving like that? No need, your character does not follow you! If you’re doing it to get my attention all on yourself Barbie did it, so stop moving between my legs and rub against my length because you will never win the level» You hated how that nerd made you feel. The tension increased with each step and suddenly a zombie broke down a side door with a scream. Y/n shouted and almost threw the controller.

"YOU NERDS ARE CRAZY. THIS IS A GAME FOR PSYCHOPATHS!"

Heeseung laughed so hard he couldn’t breathe. «You’re incredible! You screamed louder than the zombie! Oh my god, it would have been iconic if it had been live streaming» Y/n stood up how angry but at the same time scared, and ran into his room until he heard Heeseung yell «I have all the cards in hand too win this game between me and you, not play with fire that sooner or later you will burn. Sweet dreams, Barbie» hit your face with your hairy pillow and Lee Heeseung in all the languages of the world.

It was almost a week after that little clash with Heeseung and for two whole nights, you had not slept properly for your standard because you always had in mind those horrible images of zombies with eyes out of the orbites.

«You are a little tired and less energetic Y/n, is everything all right?» Chan asked one of your group’s dancers and one of the few athletes you trusted to get you thrown in the air

"Yes, it’s all right I’m just a little tired of the exams and the selections we would have in the middle of the year. I would like to try to run as captain for the new year and that’s why I’m creating a choreography to run" Chan arranged the sheet you had on your head and smiled at you

«Please do not ask too much of yourself Y/n, The genta thinks this sport is nonsense but I would not want to see you again bandaged and in the hospital while crying because you could not move your leg or because your mind had made you think that you were not perfect for this sport and skipped meals or hours of sleep»

"It won’t happen again Chan, now I go home and make a good hot ramen and a nice hot shower to get all this sweat away and sleep until tomorrow morning at 10" Chan smiled at you and brought the bag until you were under your apartment

«Take care of yourself Y/n, and if you do not ask your roommate to prepare a nice basin of hot water for your feet and make ramen, Every time I get videos of Heeseung on Twitch or Tik Tok always has a bowl of ramen" the smiles and when you came in you raised your eyes, God because everyone saw Heeseung as the perfect boy and not as a loser who spent hours and hours playing those stupid games.

When you entered the apartment scientists immediately it was cold enough for your taste and on the sofa there was Heeseung who was watching a TV series to your great surprise he wasn’t playing any of those games and this thing made you alarmed because he always spent the evening At least 3 hours to laugh with his friends. Perhaps he had understood that you needed a good evening without hearing him giggle or hear from his headphones moans of zombies just killed or guns.

"Why aren’t you playing? Don’t tell me that all your friends have you pulled little and you have no one here to shoot or play" Heeseung raised his eyes and continued to eat and pay attention to the TV series he had put on the TV.

"Hey nerd, you listening? why is it so cold in here I’m going to ask you again why you’re not in your room?" Heeseung suddenly stood up and stood in front of you, you hadn’t looked at how he was dressed and had two sweatshirts and some sweatpants that he never wore inside the apartment because it usually made more than 20 degrees but now it must have been just over 10 degrees.

«The heating system of the whole building is out of use for a couple of hours and before the day after tomorrow will not be adjusted Barbie, for that you see me dressed so stuffed. You’ll have to take a cold shower today or you could call some of your friends and get them to host you» You jumped onto the sofa and made yourself slightly tiny in Heeseung’s eyes

"today is a day to forget in the sense of the word, I did not pass an exam and at Cheerliding I made mistakes I do not know how many steps I would just like to take a nice hot shower, eat some good ramen and put myself to bed warm" Heeseung looked at you and you made him a little pity where the girl had gone always exuberant, cheerful and that played music to the ball and that danced for everything?

«Relax for the ramen I can think of it, I am a master in doing so and if you want I can heat water and put it in baccinelle. I know it won’t be as relaxing as taking a shower with a full hot water shower but at least you can wash yourself and get rid of the sweat from your training»

Heeseung a little amazed and speechless, I did so with my head and you watched Heeseung prepare the ramen for you and even put an egg to you to be seasoned more.

«Here is the ramen, I hope you like it you would have made it with more ingredients but it’s been 2 days that I did not go to the grocery. Now.. Yes, I’ll make you some hot water and bring it to the bathroom. Come and see me when you’re done and leave the dish that I washed» You were seriously surprised by this version of Heeseung, is it not that maybe he suffered from some kind of bipolar disorder? Or was this the real Heeseung that everyone loved?

When you finished eating you went to the bathroom and prepared 4 basins of boiling water in the sink you had also put on a plush over-stuffed sweatshirt and a small smile formed, what is happening to Heeseung because he was so good today with you?

The shower with the basins had not you relaxed at all but at least you were washed and no longer had that smell of sweat, when you left Heeseung was no longer on the sofa, you wanted to thank him for both food and hot water and then knocked on his door.

"Heeseung" From the inside, you heard the familiar sound of the keyboard and a few nervous clicks of the mouse. And you heard his answer distractedly because he was concentrating on some computer calculations

«Yes? What is it?»

You entered without waiting for an invitation and crossed your arms for the cold. God, why is it so cold in this house? You wanted to ask Heeseung to share the bed so you could at least stay close and get a little warm but we are always talking about Heeseung the guy who loved to tease you and make you go crazy. Heeseung looked up, noticing his oversized t-shirt and his sweatshirt on the girl in front of him, he would never admit it but you with his clothes made him feel things that he should not think about you, He always wanted to see you with his things and a side of possessiveness intruded into his body. The sight of you made him swallow noisily, but he strove to keep a neutral expression.

"I wanted to thank you for the food and the hot water... I thought maybe we could share the bed. Just to keep warm. Just for this evening, I called my parents and they told me that tomorrow morning the technician will come. In my room it freezes so I thought to ask you" You had a fake smile shy, you wanted to absolutely embarrass him as he did while playing together with those stupid horror games

Heeseung opened his eyes wide and his mouse slipped out of his hand. God wanted to put him in awe

«what?! I don’t trust you at all Y/n, I know that after making you scared with that game you want to crash me» You raised your eyes to the sky, as if it were the most normal thing in the world, man this guy had understood you immediately but you kept insisting

"Oh, relax. It’s not an indecent proposal. Except that I would never do anything with you, you’re not my type Heeseung. It’s pure survival. We’ll freeze both or keep company and sleep together and warm up a little"

Hee rubbed his neck, embarrassed. He has no idea how to respond. Share the bed with Y/n, the most popular girl she knows. He’s never even been this close to a cheerleader... and now he has to share a bed but the thing that pissed him off was that phrase that said he wasn’t his type at all. Who wanted Y/n in his life? a stupid boy who made him feel nothing or he who always teased her and had seen how she reacted when she sat between her legs that was a little embarrassed also.

Heeseung moved nervously to make room on the bed, trying not to think too much about it as she tucked herself under the duvet with disarmingly natural ease. Y/n sat down next to him and made his feet touch his legs against his

"You’re made of wood, you know? Don’t tell me it’s the first time you've slept or that you’re in bed with a girl, nerd" you joked with Hee to embarrass him a little

«Sorry, I don’t share my bed every day with some girl»

"Really? You wouldn’t know it, you can even admit that you’ve never slept with someone you know" he slowly grinds, moving closer.

Heeseung was definitely tired from the constant grip of the cheerleader so he took off his sweatshirt because he was definitely dying from the heat in that situation and he lay down in bed and spread his legs a little because he did not want to feel Y/n’s legs intertwined with his. Y/n had leaned with an arm and was absorbing it and without thinking embraced the piece of wood next to her and a scent of citrus and spices invaded his nose, Heeseung seriously had a slender body but at the same time toned and felt from the shirt that he had strong abs, not bad for a nerd!

«Y/n, what did you take me for? for your giant teddy bear that you have in your room?» You laughed because even if you could not stand it sometimes it was nice to be in his company.

"Mmm, no my teddy is definitely sweeter and nicer than you, nerd. I’m hugging you because I’m cold and your temperature is too hot to not have the heat on" Heeseung ran his hands through his hair and turned off the lights, for a couple of minutes he no longer heard Y/n speak, and thought she had fallen asleep but before talking about the devil they sprang horns, felt the cold fingers of Y/n go under the shirt and roll them up their bare abs, He felt little shivers all over his body and cursed the heating not working.

«Y/n, stop it I know what game you are playing with me, I will not fall into your trap» you started to laugh even if he had turned off the light could imagine that he had slightly red cheeks and definitely had that super cute grumpy. You also put your other hand on its narrow waist and tried to go a little lower but a strong hand stopped you and now you had your arm over your head and Heeseung slightly above you holding himself with one arm.

«I repeat it again Y/n, I have all the cards in hand to pottery beat, if you are in need of attention go to your friend's football players, or swimmers with whom you do evening but not with me because otherwise, I could ruin you in an instant» You snorted and shoved Heeseung into the other side of the bed and you sunned yourself with your shoulders turned to him. "Sooner or later you will lose Heeseung, and I know for certain that it will be me who will make you lose your head" A small smile formed on your lips before you fell asleep.

Heeseung woke up a little later that morning, you were out of bed, you had gone to study somewhere or to work out. When he went into the bathroom and looked back he started to ride but I swore in all the languages of the world because you had left him a red lipstick stain with your lips engraved on his cheek and the more he tried to send away that joke, the harder it was to remove.

That Saturday went all wrong, the university football team had lost badly and even the show you had prepared to make the majors identify you as suitable to take the place of captain was a mess. Some freshmen had it all wrong and you were seriously pissed off and wanted to just smash yourself in ice cream and finally spend hours under the jet of boiling water they had repaired.

When you came in, you slammed the door of the apartment, with a face tense from anger. You dropped your bag on the floor with a thud. It had been a nightmare day. During the show before the match, a couple of girls continued to make you miss all the shots, and the coach took it with you in front of everyone because if you wanted to become the captain you had to be perfect and able to support also freshman line.

You were about to head for your room when you heard laughter coming from the living room. Heeseung’s familiar voice is clearly distinguished, and also that of Sunghoon one of his closest friends who was skating, and there was also another athlete Jungwon but along with them, there was also a girl. Y/n stood on the threshold, crossing his arms.

On the two chairs, there were Hoon and Jungwon, instead Heeseung was sitting with legs apart, bent forward to look at the screen and see how he smiled or squinted at Heeseung. She was way too close. She had Sunghoon in the same room who was one of the most beautiful guys I’d ever seen, but no she was attached to Hee.

"Well, look at that, our gamer has found someone who gives him a go," you commented in a deliberately sharp tone.

All turned to her. Heeseung seemed surprised, but he recovered immediately and saw that it was past 10 in the evening so the game had ended a long time ago. «Hey, Barbie. Difficult day? don’t tell me that the football team lost» he asked, with a smirk, and raised your eyes to the sky.

"Oh, don’t worry about me. It seems like you’re having enough fun already."

The girl next to Hee laughed, and for some reason, that sound irritated you more than it should have. <<If you want I can leave my place Y/n>> says Jungwon with a genuine smile, man how much gold would have paid to have as a roommate a person like Jungwon always nice and sociable with everyone that loser from Heeseung?

"No, no, quiet Jungwon I’m going to take a nice hot shower and some healthy skincare for my skin. I already greeted you all because I don’t know when I’ll get out of that bathroom" You went to the bathroom and felt the look of Heeseung in your body covered only by a shabby skirt and a light sweatshirt but you scrolled away all the slacks with a nice warm bath.

After almost two hours you left the bathroom in your pajamas and at the door, Heeseung’s friends were getting ready to go home, you were preparing a calming herbal tea but you watched the first girl named Luna greet Heeseung with a hug and then with a shy kiss on the cheek. That scene made you even more angry against the world, from what point did you get annoyed by girls around that nerd?

"Really, Heeseung? Bring people here without telling me? And then that girl... who the hell was she? We agreed that when I had a show when I came home I wanted to be at peace"

Heeseung stood in the middle of the living room, an eyebrow raised but with a funny look

«Does it bother you that I had friends here? What should I say when you take your best friends to make your beautiful pajamas that scream or speak of everyone or is it only Luna who has bothered you because you have always made enough friends with all my friends?» You looked at the nerd in front of you and crossed your arms.

"Don’t be smart. I hate that you don’t even have the decency to tell me when you bring people. Aren’t we roommates?"

Hee barely smiled, a smile that seemed to know long.

«You and I are roommates, so why do you seem so... jealous and upset by the presence of Luna?» You looked at him furiously, approaching a few steps.

"Me? Jealous? Of you? Don’t make me laugh, you know you’re not my type."

«Then why are you so agitated?» he replied, standing up to approach you. Heeseung not only looked beautiful but also his height was perfect, you always liked tall guys and he with his 1.83 compared to your 1.65 was overtaking you. You felt the tension grow between you two. you approached again and pushed it slightly with a hand on your chest.

"Maybe because I can’t stand when you’re bragging about your "friends," I saw how comfortable you were and how you flirted with her. You pretend to be the "good guy" of the situation but we all know that underneath you love seeing girls lost for you"

Heeseung looked at you for a few seconds, then shook his head with an incredulous grin.

«You know what? You’re unbearable when you do that, what is it you want to always be the center of attention barbie? the world does not only revolve around you»

"Oh, stop it, you’re so annoying from the first day that I set foot in here with your little smirk cheeky" you answered with your face now a few inches from his.

Heeseung was definitely tired of your spoiled behavior and even as a child he did the last thing he expected to do but he wanted so much to silence you and put you in your place. You felt yourself by the wrists and Heeseung gently slammed you against the island of the small kitchen.

«Stop» he said in a rock and still voice. You looked at him wide-eyed, ready to reply, but the words stuck in your throat when he leaned over and kissed you. The kiss is initially decided, almost to silence you, but then it becomes sweeter as if he was also surprised by his own boldness. You were slightly still for a moment then you relaxed and carried your arms around his neck and brought him closer to you. You felt his big hands under your ass and in a few moments he made you lean on the kitchen island and began to kiss you again or not devour you «Fuck, the only way to make you shut up is this Barbie? , if I knew it before I would have made you quiet in other ways, Y/n» You absolutely wanted to reply but when it detached from your lips he plunged to give light kisses around the clavicle until reaching your neck, a little moan came out of your lips when it began to torture you a small section of your neck under the ear, you felt that it was licking and then biting. Your coach would kill you if she saw some suckers but at that moment you were too much at the mercy of Heeseung and what he made you try; "Hee, stop torturing me I can’t be seen with a" You did not stop talking that you sucked strongly another area of your neck and pulled as much as possible his hair.

What you were doing was absolutely nothing normal but you felt too excited to stand between him, you felt Hee come even closer to you and you perceived its hard length in the pants of the suit she wore, You tried to approach him and touch him but he took your arm and brought it back to the shed.

«I don’t give a fuck if your coach tomorrow sees you with some pacifiers and don’t try to touch me, I don’t let the bad girls put their hands on me, and this evening you were a bad girl rather you behaved like a child and spoiled» You felt the big hand of Heeseung to slightly bloom your pants and felt your panties slightly wet and Heeseung had an expression that you had never seen perhaps victory? His hands made little circles over your pajamas but never took them off because in his eyes you were definitely a bad girl that night without thinking touched your pussy and stimulated you until you felt that from there you would come like a loser with both pants and panties around, You leaned on him and when you felt that you were coming to the climax but he detached and looked at you with all red cheeks.

"It can’t be, you’re really an asshole Heeseung" Heeseung looked at you with a grin and whispered to you «We are already 2-0 for me Barbie, when will you start to understand that with me you’ll burn yourself?» You watched him drink a glass of water and then go to his room as if he had not almost made you come in your underwear and as if you did not exist.

It was a week after those kisses, either Y/n tried in any way to avoid Heeseung and the thing was mutual with him as well. His best friends Jay and Jake had invited him to the last half-season game and with him were Hoon, and Jungwon, But he did not realize that before the game there was the show of the Cheerleaders and in front of his eyes there was Y/ n who was warming with other dancers both male and female. He watched her carefully trying to do a handless somersault and after a few seconds Chan one of the best and most famous dancers on the entire campus took her by the hips and made her lightly jump off the ground and put it over his shoulder, He knew that Y/n was good because she spent hours and hours training but did not think that she had so much charisma and ease to make such a lot of acrobatic. Heeseung looked away from the beautiful cheerleader for a moment and saw Sunoo take it back and give him a hint with his thumb.

"Why are you filming Y/n?" Sunoo looked at the oldest boy in the group with a smile and continued recording

<<I’m making some content for her team’s tik tok and Instagram profile, she asked me the day before yesterday when I saw her in the library>> Heeseung looked at Y/n smiled at Chan, and hugged him slightly, Why did you ask Sunoo to be your little filmmaker and not him who lived on technology? And then why did he embrace Chan so often, relationships between athletes were forbidden but a sense of jealousy took hold in Heeseung, and watched from the edge Y/n field that he was fixing his makeup.

Y/n for her knew that Heeseung was watching her since she had left the locker room but she would not give him his attention for anything in the world because he was seriously an asshole.

<<Your favorite nerd can not take his eyes off you for 20 minutes and is throwing me some hateful looks as if he tried to kill me with an axe or a virtual gun>> You wake up to the joke of Chan and you squatted to pretend to lace your shoes and sunflowers Heeseung’s head and eyes were watching you and you saw him turn all red when you caught him looking at your ass even though it was barely covered by a short skirt the smiles and I made the mark of 2 with my hands because he was still ahead between you two but in added a 1 because even if he did not want to admit it would also sacrifice a game of those stupid tournaments to have you and to make you his, He winked and was petrified to watch you enter the locker room to give the charge to everyone and to start the show before the half-year game.

The game ended in a beautiful victory and you came home to take a quick shower, put on makeup, and dress up for the winter party. When you entered the house there was nobody and it seemed so boring and at the same calm, there were no screams of Heeseung, the laughter of his friends, There were no sounds of gunshots or moans of evil characters and this thing made you a little bit sorry you didn’t want to admit it but by now you were used to all that mess and see the apartment empty and without the blue lights of the computer or smart tv, you put a little sadness. When you left the bathroom you felt a delicious smell coming from the kitchen and at that moment you did not think that Heeseung could return so soon, You went to the kitchen, and Heeseung when he saw you dressed as you were, looked at you with a furious look but at the same time, he saw that it was hard to take your eyes off of how he wrapped your short skirt, a light crop top sweater and on your feet you had black loafers with ankle warmers.

«Where do you think you are going dressed like that? you studied all this morning and this afternoon you trained and not even two hours ago you blew up I don’t know how many times, It’s not better to ask for a break from your body and stay at home» watch Heeseung from the mirror you had at the entrance of the apartment with a grin and sprayed a little perfume and set up your cheerleader bow in your straight hair

"Wow, someone’s in a bad mood didn’t you like the show or the game? I’m going to a party. You know, those social things that normal people do for fun, to drink, to chat, or maybe to be in the company of a nice guy or girl!" You squinted at Heeseung and he had his arms crossed to his chest and wouldn’t stop staring at you «I know what Barbie parties are, just don’t understand why you have to dress like..» you approached him and looked at him with a smile, maybe for the first time in your life you had the knife’s handle on your side the nerd in front of you was seriously jealous.

"How what? A girl who knows she’s irresistible and wants to go out and have fun with her friends? How should I dress to go to a party, certainly not with a pair of sweatpants or a sweatshirt" Heeseung looked at you attentively and saw him blush as you pressed your breasts to her strong chest and flushed from that little touch with your body.

"Relax, nerd. I can handle the compliments myself. You don’t need to worry." You took your Chanel bag and went to the door and looked at Heeseung leaning against the wall with that adorable little grumpy and his deer eyes that didn’t leave a moment. " Don’t expect me awake. I might be late or not even come home."

Heeseung when he saw you leaving the house and leaving a sweet scent whispered «Oh, I will wait for you Barbie.»

When you came back to the apartment it was around one and a half at night, I took off my boots and sighing for fatigue went to your room but before entering I saw Heeseung sitting on the bed wiping his hair wet with a cloth, He had just come out of the shower because there was that citrus scent coming out of the bathroom and you raised a eyebrow curious to see him still awake, if you had made it clear to him that he could go to sleep.

"Why are you still awake? Didn’t I tell you not to wait for me? Don’t tell me you were worried about me and that you wanted to see me safely back home without anyone."

«I admit it I was just worried and wanted to see how you yourself said that you would come home with your legs»

"How sweet. I didn’t know you were so protective." You put your bag on the desk and sat down on the edge of the bed watching Heeseung while he rubbed his hair and stared at you with sneaky eyes Your legs were almost completely uncovered and how he showed you the curves especially your breasts that sweater shrunk

«It’s not protectiveness. It’s frustration. I can’t understand why you enjoy teasing everyone... including me. What do you want Y/n?» a small smile came out of your lips and to Heeseung’s surprise you put on horseshoes in his toned legs and carefully dried the hair half gone for how many times he had passed the cloth to dry them while waiting for you

"Am I the one who provokes? One week ago you almost made me come in my pants and then you left like a loser without completing the work." Heeseung tried to put his hands on your hips but you took his big hands and placed them over his chest, "Don’t dare touch me until I tell you, the last time I was acting jealous or maybe like a child but this night you were the loser of the situation that in order not to admit that you wanted me you left me to go to a mega boring party"

You helped Heeseung to take off her shirt and a little whistle came out of your lips "How can you have such a physique and not show it off?" You began to slowly rock over its width felt it under you become harder and harder and you started kissing its neck until you reached below the navel. Heeseung had dreamed of this moment from the first time he saw you enter his apartment, he would never admit it but masturbated even thinking of you and was seriously afraid to come if you would continue to swing with that miniskirt that now let you all the thighs uncovered and saw your black panties in lace.

«I need to hear you somehow or show you that I’m not a loser as you think Y/n, please let me make you feel good and let me finish what I had started; I hate to pause the gaming games the same thing goes for you Barbie» Heeseung with reddish cheeks and eyes half-shiny desire and gently laid you down in his place and bent down to make you feel good, you made the sign to take off your skirt but he did no head and a grin formed in his face «I want to make you come with this skirt of a bad girl and then you will take my dick» you were seriously shocked by Heeseung’s words that you wanted to tease him again but your voice stopped when you felt the fingers slipping into your still-dressed slot and Heeseung’s slightly wet hair buried under your skirt, You jumped at him as you felt his middle finger and ring slide down your pussy while with the other hand, he suddenly took off your panties in a provocative way. He looked at your panties for a moment and then dived back under your skirt and you felt her finger on your palm clit with her thumb. You crave the feeling, of holding tight to his arms, the longer he pleased your clitoris, the sooner you would lose control of yourself and that was what Heeseung wanted, to see you lost to him. And in the end, you were just giving in to what your body wanted: rubbing against that annoying nerd’s hand, you felt his fingers get inside of you for good, and little moans came out of your mouth.

«Fuck love to hear your moans, and groans for me Y/n, make everyone feel who is fucking you and who is ruining only with two fingers inside of you, I can not wait to see you ride my dick and be able to have you finally mine»

You pulled Hee’s hair and small moans came out of your mouth as fast as her fingers went inside you at that moment.

"Hee, I need" fuck was nice to be filled by his long fingers. You felt his fingers curl inside, and you closed your mouth with your hand, afraid to wake up anyone who was sleeping. Annoyed, Heeseung pulled his hand away from you and admired you as you had your mouth open, hair in his bed, and were standing up for him and not one of those stupid athletes who came after you.

«Come for me baby, don’t be shy» felt that you taunted your clitoris again and came moaning again the name of Heeseung, The nerd under your skirt slowly tasted the mess that had caused you and tasted your shiny white cum that polished your pussy. When he got up he looked at you and leaned to give you a little kiss on the forehead «Good girl», after a while you got your arms around Heeseung’s neck and kissed him with a hunger for him and pushed him back into bed and rode over him to his cock.

"I need you Heeseung" The guy in front of you interrupted the kisses you were giving and looked at you with a shy and sincere smile, «Fuck tell me that I’m not dreaming Y/n, it’s months that I want you close around me, for me this is not a game Y/n» You smiled at Heeseung and took off the light sweater you had and the boy in front of you cheeks turned red and took off your breast-holder with nonchalance and immediately took a bud from your breast and with the other hand held you and tickled the other breast.

"Not for me either Hee this is a game, I want it" A little moan came out of you when he sucked slightly your nipple and a little spit went down your left breast repeated this thing also with the other. You really needed him so you lowered his pants and at the same time boxer shorts and saw his cock semi-erect, caressed him slowly but after a while you started to pump him slightly, It was beautiful to see him swearing under the sensation of your warm hand, slowly pumping it and observing the way his tip leaked copiously liquid.

«I thought of you I don’t know how many times in these months in this exact position...» mumbles, slightly shivering, «please Y/n, I need you» A little laugh came out from your lips, you had never seen Heeseung in this state and it was only thanks to you.

"You know we’re tied right now Heeseung, you seem so desperate for me right now. If you want fuck me”. he sent you a charming smile before pulling down your hips with that slutty skirt still on you; he wheezes sweetly at the feeling of your pussy flying around her tip, already able to feel your exhaling excitement before you finally slowly sink over him.

"Fuck, oh shit Hee" You were seriously ecstatic by the length of Heeseung inside you, and slowly you moved to let it in and out so that your bodies lined up and went at a rhythm.

«God you are so tight» You felt his big hands under your ass and brought you even closer to him and you put your hands over his back to ride it harder. «Who is fucking you so well, Barbie?» You felt again his thumb rub your wet pussy as you took his cock up on the ground and hit exactly your G-spot to make you moan his name. " You, Hee, only you Heeseung"

Heeseung began to leave open-mouthed kisses along the column of your throat, climbing up, climbing up until finally reaching your ear, leaving a kiss behind it before whispering: «You are mine and from this moment I will not share you with anyone»

By the time he pushed back in you could already feel the tears ticking your eyes: you’re loud and cheeky in your sounds as he starts hammering you again because he knows it’s coming soon and he wanted to feel your body again, you felt your back curl from the way Hee’s hand started to rub your clitoris again, you could only groan softly for feeling, Allowing him to play with you as if you were his own game or even worse his favorite toy.

"Hee, I’m close."

«Come for me Barbie, I want to feel and see you with my sperm in all your beautiful pussy that right now is taking my cock»

Finally allows herself to come inside you, you can hear Hee sibilate softly for the sensation, triggering her orgasm while you whimper for all the sensations you had experienced thanks to that loser of your roommate. You’re hot and full to the point that it’s already started to leak out, and Heeseung swears he’s never seen a better show, and you’re burying your head in the hollow of your neck.

You felt Hee give you a little kiss on the head and then on the forehead and put you lying in her bed and after a few seconds of silence she went to get you some warm clothes and cleaned you from her cum and put you her clean boxers and her crumpled nerd t-shirt and brought you to my bride in your bed, Your cheeks were seriously all red and maybe you were also agitated because now things would go with him?

When he put you under the covers you saw him lay an arm around your waist and look at you smiling softly move a rebellious tuft from your face around your ear give you a light kiss on the cheek and lay down with his head leaning close to your neck and crossed your legs. You were seriously surprised by his attitude but maybe underneath he also felt emotions like a classic twenty-year-old boy and you embraced him a little timidly because you had never seen this act of Heeseung.

«We are 3-2» You started again with your joke but in your head, you were 2-2.

"What did I do this time to get you back in the game? It seems we are still 2-2" You felt his nose close to your neck and started laughing, he did not want to admit but for him that three were you. He would be able to skip a session of video game tournaments to make you happy and maybe he was falling in love with you but he would never admit it if you didn’t do it first, because the weak point of the situation was him not you.

Comments are appreciated:)🎮

©cutehoons02 all rights reserved 2024.

[ditzydoe444]

MDNI 18+

bed chem ૮꒰ ྀི >⸝⸝⸝< ྀི꒱ა

porn star! reader x jason todd

jason todd smut

when you told jason what you did online, you didn’t expect the reaction he had. he gave a casual shrug before suggesting he could help with your content. so now you were on your knees giving him a blowjob whilst he held the camera, capturing every angl as he sat on the edge of your shared bed. “look at the camera baby,” he cooed, nicely before fucking your face with his other hand. “need to give ‘em the performance they want yeah?”

you nodded, making all sorts of gagging noises on his cock, despite being together for over a year you could never adjust to his size. “come on, get your head together,” he grunted as he thrusted deeper, “can’t have my star performer lacking can we?”

you shook your head, trying to focus but whenever he fucked your mouth like it was your cunt it was too much, he basically fucked you dumb. both of your hands gripped his cock like it was your lifeline, moving up and down the inches you couldn’t take, your hands couldn’t even grip the whole thing because of how big it was. “look at that,” he cooed, looking down at you, “dribbling all over my cock like a little toy.”

eventually his thrusts became more ragged, and slow, a sign that he was going to come. “ ‘m close sweet thing,” he groaned pulling his cock out of your mouth resulting in a small ‘pop’ sound. your saliva dribbled down your chin with a small string connecting from your mouth to the fat tip. he gripped his cock, giving a new more pumps before a small devilish smile formed on his face. “let me paint your face, baby,” and god you wasted no time closing your eyes, leaning towards his cock. in a matter of seconds you felt the hot sticky mess running down your face, you opened your eyes slowly.

“give me a smile baby,” he mumbled softly one of his hands caressing your cheek softly before giving you a small pat on the head. you gave your cheesiest grin, your round cheeks protruding out, staring at the camera. “perfect,” he grinned, in a matter of seconds he placed your camera down at the bedside table before grabbing you by the waist. his sheer size made it easy for you to be manhandled, and he shoved you in the bed face down and ass up. “let’s get another round in,” he grumbled before shoving his cock into your cunt. let’s just say the two of you made an excellent film.

[bloomries]

yeah so my husband— my husband?!

includes : lucifer, mammon, leviathan, satan, asmodeus, beelzebub, and belphegor.

summary : calling him your "husband" (even though you two aren't married yet) to see his reaction.

warnings : gn! reader. mention of marriage. suggestive (in asmodeus'). the word 'husband' will begin to look strange bc it's used so much, apologies.

LUCIFER

You just meant for it to be a harmless little prank, something to tease Lucifer with later when you two were alone, perhaps gauge his reaction to the idea, but after you said 'yeah, so my husband...' Diavolo's eyes grew as wide as the moon and you instantly regretted your prank idea.

Diavolo clasped a hand on Lucifer's shoulder, beaming. "You finally asked!" This statement went over your head as you tried to quickly take back your words, Lucifer's blanched face making it clear he'll definitely be scolding you later. "But it seems I missed the wedding? Oh well, I'll just host you another wedding so I can see it for myself!"

"Ah, L- Lord Diavolo..." Lucifer sends you a glare as you smile sheepishly. "We aren't- I haven't-"

"How do you both feel about a chocolate fountain?" Diavolo is already off in his own little world, imagining how he'll plan out your wedding. Lucifer decides he'll inform Barbatos of the prank, and have Barbatos deal with it- Lucifer already has his hands full with you. He pulls you aside as Diavolo talks to himself.

"Do you see what you've done?"

"Sorry..." You fake pout, batting your lashes up at him. "My darling husband will surely fix it though, right?" Oh, how can he stay mad when he truly likes the title so much. Perhaps this will make asking you to marry him easier? You surely seem to enjoy the title just as much.

MAMMON

Mammon is always trying to listen in on your phone calls, he's nosy and likes to know all the gossip. Today in particular though, he's trying extra hard to hear, clinging to you and making you unable to do other tasks whilst on your call.

Deciding to tease him a little, in hopes of getting him off of you, you sigh dramatically into the receiver. "I'm sorry, my husband needs my attention, one second."

And when you look down at him, his eyes are wide and shiny, a blush quickly forming on his cheeks. Him? Were you talking about him? He's your husband? A giant grin takes over his features and it seems your little prank has the opposite effect you wanted, as he takes the phone from you.

"Yeah, sorry, their husband- that's me!- needs 'em!" He boasts proudly before hanging up the call and clutching on to you tighter, burying his face into your side, his grin not changing in the slightest.

You sigh, running your fingers through his hair. "Rude, I was trying to talk to someone, you know." Mammon shrugs, not a care in the world.

"'m your husband, I take priority."

"You know you're not officially my husband yet, right?" Shit, you're right. Well, that'll change soon, don't you worry one bit! Mammon knows how to take a hint, and there'll be a ring on that finger soon enough!

LEVIATHAN

You and Levi were playing an online game, chat on full blast, when you decide to tease him- because it's just so fun to see his flustered expression, and you have an inkling that this'll give him some motivation for the game. "Ah, hubby, can you help me with these guys!"

"H- Hubby!?" Leviathan's neck nearly breaks from how quickly he snaps to look over at you, you seem unphased though by the phrase- as if it came so naturally. His heart skips a beat, his grip on the controller tightening. "W- Where are you, I'll come help!"

His gaming friends are all blowing up the chat box, some getting on voice chat just to ask what that meant- 'was Levi actually married?,' 'He was a husband?,' 'Since when!?,' 'Congratulations!,' etc.

Levi would have gotten more flustered, had he been paying any attention to said friends, but he's much more focused on proving he'd make an excellent spouse by rushing to where you were in the map and one-shotting all the enemies that surrounded you.

The battle is quickly won thanks to Levi, who puffs out his chest with pride. You lean over from your gaming station adjacent of his, and press a kiss to his cheek. "Thank you, hubby~" His cheeks grow a rosy pink, and he pulls his headphones off to give you a serious look.

"Let's get married."

SATAN

"Oh husband~" You call, "Can you help me get this book? I can't reach!" Satan peaks his head from around the corner to give you a questioning look. Who were you calling husband? He watches you struggle, leaning his frame against the door with his arms crossed over his chest.

"I don't remember proposing." Satan watches as you deflates from his lack of reaction to your prank. He sighs, walking over to you and helping you reach the book, tapping it on your head lightly before handing it over to you.

"You're no fun, you know that?"

Satan has a feeling this was definitely set up by one of his brothers, and he'll definitely be getting his revenge on them for making you do this (and for making his heart hammer against his ribcage uncontrollably). Still, he hates to see you upset in the least, so he lifts your chin with his finger and thumb and sends you that smile that sends shivers down your spine.

"Don't be upset, you'll get to call me husband soon, okay?"

And he truly did mean that, he already had a ring, which sat heavy in his pocket. He just wanted to make sure you had the most perfect proposal, something straight out of a romance novel- because that's what you deserve. Soon, soon you'll be able to lovingly call him 'husband' whenever you wish.

ASMODEUS

Asmo is live-streaming again, doing a little grwm-type video, with you off to the side/in the background. As he begins to do his skin care, he asks for you to take over and chat for a little while for him, so you peak your head into view and wave at his viewers.

"Hello everyone!" You smile, glancing back at Asmo who's behind you in the bathroom, doing his skincare. "My lovely husband is doing his skincare right now, it usually takes him about ten to fifteen minutes to complete it." You say, however you can see his head pop-up from the sink and he whips around to look at you.

"Husband?" He calls, and when you nod, confirming your words, he grins. "Oh my, is this a proposal?" He asks with a teasing lilt, and you joking go along with his words, nodding before reenacting the famous getting-down-on-one-knee. You open your hands as if you had a ring box, presenting it to him. He holds his hand out to you, "I do~" You pretend to slip a ring on to his finger and he admires the imaginary ring before leaning down to kiss you.

"Now," He pulls away, wiggling his brows. "Shall we get started on the honeymoon part?"

"Asmo, that's typically after the weddi-" Asmo reaches for his phone, waving and saying a little 'byeeee' to his followers as he ends the livestream with a giggle, throwing you a lil' mischievous smile.

"No harm in starting earlier, right?" And despite only being halfway through his skincare, and this not being a real proposal, the honeymoon was very nice indeed- he can't wait for the real one though.

BEELZEBUB

You had seen the trend, and wondered how Beelzebub would react. So, under the guise of trying some new food and giving it a review, you set up your camera and begin filming. "Hey everyone, me and my husband are going to be rating food from the new McDevil menu~"

Beel doesn't react at all, and you send him a quick glance before trying again- perhaps he didn't hear you? "I think the Sin-Fries are a solid 7/10, what about you, husband?" But again, he doesn't react to the word at all, instead giving his own rating for the new fries.

Is he really not realizing what you're saying? You decide to try one last time. "My husbands food always looks better than mine," You whine, peaking over at him to see his reaction, only to see him offering you a bite of his burger. You sigh, giving up and deciding to just enjoy your food. You take a bite of his burger, offering him some of yours. The review ends swiftly, and you turn off the camera.

As you two clean up from eating, you notice Beelzebub quieter than usual. You're about to ask him if everything is okay, his face becoming flushed, when he speaks up.

"Soon, okay?" You blink a few times, confused by his words. He bashfully looks up at you, and that's when you realize what he's talking about- marriage, he plans on proposing to you soon. Your own cheeks now grow unbearably warm. "I promise."

Your prank definitely backfired, as now you're the one trying to calm your racing heart (although Beelzebub is definitely just as flustered). Still, you're holding him accountable to his promise- soon.

BELPHEGOR

You're not sure how this little prank managed to get turned against you, but Belphegor has made it so that you're now his personal pillow- again.

"I'm just saying, if I'm you're husband, then that means you should let me use you as a pillow whenever I want." You open your mouth to retaliate, but he beats you to it, batting his lashes up at you. "Don't you want your husband to be comfortable?"

"I..." You falter. You regret deciding to call him your 'husband~' to try and get him to help you with chores. You thought maybe it'd motivate him, or maybe you'd just get to see his cute blushing face, instead you're suffering.

"Come on now, don't be shy~" He wiggles about, trying to grab you to pull you towards him, but he doesn't really exert enough energy to be successful. "Ugh, why... do you... do this... to me- to your darling husband!"

"You're anything but darling." You say, crossing your arms over your chest. "Last time I call you 'husband' or any term of endearment, I swear..." You grumble, turning on your heels to leave, disappointed your prank didn't work.

Belphegor grins, snuggling up to his pillow as he watches you leave. "That's what you think," he mumbles to himself, yawning, "when I finally get that ring on your finger, I'll have ya calling me husband again, just you wait~" He snickers, and a cold chill runs down your spine. You glance back to see him asleep, although you feel as if he's planning something- and you weren't sticking around to find out what!

[luvly-writer]

Who's Afraid of Little Old Me

Batfamily x Neglected! Reader

Author's note: So originally, this was supposed to be only ONE shot...but I suck at making those so it will be a TWO shot. I am writing the second one right now as well so it will be posted at the same time.

Warnings: Neglectful family, long chapter

Part 2 // Part 3

---

These walls suffocated you. They truly did.

At first, when your mother had announced that Damian, your twin brother, and you would be leaving your home to live with your father, you were kind of excited. As much as Nanda Parbat was a home to you, you were excited to see the world, and finally feel free. Being the "spare twin" certainly allowed you to have more freedom than Damian growing up. Both of you were trained exactly the same way, yet, whilst your grandfather prefer to hone your brother's skill in other areas, you had the flexibility of running around and doing as you went. But no bird is truly free if they still live in a cage. So...

You were excited and that excitement lasted precisely two weeks. Damian and you had been close all your life, being twins kind of facilitated that. You trained together, ate together, read together, you spent the majority of your life together. You had each other's back; he was your solace and companion, your best friend. No one else in the world would ever get you like him. That's part of the reason Talia sent both of you. Growing up, no one could ever separate the two of you, not even your grandfather....well, that was until a certain Dick Grayson and Bruce Wayne entered your lives.

Unlike your twin, you had no interest in being part of the vigilante business. It was well known that both of you were different in your character. Where Damian was brash, you were softer; he was ruthless, you were diplomatic; he was violent and cunning, you were elegant and merciful. That distinction was what made your grandfather direct Damian to be the heir of the Demon head. You were glad that you were away from the League as it would help you create an identity that didn't directly come from them and that became a problem.

Sure, it was two that came to stay at Wayne Manor, but only one was integrated into the family. It was disappointing, to say the least. Bruce favored Damian and whenever you tried to call him out on it, he'd blame it on the fact that Damian needed more help. As if it wasn't the two of you that came from the same place. Sure, you were tame and gentle, but you were just as Damian. The League didn't train an assassin and a princess. No, they had honed two weapons. Dick followed Bruce in that same thought process and it got even worst once he had to fill in as Batman temporarily. As much as he clashed heads with Damian, Tim enjoyed going par to par with his new brother. Jason knew both of them back when he was resurrected. You loved him as if he were your brother as well and you thought that it was reciprocated...until you roamed the halls of the manor and realized he never joked around with you the same way he did with Damian. You wanted to blame it on the fact that they were boys and maybe that got them to get along better...but it wasn't just that was it...Cassandra loved to bond with Damian because they were both child assassins but so! were! You! Stephanie loved to ruffle his hair and call him Little Bat, and Barbara would sit and try to explain modern terminology with him and laugh when he found it absurd. It didn't make sense.

Both of you went through the same thing, yet you had to understand why he needed more help and attention and love than you. It devastated you. You had read online that it was good to find healthy outlets to let out your frustrations, so you decided to find extracurriculars. Maybe if you required attention, it would be given to you, right? I mean, Robin was Damian's extracurricular in a way, right?

You took up ice skating. You found beauty in the sport and given that you had training, you were excelling at it. Given that your father was a busy man, he was never one to take you to practice. He just paid for the coach, the team, the skates, the outfits, and all the fees necessary. Alfred, may he be blessed, was your solace and would often be found taking you to practices and would stay for support. You had great potential for someone of such a young age and your coaches would never fail to remind you. Your first competition came and you were through the roof with excitement. You would talk Damian's ear off, who always made time for you regardless of what was happening around the house. You would mention it in passing to anyone who would engage in even the smallest of conversations with you. You went as far as printing the competition flyers and sticking them on Bruce's desk, the Batcomputer, and the fridge. Surely, no one would forget.

Oh, you poor thing...no one came besides Alfred. Damian and Bruce had some sort of mission; Dick was in Bludhaven; Jason was too busy with the Outlaws, Tim had a Wayne Enterprise meeting, Barbara had made plans that day with Stephanie and Cass and they couldn't be changed. Had they not heard you? Did they not see the flyers? The only one had the decency to apologize was Damian, but he was your brother, your twin, of course, he didn't mean to miss it. You had won gold and your teammates had invited you to eat out. When you ran all the way to where your family was supposed to be, you only saw Alfred with a beautiful flower bouquet.

Having seen your disappointed face, he quickly made a mental note to scold everyone later tonight and tried to cheer you up.

"Marvelous, miss Y/n! Simply wonderful. I don't think I had ever been delighted by such a choreography before" He praised and you took it to heart, giving him a smile. That night he allowed you to stay later, having one of your teammate's mother bring you back from the restaurant.

This didn't change over time. Competitions and practices with Alfred only. After that first competition, Damian would try to at least go to your practices but that lessened as time passed and he was needed as Robin. Forgotten competitions turned to forgotten birthdays it seemed. After a year, when your birthday came around, you were ecstatic knowing that your favorite day of the year and you would celebrate it with your favorite person in the whole world. That day, your friend's parents had asked Alfred if they could surprise you in the morning with something special and then leave you in the Manor during the afternoon so that you would have time with your family. Seeing how loved you were outside of your family, Alfred agreed.

You were positive that your day was going to be perfect. Damian had woken you up and you both exchanged gifts first thing in the morning, just like you did in the League. He had gotten you a new pair of skates and you had gotten him a bunch of new art supplies. You ate breakfast with Damian and forced Alfred to sit with you both and eat as well. You went along with your day, having Alfred tell you that you had a special surprise. He had taken you to the park where your friends and their parents awaited you with a surprise picnic. Soon the afternoon neared and you were in the limo telling Alfred about the wonderful morning you were having. To into in your story, you failed to see his worried and pitiful gaze. As you went into the Manor, hands full of gifts from your friends and cheeks hurting from laughing and smiling so much, you were met with a sight that broke your heart.

Damian blowing the candles of a cake with your entire family surrounding him, clapping and singing. Your face, just like your heart, fell. You look up at Alfred and whisper, "Did you know?"

To which he responded in a soft voice, "No, my dear, I was helping your friends plan your party. The bake, I did do, but I thought we would wait for you..."

With eyes glazed with unshed tears, you nodded and it took seeing Damian's small smile as Dick bearhugged him to know...you weren't part of them.

You had begun to separate yourself from them and Damian had noticed. He had tried to apologize for your birthdays but you wouldn't listen. What kind of person would forget their twin? After some time, he stopped trying. The ridge between you had started to grow and if you were being stubborn, he wouldn't waste his time.

---

Weeks passed. Months passed. And little old Y/n had been forgotten. Dick was always too busy and only knew how to say "Not now, kid." Jason would wave to you on occasion. You weren't sure if Tim was even aware that you still lived there. Cass only spared you a glance. Stephanie looked pained if you ever tried to talk to her. Barbara was too awkward around you. Bruce had never really tried much with you and that was clear from the start. Damian felt distant each day more and more. Your only solace was ice skating, Alfred, and your mom. Weeks after your birthday, you had sneaked out and contacted your mother. She arrived as soon as she could. She would never deny her baby girl. I mean, the world always wanted Damian, but she, she was hers. There, Y/n told her everything as she broke down into tears. She had been the perfect daughter and sister, yet it would never matter cause they didn't care. Talia, clearly bothered by this, promised to talk with Bruce and Damian yet Y/n reassured her that Alfred had tried so many times and it had never worked. With the promise of finding a solution that didn't involve Bruce or Damian, her mother left.

After a few weeks, Y/n would notice that the watching eyes of her mother would be on her during practice and competitions. It was good to have one parent there. She wouldn't be able to attend most of the time, but she made an effort. Alfred caught her once when she was giving you flowers and Y/n begged for him to keep it a secret.

It was good to have something.

---

Years passed. Birthdays were spent having breakfast with Alfred, avoiding her twin, out with her friends, and occasionally, sneaking out to see her mother. Y/n wasn't heartless, though. Every year she would sneak a present that normally came from her and their mother into Damian's room. He was still her beloved twin after all. She had gotten used to competitions with little company. Even when she had won an award for being a prodigious skater, it was Alfred, the flowers he had bought her, and the ones her mother had sneaked into her house. She was fine, she claimed. Being ignored and forgotten didn't sting her heart as much as it did before, and she definitely didn't cry every time one of her siblings passed by her and acted as if they bumped into a piece of furniture. Hearing Damian refer to Cassandra as sister and only call her by her name didn't shatter her heart, no it only made her so unfocused in practice that she fell in the middle of her choreography. Coming back home after a day with her friends and seeing all of the decorations for Damian's birthday didn't slowly kill her on the inside anymore, no she just played music super loud when she took showers so no one would hear her sobs.

The breaking point? Duke Thomas.

She didn't have something against him directly, no. It was his arrival. Seeing her supposed family, her twin, welcome him with open arms broke her absolutely. Seeing them dine with him, joke around with him, smile with him, celebrate with him, and love him shattered her. It had been five years of this torment and she couldn't bear it anymore. So...she made a call.

"Mother....I think I want to go home.."

----------------

[dannyriccsystem]

hiii can you do kimi antonelli asking help from a cute girl in his class or a driver’s younger sister to tutor him in math?

LISTEN UP NOW!

FORMULA ONE DRIVER X READER

Summary: Kimi asks his cute classmate for help with math!

Warnings: Silly, fluff, Y/N usage, user is in last year of high school

Featuring: Kimi Antonelli x Classmate!Reader

REQUESTS OPEN! Check here for more info!

Still getting to requests today, but feel free to send some in! Love y’all

Nobody necessarily expected Kimi Antonelli to still be in school. Rarely did you see a Formula One driver who was still learning about the basics, such as math and language, while also simultaneously passing world champions in their sport and making a living for themselves. After this information came out, there was obviously… Quite a few jokes.

Kimi had made a whole ordeal of asking George to tutor him in math, and while viewers (and George himself) passed it off as a joke, the truth was Kimi really was struggling in the subject. It didn’t have much substance to him, and lacked sense. Unlike racing, which came so naturally to the rookie.

His teachers were emailing him nonstop, scolding the racer on how unbalanced his school life and work life were. Despite being a kid who raced cars for a living, going at unimaginable speeds, he still walked away with his tail tucked between his legs after being harshly lectured by his elders. After being reprimanded for about the thirtieth time, Kimi was instructed to find himself a tutor.

Online class was easy. Everyone was given their own workload to finish at their own pace, with varying deadlines depending on level of learning. Y/N excelled in this department, finishing most of her work far before the others. She was a straight A student, sitting at the top of her class.

On rare occasions, their class would host little lessons over Zoom. It always reminded her of the quarantine days, but it was nice to see familiar faces nonetheless. Even if most of the time she was sat there quietly, watching everyone else get caught up with the work.

One evening, a surprise guest had popped up. Andrea Kimi Antonelli, whom had never had enough time to make an appearance. Everyone knew of him— Y/N would be stupid if she didn’t. Of course, the reaction to his involvement was rather distracting to the sake of the course, but it was entertaining nonetheless.

He seemed lost the entire time, barely able to answer basic questions about logarithm and pythagorean theorem— Things they had actually learned during the prior years. Being an F1 driver must really be time consuming. Once the call was over, she did what a typical, compassionate person would do…

Offered her assistance!

Y/N’S MESSAGES ☆

Every night, right after Kimi had finished up his responsibilities as an F1 driver, he’d stop by the hotel room his team had booked for Y/N, his new tutor. Every time, without fail, he’d find her sitting at the hotel desk, finishing up any new work the moment it came out. It was endearing how dedicated to school she was.

At first, their meetings were strictly professional. She’d teach him the basics, and then he’d be on his way. But by the fourth night of tutoring, the air had become more friendly. He brought in leftover food from the after party, which they shared while watching the newest episode of whatever reality TV show was airing on the hotel TV.

Y/N found herself craving his company by now. She counted down the minutes until she would see Kimi again, eager to spend as much time as possible with the aspiring racer. He was charming, funny, and… Despite his mishaps, intelligent nonetheless.

The week of her traveling came to an end, and the two parted ways at the airport before her flight back home to Italy.

your.username

liked by kimi.antonelli and others

your.username Tutored this dork, learned about F1, and watched my first race in person… Eventful week.

tagged kimi.antonelli

—

classmate.user1 - Not fair that Y/N and Kimi are out having fun while we’re stuck here!

♥︎ by author

classmate.user2 - Agreed 😐

> kimi.antonelli - Should have offered to tutor a friend in need!!

♥︎ by author

friend.user1 - Jealous!! But we missed you here in Italy 🇮🇹

♥︎ by author

friend.user2 - Did you get to meet any of the other drivers?

♥︎ by author

your.username - Lewis Hamilton himself…

> friend.user2 - I HATE YOU I’M JEALOUS

♥︎ by author

friend.user3 - Woah…

your.username - ??

kimi.antonelli - Miss you already! My grade already went up!

♥︎ by author

Y/N’S MESSAGES ☆

[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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[demie90s]

Hello can you do UConn X R. It’s the last quarter against Tennessee. The plan is give the ball to R . She’s hasn’t missed a three all season. They drive down the court wasting clock. 10 seconds they give the Ball to R. She shoots she misses. Tennessee gets the rebound and UConn lost. No one blames R except for the reporters. UConn doesn’t tread lightly to the comments.

One Miss

UConn WBB x fem!reader

MASTERLIST | MORE

Summary: Final quarter. Ten seconds left. Ball in my hands. I hadn’t missed a three all season… until now.

Warnings: Missed game-winner, media criticism, emotional support, found family, post-game tension

Word count: ~ 0.8k

Ten seconds on the clock. Ball in my hands.

I hadn’t missed a three all season. Not in October. Not in December. Not even in the heat of March. People were calling me “money.” “Automatic.” “Certified sniper.”

The plan was clear. Run the clock down, give it to me, let me do what I always do—end it.

I dribbled up slow, pulse in my throat. Paige pointed once. Azzi peeled out to the left, dragging defenders. Jana boxed out hard. The court opened like a dream.

Five seconds. I stepped back.

Shot.

It felt clean when it left my hands. It always did. But this one? It hit the rim, bounced… and rolled out. Tennessee grabbed the rebound. One pass, one whistle, one buzzer.

Game over.

I didn’t move right away. I just stood there. Whole gym frozen. Crowd roaring behind me. Their team screamed like they just won a ring. Ours? Silent.

When I finally walked back to the bench, I couldn’t look up. My chest burned. I grabbed a towel, pulled it over my face, and sat. Head down. Knees bouncing. Not even breathing right.

I heard shoes scuff near me, a soft thump as someone sat down beside me. Geno. He didn’t say anything at first. Just sat there with me in the quiet. Then his voice, low, tired, but firm.

“Hey.”

I didn’t answer.

“You listening?” I nodded under the towel.

He exhaled through his nose. “Kid… you did good.”

I shook my head. “I missed.”

“You took the shot we drew up. You ran the play. You led this damn team all season. And you showed up when it mattered. One miss doesn’t erase any of that.”

I looked at him then, eyes red, towel still clutched in my hand. “I’m sorry.”

He blinked. “For what? For being human?”

I didn’t answer.

Geno leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “I’ve coached a lot of players. Great ones. But the ones who make it… they don’t just hit the big shots. They take ‘em. You took it. That’s what matters.”

Behind us, the rest of the locker room was still dead quiet. No music. No banter. Just low breathing and the weight of loss.

Aubrey walked by and squeezed my shoulder. Said nothing. Just a soft squeeze.

Paige came and flopped down across from me, pulled off her shoes like nothing happened. “You know they’re already talkin’ shit online, right?”

I groaned.

“‘She folded,’” Paige quoted, scrolling through her phone. “‘Buckled under pressure.’ Blah blah blah.”

Azzi sat beside me on the floor and leaned her head against my leg. “You hit that shot nine times outta ten. This was the one. Doesn’t change who you are.”

KK walked in, face twisted in disgust. “These reporters out here acting like they could even find the three-point line.”

I tried to smile. I did. But it didn’t quite make it all the way. Later, the media conference came.First up? Geno.

“If you’re questioning her value because of one missed shot, you’ve never coached, never played, and probably never been in a room where pressure actually exists,” he said flatly. “You want someone to blame? Try Tennessee’s defense. She’s still the best shooter in the country.”

Geno, eyes half-lidded, voice flat. “If one missed shot erases an entire season’s worth of excellence for you… maybe you should stop watching basketball.”

Then Paige.

“They’re lucky I wasn’t in charge of the press passes tonight. Half of y’all would’ve been outside.”

The clip hit Twitter in minutes.

“Funny how people act like you’re only as good as your last shot.” Paige said rolling her eyes.

I didn’t really understand what she meant until I saw the press headlines.

“UConn falls short—Star Shooter Crumbles in Final Seconds.”

“Was the Pressure Too Much?”

“She Choked.”

I didn’t even open the articles. The titles were enough.

KK did though. She was pacing around the training room, phone in hand, reading shit out loud and getting more and more pissed. “They act like you haven’t been carryin’ us all season,” she snapped, throwing her phone down.

“I’m fine,” I said. I wasn’t.

“No, you not,” Paige said, walking in. “And even if you were, we not.”

Azzi looked up from the cold tub. “We don’t let people talk about our family like that.”

Later that night, Nika posted a photo on IG: me mid-shot, perfectly in form, captioned “Still her.”

The comments were full of heart emojis, “Queen” this, “we ride at dawn” that.

I didn’t say anything. I didn’t need to.

@xxsnowxx213 @draculara-vonvamp @kcannon-1436-blog @zizi-bee-yapping @kaliblazin @perksofbeingatrex @soapyonaropey

[bsturnzmtts]

Older bf! Matt and sweetheart! Readers … First kiss

Matt had invited you to his house while his brothers were out to bake cookies. You were excited to spend time together, completely focused on the fun of baking, and still oblivious to the fact that Matt had been flirting with you all along. Little did you know, he had something else in mind for the day…

When you get to his house you knock on the door, excited for the activity he had planned.

Matt opens the door with a warm smile, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Hey," he greets softly, stepping aside to let you in. He closes the door behind you. "So, I thought we could make the classic, chocolate chip cookies”

“Hi, yeah that sounds perfect.” You say with a soft smile.

Smiling back at you, he leads you to the kitchen. "Come on, I'll get everything laid out." he says, taking out the ingredients and putting them on the counter. "I thought maybe we could make a little tradition of this."

“Yeah! We could even make them depending on the holiday. Like for Christmas we make gingerbread man cookies, for Halloween maybe we could decorate them on theme etc.” You say showing interest in his idea, and helping him out with the ingredients.

He leans against the counter, smiling at your excitement, and can't help but tease gently, "There you go again with your sweet ideas." He pulls out two aprons, one for each of you. "Let me put this on before we make a mess..." He puts his one on and then grabs the other one and walks closer to you to put it on.

You get slightly nervous when he gets close and puts on the apron on you. “We look funny in these.” You chuckle softly.

He chuckles too and ties the apron strings around your waist. "We do, don't we?" He says with a soft smile, his hands lingering on your waist for a moment before he steps back. "Now, let's get started on these cookies, shall we?"

“Let's get started” you agree. You guys start making the cookies, following instructions from a recipe you found online. You start adding and mixing ingredients.

As you work, Matt can't help but steal glances at you, admiring the way you concentrate on the task at hand, the way your hair falls in loose waves around your face, and the way your lips purse slightly as you focus on measuring out the ingredients. But he can’t help wanting a little bit of extra fun. So he puts a bit of flour in his hands and spreads some on your cheek. “Opps, looks like you got something on your cheek.” He laughs.

“Maaatt!” You laugh. “I’m gonna get revenge.” You say as you try to do the same thing he did to you.

He dodges playfully, a wide grin spreading across his face. "Oh no, I don't think so!" He teasingly grabs your wrists just as you're about to flour him, pulling you slightly closer.

“Not fair” you mumble.

"Life's not fair." He teases back, his eyes sparkling with mischief. "But if you play your cards right, maybe I'll let you get me next time." He slowly releases your wrists but remains close.

“Just a tiny bit on your nose pleaseeeee” you ask with a smile.

He pretends to think about it, tapping his finger against his chin dramatically. "Alright, alright. But only a tiny bit, promise?"

“Yeaaaaah only a bit” you say, but take the opportunity and spread flour all over his cheek and a small dot in his nose as you laugh.

He laughs out loud, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "You lied!" He wipes his hands on his apron. "Okay, I guess we’re equal now."

You guys laugh it out and continue with the cookies. Once the dough is done you put them straight in the oven.

“Okay! In 30 minutes we’re gonna have some amazing cookies” you say.

"Thanks to your excellent flouring skills." He teases, still wiping flour from his face. "You know, you're really good at this baking stuff." He compliments softly, his smile warm. "You're really good at a lot of things actually." He says as he steps closer leaving you in between the counter and him.

You get slightly nervous as he gets close again and can’t help but blush a little at his compliments. “Thank you.”

He notices your blush and softly reaches up to brush a slight smudge of flour off your cheek, his fingertips lingering for a moment longer than necessary. The way you react to his compliments makes him want to give you more, to see that pink spread across your cheeks again. "You don't have to be shy around me, you know?”

You get even more nervous and you look away. “I-… I’m not shy, I’m just-”

He tilts your chin up gently with his fingers, forcing you to look at him. "Just what?" He asks softly, his voice low and gentle. His eyes search yours, looking for the answer in their depths.

“Well… maybe a little shy,” you admit.

He chuckles softly, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "A little shy?" He repeats, his thumb gently rubbing your chin. "I think you're more than a little shy." He teases gently. His eyes are locked with yours as he gets even more closer. “Can I kiss you?”

You’re shocked by his question. You don’t know what to answer. So you just slur out the first thing that came to your mind. “I- I’ve never kissed.”

His heart skips a beat at your response. He gently lifts his hand and brushes a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering on your skin. "You've never kissed anyone before?" He asks, his voice barely above a whisper. Well what else could he expect from someone as innocent and shy as you, he thinks.

You shake your head feeling slightly embarrassed.

He smiles softly, his heart melting at your shy demeanor. "And here I thought you were just really good at playing hard to get." He jokes lightly. He steps even closer, one hand still gently pressed against your waist while the other cups your face. "Would you... let me be your first?" He asks, his voice tender and respectful.

A pink shade spreads through your cheeks as you feel even more nervous. But your head nods yes.

He lets out a soft sigh of relief as he gently leans in, his lips pressing softly against yours in a gentle, sweet kiss. It's a kiss filled with tenderness and care, as if he's treating something precious. His hand at your waist tightens slightly as he deepens the kiss gently. While you kiss back trying to mimic his movements.

A soft smile curls his lips at your innocent attempt to mimic him. He gently slides his hand up to cup the back of your neck, while keeping the kiss slow and tender. After a moment, he pulls back slightly to look at your flushed face. "Perfect.”

Taglist: @blahbel668 @bernardsbendystraws @sturnzsblog @deffonotjae @suyqa

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[idealpisces]

Careful Cleaning

pairing: rafayel x reader

warning: unsafe sex, piv, fingering, creampie, master kink, slight power play?

word count: 2.6k+

NSFW // MDNI // 18+

synopsis: you decide to pay your boyfriend rafayel a surprise visit after not seeing him for a while due to your hectic work schedule. you made a bold purchase buying a risqué maid outfit online. you’re frustrated to say the least and thought it would be fun to try something new.

______________________________________

just knock, you think to yourself in frustration. you’ve been pacing a few feet away from his front door for what seemed like several minutes. finally, you work up the courage to knock lightly on his door. god…can i even really pull this off? you take a couple of deep breaths, and the door swings open.

“oh! hey cutie, i didn’t know you were planning to stop by,” rafayel greets you with a grin and subtle shocked expression. you look him up and down quickly. unsurprisingly, he’s in a formal fit despite just lounging around in his house. he’s wearing a navy blue button-down with his long sleeves rolled up to his elbows and black slim slacks held up by a belt you figured was probably more expensive than your apartment’s rent. your face starts to get hot, and you resist the urge to bite your lip while trying to recall the reason why you came here. you slowly take off your black trench coat to reveal yourself in a semi-sheer black maid mini dress littered with mini bows and white lace all over. your pair of ridiculously high platform black suede pumps is becoming more noticeable as it matches your getup. once you have your coat in your arms, you notice rafayel shift with his eyes widening fast and his mouth slightly agape.

you quickly try to look oblivious and speak softly, “hello, i’m here for a cleaning service scheduled for master rafayel.”

rafayel’s ears rapidly get red, and he’s awfully quiet, which makes you more nervous. his eyes bore into you.

you decide to speak up again, more unsure, “are you master rafayel?” suddenly he clears his throat while looking more serious.

“ah yes. i’ve been wondering when you’d arrive. all the cleaning supplies are in the closet down the hall. if you need me for anything, i’ll just be in the living room working,” he says with almost a touch of aloofness. he turns around to go and do just that.

what the fuck? how is he playing along so well and so quickly? before you let your insecurities fester, you decide to continue and get exactly what you intended to get. you place your coat on the stool beside the counter and make your way to the closet.

you spot a duster, clean washcloths, and a cleaning spray. you grab all the items to execute what you think would make for an excellent maid performance. making your way back into his line of vision again, you start to use the duster on the counter facing him and bend over the counter a bit as you work. you were almost sure his eyes were boring into you again. you sneakily try to look over noticing a concentrated look but it’s not on you. just his sketchbook.

you frown a bit to yourself but let it dissipate and decide to up the ante by spraying the bottle all over the counter. you start to clean the surface with the rags with one hand and steady yourself against the counter with the other. once a section seems dry enough, you climb on top of the counter, making sure you’re in a kneeling position. you push all of your hair to one side, widen your legs, and reach over to the section yet to be cleaned. you hear what sounds like a pen or pencil hitting the ground but decide against looking toward the noise and suppress a smirk. you continue displaying yourself as someone who’s really concerned with just cleaning and cleaning alone.

you let out a soft sigh as you finish with the counter and climb down to go to one of his window walls. it starts dawning on you how unrealistic it would be for you to be cleaning all of it, but go ahead and try to clean what you can reach. you dust the windows within your limit and spray cleaner all over the surface. you catch the reflection of rafayel still on the couch, but this time he’s laser-focused watching you. he’s not just watching you though. is he palming himself?

not wanting to seem distracted, you continue on as if what you just witnessed didn’t faze you. you reach on your tiptoes to clean at a higher angle, keeping a hand between the window and your body from being completely pressed up against it. you can feel your dress hike up your ass but don’t make the effort to reach down and fix it. you wipe your forehead with the back of your hand and decide to amp this up in hopes of him finally just fucking you instead of watching you.

making sure he’ll have the best view of your body, you get down on your knees to the ground and spray the surface once more. you start to clean and gradually get yourself into an arching position while trying to scrub more forcefully. suddenly, you hear footsteps approaching you and feel a little too anxious to look up at the person wearing the fancy dress shoes a couple of feet away from your head.

“shouldn’t you be using a mop instead?” rafayel asks, furrowing his brows with his hand on his hip, breaking the horribly hot silence at last. you nervously look up at him, and his wicked bulge straining against his pants doesn’t go unnoticed. you respond a little sheepishly, “that’s not as efficient as this.”

rafayel tilts his head, looking a bit more intensely down at you. moments pass, and he crouches down in front of you. you lean back a bit looking startled. “well…you look like you’re struggling a bit. you need a hand?” he asks slyly.

your mind goes blank failing to respond to him, and you attempt to go back to cleaning in the position you were in before. he moves behind you, and without a thought, you’re automatically arching your back once more. he hovers over you with one hand holding your waist while his other hand is over yours, still holding the rag beneath it. he starts to move both his and your hand, scrubbing the floor with more strength. you can’t help but sigh silently at how warm his hands feel on you. his whole presence lights a bigger fire in you.

“now…isn’t this much better?” he whispers in a breathy voice next to your ear. scared your mouth will betray you and moan abnormally, you nod your head. the gap between your bodies disappears all of a sudden, and his hard-on harshly presses into your ass. you inaudibly gasp and bite your lip with your eyes ready to roll back. you needed him now, and you needed him bad. you didn’t think you could keep up with the bit anymore and were ready to give it all up in milliseconds.

“you’re—mmm..you’re distracting me from working master r-rafayel,” you pathetically whine trying to keep up this charade.

“distracting? i thought i was merely assisting you,” rafayel taunts.

“you know…i’ve never had a maid quite as gorgeous as you come to clean for me,” he coos in your ear. removing his hand from yours, his hand glides up the front of your right thigh excruciatingly slowly and lifts your dress in the process. “and i certainly never had one clean so enticingly.” his hand now moving to the back of your thigh and beginning to lightly grope your ass. it takes everything in your power to not whimper as you bite your tongue.

“you wouldn’t mind accepting early payment for your services… right cutie?” he asks with superficial innocence.

you don’t respond and feel his finger grab your black lace thong, lightly brushing against your pussy and stretching it outwards. he lets go and lets your thong snap back onto your obscenely wet folds, make a crude sound.

“mhmmm!” a loud moan finally slips out of you, and he chuckles softly. this time he grabs your panties with two fingers, stretching them so harshly to the side you think you hear a rip. his thumb starts to slide in between your folds, and you wonder to yourself if you can endure any more of the teasing. you couldn’t believe how wet you were just from parading around in this outfit to get him riled up.

“fuck. should my maid really be this wet while cleaning for me?” rafayel starts to slip two of his fingers into you, already starting at a rapid pace. your eyes struggle to stay open, and you move back into his fingers. you hear rafayel let out a moan and grumble, “such a naughty and eager maid for payment.” the hand holding your waist grips onto you more roughly, trying to keep you still. his fingers thrusting in deeper and deeper with more speed making you moan shakily, “m-masterrr mmhm.”

you feel him stop abruptly and are ready to whine when you get cut off by him adding in another finger. your pussy tries to adjust while clenching around his fingers. he eventually starts to pick up the same speed, as before, finger fucking you to the point you swear you’re about to become a puddle. your mouth hangs open as his thumb is circling your clit. this makes you go back to rutting into his hand, clearly struggling to be patient. he stops again, removing himself from your cunt, and you get frustrated again.

rafayel lifts you up off the ground by the waist, and your face meets itself back in front of the middle of the counter. your ass meeting his need against it again while you’re bent over in front of him. you hear a small pop and can deduce it to rafayel, tasting you off his fingers. rafayel moans while speaking with more urgency, “nnnghh…sorry cutie. i don’t think i can hold off any longer. we need to quicken this payment process just a bit more? yeah?” you hear him unbuckling his belt from behind but quickly feel your hands taken and tied behind you. a new wave of excitement washes over you as you hear him unzipping and feel his member against your cunt. “master…mmasterrr pleeeasseeee,” you plead for him to fuck you already, and his hand wraps around your throat, lifting you up enough for him to be next to your ear again.

“you’re not leaving until i hear you screaming master for me. understand?” he asks demandingly. you gulp and nod quickly. he grips on your throat a bit more.

“i need verbal confirmation.”

“y-yes master,” you manage to whimper out.

his hand releases your throat and starts to push your back down. soon after, he grabs at his belt, holding your wrists together. he lines himself up against your entrance but not before teasing you by sliding his tip up and down your folds, then tapping it momentarily against your clit. you bite your lip in anticipation and finally feel his glorious length entering you. he moans, and you gasp simultaneously. in an instant, you feel his entire cock filling your core. he pulls out agonizingly slow and slams back into you, knocking the air out of your lungs. using the belt as an anchor to hold you towards him while his other hand is digging into your waist, he starts thrusting into you roughly.

“nnnghhh.. i need you,” he moans out while somehow pounding into you faster.

“fuuuuck. you’ve no idea nngh!…no idea how crazy you make me.”

you moan back in response. you’re starting to drool as he digs into you deeper and deeper. everything starts to become too overwhelming, and your body’s ready to give out.

“mmm raf slow down i’m gonna—nnghnn—”

you feel the pressure in your lower stomach explode while convulsing around his cock still pounding into you. you’re about to slide off the counter, down into the ground, but rafayel stops you and himself altogether. leaving your cunt, he turns you around and finally kisses you with such force it makes you stumble back into the counter.

he lifts you up with his arms wrapping around your restrained ones, and you instinctively wrap your legs around him. he’s nipping away at your neck and following them up with licks and kisses. your back hits the couch as he sets you down under him making you notice that his eyes are lightless. he caresses your face with his thumb before kissing you again. his teeth tug at your lips for you to open, wasting no time to slip his tongue in. you feel more of his desperation and need. you’re moaning into the kiss just as desperate and wanting him to fill you up with everything he has to offer. you begin to plead in between kisses.

“master—mm——i need——to touch you—mmm——please.”

rafayel inhales sharply as his lips leave you and works to quickly unbuckle the belt fastened around your wrists. he throws it on the ground and quickly wraps his arms around your waist. wasting no time, he plunges himself back into your pussy, making you cry out. this time he stays still and looks a bit wild. he tries to remove the sleeves off your shoulder and then stops. immediately changing his mind, his hands move to the neckline of your little maid dress, and he rips it down the middle until it stops at your waist. your breasts and stomach become exposed to him. wanting to mimic him, you grab at his shirt, ripping it open, letting the buttons fly to who knows where, and quickly remove it from his body. your hands grab his head down for another sloppy kiss.

forcing himself to break away, he burys his face into your neck, then begins to thrust again. this time with more force than speed. he releases one of his arms from underneath you and starts squeezing your breast lightly. it almost feels like he’s going deep enough to plow it into your soul, and you start to whimper uncontrollably. “r-raf…nngh…s’too much…mmm…s’too good.” raf is nuzzling into your neck as you whimper but he lifts himself up slightly, groaning. “i—nghhn—i need you to scream for me cutie. pretty please.” hearing him begging you like this made you clench around him tighter as he was pistoning in and out of you with the most incredible rhythm, which made you dizzy. your hands started to clutch into his hair as he bit onto your shoulder, fucking into you mercilessly. you feel his cock twitching and his cum spilling into you in bursts slowly. as he finishes, you feel yourself about to unravel at your own release. “MMMMASTER…nnnggh….master.. master,” you scream as you come undone underneath him as he’s panting and watching you.

once you finally manage to slow down your breathing, you notice him still staring at you and you giggle. “what?” you question being confused as to why he’s staring so longingly for. he starts peppering kisses all over your face and smiles before nuzzling your nose. “how did i become so lucky being with you?” you start to blush again. “raf…,”you say feeling shy over him being so loving despite pounding the daylights out of you just a few seconds ago. “mmm…,” he nuzzles this time against your chest. he looks up at you with softer eyes, regaining light. “please stay tonight. i miss you.” you reach down to return the peppered kisses onto his face. “i mean how could i not when you pay me so well?” you hear him exhale out his nose in amusement. rafayel smirks while responding, “well in that case i guess i have to have you as my maid and my bodyguard to keep you around at all times. you’d get double the pay.”

[survivetoread]

I'm a big fan of extensive reading apps for language learning, and even collaborated on such an app some 10 years ago. It eventually had to be shut down, sadly enough.

Right now, the biggest one in the market is the paywalled LingQ, which is pretty good, but well, requires money.

There's also the OG programs, LWT (Learning With Texts) and FLTR (Foreign Language Text Reader), which are so cumbersome to set up and use that I'm not going to bother with them.

I presently use Vocab Tracker as my daily driver, but I took a spin around GitHub to see what fresh new stuff is being developed. Here's an overview of what I found, as well as VT itself.

(There were a few more, like Aprelendo and TextLingo, which did not have end-user-friendly installations, so I'm not counting them).

Vocab Tracker

++ Available on web ++ 1-5 word-marking hotkeys and instant meanings makes using it a breeze ++ Supports websites

-- Default meaning/translation is not always reliable -- No custom languages -- Ugliest interface by far -- Does not always recognise user-selected phrases -- Virtually unusable on mobile -- Most likely no longer maintained/developed

Lute

++ Supports virtually all languages (custom language support), including Hindi and Sanskrit ++ Per-language, customisable dictionary settings ++ Excellent, customisable hotkey support

-- No instant meaning look-up makes it cumbersome to use, as you have to load an external dictionary for each word -- Docker installation

LinguaCafe

++ Instant meanings thanks to pre-loaded dictionaries ++ Supports ebooks, YouTube, subtitles, and websites ++ Customisable fonts ++ Best interface of the bunch

== Has 7 word learning levels, which may be too many for some

-- Hotkeys are not customisable (yet) and existing ones are a bit cumbersome (0 for known, for eg.) -- No online dictionary look-up other than DeepL, which requires an API key (not an intuitive process) -- No custom languages -- Supports a maximum of 15,000 characters per "chapter", making organising longer texts cumbersome -- Docker installation

Dzelda

++ Supports pdf and epub ++ Available on web

-- Requires confirming meaning for each word to mark that word, making it less efficient to read through -- No custom languages, supports only some Latin-script languages -- No user-customisable dictionaries (has a Google Form to suggest more dictionaries)

[headspace-hotel]

i'm trying out new genres so i read a book called The Body Double by Emily Beyda and i really liked it so i looked up reviews and found that its ratings on Goodreads were shockingly low. like 2.7 stars or something if i remember right.

and like yes, I also did guess the twist about fifty pages in, but that didn't ruin the book for me at all. And yes, the main character did not act like *I* would act or like any rational person would act in her situation, but I felt that the book did a very good job of establishing why she would act that way and why it would be realistic for her.

The weirdest complaint, which just about every reviewer seem to have, was that the book was too "slow" and that the first half of the book could have been summarized in a chapter...?????????? Yes it COULD have but the point wasn't just to tell you what events happen, it's to explore whats going on with the protag psychologically and immerse you in her state of mind???

Also people complaining that they didn't like or connect to the characters (Yes? They're clearly not supposed to be likable? But I still found them to be connectable) and that [spoiler] was a vapid bitch (YES THAT'S LITERALLY THE WHOLE POINT)

i don't really track my reading online anymore but i still think of what ratings I would give books, and i was thinking this is a "4-star" book but the more i think about it i think its a "5-star" book for me. Because guessing (part of) the ending didn't impact my enjoyment of the story at all. The excitement wasn't because of not knowing what would happen, it was because of anticipating how the main character would react when she discovered (what I suspected to be) the truth.

I don't think my reason for being so impressed with the book is naivete towards the psychological thriller genre, since it excelled at basically the things you'd expect a really good psychological thriller to excel at. Like, what else is a psychological thriller supposed to be?

The main character makes so many bad decisions I would NOT make but I was never frustrated with it because it seemed like exactly what she would do. And it wasn't just a thoughtless "crazy people do crazy things," all of the protag's actions seemed perfectly justified within her own psychological landscape, it was very easy to understand her feelings, thoughts and actions even if they were completely different from myself.

The blurbs talk about the book as an exploration of female identity and how women are affected by the perceptions of society, but I really appreciate the extent to which the book wasn't a commentary on "female identity." I associate commentaries on female identity and Being Perceived with stories of victimhood and passivity, which would have been boring as shit; part of the reason this book was so interesting is that the main character is aware of both ways she is disempowered and ways she holds power, and she enjoys having power and using power over other people. She is not a helpless victim, she is becoming trapped in a prison of her own making by her enjoyment of using and manipulating other people.

As the reader, I often get the impression that her feeling of having power is illusory, and her feelings of empowerment and disempowerment tick back and forth like a metronome, but this adds another interesting dimension where she is trapped by the feeling of having power.

It was also extraordinarily well written, I hope the author was no discouraged by the negative response by reviewers

[unknownplane]

The Court Jester Part 1

Yandere Batfam x GN Reader

Pt. 2, Pt. 3, Pt. 4, Pt. 5

"How did this happen?" the man who claimed to be my father asked.

"It started when I was young. My mother was close friends with Bruce Wayne. So when she died, he decided to take me in. Looking back on it now, I can tell it was just so he could have a piece of her even though she was gone. He, like many other men were infatuated with the idea of her and what could happen if they had her. That is how I came along. Someone couldn't keep their hands to themselves. Nobody, but my father knows that they are my father. We have tried finding him before, but there has been no luck.

I was 4 when I was brought to the manor. Bruce, overwhelmed with anguish, couldn't even look at me as I had my mother's features. Alfred showed me around. I even got to meet my new brother Richard, better known as Dick. An accurate nickname because as soon as he met me, he decided he did not want to be around me. That was fine. I was still dealing with the loss of my mother. As time went on, I felt as if I was forgotten. Bruce was busy throwing himself into "work" and he only needed Dicks help. It didn't take me long to figure out who he was. With all the bruises and tension around the house when things got bad in Gotham anyone living in that house could tell he was Batman. He had claimed he didn't want me to get hurt that's why he never asked for help but I knew it was because I looked like mom. I had her (h/c) (h/t) hair and her (e/c) eyes.

A couple of years later, a new boy came into the mix. His name was Jason Todd. He was okay. He didn't really know when to stop, though. I heard a lot of fights between him and Bruce. He talked to me sometimes when we had time. I was in school getting good grades and he was a Robin so we didn't have much time for each other. But then he died, and I had no one again. Even when he did come back, he came back changed he no longer cared for me. He was harsh. Ruined.

Then there was Tim Drake. He was really nice at the beginning, but he got busy and sleep deprived, so I stopped reaching out. I didn't want to take up his time as he had an actual job.

Then Stephanie Brown came, and I realized that there was a pattern. These people were too busy for me. I should stay out of their way and not be a burden as I have proven to be before.

It was like that until Damian came. He was unlike all the other Robins. He was mean and brutal. It was around this time that I started to reach out to the family. I had realized I had severe depression and self esteem issue from being the only one in this family that did not excel at anything. When I reached out, he was the one who but me back in my place. He was the one who told me to stay in the background where I belonged. And I might have if I was still the child that came here unwillingly at 3 years old, but I am no longer that child. I am an adult who has a degree in psychology and has a stable job. So I left.

When I first moved out, the first person I told was my online friend. I had been in contact with him since I was 5. He was like a father to me. He was very happy for me and told me, "You are finally free from that dreadful house!" and I couldn't agree more. I stayed in contact with him over the years, and our bond strengthened.

Then, one day, not even a month after I left the manor, he asked to meet up. I agreed. We met up at an abandoned wearhouse. He had told me he was a wanted man, so I did not mind. When I saw him, my face lit up as did his. We talked about a lot of things that night. One of which was if I wanted to help him in his endeavor. Chaos. And I gladly agreed as I would do anything for him as he was my father.

He soon started training me. Making sure I could deal with pain and know how to fight. The first week was agony, but then we both realized something. No matter how badly I was injured, it never had reproductions as the injuries would heal almost supernaturally. So soon, we started experimenting. Of course, I still felt pain, but anything for my dad. We found that no matter what happened to me, I couldn't die.

Then, I became strong enough to take part in one of his acts. Which leads us to now. Dies that answer your question?" I say, looking into the desperate eyes of The Batman with an elongated smile. Glee shined in my eyes as I finally had his attention.

"But SHHHH dad doesn't want to know your secret identity! Says it would ruin all the fun!" I proclaim. My teeth are fully showing as I giggle.

"What did I do wrong?" Bruce whispers to himself. As if he didn't already know. This was all his fault, and now the last piece he had of (M/N) was out of reach.

-------------------------------------------------------

Hello!! This is my first time writing on Tumbler and just wanted to say Hi. Please let me know if you want this to continue. If it does, updates would probably be slow as I am in college and am using this as an artistic outlet. Thank you so much for reading!!

[dare-writes]

Oh God Collection

For Valentine’s Day, Aaron surprises you with a treat.

Aaron Taylor Johnson x Female Reader

Slight Tangerine x Female Reader

genre: fluff, smut; 18+ MINORS DNI

wc: 4.8k

sexual content warnings: DUBCON, drunk sex, nearly cheating?, fingering, f!receiving oral, drunk-sex Aaron has an identity problem, couch sex, wall sex, stair sex, roleplay, degradation kink, mentions of a threesome, (technical selfcest?), unprotected p in v, creampie, cumplay, slight praise, hair pulling, wrist pulling, slut-shaming, dirty talk, overstimulation, i might have missed something, strength kink if you squint, implied breeding kink

content warnings: slight age gap (27/35), f!reader, tangerine dies and goes to another world, aaron taylor johnson x reader, established relationship, tangerine thinks your his girlfriend from his world, tangerine is lowkey just sad, and a russian lit major, tangerine misses lemon, tangerine gets a real name, aaron implies a threesome with reader and tangerine, lowkey slice of life for a little, unbetaed

the way there is so much more sexual content warnings, but there’s less porn than plot i’m pretty sure.

Happy late Valentine’s Day.

this went an entirely different direction than i planned it to go.

__

Honestly, you never got the chance to really watch Aaron’s projects except for the premieres he brought you to. You’d only begun dating before Bullet Train’s production, and for obvious reasons, he didn’t start taking you to carpet premieres until recently with Kraven and Nosferatu.

When you knew Aaron was returning, you’d relax in your shared apartment and put on any of his movies. Aaron lost count of how often he would come back when you were either sleeping through the credits or just at the end of a film. It was a pleasant surprise to see that when he saw the credits to one of his films. Aaron didn’t have a lot of films to watch with online streaming services, noticing you mostly do rewatches of his newer films like Bullet Train A Million Little Pieces, even kicking back into his 2010 films like Kick-Ass or (much to his surprise) Chatrooms.

His absence on Valentine’s Day was woeful, but he also said he deserved a little time with your partner despite his absence at the set of Fuze. It was fine enough that he would be out and about in London this time.

You managed to get out of university on Valentine’s Day. Most classes were on the four other days of the week, so you got to stay in and snooze this particular Friday. You knew having a partner in the film industry was going to be tough, so when Aaron told you he wasn’t free on Valentine's Day for some promotional stuff, you didn’t mind. He would find some grand way to make it up, and it was always more than perfect. It’s like he read your mind, knew when you wanted to stay in, and knew when you wanted to go out in town or just have a nice dinner.

For Valentine’s Day, you had your little dinner. An excellent pasta take-out meal and cue up any Aaron Johnson movie to exist across your various streaming platforms. (And the occasional pirating when you hooked your laptop to the TV.)

Aaron has seen your secret TikTok account, where you will mindlessly scroll between assignments or breaks from your university assignments. He’s also used it several times, even stalking through some of your reposts or saves. To your knowledge, he just went through your feed, not stalked your private Aaron Johnson edit collection called “Oh god.”

Throughout your lonely Valentine's Day, Aaron texted you randomly, sending a bouquet of your favorite flowers, sweet treats, and even a pretty dress with a card, saying, "We’ll make it up another day, my love." It was lovely and made you feel a little less alone. That and the plentiful edits saved in your Oh God collection you can always look back in if you miss Aaron extra.

Mindless scrolling was your third favorite hobby; number one was Aaron, and two was whatever activity your university friends wanted to do next.

By nine at night, you’d exhausted all your Aaron, Tangerine, Pietro, Count Vronsky, Sergei, Fredrich, Tom Ryder, and even Ford Brody edit sources.

A rattle came from downstairs, shocking you slightly as you crept around your bedroom. Light on your toes, you looked for the heaviest item you owned in the room.

“Dollface?” A voice called. It made your stomach twist. Was it Aaron? Why the hell was he putting on a different accent?

You crept downstairs. His facial scruff was gone. He was dressed in a navy suit with a waistcoat similar to the one Tangerine wore in the movie. The one thing that caught you off guard was the blood. It was ridiculous. Everything that was once white was now splattered red. Aaron looked great, you almost drooled at the sight of your boyfriend.

You just didn’t understand why he was dressed as Tangerine. Unless this was some sort of roleplay thing you once discussed ages ago.

“Aaron?”

“‘ Ou the hell is Aaron?'” not Aaron asked. That was undoubtedly Aaron’s face, though. His hair was no longer neat American military cut; it was longer, shaggier, and windswept.

“My boyfriend,” you answered as you raised your old laptop.

“The fuck you gonna do with an Apple laptop? Hit me?” He asked snidely. “Doll, whattrya on about? Last I checked, Doll, my name ain’t Aaron.”

He gestured his hands up and down his body like you should recognize him. You did recognize him, but there was no logical explanation as to why Tangerine was standing in your living room, blood dripping onto the hardwood floor. “No, this is fucking weird.”

Was this some weird roleplay thing? You and Aaron had talked about roleplaying and sex. If you had an actor boyfriend, you were doing roleplay without a doubt.

Before you could ask anything else to try to get a hint, Tangerine rolled his eyes and walked to the kitchen. His bloody hands opened his shirt to shrug off his equally bloody shirt and discard it to the sink to run cold water on it. After also washing his hands and checking his non-existent bullet wound, he was back up to you.

You let your defenses down; you had no clue what else to do. Common sense fell out the window when Aaron was around you. His slightly damp hands, gruff from seemingly his gun and all his fights, held your face. His gaudy gold rings were cold to the touch.

“Doll, I missed you… Lemon— where’s Lemon?” He asked as he realized his new location. He was back in London without his twin.

“I don’t know— you. Look, Aaron, is this what I think it is? We never even talked-” Tangerine didn’t even let you finish. His lips were on yours, kissing and biting down on your lower lip. Aaron was aggressive during sex usually, but never this much.

Something in you wanted to playback, be more than just the innocently confused girlfriend. You tried to pull away, but this was still Aaron, and you trusted him. You were no physical match for him. His hands reached and trailed down your body, racing to your pants. Even in his acting, Aaron was still the same when he was in a mood. It made you smile in the kiss.

His mustache tickled. You were used to it enough with Aaron. You finally pulled away, only for him to spin you and toss your torso over the back of the couch.

“Stop! No, I’m not your— Fuck!” You shouted as you tried to sit back up. His hand shoved you down, his other hand yanking down your sleep shorts.

“Fuck, you’re not my what? Hmm? Ya, not my doll anymore?” Tangerine asked gruffly. His lips connected to one of your lower back and bit down. You yowled in pain, his teeth leaving marks down your backside.

“I’m not your girlfriend! Or whatever! I— I’ve got a boyfriend, A—Aaron!” You cried falsely, you were used to Aaron rushing in the beginning. It was also probably a long day for him, you excused it. Also cause you missed him so bad today.

A quick trail from your clit to your hole, Aaron shoved his fingers inside with no hesitation. It was already sopping wet, but Aaron let cold spit drip out his lips and landed where his fingers plunged inside.

“God, Doll, yer still so tight for me,” Aaron said as he pushed his fingers, curling them gently. It didn’t matter despite your (false) protests because the front door opened soon after. “Baby, I’m back!”

Your heart stilled. He’s back?

“Oi! What the hell, Baby? Doll you-“

Something clattered into the floor, and you returned from your room. Aaron… Tangerine… In the same room.

“Aaron! Fuck!” You cried out as he made eye contact.

Aaron and Tangerine still. The same man looked back at one another—Aaron looked back at his 2022 film Character in disbelief. “Aaron— I-“

“Love, what the fuck is this?” Aaron asked. You hadn’t even realized the flush of tears running down your face.

“I don’t know! I thought— I thought you came back early from filming… Then we were kissing, and I— I don’t even know what to— I’m so confused,” you said as you tried to escape Tangerine.

His hands dug into you. His hand reached for his back, then remembered he was gun-less. His gold knuckle dusters glinted against the warm lights of the walls. “The fuck are you?”

“Her fucking boyfriend!” Aaron shouted. He stormed forward and shoved Tangerine off. You bent up from the couch and down to grab your panties from the floor to put on.

“Aaron, honestly, babe, I don’t think you could take him—he’s a murder.”

“I played him!”

“And he’s murdered probably over a thousand people.”

“That’s nice of you, doll, but it’s more like 250? I’m not a serial killer or mass murderer—“Both you and Aaron just stared at him.

“Okay, then if you aren’t… my dollface, then who are you? Cause ya got the same face,” Tangerine asked. His fingers twitched around, his eyes eyeing the slick left on his fingers. He wanted to taste it out of habit but held himself back. Aaron rubbed his face and just looked between you two.

“This is a terrible Valentine’s Day,” Aaron mumbled.

“What do you remember last?” You asked as you grabbed Aaron’s hand with a glare at his comment.

Tangerine looked down at his bloodied pants. “Getting shot by that idiot American.”

“Well, got that right,” Aaron mumbled. He looked exhausted. A wrapped box of more gifts for you was still at the entrance. He just got off work.

“Well, uhm. Tough luck… Tangerine—Fuckin— Can I just get your real name? You’re very much not there anymore in that world.”

“Fuckin’ Thomas,” he mumbled. His eyes bleared at the idea of his brother, the girl he left behind. He scrunched his nose and pretended to weld the tears away.

“Ironic. Yeah, this isn’t a good one to tell you,” you mumbled as you took your lip between your thumb and forefinger.

Aaron took control of this, explaining it all. Bullet Train is a book and movie; Aaron is an actor and plays Tangerine in the 2022 film. Hesitantly, he told Tangerine about his demise, the gunshot likely hitting an artery and killing Tangerine permanently.

Tangerine stilled once again. It’s like his world ended—at least, it did end for him. Entirely. He had nothing left for him here, not a real place to live or an identity to fall back on. He may be a prick, but he did just try having sex with his real person’s girl. He never did that kind of shit (on purpose.) He wouldn’t ruin Aaron Johnson’s life to get himself back into a business he hated and stuck to only because of what else he had.

“Aaron, can we talk?”

Aaron nodded, but not before giving Tangerine water, and you took Aaron into your room. Aaron dropped off a few stuff for Tangerine to wear instead of the sticky yet stiff with blood clothing he just died in. Tangerine left for the guest bathroom and waited anxiously. He was never without Lemon. Thomas was never without Tyler ever. After an hour to Tangerine, you and Aaron emerged again. Tangerine felt certain when he saw Aaron’s hand holding your lower back, but he bared face.

“He and I talked. You can stay here until you can get on your feet. I’m sure you could find someone to create an identity for you or something… But Aaron and I think kicking you out is unfair when you have nothing else.”

__

Half a year later, Aaron proposed. On August 14th, 2025, Aaron got down on one knee and finally asked you to marry him. You cried joyfully, and he spun you around like his long-lost princess. Tangerine wasn’t bitter. He didn’t say much about it other than congratulations, and he’ll find a way to attend to support the two of you.

Tangerine was glad for the two of you, but he missed his girl. She was known as Nightshade in the Assassin world, but he didn’t even know her real name for safety reasons. (A very sensual and intimate relationship that teetered on romance, but he didn’t wanna go in-depth with his new roommates.) He regularly confided in both of you about missing her. You and Aaron were emotionally secure between one another, periodically letting Tangerine open up to you two.

Tangerine didn’t see Aaron as a brother, but he had no male figure to rely on except Tyler. Aaron was awkward initially, but living Tangerine’s life out was weird for those months during Covid quarantine. Tangerine could have spent his time in therapy, but instead, he decided to try getting a college education.

Tangerine was known as Thomas Henley, an orphan who lived in the countryside and had no documentation about himself. Honestly, you and Aaron did your best not to know much. Thomas didn’t talk about it either, wanting both of you to have complete deniability.

Thomas was still here. None of you had an issue with him sticking around; you found it lovely. Around nine months, he had secured an identity and dyed his hair a frosty blonde. He cut his hair and dolled himself up, but he kept his face clean-shaven except for his mustache, which he maintained, occasionally trimming it shorter and letting it grow out.

You and Aaron said nothing as the two of you giggled. He looked so much like Count Vronsky when he returned home from the hairdresser. Again, you and Aaron giggled when you saw Thomas reading Anna Karenina for his major—Literature with a focus on Russian Lit.

Aaron was away again, filming another movie. You and Thomas sat around, working on your dissertation for what felt like the hundredth time, and Thomas was preparing for his undergraduate exams.

“I fucking hate this,” Thomas groveled over his school-provided laptop. He refused your and Aaron’s attempts to buy him anything. He lived here for free, and his campus job gave him enough money to save.

“You picked Russian Lit—“

“Fuck off.”

“Wanna watch a movie?” You had been waiting for Aaron to be here for this, but you couldn’t resist.

“Break?”

“Yeah,” you nodded as you stood up from the dining table. Thomas agreed, and you picked an Aaron Johnson Classic.

“It’s Anna Karenina—I don’t want to hear about any discrepancies from the original if there are any,” you added hotly before you pressed play. You always admired the cinematic take on the play, with a very stage-theater visual look. For the entire beginning, Thomas was quiet, his eyes overseeing it all.

He even took the time to learn Russian while taking Russian Lit to read Tolstoy in the original text. Thomas was the kind to talk during movies. He mumbled and smiled at the actress for Anna, mentioning she was what he pictured Anna to look like when he imagined her.

When Levin was introduced, you got up from the couch. You set up your phone in the corner against the books in the bookcase behind the couch and press the record button. Then, you returned with a fresh bag of popcorn and passed it to Thomas. The two of you watched. Thomas even liked the stage-theater take on Anna Karenina.

Then Count Vronsky brushed his shoulder against Levin’s and turned to face the ginger man. Thomas burst into a tirade. He grabbed the remote and paused on Aaron’s face. His tirade continued, unbelieving that you took this long to show him Anna Karenina, how you and Aaron were the worst roommates for keeping this secret.

You were sending this to Aaron later. You snagged the remote back and resumed the movie. He kept going, even taking his phone out to spam Aaron, uncaring if he was filming. You managed to get him to shut up when Count Vronsky and Anna danced, which was your favorite part. Aaron had taught it to you on one of your early dates together for fun. You were swooning as he lifted you effortlessly that day.

You watched Aaron with such desire, and Thomas saw it. Nightshade also looked at him the same way while they worked together.

That same night, Thomas apologized to you. You brushed it off, saying that you knew he didn’t mean to do anything terrible to you, even admitting you thought he was Aaron for a Valentine's Day surprise. Thomas snorted at you and rolled his eyes.

“And you’re planning on marrying him; you didn’t even know I wasn’t him,” he said sarcastically. You slapped your hand into his shoulder.

“You have the same face, same body, same fuckin’ hands–even down to your sexual mannerisms! And you never progressed past fingering me,” you rolled your eyes back. The topic was rarely discussed between you, but you and Thomas were best friends. you and Thomas was strictly platonic.

Occasionally, you wondered if Thomas saw Nightshade in you like you saw Aaron in him (except visually). Deep down, his actions perfectly matched Aaron’s. Five years of dating an actor, and being able to meet his character from another world or universe or whatever was ridiculous so to speak. Your heart twisted at the thought of Thomas no longer having Nightshade. You and him talk for a lot longer that night, never grazing on the topic of his arrival or his previous life again.

__

Aaron and you had bought a house, yet you hadn’t moved out because you were still attending university nearby. Aaron was finally back, no longer filming, and done with Fuze. He was here to plan the wedding. You and Aaron wanted a small summer wedding, not needing anyone more than some friends. Neither of you talked to your family that much, finding the most solace between one another and the friends they had–actors and university friends alike. It took a lot of sifting friends to find out who were friends and who wanted to meet Aaron Johnson.

Of course, Aaron invited actor friends but was hesitant to invite Brian Tyree Henry for apparent reasons.

Thomas said to do it. He would stay away as much as he could, and he wouldn't drink any alcohol to avoid any emotional issues that may arise. In this entire year, you hadn’t rewatched Bullet Train once. You couldn’t, not with Thomas around the apartment. You could barely even watch Aaron–Tangerine edits without feeling some kind of way. Your gut twisted in unspeakable ways as you watched the silly bouncing and rhythmic edits of Aaron-Tangerine, trying to separate Thomas from Aaron as much as possible.

You stared deeply at Tangerine, you could see them both so clearly in Movie-Tangerine. Thomas’s poor smoking habit, and brotherly gentleness, while Aaron’s watchful stares, and facial expressions perfectly mirrored his real life expression.

Part of you swooned over the Movie-Tangerine, which can be considered Aaron-Tangerine too, right?

Back to the wedding, Thomas mostly stuck around the outskirts of the wedding as promised. Brian didn’t even glance his way, but he indeed stared Brian down. His American accent helped a little bit until Aaron and Brian were drinking together, giggling slightly drunk while they recalled their accents for the film. The wedding was lovely, small, and in the backyard of you and Aaron’s new home. It was floral, with a nice tent around the outdoor dining section. The house was overly large; Aaron, the sole provider, took the house payment upon himself. You owned their apartment, telling Thomas he could stay there when you graduated and visit the house whenever he wanted.

Thomas didn’t stay that night. He couldn’t. He knew you two were tipsy and would be consummating the marriage loudly the entire night.

He was right, too. Aaron didn’t even make it up the stairs with you in your sleek white wedding dress. He stripped you in the foyer, his hard-on pressed against his suit pants, and was eating you out while you sat on the top stair of the house.

Your skin was sticky with the summer sweat, and his shaved beard still scratched your thighs raw. After forcing your legs open, his drooly tongue lapped up the dampness between your thighs. He smiled up at you lazily as he slid in his fingers and hummed against your clit. His fingers stretched and pushed around, it was like his second home. Your arms were first. Aaron made himself plenty at home as he smiled up at you with a devilish smile, his lips still attached to your sensitive nerves.

All of Aaron's muscle prep for Kraven’s appearance in a Marvel film was overpowering no matter how much you tried to shove your legs shut. His large free hand shoved them back open without a moments break.

“Mhfm, taste delicious, don’t you, Pretty?” Aaron rhetorically asked.

With a sudden spin guided by Aaron, you then held yourself up on your knees. Your hands pressed against the cold hardwood floors as he pushed himself inside with a languid groan. The stretch was terribly achy. Aaron loved spending time on his knees for you, but the age gap made you giggle as you joked about his aging knees.

“Baby… god, you feel so good. Mhm,” he whispered into your ear. Drunk Aaron was a time, he was different each time. You loved each personality he fucked you in, slipping into different accents from time to time. After six years of being together, you’ve fucked each drunk personality he claimed to shed post-film production.

Allan "Ize" Isaac and his whiny tone while he thrusts into you needily while begging you to come around him was fun. Same with Dave Lizewski pretending to fuck his University history TA or Fredrich moaning in your ear lovingly as he asked to breed you with his children. Your personal favorite was when Aaron cockily fucked you with Pietro’s Sokovian accent teasing you as he overstimulated your clit. But there was one more who hadn’t appeared in the past year.

More often than not, Tangerine came out. Fuck, Aaron made you call him Tangerine multiple times before the appearance of Thomas one year ago.

Today was no different.

When the Cockney slid past Aaron’s tongue like it was his first initial accent, you knew you were done. He even called you Doll as he slid in and out. His cockhead crushed into your cervix more times than you could count. Not that you could count clearly while being impaled by Aaron. He groaned as he moved your hips to slide on and off his cock, “Fuck, so’wet for me huh, doll? Like this cock?”

You cried into the piled dress beneath you, his lips connected to your back. Your knees ache against wood panels, rocking back and forth. His wet lips sucked into your back as he grunted, “God, Doll, yer still so tight for me.”

It was like neuron activation, exactly what Tangerine had said to you a year ago while he fingered you against the couch. You didn’t think about it a lot, an awkward interaction you three claim. For you, it was intoxicating to hear Tangerine say doll, more or less Aaron say it.

You hummed a cry at his comment.

“Say my name, Doll, come on,” he said. Skin slapping echoed in the barely decorated home, your cries echoing off the cold, empty walls. “Fuck… Aaron, pl–”

His hands pulled up your wrists to your lower back, holding your front up as he used you.

“That’s not my name, Dollface.”

For just a moment, you swore this actually was the Thomas Henley you met on Valentine’s Day. You cried out again, “No, Aaron, no! I can’t–”

Morally, you can’t. Aaron (or Tangerine) at this moment had no morals. Never had, will.

“Say it!” He shouted as he released you to fall into your dress. His hands clamped on your hips with a bruising hold. His trimmed nails even dug at the plush of your thighs.

“Fuck, Tangerine!” You sobbed, you squeezed around him as he laughed. Your body was jolting as he did as he pleased, you always let him do as he pleased.

“Whore likes that, huh?” He asked as he snapped into your hole. The constant squeeze around him and the new twist around your stomach told Aaron you were nearing another finish.

You gasped out sobs as his hand dipped down and touched your clit hard; his fingers were rough against the sensitive nerves. Your thighs shook beneath Aaron’s thrusts, wet dripping down your thighs.

“Tan…Tange, I needa cum,” you softly mumbled as you felt him twitch in delight. The knot in your stomach tightened as he punched his cockhead against your g-spot. “Mhm, yeah? Gonna come already? Then you’re gonna make me fuck you again? Need my cock that bad? Need Tangerine that bad?” He asked condescendingly. You shook your head no pathetically, crying out in denial. Your stomach continued to quell, and you squeezed down to try not to cum before granted permission.

“Please let me cum,” you quietly begged.

“Slut wants to cum? Hm, with me and Tangerine? Do it, whore,” He groaned his permission, watching you limply twitch on him as you finished for the second time around him. Aaron smiled behind you before slowly sliding himself out and grabbed you by the wrist to pull you up with one arm.

His chest pressed against your back to help you towards his desired destination. Even while Aaron’s over-confident actions were harsh on your body, he kept and held you firmly with care. You hoped he would bring you to your bedroom, fuck for a bit longer then fall asleep in each others arms.

You neared the wall, your hand sliding along it to keep you up. Aaron stopped your movement, his hands firmly on your elbow now. To your left was the collection of pictures you and Aaron took together or treasured. Most importantly, the picture next to your face.

You, Thomas, and Aaron at your graduation just two months ago. The two boys held you on their shoulders, the black graduation gown billowing around their chests. Your various colored stoles and cords flew in the wind, your tassel was flicking around as well.

Before you were aware of anything else, Aaron hiked you up and slid himself back inside with a prideful moan. His hands still had a tight grip, moving from your elbow to your waist. Aaron spun you around to face him, his lips kissing and sucking down your neck. “Oh, fuck Doll, I’m gonna cum… But tell…me, you wanna fuck us both?”

Drunk, intrusive thoughts rolled back around.

Between them, Aaron and Thomas kissing you up and down your body, two sets of hands holding or even pleasuring you, the thought of absolute overstimulation flooded your cunt. A loud squelch followed as you thought about the possibility of Aaron and Thomas at once. Aaron pushed further inside, kissing your limit. Fuck it sounded wonderful.

While you imagined the chance, Aaron whispered into your ear. “Taking us both… you just want attention, don’t you? ‘m’I not enough?”

“Oh, ffuck. No, just… fuck!” You shouted as he rolled his hips into you. He had you pinned up against the wall, his hips endlessly torturing you in the best way you could dream of.

“No… just you,” you denied with a lazy shake of your head against the painted walls. Aaron, in response, pulled you down into his cock. Slamming you up and down on him while you choked up on air, “Doll, y’know I don't like when you lie,” a strangled moan left Aaron before continuing. “My cum not enough for you, want both of ours?”

“No! Aaron, I don’t want to,” You tried again. He rolled his eyes and sunk his teeth into your neck. His lips hummed with skin between his teeth. Aaron shot his load inside, groaning as he continued to thrust in and out. “Admit it, doll, you want him and me together.”

Even after he filled you up, he kept going.

His fingers took place, but not before taking any fallen liquid and scooping it back inside to fuck his cum inside of you. Shoving three fingers inside of you at once released a throaty “Oh god,” as Aaron’s other hand took your waist and thrusted your hips into his hand.

The wall rattled, and the picture of you, Aaron, and Thomas shook as Aaron shoved his fingers in and out again. A rush flooded down your thighs. Aaron smiled as he felt another fluttering squeeze around him.

Your throat was raw from begging, “Aaa...Aaron, let me cum; please, need’ta cum so bad.”

“Mhm, s’ not Aaron, princess,” the Cockney accent asked as he ground his fingers into the gummiest spot. The sudden pulse around him as he whispered, Princess, into your ear. His nose pressed against your hair with a deep inhale.

“Fuck, Tangerine,” you shouted out as you squeezed against him again. The third knot of the night was getting tighter as you panted the former code name of your closest friend out helplessly. Over and over again, Ta..Tange. Please Tangerine, been good.

Aaron smiled and kissed the back of your head. “Go on, doll. You can do it,” he whispered into your hair. His other hand slid to your front to push you over the edge. A pornographic cry passed your lips as your chest tried to hug the wall to cool yourself down. Aaron groaned quietly again, down to his wrist dripping with you. After leaving your hole empty, Aaron picked you up bridal style to finally lie you two to sleep.

He cleaned you as best as a hazy-drunk-man could. A warm cloth ran up and down your body before getting to the sticky mess between your thighs. It had cooled off by the time he reached your vagina, but he still treated you like porcelain. His lips trailed around as he cleaned.

He vanished again and returned with a bottle of water and he dipped beneath sheets with you.

“I love you Aaron,” you mumbled quietly. You faced his chest and held his waist gently, he set his hand onto your head and quietly kissed you. “I love you too, Princess.”

__

[nightunite]

MarineBiologist!Reader who keeps seeing the same seal every time they go down to the coast. the first couple times it shimmies and bounces back into the water, but eventually it stays around. every time MarineBiologist!Reader tries to tag the seal it rolls away, but it comes back when they give up

Selkie!Soap who doesn’t know how to reveal he’s the seal you��ve been seeing. he desperately wants to give you his coat, call you his and smother you with affection, but a strange man shoving a fur at you and professing his love seems like a bad idea - some days he feels unhinged enough to try that though

First: Love the image of Soap literally rolling away, I bet he yaps the whole time too until he gets hit by a wave/rolls off the pier.

Second: He's also stalking you, partially because he's unhinged, but also because he's trying to force a scenario of him dropping his coat off a chair so you'll give it back to him, unknowingly performing a selkie proposal.

Third: There are times where he comes a-bouncing towards you, only for him to walloped by three other seals. You wish you could tend to them as well, seeing as one looks quite old, and another covered in scars, and the last one stunning but clearly still young. But they avoid you like the plague. Maybe one day you'll find the fish that they'll risk it all for just a bite of, but that day is sadly not today.

Your online photo album of the seals has excellent ratings at least.

[fflrrrtt]

Recognition

(Pro-Hero Bakugo Katsuki x Reader)

Synopsis: After years of blood, sweat, and sleepless nights in medical school and residency, you’re offered the chance of a lifetime: a position as a physician in Japan. With the public interest in healthcare on the rise, the elite Medical Unit has just been established, and you don’t hesitate to accept.

You have a one-track mind: to excel. It’s expected. It’s career-focused. No distractions…until you cross paths with a certain blonde.

(total chapters: approx. 5): One, Two, Three, Four, Five

Note: This is highkey inspired by a post I read from @azzo0 where reader's a med student and I want to explore this profession for this short-chapter fic I'm cooking. I also want to take this time to say that reading the works of @ofmermaidstories , @andypantsx3 , @willowser , and @thetrashywritingwitch for literal YEARS actually pushed me to brush-off my writer's block and cultivate my writing skills. So if you see this, tysm muah <3 - from a not-so-popular fic author.

Enjoy!

“Pro Hero Dynamight surged from rank 15 to 5!” The newscaster’s voice was loud and proud, and the sounds of explosions could be heard from the television placed on the wall. Then, the screen pans to a familiar green-haired man, One for All Hero, Deku, speaking gently to the cheery live reporter as Dynamight stood by him, brooding as usual. It was the aftermath of a villain fight—a quick fight at that. 

“They really got the public hooked, huh?” Dr. Miyano says before she shoves rice and curry into her mouth using the spoon she bought at a merchandise store, it was a minimalist design of Creati. The cafeteria was filled with chirpy health professionals—some were talking to each other, some watching TV, and some were ready for seconds as they stood up, went back to the cafeteria line, and already dished out their debit cards and IDs to be scanned. 

“I’m not surprised,” you remarked, sloshing the ready-to-go glass of coffee you just ordered at the vending machine. Ever since the new generation of heroes rose, the crime rate plummeted and, of course, the heroes gained a shit ton of popularity, especially the U.A alumnis because they played key role in defeating Shigaraki and All for One, “they literally saved Japan and the whole world by extension.” 

Lunch went by in a blur—literally because it’s only a 30-minute duration. You and Miyano walked into the physician’s lounge, greeting coworkers and putting the now-empty bentos in your respective lunch bags. “You think we’re gonna meet them?” Dr. Miyano says aloud, zipping her lunch bag. 

You snide, “yeah, we’ll meet them one on one if we’re…A, we’re in the middle of a villain attack.  B, we’re tending to them, and C, one of us is in the Medical Unit, which is a competitive sector. Totally easy.” you fix your white coat and apply lip gloss—you gotta atleast look presentable even though you were running on only two hours sleep from the damn graveyard shift you took last night. “Alright, I’ll see you later.” At that, you left the room to do your patient rounds, prescribe medicine in doctor appointments, and the like. 

After your afternoon shift, you headed to a nice cafe—to unwind and do a quick email browse before you shut your damn brain off. Upon entering, you were met with the rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee, calming your nerves. Soft jazz plays in the background as guests sink into plush chairs, sipping lattes and chatting beneath shelves lined with well-loved books. You greeted the barista, flashing a curt smile before stating your order, and this time, you added a pastry—you know, just to treat yourself after your tiring shift.

Sitting on a comfortable plush chair, you bring out your laptop, turn it on, and start browsing through your emails, double-checking to ensure you don’t miss a single damn thing. A notification popped up from your calendar: GUN SHOOTING RANGE at noon this Saturday. An open tab of an online shop that you’ve been browsing last night. Rubbing your eyes, you look out the window in thought. It’s easy to get burnt out when you overwork yourself, which you knew ever since you chose to be in pre-med during your undergraduate years. You honestly thought of being a hero, entering as a hero medic, but it was just never for you.

A familiar barista approaches you, holding a tray of your order, breaking you out of your stupor. You smile again as he places them on the cool wooden table. “Thanks. How’s the college thus far, Ben?” you ask.

“It’s ok! The Japanese literature class is lowkey kicking my ass.” he says, rubbing the back of his head, “Kinda started to question the major I chose, but how about you, doc? I remember you briefly brought up a Medical Unit application.”

Oh my fuck. I was literally avoiding to think about this shit, damnit. You’ve been doing a great job suppressing this feeling of what? Butterflies? No—it’s maggots, definitely. You stirred your drink, taking a sip to act unaffected, “It’s going to be released tomorrow.” You say as cool as a cucumber, but mentally? Oh girl, your mind is doing laps. 

“Well, you’ll definitely get in! You’re one of the hardest-working doctors I’ve met. That’s not me trying to mooch off of you or anything. I’m just being truthful,” 

“Thanks. I hope.” The conversation ended when one of his coworkers called his name, leaving you alone with your thoughts and idling laptop. After a while, you left, seemingly satisfied with the quick relaxation you had using public transit to head home. 

The sun begins to set, coloring the sky a dark hue, and the stars start to fill up space, shining bright as you pressed a code to enter the condominium building. The place is neither super luxurious nor janky. Your condo is simple, yet spacious and affordable. Your mom really did make sure that you’re financially literate. You changed out of your work clothes, followed your nightly routine, and not giving a damn about the outside world. It didn’t take long for you to drift to sleep minutes after taking a melatonin pill.

-

“Ma, you don’t have to worry a goddamn thing. I’ll take care of it,” you grumble, phone placed by your ear, walking out of the train station with purpose, it’s early morning and your back hurts from the fuck ass mattress you slept on last night “I’ll pay for my little brother’s tuition. All I want from you is to relax! Goodness sake, I know you’re handling grandfather’s business, and it’s stressful. Just don’t worry about—” A public commotion cuts you off, “I’ll call you later.” You hang up, eye twitching because the short route you always go to is filled with crowds of people. It’s literally 7 am..what could be happening now?! 

“Red Riot!! We love you!!” a man screams, people gushing over the unbreakable hero. The two police cars are there to put the handcuffed villain in the vehicle. 

Red Riot chuckled, and you could just sense the signature panty-dropping shark-toothed grin he’d show to the public. Hell, even guys admit they have a crush on this guy and bought the Red Riot-themed calendar. As much as you would like to see the hero in person, you have work to do, so you briskly walk to a different path. “Hey, miss!” his voice was loud, and you thought none of it until you felt a tap on the shoulder. You turned around, and lo and behold. The hero stands before you. He’s tall as hell, clad in his hero uniform, “Oh..uh, doc, you dropped this.” he hands you your condo key. 

Your brain buffered for a quick second, “Thanks,” you took the key, “I didn’t notice.” “It’s okay!” he smiles, and it looked like he was expecting something from you, but eventually settled with, “hope you have a great day!” 

“Yeah. You too..!” You walked away while the crowd went even wilder. You missed the way Dynamite arrived at the scene, red piercing eyes glancing at you before calling out to him in a raspy voice. 

And at the physician’s lounge? You were surrounded by your colleagues, asking so many questions about your interaction with the hero. “Omg, what was he like?”

“He’s so damn fine. Did you take pictures with him? An autograph?”

“Did you ask for his number?” “I would sell my kidney for him.”  

You admitted that you didn’t ask him for anything and just expressed appreciation for picking up your house key. Of course, they clowned you, but you just laughed it off. However, the atmosphere soon shifted as everyone received a message from the medical director’s assistant about a meeting. Your heart dropped outta your ass as everyone hurried to the big meeting room, feeling excited, nervous, and curious. 

Once everyone is situated, the well-esteemed director, Dr. Lee, stands unwavering at the podium. That alone has every health professional sit up and take notice. His eyes were sharp behind the wire-rimmed glasses. “Good Morning. As you are all aware, the Medical Unit has announced the results for the top three ‘pillars’.” He paused for dramatic effect, and it didn’t fail. Everyone stilled; it was pure silence. You seriously heard someone gulp behind you, and you fight the urge to bite your fingernails. Fuck.

“And I’ve received a memo that one of you was chosen out of the thousands of applicants across Japan,” he continues, “It is commendable and we couldn’t be any prouder.” his assistant comes up to him, handing a small envelope. The silence stretches, and the tension is palpable. You literally felt all your senses shutting down like you’re astral projecting. “The Medical Unit is a new sector that integrates medicine in not just the hero world, but also the general, support, and management courses. This cultivates an expansive understanding.” The rest of Dr. Lee’s explanation of the Medical unit became static to you, in exchange of mulling over your brave choice of applying. 

It’s not like you’re not confident in your abilities. Hell, you managed to get into a top medical school. You’re well-rounded and you know the ropes. You’ve dealt with the real shit outside academics, molding you into a strong professional that you are today…It’s just that sometimes those intrusive thoughts have their way of making you overthink and compare yourself to others. Are your credentials enough? Is this laughable? Are you stupid for believing that you have a shot at this? All you want is to excel in life and thrive. Maybe be someone in this world. Make a mark that influences those around you…

 All of your thoughts dissipated when you felt a nudge on your arm from Miyano, “Dude. dude.” 

“..huh?” You blinked, and all of a sudden, you felt all eyes on you, including the medical director, whose eyebrow was raised. Your eyes dart everywhere, making eye contact with everyone. “I assume you’re Dr. L/N.” Dr. Lee’s voice echoes. 

“Yes. I am,” you said aloud, not showing any weakness. Eyes resolved. Posture assertive and ready, bracing yourself to be told that you’re rejected from the Medical Unit. 

“Congratulations.” And that was not something you’re ready for. 

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