#the slash goes in a circle

[perseidlion]

"How complicated and messy do you want to make your Dead Boy Detectives bodyswap fic where they end up alive, but in each others' bodies?"

Me: yes

[hoshifighting]

Salt, Sugar and Everything Us

Synopsis: What do you get when the guy who literally threw salt in your dessert during a Michelin star competition 11 years ago, waltzes up to the door of your NGO like he didn’t ruin your entire life plan back in the day?

WC: 22k

WARNINGS: jihoon and children to heal our souls <3, angst, fluff, references to professional betrayal and its lingering effects, throwing up due to emotional discomfort, moments that may bring up past trauma especially related to rejection or failure, power imbalance.

SMUT WARNINGS: explicit language, penetrative sex, fingering, orgasm denial, overstimulation, semi-public setting, mutual desperation, body fluids (cum)

Manoir = Mansion in french.

NGO = Nonprofit organization that operates independently of any government.

Monsieur = Sir

— // December 2013 // — 

You’re standing in the kitchen, staring at the bright lights overhead, your heart pounding so hard you swear it’s echoing off the marble countertops. The smell of sugar and chocolate floats in the air. You glance over at Jihoon, who’s methodically working on his plate. There’s no denying the guy’s a genius, but damn, does he have to be such an ass about it?

You flash him a shy smile—just a small one. Yeah, it’s a competition, and yeah, only one of you is gonna win and run the four Michelin-star restaurant in Switzerland—the prize of the contest. But like, after this, you’ll still all be chefs. You’ll still work together. You’d all end up in the same world soon enough, working in the same circles, maybe even crossing paths in some fancy kitchen.

Nothing. He doesn’t even look your way.

Fred, the tutor-slash-guardian angel for this trip, the one who dragged you halfway across the world to this kitchen in Europe, warned you. “Jihoon’s tutor hates you,” he had said, voice low like he was telling you some big secret. “It’s ‘cause you’re the only one who can match him. Maybe even beat him.” He had laughed, but it didn’t feel like a joke.

You shake your head and focus on your dessert. Your mousse sits on the plate, the top glistening perfectly under the lights, just the right amount of shine. The swirl of raspberry coulis looks like something out of a cooking magazine. You’re proud of it. Hell, you’re damn proud of it. You step back to admire it, and even the renowned chef standing in front of you—some big-shot Michelin-star guy whose name you can’t even pronounce—gives you a smile. But not a friendly one. More like a don’t get too cocky kind of smile.

And then he tastes it.

His face shifts so fast, your stomach drops. One second, he’s blank, and the next, he’s frowning, like really frowning, staring down at the plate like it face-to-face harmed him. He spits it out, not dramatically, just like he doesn’t wanna cause a scene. The whole kitchen goes quiet. Even the sound of knives chopping stops. You feel the heat crawling up your neck, spreading across your cheeks.

This can’t be happening.

“Did you taste this before serving it?” His voice cuts through the silence like a knife.

Your throat is dry. You swallow, shaking your head slowly. “Uh… no, I—”

“Taste it,” he snaps, holding the spoon out toward you.

Your hands shake as you take the spoon, and before you can think twice, you taste it. The second it hits your tongue, you freeze. 

Salt. Way too much salt. 

It’s fucking disgusting. 

You almost gag, but you force yourself to swallow, blinking fast as your brain tries to process what the hell just happened.

You glance over at Jihoon. He’s standing there, completely expressionless, not even pretending to be interested in the drama unfolding. But you remember. You remember when you left the mousse to rest, just for a minute, and Jihoon had passed by your station. Just a quick brush past, nothing suspicious. Nothing out of place.

Except now, all you can taste is salt.

The chef crosses his arms, still staring at you like he’s waiting for an explanation. You open your mouth, but no words come out. What are you supposed to say? That Jihoon sabotaged your dessert? That you think he did? You glance at him again, and for a split second, his eyes meet yours, and there’s the tiniest hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. Just enough for you to see, before it’s gone.

“Do you have anything to say?” the chef asks, his tone icy.

You swallow again, shaking your head. “No, chef.”

This is it. The final round. Eliminatory. And you’re standing here with a plate of salted mousse because you trusted the wrong person for one damn second. You close your eyes for a brief moment, taking in a breath. You can feel the tension rolling off everyone in the room, and it takes everything in you not to scream.

You watch the chef walk over to Jihoon’s station, his expression already softening. Jihoon’s smiling now—this smug, self-assured grin plastered across his face as if he hadn’t just screwed you over minutes ago. His dessert does look good, though. Annoyingly good. Neat, precise, and probably just sweet enough to charm the hell out of the chef.

The chef takes a bite, nodding as if Jihoon’s dessert just confirmed every expectation. Then, just like that, he moves on, walking away without a second glance at you.

[...]

“Y/N, you’re eliminated. Please leave your apron on the station.”

The words slam into you like a punch, and your stomach twists. You don’t even know how you manage to stay upright, every muscle screaming at you to just collapse. You hear the gasps from the others behind you—your friends, competitors, but friends nonetheless—just as shocked as you are.

“What the fuck?” someone mutters.

“There’s no way…” another voice says, incredulous.

You don’t even turn around. You can’t. Instead, you glance at Fred in the back, your lifeline in this whole chaotic mess. He’s shaking his head, this look of defeat in his eyes that he’s trying so hard to hide. Like even he knew it was over the second Jihoon pulled that bullshit with your dessert.

Fred mouths, That’s it. Let’s go. But his sad eyes tell you everything you need to know. It wasn’t fair. And he knew it. You both knew it.

Swallowing the lump in your throat, you force yourself to walk up to the chef. Your hands are shaking, and you clench your fists, trying to keep it together as you shake his hand. He’s stiff, formal, but you can’t help but notice the faint hint of pity in his eyes.

You avoid it.

When you turn back to your station, the weight of the moment crashes down on you. The stupid fucking apron you worked so hard to wear now feels like it’s burning a hole in your chest. As you reach up to untie it, your chin starts to quiver. You fight it—God, you fight it so hard—but the tears are already pooling in your eyes. This is it. The dream…gone.

Because of salt. Fucking salt.

You fold the apron, mechanical, like maybe if you take your time, this won’t feel so real. But it is. The apron sits on the counter in front of you, this symbol of everything you’ve lost, and you walk away before anyone can see you break.

As soon as you’re backstage, the tears come. Hot and heavy, spilling down your cheeks as you crumble into the arms of one of the friends you’d made here. They’re hugging you tight, whispering things like, “It’s not fair, you didn’t deserve this,” and “You were so close.” Their voice cracks too, sad that they didn’t win either, but it’s different for them. They weren’t robbed. They were sure you had it in the bag.

And then, after what feels like hours, you spot Jihoon again, his face glowing under the lights, a damn set of keys in his hand. The keys to the restaurant. Your restaurant. It should’ve been yours.

You blink through your tears, watching as he basks in the victory. Nothing, absolutely nothing, can take this sting away. This moment is etched into your brain, and you’re certain you’ll never forget it. No matter how much time passes, nothing will make you recover from this.

Leaving Europe had felt like defeat. It wasn’t just a loss on some cooking show—it was like watching a dream you’d nurtured since you were a kid slowly crumple and fade. Back then, you were so young, so full of ambition that your heart couldn’t even contain it all. Every time you thought of that moment, standing in that bright, sterile kitchen as Jihoon held those damn restaurant keys, it was like hearing your inner child sobbing hurtfully inside your eardrums. And that hurt more than you ever expected.

For the longest time, it felt like nothing could fill the void that salty mousse had left behind.

— // A decade later // — 

But life has this weird way of surprising you when you least expect it. Turns out, there were plans far better than Michelin stars waiting for you. Plans you never even imagined, but ones that would heal you in ways a fancy restaurant never could.

It’s the little hands tugging at your apron now that remind you of just how far you’ve come. You’re not standing in some high-end kitchen with a sous-chef barking orders at you, or sweating over the chance to impress another judge. No, you’re standing in a small room, the walls plastered with drawings and messy crayon sketches of cupcakes, pizza slices, and lopsided bowls of spaghetti. Your apron’s a little stained, flour dusting the front of it, but you couldn’t care less.

“Why do you mix it like that?” A curious voice pipes up from below, and you glance down to find a pair of wide, sparkling eyes staring up at you. The flour and eggs in the bowl swirl together under your whisk, creating a soft, smooth batter. The kid—couldn’t be more than six—watches your hands like you’re performing magic.

“Because that’s how you make it fluffy,” you say, smiling as they nod, fascinated. A moment later, you feel tiny arms wrap around your leg, a small hug that makes your heart swell in ways that no standing ovation ever could. It’s innocent, pure, like they’re just happy to be near you, to learn from you.

Another voice chimes in, “How do you know when it’s ready?”

You chuckle, wiping a bit of flour from your forehead with your wrist. “You just know. It feels right.”

They tilt their head, brow furrowing like you’ve just told them some impossible riddle. You laugh softly and let them feel the batter between their fingers, watch as they giggle, amazed at how something so simple can be so right. There’s something about these moments, the curiosity in their eyes, the way they look at you with trust, like you’re some kind of culinary wizard. You weren’t Jihoon with his restaurant keys, and honestly, that’s never been more okay.

Because in these moments, surrounded by kids full of wonder, asking question after question, you realize that no Michelin star could pay for this feeling. There’s a joy here that runs deeper than prestige or recognition. A joy that healed something broken in you.

Your inner child, the one who cried in that cold European kitchen all those years ago, quieted here. She wasn’t crying anymore. She was laughing, learning how to mix flour with eggs, feeling the batter with her hands, like it was something new and wonderful. All those tears you shed for a dream that wasn’t meant for you? They were worth it, because they brought you here—to this.

It’s funny, really. Back then, you thought that only a shining career could fill the emptiness left behind by that loss. But here you are, standing in a room full of kids who look up to you like you’re a hero. And that? That’s priceless.

You’d started this nonprofit, an NGO for kids who didn’t have much, but who had the biggest imaginations you’d ever seen. You taught them to cook, sure, but it wasn’t just about food. It was about creating something with their hands, feeling proud of themselves, and finding a space to be themselves in a world that often made them feel small. Just like how you’d once felt—small, unworthy, like a failure. But now, every smile, every curious question they asked, it stitched up another tear in your heart.

It’s poetic, really. You thought you’d heal by chasing after the dream that slipped through your fingers in that European kitchen. But instead, you found healing in the hands of children, in their endless curiosity, in the way they saw the world full of possibilities. And in doing so, you healed the child inside of you—the one who had dreamed big but didn’t know how to handle disappointment when the dream didn’t come true.

Good things, they say, come to those who wait. And yeah, after everything you’d been through, you could finally see it—really see it. Your name, once tied to that one bitter loss back in 2013, now stood on its own, bold and bright in the culinary world. You weren’t just the kid who lost in Europe anymore. You were someone people sought after, someone who made a difference. The buzz around your NGO had grown so much that, by now, it felt like a new interview request hit your inbox every other day.

It was the fifth time this week you sat down for one.

"Tell us about your journey,” the interviewer smiled, setting the recorder between you both like they were about to hear some untold story. But by now, the story of your journey had become almost second nature. You leaned back in your chair, looking around the space—the walls adorned with photos of smiling kids, famous chefs who had come through your doors, all here to support the cause. This place, this NGO, had become something bigger than you ever imagined.

“Well," you started, a small smile tugging at your lips, “I guess it started with failure.”

That’s how you always began. Not shying away from what happened all those years ago but embracing it, wearing it like a badge of honor. Because, hell, if it hadn’t been for that loss, none of this would exist. Not the kitchen full of kids eager to learn. Not the world-class chefs flying in from every corner of the globe to share their wisdom with them. And certainly not the donations that had been pouring in, enough to keep this place thriving for years.

You ran a hand through your hair, glancing at a nearby photo. It was of you and a group of kids, all in their mini hats, standing next to one of the chefs from some Michelin-starred restaurant. They’d come to volunteer for a day, to give these kids a taste of their future—what could be theirs if they kept going.

“Back then, when I lost, I thought it was the end. But now…” You paused, looking around at the faces of the kids, at the excitement in their eyes as they tried to get their dough just right or figure out the balance between sweet and savory. “Now, I can’t imagine it going any other way. This is where I was meant to be.”

The interviewer nodded, clearly trying to keep up, but you could tell they hadn’t expected the story to take this turn. They probably thought you’d talk about how the loss fueled some revenge arc, a rise to the top, something a bit more dramatic. But the truth? The truth was softer than that, more human.

At this point, most of the world’s top chefs had been here at some point or another. Either they’d come to run a class, spend a day with the kids, or drop by to donate supplies. There was something magical about seeing their eyes light up when they walked through the doors, like they were stepping back into the beginning of their own journey.

“That’s amazing,” the interviewer said, scribbling something down. “You’ve had some huge names come here. What’s it like working alongside these big chefs now?”

You shrugged, letting out a soft laugh. “It’s surreal sometimes. You know, these are people I looked up to, the same ones I’d watch on TV or read about when I was younger, just starting out. And now they’re here, in my kitchen, helping my kids.”

[...]

You were just finishing up, wiping your hands on the towel after the last batch of cookies came out of the oven, when you saw Fred practically running into the kitchen. The grin on his face said it all before he even opened his mouth.

“Fifty grand!” he shouted, stopping just short of knocking over a jar of flour in his excitement.

“Fifty what?” you blinked, thinking you must’ve misheard. Fifty thousand dollars? That was… huge. Massive. Your mind raced, trying to figure out how that could even be possible.

“Yep,” Fred beamed, hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath. “Just got the news from the accountant. Some company called Lee Gastronomy—never heard of ‘em—but they sent the check and a little note saying they’re excited to support the house. Something about moving back to town soon and wanting to visit.”

You felt your heart race as you tugged your apron off, suddenly needing to see the paperwork for yourself. Fifty thousand dollars? That was enough to cover months of supplies, repairs, upgrades—hell, you could finally get that new oven you’d been dreaming about for the kitchen. “Lee?” you frowned, trying to jog your memory. “I don’t know any Lee.”

Fred shrugged, still grinning. “Me either. But who cares, right? We just got fifty grand!”

Even though the number hung in the air like a golden ticket, something felt strange. You didn’t know any Lee. You’d worked in this field long enough to know all the big players—chefs, donors, restaurant owners, food critics—but no one named Lee had ever crossed your path.

The next few days passed, Fred had started spreading the word about the donation, and suddenly, you found yourself knee-deep in logistics. Checking with the accountant, verifying the donation, making sure everything was legit. And yeah, it was. The company’s registration number checked out, the money had cleared, and everything seemed on the up and up. But that name… Lee Gastronomy. It still didn’t ring any bells.

Every time you mentioned it to someone—colleagues, friends, even the chefs who had been visiting the voluntary organization—they’d shake their heads too. No one had ever heard of them. You tried not to dwell on it too much; after all, it was a lot of money, and you had kids to take care of, projects to fund, and kitchens to keep running.

But then, more donations started rolling in.

First, another $10,000 from a small local bakery, then $15,000 from a chef’s association you’d partnered with in the past. Then $25,000 from an anonymous donor who didn’t leave any contact information—just a note saying they loved what you were doing and wanted to help. It felt like the floodgates had opened, and suddenly, people everywhere wanted to support your cause.

Each time, the donations brought a wave of gratitude and hope. The organization was growing faster than you’d ever imagined, and the possibilities felt endless. You could expand the programs, bring in more kids, offer more hands-on experiences with top chefs. And you did just that. You started upgrading the kitchen, organizing new field trips for the kids, even partnering with local schools to expand the reach of your work.

But that nagging feeling in the back of your mind never quite went away.

“Fred,” you said one afternoon as you both sat in the office, going over the latest set of donations, “Do you think it’s weird that all this is happening right after Lee Gastronomy showed up?”

Fred paused, leaning back in his chair. “I mean, maybe a little? But honestly, I just think word is spreading. People are seeing what we’re doing, and they want to help.”

“Yeah, maybe.�� You nodded, but your gut told you there was more to it.

The next week, another $30,000 came in. The donation slip was clean, but again, no name. No big donor stepping out of the shadows to claim credit for it. Just money pouring into your NGO like it was destined for you, and yet, you couldn’t figure out why it was all happening now.

[...]

The early morning air was cool as you bent down, adjusting the vases of flowers in front of the organization beautiful entrance. The kids wouldn’t arrive for another hour, and this was your moment of calm. A moment to breathe before the chaos of the day began. Today, your mind was occupied with the meeting you’d been anticipating for weeks.

Lee Gastronomy.

Whoever this mysterious benefactor was, they were finally coming to visit. You’d replayed the moment in your head a hundred times—meeting them, shaking their hand, expressing your endless gratitude. You wanted to make a good impression, show them what their generous donations had been doing. You straightened up, brushing off your pants, when the sound of footsteps on the pavement caught your attention. Two pairs of Gucci shoes appeared in your view, black leather, polished, expensive. The kind of shoes that had power written all over them.

You lifted your head, the best smile already set on your face. "Oh, you must be Lee! I—" The words stuck in your throat.

The face staring back at you wasn’t some stranger. It was him.

Jihoon. Lee? Lee Jihoon?

Your breath tied, and for a second, everything around you disappeared. It was like time rewound itself to that kitchen in Europe, to the sharp look in his eyes as the corners of his mouth twitched into that subtle, knowing smirk. He was older now, more mature. His face had lost some of its softness, replaced with sharper angles, and yet… the eyes. You’d never forget those eyes. You couldn’t.

“Jihoon?” You muttered, like saying his name would break the reality in front of you.

Jihoon’s expression didn’t change much, but there was a faint smile on his lips. Fred, who had been standing beside you, froze. You could feel his tension, the silent question hanging in the air. He had no idea how you’d react. Hell, you didn’t even know how you’d react.

Everything came flooding back.

The way Jihoon had smirked as you stood there, staring down at your ruined dessert in disbelief. The way his fingers had curled around the restaurant’s keys, how he’d accepted his victory without so much as a glance your way. That little mole near his eye, the one you’d stared at for hours during the competition, watching it crinkle when he frowned or smiled—always at your expense.

You felt it then. The taste. That same, cursed taste of salt rising in the back of your throat. Your body tensed, memories crashing into you with such force it made you dizzy. You felt sick. So, so sick, that you feel like you are about to—

Your hand shot up to cover your mouth, and before you could stop yourself, you were rushing inside the house, pushing past Fred, not even sparing a glance back at Jihoon. The nausea was enormous, the weight of the past pulling at your gut, twisting it into knots. You barely made it to the bathroom, dropping to your knees in front of the toilet, just in time for everything to spill out of you.

Fred was right behind you, voice panicked. “Y/N! Hey, hey, it's okay, I’m here.” He knelt beside you, gently pulling your hair back, trying to keep you steady as your body trembled.

You could hear the distant sound of Jihoon’s shoes shifting in the doorway. He hadn’t followed you in. He didn’t move. He just stood there. Watching.

Jihoon stood, frozen at the threshold, his sharp eyes narrowing ever so slightly as Fred’s frantic voice echoed from inside. His assistant, standing beside him, looked equally stunned.

Were you this disgusted by him? To the point of throwing up? Jihoon wondered. He didn’t speak. He didn’t call out to you. Instead, he just stared at the open door, his fingers twitching at his sides as if he wanted to reach for something but couldn’t figure out what. The sound of you retching filled the air, and for a moment, he felt it too—a strange, bitter taste creeping up the back of his own throat.

This wasn’t how he imagined seeing you again.

Fred’s voice was soft behind you, concern threaded through his words. “Do you want me to ask him to leave?”

You shook your head, still gripping the edge of the sink like it could anchor you back to reality. “No. Just... give me a few minutes.”

He didn’t argue. You heard his footsteps fade as he hurried to welcome Jihoon and his assistant. You stayed there for another few seconds, staring at your own reflection. Your face had fallen so fast, drained of all that confidence you’d tried to wear this morning. You brushed your teeth with shaky hands, telling yourself to calm down, to just be serene.

Just get through this. You took a deep breath and headed to the waiting room.

Jihoon and his assistant were seated, quiet, as if they hadn’t said much since Fred greeted them. You couldn’t bring yourself to shake his hand, so you bowed politely instead, keeping your hands clasped behind your back. You felt Jihoon’s eyes on you, but you didn’t look at him. Couldn’t. 

His assistant, a bright-eyed young man who didn’t seem to sense the tension in the air, smiled warmly. “It’s such an honor to finally meet you in person. Jihoon has told me a lot about the great work you're doing here,” he said, looking genuinely impressed.

You forced a smile, keeping your tone professional. “Thank you. We’re really grateful for all the donations, it’s made a huge difference. The kids... they’ve benefited so much.”

Jihoon’s assistant continued, eyes flicking between you and Fred, clearly excited to be there. “And it’s amazing how far you’ve come since your days in the competition. It must’ve been so tough, especially considering how—”

The room froze. You felt Fred tense beside you, his polite smile flickering, your breath catching in your throat. Even Jihoon’s expression shifted, his face hardening as he quickly looked away, avoiding your gaze entirely.

His assistant, oblivious, continued. “I mean, you two were so competitive back then, huh? And to think, all of this came from that one event—”

Fred cleared his throat sharply, cutting him off, but the damage was already done, his assistant clearly didn't know how Jihoon won. How much does he know? Does he even realize what he’s saying?

“Ah, well—” Fred began.

Jihoon cut him off, voice tight and low. “It’s… a long story.”

Before anyone could say more, the sound of laughter and tiny footsteps echoed down the hallway, saving you from the suffocating silence. The children had arrived.

Fred turned to greet them, and you stepped aside, watching as they rushed into the room, immediately diffusing the tension. They swarmed around you, bright-eyed and smiling, some of the little ones immediately latching onto your legs, asking if they could help in the kitchen today. You smiled softly, crouching down to ruffle their hair.

But then, some of them turned their attention to Jihoon.

Two of the kids, a boy and a girl, who couldn’t have been older than five, ran straight for him, hugging his legs like they’d known him forever. Jihoon stiffened at first, unsure how to respond, but the shock quickly melted as he crouched down, a small, genuine smile tugging at his lips. You noticed how different it looked from the smirk that used to haunt you.

"Who’s this?" one of the kids asked, looking up at Jihoon with wide, curious eyes.

You exhaled softly, your hands clenching and unclenching behind your back as you felt Fred’s eyes on you. You forced yourself to speak, turning to the kids, your voice softening, sweeter for them. “He’s a really good chef,” you explained, keeping it simple. “He has a biiiig restaurant in Switzerland.”

The younger ones gasped in awe, their faces lighting up as they hugged him tighter. "Wooooow," one of them breathed, eyes wide. “Is Switzerland far?”

You couldn’t help but smile. “Yeah, it’s pretty far,” you said with a small scoff. It was cute how they clung to him without knowing anything about the man he was. How they immediately trusted him just because you said he was a chef, because in their world, chefs were superheroes who made magic with food.

But you didn’t miss the sound of the older kids behind you. Some of the pre-teens had recognized him. Their whispers were loud enough for you to catch, little gasps of “That’s Jihoon!” and “Oh my god, isn’t he, like, super famous?”

One of the girls, barely fourteen, looked at you with shining eyes. “You know Jihoon? Like, Jihoon Jihoon?”

You managed a nod, the tight smile still on your lips. “Yeah, I know him.”

Jihoon, standing there with the kids hugging him, stayed silent, his eyes drifting to you every now and then but never lasting. He looked uncomfortable. Maybe even lost. You wondered if he’d thought about this moment before—if he’d imagined what it would be like to see you again after all these years. Or if, like you, he hadn’t been ready at all.

You cleared your throat, trying to regain control of the situation. “Alright, kids, let’s give our guest some space,” you said gently, guiding them away from Jihoon’s legs. “We’ve got a lot of work to do today, and I’m sure Chef Jihoon is going to want to take a look around.”

The younger ones reluctantly let go, giggling as they scampered off to join their friends. 

You smiled softly when you saw Jihoon’s assistant already in the thick of it, playing with the kids like he'd been there for weeks. His laughter mixed with theirs, easy and carefree. 

But then you turned, eyes flicking to Jihoon, who was still standing awkwardly at the edge of the room, like he wasn’t sure what to do next. You called his name quietly, over your shoulder, “Jihoon, come on.”

He dawdled but followed. As he walked toward you, you tied the apron behind your back like you had eyes on your hands, the kids gathering around the kitchen counter, their eyes wide with interest. Jihoon stayed a few steps behind, unsure of how to approach this situation—teaching kids was never something he'd done. Hell, it wasn’t even in his plans for the day.

But he remembered being the kid, the one sitting in front of a chef, hungry for knowledge and desperate to learn everything.

You leaned against the counter, your arms crossed as you gave him a sideways glance. “Do you guys know what Chef Jihoon is going to teach us today?”

The kids chorused a loud, excited “Noooo!” bouncing on their heels.

You turned fully to him, holding his gaze. He swallowed hard, suddenly feeling like the spotlight was burning on him.

“I’ll let Chef Jihoon tell you then,” you said, challenging, like you were throwing him into the deep end on purpose. You wanted to see him squirm, maybe just a little.

Jihoon glanced at the eager faces in front of him, then back to you. His throat felt dry as he tried to come up with something to say, but for a second, all he could hear was the hum of his own nerves. The last time he had been in a kitchen like this, it wasn’t full of small hands and bright eyes—it was full of pressure, competition, and an entirely different energy.

But he wasn’t about to let you see him hesitate. He cleared his throat and stepped up to the counter, taking a deep breath before speaking.

“Well,” he started, a small, almost shy smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, “I think today... we’ll be learning how to make something really special. Something I first learned when I was just starting out.”

He shot a quick look at you, and you could tell from the flicker in his eyes that he was stepping back into habitat. You smirked, leaning back against the counter as he continued.

“Let's make risotto… How's that sound?”

​​The kids’ faces immediately dropped, little frowns forming as they shook their heads. “We already know that one!” one of them piped up, crossing his arms, indignant. “Chef Y/N taught us already!”

You couldn’t help it—a laugh escaped, filling the room, and Jihoon shot you a sidelong look, his own lips twitching like he was fighting not to falter. Of course they already knew risotto. You’d practically burned through every recipe in the book with them.

Jihoon looked at the kids again, genuinely surprised. “Really?” He raised his eyebrows. “You already know how to make risotto?”

They nodded, several of them bouncing with pride. “Chef Y/N is really good!” a little girl said.

Jihoon’s expression softened, the faintest hint of surprise in his eyes as he took it in. He took a breath, thinking, before a sudden idea sparked across his face. “Alright, then. What about soufflé?”

The kids’ eyes widened, jaws dropping as they exchanged glances. “A soufflé?” one of the older kids asked, almost disbelieving. “Like the one in movies?”

Jihoon nodded, his face a little smug. “Yeah. It’s tricky, but I think you guys are up for it.”

One of the kids tugged at your sleeve, whispering, “Chef Y/N, do you think we can really make soufflés?”

You smiled, glancing at Jihoon. “With a chef like Jihoon teaching you? I think you can do anything.”

You and Jihoon began laying out the ingredients on the counter. Flour, sugar, butter, eggs—every item carefully arranged in neat little bowls. Then, stepping back, you let the kids gather around as Jihoon took his place at the front, an eyebrow raised in question.

“You’re not going to help me?”

You smirked, crossing your arms as you leaned against the wall behind the children. “Nope. I’m here to learn too.”

He let out a scoff, but his eyes were amused. Reaching for a whisk, Jihoon’s fingers stopped as he noticed the brightly-colored utensils on the countertop—handles painted in cheerful blues, yellows, and pinks, completely different from the pristine silver ones he’d grown so used to in the rigid, professional kitchens. 

His brow twitched, a bit thrown off, but he picked up a neon pink whisk, holding it up almost in disbelief before he finally began mixing, putting on the best show of professionalism he could manage with a grin sneaking in.

The kids were entranced as he worked. He answered each of their questions, even the simple ones—What’s this do? Why are eggs so runny? Is soufflé really magic? He gave patient answers, a spark in his eyes as he watched their faces light up with each response.

When he was done, a perfect, puffy soufflé stood in the middle of the counter. Golden, light, and exactly what you’d expect from someone with his skill. The kids were practically bouncing in excitement.

“Alright, your turn,” Jihoon said, stepping back and motioning for them to take over.

You paired up with a small boy, who looked completely intimidated by the fluffy soufflé sitting next to him. “I can’t make it like that,” he whispered to you.

You knelt down next to him, helping him break the eggs with careful hands, showing him how to separate the whites, then guiding his little hand as he whisked. “Doesn’t matter if it’s perfect,” you told him with a warm smile. “Just give it your best shot.”

Meanwhile, Jihoon crouched down beside a little girl who was struggling to mix the eggs. Her arm had started to tremble, the bowl wobbling in her hands.

“Here, I’ll help you,” he said, holding the bowl steady with one hand while he took the whisk with the other. “Let’s mix it together.”

The smile that spread across Jihoon’s face as he watched her efforts, a real, genuine smile that you hadn’t seen in years, softened something in—No. Hell no. Back to the recipe.

When the kids finally placed their soufflés in the oven, the results were… varied. Some soufflés rose tall and proud, while others sagged or deflated at the edges. One came out a bit lopsided, and another had been forgotten for a moment, the top a little browned, but that didn’t matter. They each wore their own version of pride on their faces, and you couldn’t help but feel it too.

Jihoon looked at the table, and shook his head, smiling. “They’re perfect,” he murmured, glancing at the children with an approval nod. 

As the kids eagerly dug into their soufflés, one of the smaller boys took a big spoonful, his eyes lighting up at first. But then his face scrunched, his little nose wrinkling as he swallowed. He put his spoon down, looking directly at you with a distressed expression.

“Did I… put salt instead of sugar?” His lip started to tremble as he looked between you and Jihoon, mortified.

You froze. But before you could say anything, Jihoon, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed, looked up, his eyes darting from the kid’s teary face to your stiff expression. The moment seemed to snap him to life, and he quickly sprang forward, kneeling down beside the boy, hands shaking in a mad rush.

“Hey, hey, don’t cry!” Jihoon said. He took the boy’s tiny hand in his. “There are tons of salty soufflés! I actually make one all the time. In my restaurant, it’s super fancy, with cheese and herbs, just like this one.”

The boy looked up, sniffling, his tears slowing a little. “Really? There’s… supposed to be salt?”

Jihoon nodded enthusiastically, glancing back at you as if asking for backup. “Absolutely! Chef Y/N could tell you all about it.” He shot you a look, almost saying like: What do I do now?

Taking a shaky breath, you knelt down beside the boy, putting a hand on his shoulder. “I think it’s a great first try.” You ruffled his hair, seeing him perk up a bit.

Jihoon took a spoonful of the soufflé and tasted it, giving an exaggerated nodl. “Mm! It's really good!” He winked at the boy, who finally cracked a shy smile. 

You watched with a small smile as each kid left with a bit of your heart in tow, feeling the echo of their laughter around you even as the room began to empty.

Fred lingered by the door, chatting with Jihoon’s assistant, while you and Jihoon moved to the side, staying silent, as if words would disturb whatever fragile peace had been built between you during the day. It felt strange, standing there beside him without the buffer of the kids to fill in the pauses.

Jihoon broke the silence first, clearing his throat softly. “I wanted to talk to you… I think my team and I would really love to support your organization long-term… Make it official, if you’d be interested. We could even bring some of the chefs, host classes, give the kids more to look forward to.”

“I appreciate the donation,” you began carefully measured. “I really do. But I need to be honest, Jihoon. I don’t want this house to lose what makes it special, what makes it ours. I don’t want it to turn into some… shiny project to impress donors or pull in crowds. It’s supposed to feel like us, like the kids. Not some big production.”

After a pause, he let out a soft hum, tilting his head slightly. “And what’s wrong with improving things? Giving the kids access to better resources, better… training?”

There it was—his tone wasn’t outright disdainful or insulting, but there was a bite to it, something faintly snobbish that made your stomach churn. You could feel Fred tense slightly beside you, the way his shoulders shifted like he wanted to step in but wasn’t sure if he should. Jihoon’s assistant, meanwhile, raised an eyebrow, clearly taken aback by his boss’s words.

You scoffed. “Better training?” you repeated, folding your arms. “Is that what you think this is about? You think just because this isn’t the fancy kitchen you grew up in—or whatever perfect, silver-lined school taught you—you have the right to waltz in here and act like this isn’t good enough?”

Jihoon opened his mouth, but you didn’t let him speak. The floodgates were open now, the words spilling out of you like they’d been waiting years. “I learned to cook in a place like this,” you said firmly, jabbing a finger toward the counters, the bright utensils, the slightly battered cutting boards. “And guess what? It brought me to the same competition as you. So don’t stand there and act like these kids need some ‘upgrade’ to be worthy of your world.” 

Fred's face went pale as he looked at you.

“You’re too busy chasing Michelin stars to see what really makes cooking special.” You spat.

Jihoon’s assistant visibly winced, and Fred looked at you with wide eyess. 

Jihoon, though, didn’t react right away. He just stood there, his hands clenching slightly at his sides. “Is that what you think? That I came here just to… what? Smudge this in your face?”

It wasn’t until Fred gently touched your elbow that you realized how tense you were, your hands clenched your crossed arms. You took a breath.

“I don’t know why you came here,” you admitted finally, your voice softer now but no less firm. “But if you’re here to help, then help. Don’t stand there and tell me what this place is lacking. Because it’s got something no five-star kitchen could ever give you.”

He just nodded once. His assistant looked like he wanted to crawl into the floor, and Fred let out a low sigh, clearly debating whether to step in again.

Finally, Jihoon spoke, “I’m not here to tear this place down,” he said. “But if I’m going to help, I need to know how. You think I don’t understand what makes this place special? Fine. Show me then.”

Fred cleared his throat awkwardly, stepping in to break the silence. “Maybe we should, uh, pick this up another day?” he suggested, glancing between you and Jihoon. Neither of you responded. Enough for now.

You watched Jihoon step into the car, the heavy door closing with a muffled thud. From the front window, you could see him lean back against the seat, his face partially obscured by the tinted glass. His assistant was halfway to the car when he stopped, paused mid-step, and turned back toward you.He turned slow, really slow, like he’d been debating this for a while and finally made up his mind.

You raised an eyebrow as he approached, his blond hair catching the light “Chef Y/N,” he began, his voice sweet, with a thick French accent. His hands reached out to clasp yours—oddly personal. “I hope you’ll excuse me for interrupting, but… I wanted to say I’m sorry. For everything today.”

His words took you off guard, and your brow furrowed slightly. 

He sighed, the kind of long, exasperated exhale that suggested he’d had this conversation—or at least a version of it—with Jihoon before.

“Monsieur Lee,” he said carefully, “was truly excited to visit your NGO. It has been all he talks about since we first began planning this trip. But, you know him… he doesn’t always measure his words. He means well, but he can come off as—how do you say it?—impolite.”

You huffed a small, mirthless laugh. “That’s one way to put it.”

The assistant smiled faintly, “I hope you don’t let it affect your view of his intentions. He genuinely respects what you have built here. I’ll make sure to put some sense into his head, I promise. But please, don’t forget about our offer. It’s a good one, and I think… deep down, Monsieur Lee truly believes in what you’re doing here. Even if he doesn’t always know how to say it.”

You held his gaze, searching his expression for any sign of insincerity, but found none. He was genuine, you could tell. After a moment, you gave his hands a light squeeze and nodded. “I’ll think about it,” you said softly. “But this place… it’s not just about the offer. It’s personal to me. If I do decide to work with you all, it has to be on my terms.”

“Of course!” he said immediately, his smile growing. “And that is as it should be. Thank you for considering it.”

With that, he let go of your hands and returned to the car, leaving you standing there in the fading light. Jihoon didn’t look up as the car pulled away, while you looked until it disappeared down the road.

The days after Jihoon’s visit were surprisingly quiet, almost too quiet. You’d half-expected a deluge of follow-ups or more awkward exchanges, but instead, you found yourself with space to think. The children, as always, were a welcome distraction. They filled the kitchen with their laughter and the occasional misstep, their joy a constant reminder of why you’d built this house in the first place.

Still, Jihoon lingered in the back of your mind. His presence at the NGO had stirred up so many old emotions. Every time you thought about his assistant’s words, you felt a strange knot of uncertainty in your chest. Was it possible that Jihoon’s intentions weren’t as cold as they’d seemed? Could you trust him to help without losing the heart of what you’d created?

One evening, Fred found you sitting at your desk, staring blankly at a stack of donation forms. “You okay?” he asked, leaning against the doorway.

You shrugged. “Just thinking.”

“About Jihoon?”

You shot him a look, and he grinned. “Come on,” he said. “You’ve been quiet since he left. I can tell he got under your skin.”

“Maybe,” you admitted. “It’s just… complicated. He said some things that really pissed me off, but his assistant made a good point. I don’t know, Fred. I don’t want to make the wrong decision.”

Fred crossed his arms, considering your words. “Look, I don’t know Jihoon like you do. But from what I’ve seen, he’s not the same guy he was back then. Maybe give him a chance to prove that.”

A week later, Jihoon showed up again, this time without his assistant. You spotted him standing awkwardly at the front gate, a bag slung over his shoulder. He looked out of place, like he didn’t quite know what to do with himself.

“Back so soon?” you called out, walking toward him.

He turned, his eyes meeting yours. “I wanted to talk. Without the… entourage.”

You raised an eyebrow but gestured for him to follow you inside. The two of you sat in the empty kitchen, the late afternoon sun streaming through the windows. Jihoon placed the bag on the counter and pulled out a small box. “I brought something for the kids,” he said, opening it to reveal a set of beautifully crafted utensils, each one colorful and child-sized.

You blinked in surprise, your defenses momentarily lowering. “These are… amazing.”

“I thought they might like them,” he said, his voice quieter now. “And I thought maybe I could help more, if you’ll let me.”

You hesitated, studying his expression. There was no trace of the condescension you’d seen before.

[...]

The sound of running water filled the quiet kitchen, punctuated by the clink of dishes being handed off between you and Jihoon. The day had been long, the kind of long that left you too tired to think straight but restless enough to keep moving. You focused on scrubbing the edges of a baking dish, the suds thick around your fingers, and handed it to Jihoon without a glance. His fingers brushed yours as he took it, pausing more than he should. You pulled back instinctively, grabbing the next plate before he could say anything.

Jihoon sighed, turning toward the wide window above the sink. The last light of the day was fading, casting a soft orange glow over the room. He dried the dish slowly, as if trying to draw out the moment. 

“You’ll never forgive me, will you?”

The question stopped you in your tracks. You placed the plate you were washing back into the sink and leaned forward, gripping the edge of the counter. The bubbles clung to your hands, foam dripping down to the marble. You stared at the suds for a moment, your mind swirling, before you turned your head slightly toward him.

“I never heard a sorry leave your mouth, Jihoon.” Your gaze shifted to the window, avoiding his reflection.

“I didn’t think it would matter,” he admitted. “I thought… what’s the point? Saying sorry wouldn’t change anything.”

You let out a bitter laugh, shaking your head. “You thought what? You think you can just show up here, give donations, play nice with the kids, and everything gets wonderful well?”

Jihoon’s jaw tightened. “It’s not like that.”

“Then what is it like?” You crossed your arms, still feeling the slickness of the detergent on your skin. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks a lot like you trying to fix something without actually addressing the damage you caused.”

You opened your mouth to continur, but he cut you off. “What am I supposed to do, huh? Go back in time? Undo it? All I can do is try to make up for it now, and if that’s not good enough for you, then tell me what the hell I’m supposed to do.”

The frustration in his voice caught you off guard, but you didn’t let it show. “You don’t get to decide how or when I forgive you, Jihoon. That’s not how this works. And for the record, no, you can’t undo it. You can’t take back the way you made me feel that day.”

He flinched at your words but didn’t look away. “I know. I know I can’t.”

You shook your head. “And yet here you are, acting like showing up and playing nice will fix it all. Like you can just… sweep it under the rug.”

“I’m not trying to sweep it under the rug. I’m trying to be better. To show you that I’ve changed.”

You go back to the dishes. The water ran over your hands as you scrubbed a stubborn stain on the bottom of a pot, the bubbles swirling down the drain. Jihoon stood beside you, methodically drying the dishes and placing them on the counter without a word.

But something twisted in your gut, you swallowed hard, the weight of the past pressing on your chest. Your voice, when it finally came out, was quiet, and more fragile than you wanted to sound.

“Why the salt?”

Jihoon froze mid-motion, the towel in his hands slipping slightly. You didn’t look at him, your eyes fixed on the pot as if it held all the answers you’d been seeking.

“Why did you do this to me Jihoon?”

He exhaled shakily, his knuckles white as he gripped the counter. It wasn’t just your question—it was the way you’d asked, like a small, innocent version of yourself had reached through the years to speak, like spiritually, your inner child canalized her voice to his ears. Jihoon felt it deep in his chest, an ache that mirrored yours. It was as though the girl you’d been when you first started chasing this dream was standing there, demanding an explanation he’d never given. He swallowed hard, his throat dry.

“I…” he started but faltered, running a hand through his hair, his voice dropped. “I didn’t… mean for it to be like that.”

You set the pot down, water dripping from your hands as you turned to him. Your eyes searched his face, looking for something—remorse, understanding, anything. “Then why? Why did you do it? Was it just… some sick joke to you?” Your voice wavered, and you blinked quickly, trying to keep the tears at bay. “Do you know what that did to me? What it felt like to watch—” You stopped, your words catching in your throat.

Jihoon closed his eyes, pressing his palms flat against the counter as if steadying himself. He felt sick, the kind of sickness that sat heavy in his chest and made it hard to breathe. “It wasn’t… it wasn’t my idea,” he said finally, his voice strained.

You frowned, your confusion evident. “What do you mean it wasn’t your idea?”

He turned to you then, his expression torn, guilt scripted all over his face. “It was my tutor’s idea,” he admitted, his words tumbling out like they’d been locked up for too long. “He… he told me to do it. Said it would make me stand out, give me an edge. He thought sabotaging someone else would make me look stronger. And I was—” He broke off, running a hand over his face. “I was stupid enough to listen.”

Your stomach churned, the twist in your gut tightening. “Your tutor?” you repeated, the disbelief clear in your voice.

Jihoon nodded, his eyes, pained. “He was more than just a tutor. He became my business partner after the competition. He was the one who pushed me toward the restaurant, who built me up to be this… this thing I didn’t even recognize anymore.” He let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “And now…I can’t stand him. He’s why I’m back here. I couldn’t take it anymore. The way he runs things, the way he manipulates people—it was eating me alive.”

You stared at him, your mind spinning. “So you’re saying… you did it because he told you to?”

“Yes.. But I chose to do it. I could’ve said no. I should’ve said no. I was just so… desperate to prove myself, to win, to be the best.” He paused, his jaw tightening. “And I didn’t care who I hurt along the way.”

The importance of his confession lolled in the air. You turned your back to the sink. “I kept asking myself, What did I do wrong? And all the while, it was you.” Your voice cracked, and you hated how weak you sounded.

“I know, I know, and I’ll never forgive myself for it. Seeing you crying that day… it still haunts me. And when I saw you throw up when I came here, I realized just how deeply I’d hurt you. I…” He trailed off, his eyes glistening. “I can’t undo it. I know I can’t. But I’m trying to make it right. I just want you to know… I’m sorry. For everything. And I’ll keep saying it until it means something.”

“So…” you started, leaning back against the counter as you dried your hands on a towel. “You left a Michelin-starred restaurant behind? All of it?”

Jihoon nodded, like a weight had been partially lifted.

You raised an eyebrow, crossing your arms. “And now that you don’t have it, you want this to be yours too? The house?”

He let out a scoff, but it wasn’t sharp like before, it was straight funny. “You could’ve had both,” he countered, tilting his head. “A Michelin-starred restaurant and this. I could never.”

You couldn’t help but hold back a small smile, shaking your head. 

The corner of his mouth tugged upward in a small, genuine smile. Then he extended his hand, palm open, toward you. “Come on,” he said softly.

You glanced at his hand, then back at his face, narrowing your eyes. “What are you doing?”

“Offering a truce,” he replied. “Come on. You can’t make me stand here forever.”

For a second, you hesitated, looking at his hand again. With a resigned sigh, you dried your hands fully, reaching out to take his. Your grip was firm.

But you couldn’t help it. “You sure you want to start here? With that hair?” You gestured to his slightly mussed locks, which looked more chaotic than usual after hours in the kitchen. “You’ve been running from Michelin stars, but your hair looks like it’s been running from a comb.”

Jihoon froze for a second, then let out a genuine laugh, his head tilting back slightly. It was the first time you’d heard it that day, and it made something inside you soften.

“Don’t think the kids haven’t noticed. One of them asked if you were cosplaying as a hedgehog earlier.”

Jihoon smiled wide, almost beaming, though he tried to downplay it by scratching the back of his neck. “Alright, alright. I get it. Point taken. But you know, I think they like me.”

“They tolerate you,” you corrected, smirking. “Big difference. You’re still on trial here, Jihoon.”

He pressed his free hand dramatically to his chest. “Tolerate me? That hurts, Y/N. I thought I had charm.”

“You’ve got something,” you teased, releasing his hand to grab another dish towel. “I’ll let you know what it is once I figure it out.”

Jihoon leaned against the counter, his eyes softening as he watched you. “You’ll let me know, huh? That sounds fair.”

Jihoon’s attempts to help with the house didn’t feel like an intrusion anymore.

A few days later, Jihoon was sitting cross-legged on the floor with a group of kids, trying to teach them a few basic culinary techniques. His patience was better than you’d expected, though he still had moments where he looked at you like: How do you deal with this every day?

“Chef Jihoon, is this how you hold the whisk?” one of the smaller kids asked, holding it in a fist like a sword.

“No, not unless you’re planning to fight your eggs,” Jihoon replied, gently adjusting the child’s grip. “Like this. Light, but firm.”

You stood nearby, arms crossed, watching the scene unfold. Fred sidled up beside you, nodding toward Jihoon. “He’s really trying, huh?”

“Yeah,” you said quietly. “He is.”

As the session wrapped up, Jihoon caught your eye from across the room. He raised an eyebrow, as if silently asking for your approval. You pretended to consider, then gave a small nod. His lips twitched upward, satisfied.

Jihoon had never considered himself great with kids.

He wasn’t the type of uncle who could entertain nieces and nephews for hours without breaking a sweat, like his friend Seungkwan. Yet, here he was, surrounded by giggling children who hung on his every word—and he had to admit, it wasn’t as terrifying as he’d thought. 

He’d found himself loving this. The chaos, the noise, the silly little moments. The kids, with their endless energy and bright smiles, were teaching him things he never thought he would learn. They were curing him in ways he never imagined.

Jihoon couldn’t hide the change in his mood when the kids started leaving for the day. They’d crowded around the door, each of them getting picked up by their parents, giving their final hugs, running out of the kitchen, their little hands waving goodbye. Jihoon stood in the doorway, watching them, his gaze soft. He didn’t admit it out loud, but there was something about seeing the kids leave that made him feel a little emptier inside. Maybe it was because he could feel the bond forming between them even though they’d only spent a short time together.

“Are you really sulking now?” you asked, walking past him to grab the last dish from the counter.

He didn’t turn around, but you could see the slight pout on his lips. “No,” he mumbled, hands stuffed in the pockets of his apron. “I just... I’m not used to saying goodbye. Even if I’m going to see them again tomorrow.”

You chuckled, watching him—you've found yourself in this situation multiple times at the beginning. “It’s fine, Jihoon. You’re just getting attached.”

He shot you a side-eye, as if daring you to make fun of him. “I’m not attached.” he muttered, crossing his arms. 

“Yeah, yeah, sure.” You teased, nudging him lightly with your shoulder as you moved to the other side of the kitchen to help clean up. “You’ve become one of them now. A softie.”

[...]

The kitchen had never felt more alive than it does today. Jihoon, who had never been particularly fond of chaos, was smiling—almost laughing—while keeping his eyes on the counter. It was supposed to be a “friendly” competition between the boys and girls, but honestly, it was just an excuse to see how much you and Jihoon could handle before the chaos completely overtook you. And right now, it was clear neither of you were winning.

You stood on the boys’ side of the kitchen, trying to keep them from getting too rowdy as they threw flour at each other in some misguided attempt to "season" their dishes. On the other side, Jihoon was managing the girls, who, much to his dismay, were doing exactly what you expected them to do.

Jihoon stood there in your pink apron, his now short hair practically glistening with glittering accessories—tiny scrunchies, little clips holding stray locks back—making him look like the type of man who should’ve been anywhere but in a kitchen with a bunch of kids.

One of the girls tugged at Jihoon’s sleeve. “Chef Jihoon, can you stir this? It’s too heavy!” she whined, her small hands gripping the bowl.

“Of course,” Jihoon said, crouching slightly to be at her level, but not before side-eyeing you. “Unlike someone,” he said with mock emphasis, “I don’t leave my team hanging.”

You gasped dramatically from across the kitchen. “Excuse me, Chef Lee, but my boys are doing just fine, thank you very much!”

Jihoon smirked as he whisked the batter.

A few minutes later, the competition was in full swing, and the teasing between the kids was relentless. Every now and then, you had to intervene.

“Chef Y/N, Chef Jihoon’s team says our cookies will burn!” one of the boys pouted, pointing accusingly at Jihoon’s side of the kitchen.

You shot Jihoon a glare. “Chef Lee, are you sabotaging my team’s confidence?”

Jihoon feigned innocence, holding up his hands. “Sabotage? I would never,” he said, though his smirk betrayed him.

“Uh-huh,” you replied, narrowing your eyes. You crouched to whisper conspiratorially to the boys, loud enough for Jihoon to hear. “Don’t worry, kids. His cookies will taste like his personality—bitter.”

At one point, Jihoon crossed behind you to grab a pan, but instead of taking the wide-open space on the other side, he chose to squeeze behind you in the narrow gap between the counters.

“Excuse me,” he murmured, voice low and entirely unnecessary given the proximity. His hand brushed your waist as he reached past you, and you stiffened, gripping the spoon in your hand tighter.

“There’s a whole kitchen, Jihoon,” you scolded, trying to keep your voice steady. “Why are you in my personal space?”

He bit his bottom lip, as he moved away, holding the pan. “Just testing the waters. Seems warm.”

You huffed, trying to ignore the heat creeping up your neck. “Go test the waters on your side of the kitchen before I throw you in the sink.”

He laughed, a soft, melodic sound that you hated how much you were starting to like. “Alright, alright. Don’t get flustered, Chef Y/N. I’ll behave.”

Later, you decided to up the teasing as revenge. Jihoon was bent over, helping one of the girls pour batter into a mold. You leaned close to him, hand on his back, making his back stiff under your hand. 

You scoff, your breath tickling his ear. “Careful, Chef Lee. Don’t spill. That would ruin your team’s reputation.”

Jihoon fumbled with the mold, nearly spilling the batter as he straightened up abruptly. He shot you a look, his cheeks faintly pink. “Very funny.” he muttered, grabbing the whisk with a little too much force, the batter splattering slightly.

The kids were oblivious to the Chef's bickering, fully focused on their creations. The teasing continued until the final moments, each team plating their cookies and presenting them proudly.

By the end of the competition, the kids were giggling and cheering as Fred and Jihoon’s assistant judged the dishes. Jihoon stood beside you, both of you wiping flour off your hands as the verdict was announced: a tie.

You stood beside Jihoon as the kids debated whose cookies looked better. He leaned closer to you, his voice low enough that only you could hear. “You know, you’re lucky there’s no actual judging panel. My team would wipe the floor with yours.”

You shot him a playful glare. “Keep dreaming, Lee.”

When the kids weren’t looking, he nudged you lightly with his elbow. You elbowed him back, harder, earning a stifled laugh.

[...]

You sat slumped at your desk, your face buried in your hands as Fred paced back and forth in front of you, rattling off potential solutions. The stress of the upcoming fundraiser gala was weighing on you like a damn cast-iron skillet. 

The shelves in the stockroom were stacked with ingredients that you weren’t even sure you’d be able to use now that the catering service had ghosted you. It was a disaster waiting to happen.

Fred sighed dramatically, flopping down in the chair across from you. “Alright, boss, what’s the game plan? Do we, like, call another service or… just throw in the towel and serve chips and soda?”

You groaned, peeking at him through your fingers. “Fred, I swear to God, if you bring up chips one more time—”

“Okay, okay, chill,” he said, throwing his hands up in defense. “But for real, though. We gotta figure this out. You know how fancy these people are. One whiff of ‘homemade’ and they’re gonna start asking if we milked the cows ourselves.”

You let out a dry laugh, leaning back in your chair and staring at the ceiling. “I should’ve just canceled the gala altogether. Who even does this every year? I’m not Beyoncé.”

Fred smirked. “True, but you’re like… Beyoncé of the kitchen. That counts for something, right?”

“Fred,” you deadpanned, narrowing your eyes at him. “That is not helpful.”

You were mid-spiral, staring at your disheveled desk, when a knock pulled you out of your chaos. Turning sharply, you found Jihoon leaning against the doorframe, hands shoved into his pockets like he was trying to look casual—but you could tell he was hesitant, maybe even nervous.

What the hell did he want now? You thought he already headed home.

“Am I interrupting?” he asked, his eyes darting between you and Fred, who was sprawled across the chair forehead red from how stressed he got.

Fred’s head shot up like a meerkat. “Not at all! Actually, perfect timing—”

You shot Fred a glare sharp enough to make him frown. “Fred. Shut. Up.” Then you turned to Jihoon, crossing your arms. “What do you want?”

Jihoon raised an eyebrow. “Heard about the cancellation. Thought you might need a hand.”

Fred couldn’t help himself. He snorted. “She needs more than a hand. She needs, like, divine intervention at this point.”

“Fred!” you hissed, your face heating up. Fred waved you off, muttering something about grabbing coffee, and practically bolted out of the room, leaving you alone with Jihoon.

You sighed and turned your full attention to him. “Alright, so what’s this about? Because unless you have a whole-ass catering team hiding in your back pocket, I don’t think you can magically fix this.”

Jihoon tilted his head, his lips twitching into that insufferable smirk you hated so much. “Well, I don’t have one in my pocket, but I do have a team. Or did you forget I used to run a restaurant?”

You blinked at him. Once. Twice. “Wait. You’re serious?”

“Dead serious,” he said, straightening up a bit. “I can bring my team in. We’ll handle the food. You focus on… whatever else needs doing. Win-win.”

You stared at him, trying to gauge if he was actually being helpful or just showing off. “And what’s the catch?”

“No catch,” he said smoothly. “I just want the kids to have a good night. And… maybe—prove to you that I’m not as useless as you think.”

You let out a groan, rubbing your temples. “God, you’re so smug.”

“Smug, but capable,” he quipped.

It wasn’t like you had a long list of alternatives, and time was running out. You were about to say no—hell, you even opened your mouth to shut him down—but the words didn’t come. You were stuck, and deep down, you knew it.

“Fine,” you muttered, crossing your arms even tighter. “But if your team screws this up, Jihoon, I’m holding you personally responsible.”

His smirk widened into a full grin. “Deal.”

He turned to leave, and you couldn’t resist one last jab. “And don’t think this means I trust you or anything!”

Jihoon glanced back, his smirk back to its usual lazy self. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Chef.”

Fred found you in the kitchen later, supervising a delivery of more ingredients that just reminded you how overwhelming this whole gala was going to be. “So, you really letting Jihoon handle the food?”

“Not like I have a choice,” you muttered, signing off on a receipt. “It’s either him or I start calling catering companies and praying someone says yes for this weekend.”

Fred snickered, nudging you with his elbow. “You’re playing with fire, boss. You know that, right?”

“I know...” you sighed. 

You bit your lip, your eyes fixed on Jihoon across the room as your thoughts tangled themselves into knots. He was chatting with his assistant, leaning slightly against the counter in that laid-back way of his. But then, a small hand tugged at his pant leg—a boy from the younger group, arms stretched high in the universal signal to pick me up, as he closed and opened his hands.

Jihoon hesitated for half a second, glancing down, but the moment the kid grinned up at him, Jihoon’s expression softened into something you weren’t sure you’d ever seen before. He crouched to the boy’s level, picking him up with ease, and the little guy immediately started chattering about… something. Jihoon nodded along like it was the most important thing he’d ever heard, even giving a small laugh that made your stomach twist.

“Y/N.” Fred’s voice brought you back, and you turned to see him giving you that I’m onto you look.

“What?” you whispered sharply, leaning closer.

Fred smirked. “I said, you’re really letting Jihoon handle this? Big leap of faith.”

You sighed, dropping your voice even lower so no one else could hear. “Do you think he’s gonna mess everything up again?”

Fred tilted his head, watching Jihoon over your shoulder. “Mess up? Nah. He’s too proud for that. He’d rather break his back making this perfect than give you more ammo to throw at him.”

You raised an eyebrow, still skeptical. “You’re awfully optimistic.”

Fred leaned closer, his voice lowering to match yours. “Look, I know he’s got a reputation—believe me, I’ve heard all about it—but people change. I’ve been watching him. He’s trying, Y/N. He really is.”

You glanced back at Jihoon, just in time to see him toss the boy lightly into the air and catch him, earning a giggle loud enough to echo through the room. Jihoon smiled, genuinely, and you caught yourself blinking like you couldn’t believe what you were seeing.

Fred nudged you. “See what I mean? That’s not the same guy who showed up on day one, looking like he wanted to be anywhere else but here.”

“Doesn’t mean he won’t screw this up,” you muttered, your fingers tightening around the clipboard you were holding.

Fred gave you a look that bordered on exasperation. “You’re allowed to doubt, boss, but at least give him credit for showing up. He’s not just phoning it in. Look at him.”

You did. Jihoon had set the boy down and was now crouching as a small group of kids swarmed him, waving drawings in his face. He listened intently, nodding as one of the girls pointed out the details of her masterpiece. Even from a distance, you could see the way his lips twitched into a small smile.

“See?” Fred whispered, his tone softer now. “He’s trying to be here, to be part of this. Maybe he’s not perfect, but none of us are. Don’t punish the guy for trying.”

You bit your lip again, uncertainty clawing at you. “It’s not just about trying, Fred. It’s about doing it.”

“And he’s doing,” Fred countered gently. “Every single day, in his own way.”

You stayed quiet, watching Jihoon stand up and ruffle one of the boy’s hair before turning back to his assistant. As if sensing your gaze, he glanced up, meeting your eyes for a fleeting moment. 

Fred patted your shoulder, snapping you out of it. “Look, I’m not saying you have to trust him blindly. But maybe, you can let him prove himself.”

You exhaled sharply, the weight of everything pressing against your chest. “Fine. But if he screws this up, I’m not holding back.”

Fred grinned.

Jihoon, still watching from across the room, gave you a slight nod before turning back to his conversation. The boy at his feet clung to his leg like a koala, and Jihoon, didn’t seem to mind.

— // One day before the Fundraiser Gala // —

The sound of heels and boots against the tile floor echoed through the kitchen, direct contradiction to the usual patter of children’s sneakers and laughter. Jihoon’s team had arrived, and damn, they looked like they meant business. Clad in immaculate white chef coats and black pants, they marched in like some kind of culinary SWAT team, their faces serious as their eyes scanned the colorful cabinets, the shelves stacked with bright utensils, and the whimsical decorations scattered around.

For a second, you thought they might’ve walked into the wrong place. This wasn’t their sleek with its stainless steel everything and clinical vibes.

One of the chefs—a woman probably in her late thirties, with warm brown eyes and a bright smile—broke away from the group. Her crisp chef’s hat stood out even more because of the colorful butterfly pinned to the front. She approached you with her hands clasped in front of her, her energy immediately softening the sharpness of the arrival.

“You must be Chef Y/N,” she saidt. “It’s such an honor to meet you. I’m a big fan of your work. My daughter used to come here a few years ago before we moved away.”

You blinked, caught off guard by her warmth. Then your lips curved into a genuine smile as you reached out to clasp her outstretched hand. “Oh, really? That’s amazing! What’s her name?”

“Ellie,” she said, her smile widening. “She loved it here—always talked about the classes and how kind you were. You really made an impact on her.”

Your chest tightened with pride as you squeezed her hands lightly. “That means so much to me. Thank you for sharing that.”

Jihoon’s voice broke through the moment, sharp but not unkind, as he began directing his team like a seasoned general. “You, start unpacking the equipment and setting up the stations. Over there,” he pointed toward the far counters, “clear the area for plating tomorrow. We’ll use this section for prep. Let’s move efficiently; we don’t have all day.”

The chefs snapped into action, moving in sync as they carried crates of supplies and ingredients to the designated areas. Some paused briefly to take in the kitchen's playful décor—bright red mixing bowls, pink spatulas, even a small chalkboard where the kids had drawn messy pictures of cookies and cakes.

A younger chef paused at the chalkboard and tilted his head, squinting at a crookedly drawn cake. “What’s this supposed to be?”

You smirked, stepping closer. “That’s a birthday cake. Pretty sure it was done by a five-year-old last week.”

He grinned sheepishly and quickly got back to work.

As the flurry of activity settled into a rhythm, Jihoon finally approached you, wiping his hands on a towel slung over his shoulder. His sleeves were rolled up, his forearms dusted with flour—intimidating or approachable? you couldn't name it. 

“So,” he said, nodding toward his team bustling behind him, “what do you think?”

You folded your arms, raising an eyebrow. “You brought an army.”

Jihoon smirked, his dimple flashing. “You said you were stressed about the gala. I figured I’d bring reinforcements.”

“I didn’t think reinforcements would look like... this.” You gestured toward the scene unfolding behind him—chefs moving almost mechanically, unpacking boxes of spices, knives, and tools that looked way too fancy for your humble kitchen. “They’re terrifyingly efficient.”

Jihoon’s smirk widened. “It’s what we do.”

You shook your head, pleasedly. “I’m not used to this many people in here. Usually, it’s just me, Fred, and the kids. Maybe a volunteer or two. This is... Geez.”

Jihoon’s expression softened just slightly. “It’ll be fine. They’re good at what they do, and they’re here to help.” He tilted his head toward the woman with the butterfly pin, who was busy organizing a shelf of ingredients. “And they’re not all bad, see? You’ve already made a fan.”

You let out a small laugh, glancing over at her. “She seems sweet. But you—” you pointed at him, mock serious, “—better not let this whole operation steamroll what we’ve got here. I don’t want this place feeling like some high-end restaurant. It’s not what we’re about.”

Jihoon held up his hands, a teasing glint in his eyes. “Noted, Chef. No steamrolling.”

“Good,” you said, though it was a simple conversation, it left your stomach flipping a little.

Fred appeared at your side, raising an eyebrow at the scene. “Well, this is new. You two... not bickering?”

Jihoon let out a low laugh. “Don’t get used to it.”

Fred snorted. “Noted.”

As the three of you stood there, Jihoon’s team settled further into their work. And for the first time in days, you let yourself feel a tiny spark of hope. Maybe  this fundraiser wouldn’t be a complete disaster.

The faint pop of balloons filled the air as you stood outside the big house, pointing toward the arch being assembled. The guy on the ladder adjusted the last few balloons based on your direction. “Yeah, a little to the left. No, too much—back a bit. Perfect!” you called, stepping back to admire the colorful display. Satisfied, you headed inside to check on the lobby.

The scene was coming together beautifully. Soft string lights cascaded down the walls, tables draped in crisp white cloths were adorned with modest floral arrangements, and a few colorful drawings from the kids had been framed and placed strategically to keep the spirit of the NGO alive. You smiled, exhaustion creeping in.

The kitchen door swung open briefly, the sound of movement spilling out. Jihoon’s voice rang clear as he called out commands. Curious, you moved closer, the faint smell of roasted vegetables and fresh herbs making your stomach grumble.

“Should we add the asparagus to the risotto?” one of the chefs asked Jihoon.

You peeked in to see Jihoon standing near the counter, frowning at the question. His arms were crossed as he considered the dish. “No. Substitute it with something the kids will like better. Maybe peas or sweet corn—something familiar.” His tone was sharp but thoughtful, and you couldn’t help the small smile tugging at your lips. He’s got this.

With the decoration finished, you looked around the lobby one last time, hands on your hips, your legs were starting to feel the long day. Just as you were about to head upstairs for a quick break, Jihoon’s voice called out.

“Chef Y/N! Come to the kitchen for a second!”

You groaned dramatically, rolling your eyes but heading toward the kitchen anyway. The team had gathered around the main counter, dishes from the menu arranged neatly in front of them. Jihoon stood in the center, sleeves rolled up, looking completely in his element. When you stepped in, he placed a firm hand on your lower back, gently guiding you to the counter.

“Alright, Chef,” he said with a small smirk. “You’re the boss—taste and let us know if anything needs adjusting.”

You set your clipboard down by the edge of the counter, glancing at the team. Their expressions ranged from curious to tense, some with hands clasped nervously in front of them, others holding their breath. The way they watched you reminded you of the kids during class, eagerly awaiting your feedback with shiny, hopeful eyes. It was a window straight to their inner child, and it warmed you in a way you hadn’t expected.

You picked up the first dish—a delicate risotto plated beautifully with fresh herbs—and took a bite. The creamy texture melted on your tongue, and you couldn’t help but nod in approval. The team collectively exhaled, and a few shared quiet smiles.

Moving to the next dish, a roasted chicken breast with a honey glaze, you chewed thoughtfully before nodding again. Your eyebrows raised as you flipped to a fresh page on your clipboard and started writing.

From the corner of your eye, you noticed a few of them shifting nervously, trying to sneak a peek at what you were jotting down. You heard someone’s breath hitch, and you fought back a grin. Their curiosity bubbling over like kids at a science fair.

Finally, you set the pen down and looked up at the group with a big smile. “Everything is excellent,” you said warmly, your tone full of genuine praise. The room erupted into quiet sighs of relief and soft laughter as they exchanged congratulatory nods.

Jihoon stood at your side, his eyes on you, but you didn’t miss the curiosity there, too. You ripped the page from your clipboard and handed it to him. “Here,” you said. “See you all tomorrow—get some rest. You’ve earned it!”

As you left the kitchen, you could feel their eyes lingering on you, their whispers audible even as you stepped into the hallway.

“What did she write?” someone asked, unable to contain their curiosity.

Jihoon unfolded the note, and for a moment, his face was unclear. Then he scoffed softly, a smile breaking across his face as he shook his head.

“What is it, Chef?”

Jihoon chuckled and held up the paper for them to see. Written in bold letters, surrounded by a big smiley face, were the words:

"You have the best team ever, Jihoon-ah! (P.S. Don’t mess it up, or I’ll switch the risotto for instant noodles tomorrow.)"

The room blast into laughter, the tension evaporating in an instant. Jihoon rubbed the back of his neck, grinning sheepishly.

— // The day of the Fundraiser Gala // —

The afternoon stretched lazily into evening. You were on autopilot, clipboard in hand, mentally running through the checklist one last time.

You didn’t even notice Jihoon’s team gathered in a loose circle near the kitchen, stifling laughter as they watched you stride past, completely oblivious. Jihoon, standing at the center, tried to hold it together, his lips twitching and his cheeks dangerously close to full-on pink.

When you finally looked up, feeling the weight of their stares, you froze. Jihoon caught your gaze, his face crumpling into silent laughter as he pointed at your head.

You blinked, confused, before your hand flew up and landed on the pink rollers still perched on your head. Your cheeks flamed instantly. “Oh my God,” you groaned, rolling your eyes dramatically. “Not a word!” you warned, glaring at Jihoon, who was practically doubled over, biting his fist to keep from cackling.

“Come on,” he teased, still grinning. “It’s a look!”

You huffed, trying to keep your composure as you giggled despite yourself. Jihoon straightened, still laughing. “Alright, alright, no judgment. But seriously…” His tone softened slightly, and his eyes swept over you. “You’ve been running around all day. Go get ready—we’ll take care of the rest from here.”

You smiled tiredly, feeling the faint brush of his fingers against your shoulder as he winked. The touch lingered, even as you turned to head upstairs.

In your office, the mirror reflected someone entirely different from your usual self. The rollers were gone, replaced by soft waves cascading around your face. The long dress hugged your waist and flared subtly at your hips. It was nothing like the practical aprons or flour-dusted chef hats you wore every day. For the first time in a while, you felt glamorous.

A knock sounded at your door, and Fred poked his head in. “You look…” He sniffed loudly, dramatically. “...so good. Do you even know how to walk in heels?”

You rolled your eyes and pushed at his shoulder playfully. “Shut up, Fred.” The hard texture of his tuxedo jacket pressed against your palm, a memo that tonight wasn’t just another day in the kitchen.

The lobby was alive when you descended the stairs. Guests filled the space—reporters, actors, chefs with Michelin stars under their belts, the kids’ parents, and longtime supporters of the organization. Some children were already laughing and playing with the monitors, their joy cutting through the formal atmosphere in the most perfect way.

You greeted guests warmly, flashing your practiced smile as cameras clicked and people extended hands to shake yours. But out of the corner of your eye, you caught sight of Jihoon.

He stood near one of the round tables, his pristine white chef’s coat gleaming under the lights. Unlike the standard uniforms, his was sharp and sophisticated, accented with a brooch showcasing his achievements. His short hair was perfectly styled, and the smell of his soap lingered faintly in the air—jihoon always smelled like a fresh bath.

Jihoon was mid-conversation with a Michelin-starred chef, but his attention kept drifting. You could feel his eyes on you as you moved through the crowd. When your gaze met his, he subtly adjusted the collar of his coat, looking flustered.

He raised his hand, beckoning you over.

“Y/N,” he called, a bit more breathless than usual.

You walked over, smiling as he introduced you. “This is Chef Park. I had classes with him when I was just starting out.”

Chef Park extended a hand warmly, and you shook it, your voice full of charm as you exchanged pleasantries. Jihoon tried to stay focused on the conversation, but his gaze kept sliding back to you.

The dress—damn, the dress. The way it emphasized the curve of your waist, the dip of your back, the subtle swell of your chest—Jihoon felt his mouth go dry.

While you chatted animatedly with Chef Park, Jihoon fought to keep himself together. His eyes darted downward for a split second, landing on your ass before quickly snapping back up.

Fred sidled up next to Jihoon, smirking. “She cleans up nice, huh?”

Jihoon shot him a sharp look, cheeks pink. “Shut up.”

Fred grinned wider, nudging him with an elbow. “Bet you’re regretting all those jokes about her rollers now.”

Jihoon groaned quietly, running a hand through his hair as he muttered, “You have no idea.”

When the conversation with Chef Park ended, you turned back to Jihoon, your smile soft. “So? Everything on track?”

Jihoon swallowed hard, nodding. “Yeah. All good. Just… don’t trip in those heels, okay?” he teased lightly, though his voice was a little hoarse.

You smirked, leaning in slightly. “Don’t burn the risotto, Jihoon-ah.”

Fred’s laugh from behind was loud enough to draw attention, but you were already slipping away, leaving Jihoon standing there, flustered and very much not focused on risotto anymore.

Everywhere you turned, there were people—donors, parents, fancy celebs holding glasses of wine like it was part of their outfits. The kind of people who looked too perfect. 

Back in the kitchen, you caught glimpses of Jihoon barking orders—well, not barking, but you know, his stern-but-not-rude tone that somehow made you think, damn, is it hot in here, or is it just him? His uniform was doing wonders, too. That brooch on his chest? Fancy as hell. The sharp cut of his chef coat? Not fair. The dude was practically glowing, commanding his team with this quiet authority that made you wanna—well, your ego didn’t wanted to finish that thought.

But it wasn’t just his looks. Watching him orchestrate everything like a culinary conductor, was making your knees go weak—It just hit different. He made plating look like an Olympic sport—it was sexy in a he’s-too-distracted-to-realize-how-hot-he-is kinda way.

You tried not to linger in the kitchen doorway like some creep, but your feet betrayed you. You found yourself lingering by the double doors leading into the kitchen way more than necessary, just to sneak a peek. And when Jihoon glanced up mid-sentence—probably to tell someone to stop over-salting the soup, the devil on your shoulder moaned in the most slutty and mockingly way in your ear.

He had this stupid air about him tonight, like a general in a Michelin-starred army, his pristine chef’s jacket glowing under the lights.

Honestly, it was hot. Too hot.

Every detail mattered to him tonight, like he was pouring himself into every dish for the house—and for you.

Meanwhile, Jihoon… He felt you. He swore he could feel you every damn time you entered the kitchen. He didn’t even have to turn around to know you were standing there, clipboard probably in hand, lips pressed together as you analyzed everything.

At one point, as he was giving instructions about caramelizing the chiken, his assistant caught him mid-stutter. Jihoon blinked, realizing he’d glanced at the door when he didn’t even mean to. Sure enough, there you were, leaning slightly against the doorframe, watching him.

“Chef?” his assistant asked, clearly amused.

Jihoon shook his head, trying to focus. But god, how could he when you were out there looking like that? The memory of your dress earlier—was burned into his mind, everytime he finished a plate.

And you weren’t just standing around, either. You were networking like crazy, charming the big donors with your natural warmth. Jihoon kept overhearing snippets of your conversations, catching the soft laughs you’d coax out of the crowd. His chest tightened every time. How the hell were you this good at everything?

The main event started in the salon, where guests gathered around tables adorned with delicate flower arrangements. A massive screen hung at the front of the room, flashing photos of the NGO��s achievements, kids smiling and laughing, and heartfelt thank-you messages from families.

You had a glass of wine in your hand, but you weren’t drinking much—your attention was split between schmoozing the guests and keeping tabs on Jihoon. He entered the room with his team in tow, their white jackets contrasting beautifully with the dark, sleek space. His presence shifted the entire mood, drawing eyes like a magnet.

As the night went on, donations started rolling in. The screen showed the numbers climbing higher and higher, names of donors flashing beside each amount. You clapped along with everyone else, heart swelling every time the digits jumped. But then a new name appeared: Lee Jihoon. His real name by the side of the donation, not his professional one.

Your breath caught. The amount wasn’t just generous; it was enormous. Enough to make an audible gasp ripple through the crowd.

Fred’s hands landed on your shoulders, giving them a firm squeeze. You didn’t respond, eyes fixed on Jihoon as he stood near the back of the room, his hands shoved into his pockets. He wasn’t looking at the screen. Instead, his gaze was on you.

Later, after the gala dinner had been served and the kids had performed their adorable little skit, Jihoon’s team gathered in the salon, celebrating their successful service. Jihoon found you again, his hand brushing yours as he handed you a flute of champagne, making you abandon your clipboard once for the night, before heading to the kitchen. Cute.

Minutes later Jihoon saw you coming towards his team direction, and he stepped aside, making room for you in the circle. His hand brushed against your back lightly, making your skin shiver under the pads of his fingers.

“Everything okay?” he asked.

“Perfect,” you replied, glancing at him. “You really outdid yourself tonight.”

He gave a small smile, but it didn’t quite hide the way his chest puffed up a little at your praise.

One of the chefs leaned forward, clearly curious. “So… what’d you think of the risotto?”

You laughed softly, remembering the dish you’d tasted earlier. “Honestly? It was flawless. You guys knocked it out of the park.”

The team broke into wide smiles, their pride radiating through the room. Jihoon stood quietly beside you, but you could feel the satisfaction rolling off him.

“You really do have the best team, Jihoon-ah,” you said quietly, just for him to hear.

He chuckled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “I know. But don’t tell them that—they’ll get cocky.”

You rolled your eyes, but your smile stayed.

[...]

The house was a ghost town now, silent except for the soft hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen. The laughter of the kids and clinking of glasses had faded into memories, and the night felt heavy in the best way—like it had been full.

You stretched your legs out on the rest room couch, head lolling back. The long dress you’d cursed earlier now felt like salvation, hiding how much you wanted to just kick your heels off and sprawl indecently. Fred and Jihoon’s assistant sat across from you, chatting nonstop like they hadn’t just survived the most exhausting night of their lives.

Jihoon, was quiet, his head tilted back against the wall, arms crossed, looking done. You wanted to tell him to take a break, but you knew better—he’d earned the silence.

Still, your throat felt dry, and you sat up suddenly, pushing yourself off the couch. “I need another drink. Back in a sec.”

Fred shot you a look. “Champagne? Or vodka this time?”

“Champagne.” you fflip him off with a tired grin as you headed for the kitchen.

The kitchen was spotless, not a single dish out of place. You stared at the counters, blinking in disbelief.

“No way,” you murmured under your breath, tugging a fresh bottle of champagne from the cooler. “Even the dishes?”

A low voice startled you. “Even the dishes.”

You jumped, nearly dropping the bottle, and spun around. Jihoon was leaning against the doorway, his jacket draped over one arm, his hair slightly mussed like he’d run his fingers through it too many times. He smirked softly at your reaction.

“Sorry,” he said, stepping into the kitchen. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“You didn’t,” you lied, grabbing a second glass for him. You poured the champagne and handed him one.

“Cheers,” you said, raising your glass.

He clinked his against yours with a quiet chuckle, the sound of the glasses meeting delicate in the silence.

You sat on the counter, letting out a soft sigh as you sipped. Jihoon moved to lean against the counter beside you, his thigh brushing your knee as he turned his glass in his hand.

“You proved me wrong tonight,” you said suddenly, catching his eye.

He tilted his head, curious. “Oh yeah? About what?”

You smiled, a little softer this time. “About whether you really cared about this place. About the kids. About any of it. I thought you were just here because…” You trailed off, shaking your head. “I don’t know. Because you had to be.”

Jihoon’s brows furrowed, no defensiveness in his voice when he said, “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t care, Y/N. You know that.”

“I do now,” you admitted, setting your glass beside you. “I see it in how you are with the kids. How you talk to them, listen to them. Even tonight, bowing to every single parent...”

Jihoon’s face softened. “They’re… incredible. Every single one of them. I’m not gonna lie—I thought I wasn’t great with kids. But these kids? I love them, Y/N. Like… it’s different. They’re different. They remind me why I even started doing all this in the first place.”

You leaned back slightly, studying him, your chest tightening at how genuine he looked.

“You’re a sap,” you said, grinning.

“And you’re not?” he shot back, smirking.

You nudged his leg with your knee. “Don’t deflect. I’m being serious. You’ve come so far since you got here. And honestly? The house wouldn’t be what it is tonight without you.”

Jihoon stared at you for a long moment, his lips twitching like he wanted to argue, but then he just took a final sip of his champagne and placed the glass beside yours.

You didn’t even realize you’d been holding your breath until he shifted, slotting himself between your legs with a smoothness that should’ve been illegal. His hands found the counter on either side of your thighs, and he leaned in close.

“You don’t give yourself enough credit,” he murmured. “This place is you. Every inch of it. I’m just… lucky to be part of it.”

Your breath hitched as you met his eyes, the proximity making it impossible to look anywhere else.

“Jihoon…”

“Hmm?” His gaze flicked to your lips, then back to your eyes.

“You’re… a lot.”

“And you’re not?”

Jihoon stood close enough for you to notice how the soft cotton of his t-shirt clung to him underneath the chef’s coat he’d shrugged off earlier. Without thinking, your hand lifted, fingers brushing against the collar of the shirt.

He didn’t move, didn’t flinch. His gaze stayed locked on you, soft and curious.

You cleared your throat, keeping your voice steady. “So… you staying in town? Or are you disappearing again?”

Jihoon tilted his head, smiling softly. “I’m staying.”

“Good,” you said with a small nod, your fingers lingering for a second longer before dropping back to your lap. “In that case… want to make it official?”

His eyebrows shot up. “Official?”

You grinned, your tired eyes sparkling. “I mean, if you want to be part of our team. Contract and everything. Full-on chef Jihoon at the NGO.”

Jihoon blinked at you, the surprise written all over his face. “Are you serious?”

“Dead serious,” you replied. “At this point, if you leave, the kids are gonna cry for days.”

He scoffed, shaking his head with a laugh. “The kids? I’d probably cry.”

You laughed with him, the sound soft and genuine. “Would you?”

“Definitely,” he said, then glanced at you with a smirk. “Would you cry?”

You raised an eyebrow, leaning back a little as you place your palms behind you. “Please. I’ve already cried plenty because of you.”

Jihoon groaned, throwing his head back in defeat. “Don’t bring that up,” he whined.

You softened, nudging his arm. “I’m kidding.”

He sighed, resting his head on your shoulder like he was trying to hide from your teasing. “I know,” he mumbled. “But it’s real.”

You didn’t know if he meant the apology or the gratitude, but the way his hand lifted from the counter to rest on your leg through the slit of your dress made your back arch a bit. His palm was warm against your skin, his touch featherlight as he squeezed gently.

He straightened just slightly, his face close enough now that you could see the faint flush creeping along his cheekbones. “What if,” he said quietly, “I made you cry with something good instead?”

Your lips parted, the question taking you off guard. Jihoon didn’t pull back, his gaze flickering between your eyes and your mouth like he was waiting for an answer. His eyebrows furrowing as if he was doing a really big effort to not kiss you.

“I—” You swallowed, your voice catching as his thumb began to trace slow circles against your leg.

His other hand brushed the edge of the counter beside you, steadying himself as he leaned just a fraction closer. “Would you let me?” he asked softly.

Your breath hitched as Jihoon’s hand slid higher up your thigh, his palm warm and firm. The tiniest, unintentional sound escaped your lips—breathy and needy—and the way his smirk curved made your panties sticky almst instantly. He leaned in, close enough for a soft, teasing peck. Merely there. Then he pulled back just enough to catch your reaction, his smirk deepening at the horny look in your eyes.

“Ji,” you whispered, grabbing the front of his shirt before he could get smug. Your lips found his, no uncertainty at all this time, your tongue slipping between his parted lips. 

His lips were impossibly soft, moving against yours with a rhythm that left your mind spinning. His tongue met yours, sweeping against it in a way that made you clutch his shirt tighter, pulling him closer. His hands abandoned your thigh, traveling upward, his palms smoothing over your hips, then the curve of your ass, before they settled on your waist.

Jihoon kissed like he worked in the kitchen—passionately, hard. Every movement was like he knew what would make you wetter, his lips pressing into yours harder, hungrier, as though he was savoring you. His thumbs brushed the edges of your ribs, fingers splaying as he drew you closer, swallowing the quiet moans that slipped out against his lips.

He broke away for a moment, sucking gently on your bottom lip before releasing it with a soft pop. His lips lingered, warm and swollen, against your skin as he caught his breath. You felt his breath fan against your jaw before his mouth trailed kisses to the sensitive skin behind your earlobe. The press of his lips there was wetter, slower, his tongue just grazing enough to make your head tilt back.

His lips were plush, his tongue warm as it laved over the skin just below your ear. The sensation was maddening—gentle nips and soothing licks. He kissed lower, his lips brushing the curve of your neck, finding the pulse point that fluttered beneath his tongue. His tongue darted out, hot and slick, tasting the salt of your skin before he pulled it back in to suck lightly.

You felt your pussy expulsing more honey right after an agonizing tug on your lower belly. You rolled your hipstrying to find his heat down there too. “Hey—Jihoon,” you murmured, hardly able to get his name out as his mouth kept working, your mind slurred, weak and the faint.

And then, just as his hand slid higher, brushing along your ribcage toward your chest, reality hit you like a slap in the face.

The kitchen.

You froze for a second, pulling back with a shaky laugh as you pressed a hand to his chest. “We can’t… here,” you whispered, your cheeks flaming. “This is literally where the kids cook.”

“You’re right. God, you’re right. Im sorry.” Jihoon said, voice muffled against your skin as he let out a shy laugh. “I know. I just…” He pulled back slightly, looking at you like he didn’t want to let go. “I’m sorry. You’re just…”

“Just what?” you teased, arching a brow even as you felt the heat rising to your cheeks.

“...So hot,” he admitted, his lips curving into a sheepish smile that only made you hornier. 

You were about to respond—maybe tease him, maybe kiss him again—when the sound of someone clearing their throat made you both snap out of it like a couple of guilty teenagers caught sneaking around.

Standing in the doorway were Fred and Jihoon’s assistant, their jaws practically on the floor. Fred looked like he’d seen a ghost—or maybe his entire worldview shatter—while Jihoon’s assistant was holding a tray of neatly plated desserts, now slightly tilted as they both froze in place.

“Um…” Fred finally managed. “Are we… interrupting… something?”

You and Jihoon pulled apart instantly—well, as much as you could with him still standing between your legs and his hands still firmly on your waist.

“No!” you both blurted in unison, your voices hitting slightly different octaves, which only made the situation even more awkward.

Fred squinted at the two of you, his gaze darting between your flushed face, Jihoon’s equally guilty expression, and the very obvious fact that you were still sitting on the counter with Jihoon standing way too close.

“Uh-huh,” Fred said slowly, folding his arms. “Because it looks like I just walked into a scene straight out of a porno.”

Jihoon’s assistant, meanwhile, was trying—and failing—to hold back laughter, his shoulders shaking as he set the tray down on a nearby table, grinning like he’d just uncovered the gossip of the century. “Should we give you two a minute? Or, like… ten?”

“Okay, stop,” you groaned, hiding your face in your hands as you tried to will the floor to swallow you whole. “It’s not what it looks like.”

Fred raised an eyebrow. “Really? Because it looks like you were—”

“Fred!” you snapped, cutting him off before he could finish that sentence.

Jihoon, to his credit, was doing his best to look professional again, straightening his shirt and stepping back slightly, though his ears were burning red and his black pants were almost exploding with the hard bulge poking the zipper. “I mean… we were just… talking,” he said, his voice awkwardly high-pitched. “Right, Y/N?”

“Totally.” you said, nodding way too quickly. 

Fred looked like he was physically restraining himself from rolling his eyes. “Oh yeah, because that totally explains why Jihoon’s lips were practically glued to your neck.”

Jihoon’s assistant let out a snort, finally losing it as he doubled over laughing. “This is so much better than I imagined,” he said between giggles. “I knew something was up between you two, but this? Oh, this is gold.”

“Can we not?” Jihoon mumbled, his hands rubbing his face as he leaned against the counter beside you. “Seriously, just… forget this happened, okay?”

Fred crossed his arms, looking suspiciously amused. “Oh, no chance. This is going in the house history books.”

Jihoon groaned. “You’re literally the worst.”

“Yeah, and yet you’re the one making out in the kitchen,” Fred shot back, smirking. “So who’s really winning here?”

You sighed, hopping off the counter and smoothing your dress as you tried to regain some semblance of dignity. “Okay, you’ve had your fun. Can we move on now?”

Fred shrugged, still grinning as he followed Jihoon’s assistant out of the room. “Oh, sure. But just so you know, I’m never letting you live this down.”

As they disappeared around the corner, Jihoon let out a long sigh, his shoulders slumping. His face softened as he caught your eye, and he let out a quiet laugh.

You shrugged, biting back a smile. “Could be worse.”

“Yeah?” Jihoon asked, stepping closer again, his voice reducing slightly. “Like what?”

You didn’t answer, but the look you gave him said everything.

[...]

The NGO was officially closed for a week after the fundraiser gala—a well-deserved break for everyone involved. You had practically collapsed in exhaustion the night after the event, but now, as the week began, your nerves were alive again for a completely different reason: Jihoon was coming over.

Your house, modest and cozy, suddenly felt inadequate in your eyes. It wasn’t that it wasn’t clean or comfortable—it was—but compared to whatever sleek, high-tech penthouse you imagined Jihoon lived in, with modern furniture, and probably some state-of-the-art espresso machine that greeted him in the morning with a personalized message, you felt like your space might seem a little too... quaint.

Still, you’d spent the morning scrubbing your house from top to bottom. The counters were wiped down three times, the couch cushions fluffed and rearranged, and the tiny plant by the window watered, even though it definitely didn’t need it. 

You glanced at yourself in the mirror for what had to be the fiftieth time, smoothing down the soft pink fabric of your loose dress. It wasn’t too dressy, but it was cute and casual enough to not feel overdone. The fabric swayed lightly as you moved, and you liked how it made you look pretty. Enough to say, “I’m not trying too hard, but also please notice I’m cute.”

Why are you acting like this is a date? you scolded yourself. It’s just Jihoon. He’s coming here for work.

To top it off, you’d spent way too long picking out a perfume that smelled sweet but subtle enough to not overpower him. You’d made sure you didn’t smell like cake batter or frosting—not that it would’ve been bad.

When the knock finally came, you nearly tripped over your own feet rushing to the door. Taking a deep breath, you smoothed your dress one last time and opened it, trying not to look like you’d been anxiously waiting there for twenty minutes.

Jihoon stood on your porch, casual but polished in a black crewneck and jeans, his hair perfectly messy in that way that looked completely effortless. He smiled softly, holding up a notebook and a small bag of groceries. “I come bearing snacks and bad handwriting,” he said.

You laughed, stepping aside to let him in. “Well, the snacks can stay. We’ll see about the handwriting.”

Jihoon looked around, his eyes scanning the cozy space. “This is nice,” he said, nodding appreciatively. “Way more personality than my place.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “Really? I thought you’d be used to… like… manoir vibes.”

“Manoirs don’t feel like this,” he said, glancing at the soft lighting and the framed photos on your shelves. “This feels like someone actually lives here.”

He smirked, stepping into the living room and setting his bag down. “So, what’s the big plan for this super important work meeting?”

Ah, yes. The “work.” You’d convinced yourself that this was about finalizing the “Culinary Educational Outreach Program” you’d both been brainstorming for the organization. Jihoon called it “CEOP,” pronounced like “sip,” which made Fred gag every time he said it.

“First,” you said, trying to ignore how nice Jihoon looked standing in your living room, “we sit down and outline the goals for CEOP. Then, we cook.”

“Cook?” Jihoon raised an eyebrow, his smirk widening. “Are you just using this as an excuse to put me to work in your kitchen?”

You rolled your eyes, motioning for him to follow you to the dining table. “Shut up and sit down. We’ve got notes to take.”

The two of you sat across from each other, your knees brushing occasionally under the table. Jihoon’s handwriting was frustratingly neat for someone who claimed he didn’t care about stationary aesthetics, and for someone who claimed to have atrocious handwriting.

“So,” you started, tapping your pen against the page, “we want to make the cooking classes accessible, fun, and educational, right?”

“Yeah,” Jihoon said, jotting something down. “But we also need to keep the budget in mind. Like, how much can we actually afford to spend on those tiny aprons the kids keep asking for?”

You snorted. “You’re still salty about the aprons?”

“They’re expensive!” he argued, eyes narrowing at you. “And they’re just gonna get covered in flour and icing.”

“That’s the point, Jihoon. Let them be messy. It’s part of the fun.”

Jihoon shook his head, but you caught the way the corner of his mouth twitched up. “Fine. Tiny aprons. But if the kids start demanding personalized chef hats, that’s on you.”

You laughed, leaning forward slightly as you scribbled down some ideas. Jihoon’s gaze flickered to your neckline watching how your boobs moved as you breathe for a split second before he snapped back to his notebook, clearing his throat.

The plan transitioned seamlessly into the kitchen—almost seamlessly. You’d barely gotten past measuring the ingredients when Jihoon leaned over to adjust your grip on a whisk, his hand brushing yours.

“You’re holding it like you’re trying to stab the dough,” he teased.

“Maybe I am,” you shot back, sticking your tongue out at him.

Jihoon just laughed, stepping back to watch as you mixed the batter. His eyes wandered—innocently at first, but when you shifted your weight and the neckline of your dress dipped slightly, he had to bite the inside of his bottom lip to… focus.

“Okay, my turn,” he said, taking the whisk from you.

As he worked, you found yourself leaning in closer, watching the way his muscles shifted under his shirt, the way his jaw clenched slightly in concentration. You didn’t even realize how close you were until Jihoon dipped his finger into the icing sugar and smudged a line across your cheek, careful to not mess your pretty make up or accidentally spot your dress.

“Hey!” you gasped, stepping back, your eyes wide.

Jihoon grinned, holding up his hands. “What? It’s a kitchen. You’re supposed to get messy, remember?”

You frowned, sulking slightly as you wiped at your cheek. “I thought you were gonna kiss me, not… attack me with sugar.”

Jihoon leaned back just enough to meet your flustered gaze, his smirk downright unsafe. He tilted his head, pretending to be shocked, one hand pressed to his chest in mock disbelief.

“Oh,” he said, his voice low and teasing. “So you want me to kiss you?”

You could feel the heat creeping up your neck, your hands fidgeting at your sides. “I didn’t—”

“Mm-mm.” Jihoon shook his head, cutting you off as he stepped closer, crowding your space. “Don’t even try to deny it. You’ve been looking at me like that all dayy. And now this pout?” His eyes flicked to your lips, and the corner of his mouth twitched. “If you do that again, I might just have to—”

You couldn’t look at him. The pressure of his gaze was too much, and you turned your head to the side, lips pressed into a tight line. Jihoon wasn’t having it.

His hand reached up, fingers gently guiding your chin until you were looking at him again. “There it is,” he murmured, his voice a little rougher, like he was restraining himself from jumping on you. “That pout.” His smile widened, and he took a small step between your legs, his hands finding your hips and squeezing lightly. “C’mere.”

His lips brushed yours—insufficiently, like a mock. It wasn’t enough to satisfy the yearn already forming between your legs, but it was enough to make you almost moan. And Jihoon noticed.

He grinned against your mouth, taking his time as his hand slid up to cradle the back of your neck, bumping your tits in the process. “You’re gonna have to ask me properly, like the good girl you are,” he whispered, the tip of his nose grazing yours.

“Please?” you breathed, but it was all he longed for.

His lips captured yours fully this time, devastatingly thorough. He didn’t rush, every moment spent tasting your lips was something he savored. His tongue flicked out, tracing the seam of your lips, coaxing them open, and when you let him in, he took.

His tongue hungrily claimed yours, his tongue sliding against yours in deep, lazy strokes that made your knees weak. His other hand slipped around to your lower back, pulling you impossibly closer, so close you could feel the heat of him through his shirt.

He tilted his head, angling the kiss to deepen it further. His teeth grazed your bottom lip, tugging lightly before his tongue followed, soothing the slight sting. The contrast made you whimper, your hands clutching at his shirt like it was the only thing keeping you upright even though the kitchen counter was supporting your back.

“God, you sound so pretty,” Jihoon murmured against your lips. He pressed his hips into yours just enough for you to feel his cock growing inside his pants, making you frown desperately, your fingers tightening in the fabric of his shirt.

His hand drifted lower, squeezing your waist before trailing over the curve of your ass. When he pulled back, just slightly, his lips were plum, slick and swollen. He leaned in again, pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth, then to your jaw, then to the sensitive spot that he tasted and teased days before.

Your head fell back as his lips traveled lower, his tongue flicking out to taste the skin of your neck. He sucked lightly, and you knew that it was enough to leave a redspot without even look at it.

Your hand slid between your bodies, and the second your palm made contact with the unyielding weight of his cock, Jihoon’s reaction was instant. His hips stuttered forward, a whiny, almost helpless sound escaping his lips as his forehead dropped against your shoulder. “Oh, fuck—you can’t just—” He cut himself off with a breathy laugh that turned into a moan, his hands gripping your hips to steady himself.

You couldn’t help but grin while rolling your eyes lightly, fingers curling around him to get a better feel. He felt big, so thick that your fingers barely wrapped halfway around the length of him. You gave an experimental squeeze, and his mouth fell open, his breath hitching as he muttered, “Jesus fucking Christ, Y/N.”

“Didn’t think you’d be so sensitive,” you teased, sliding your hand along him slowly, feeling the heat of him through the fabric. His hips jerked involuntarily, grinding into your palm, and you gasped at the weight of his phallus.

He lifted his head, his face flushed, lips shiny and parted. “Sensitive?” He let out a shaky laugh, biting his bottom lip before grinning wickedly. “You’re over here squeezing me, and you wanna talk about me being sensitive?”

You squeezed him again, just to see what he’d do, and he cursed loudly, his eyes squeezing shut. “Fuck—okay, okay, you’re insane.” His hands gripped your hips tighter, holding you still as he started to grind against your palm, his cock twitching under your touch.

“Jihoon,” you whispered, and he opened his eyes, his pupils broad as he looked at you.

“What?” he rasped with voice strained but, his hips never losing their rhythm against your hand.

“You’re literally humping my hand right now,” you pointed out, biting your lip to hold back a laugh.

“And?” His mouth curved into a smirk, though his voice wavered as you tightened your grip on him. “You think I’m just gonna sit here all chill while you touch me like that?” He let out another moan, his head falling back slightly before his gaze locked on you again.

You leaned in, pressing your lips to his ear. “Feels good, huh?” You pressed your palm harder against him, your fingers teasing along his length. His response was immediate—his hips bucked, and a whiny “shit” escaped his lips, his face scrunching up in pleasure.

Jihoon smirked, leaning in until his lips hovered over yours. “Keep playing, and see what happens,” he murmured, his breath warm against your skin.

You raised an eyebrow, your fingers brushing against the tip of him, and he groaned, the pads of your fingers starting to get sticky with the precum already jutting through his pants. 

He exhaled sharply, and suddenly, his body pressed against yours so firmly that you couldn’t move. The breath hitched in your throat as his hips pushed yours into the counter. Jihoon’s eyes flicked down, and that’s when he froze.

Your dress straps had slipped from your shoulder, the fabric falling just enough to expose the curve of your chest. The neckline dipped precariously low, your tits all but spilling out. He couldn’t decide if he wanted to worship or devour you.

“Holy shit,” he muttered, dragging his bottom lip through his teeth before smirking. “Hiding all that under an apron, hm? How dare you?”

You rolled your eyes and gave him a tiny, playful shake, but the motion only made things worse. Jihoon’s pupils dilated as his eyes flicked between the slight bounce and your face.

Without waiting another second, he hooked his fingers under the neckline of your dress and tugged it down, the fabric pooling at your feet in record time. He muttered something incoherent under his breath, hands already fumbling with the clasp of your bra, his desperation so endearing it made you giggle.

“You good?” you teased as he struggled with the hooks.

“Do not laugh at me right now,” he grumbled. Finally, the clasp came undone, and he yanked the straps down your arms like his life counted on it.

“Goddamn,” he whispered, his hands immediately cupping you, warm and firm. His thumbs brushed over your nipples, and you feel like jelly in his hands, your skin not even covering the shivering. “You’re actually perfect. Like, what the hell?”

You were about to retort when he leaned forward and pressed a wet, open-mouthed kiss to the swell of your breast, and whatever witty comment you had died on your tongue.

Jihoon pulled back just enough to look at you. “Counter,” he rasped, already moving to lift you.

But the universe had other plans. His elbow knocked into a mixing bowl on the counter, sending it clattering to the floor with a loud metallic crash. Both of you froze, eyes wide like kids caught sneaking snacks.

“Shit,” Jihoon whispered, glancing down at the bowl before meeting your eyes. A laugh bubbled out of him, breathy and slightly unhinged. “Okay, yeah. This is cursed. New location.”

You couldn’t help but laugh too, as he grabbed your hand, pulling you toward the bathroom like it was some grand escape.

The bathroom light flicked on, and Jihoon speeded, it was the next room. He turned to you, his hands sliding up your sides, fingers brushing over the straps still hanging limply on your forearms. “Let me,” he murmured, his voice softer now but no less heated.

Instead of rushing, he dipped his head, his lips trailing down your shoulder as he pushed the straps down. The fabric fell away entirely, and his hands followed the motion, sliding down your body.

When you reached for his shirt, Jihoon smirked, pulling back just slightly. “Oh, you wanna do the honors?”

You nodded, biting your lip as you tugged the hem of his shirt up. He raised his arms, letting you peel it off him, the fabric catching on his mess of dark hair before dropping to the floor. Your hands roamed over his chest, tracing the lines of his muscles as he watched you.

When it came to his pants, though, he grabbed your wrist. “Wait,” he said, his grin widening. He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his pants and drawers and pushed them down himself.

Your eyes dropped, and you couldn’t help the way your mouth fell open slightly. “Wow,” you whispered, and he laughed, stepping closer until his body pressed against yours again.

“Yeah?” he murmured, his lips brushing yours. “Wait ‘til I’m inside you.”

You didn’t even try to stifle the shameless moan that ripped from your throat, loud and unrestricted. It sounded like something straight out of a porno, and Jihoon had the nerve to smirk. “Damn, we’re not even there yet… You like it when I talk with you like this?”

You nodded quickly, disoriented in the sense to say anything coherent. Jihoon smirked, leaning in to nip at your jawline before pulling back just enough to hook a finger into the waistband of your panties.

“Come nearer,” he whispered, tugging you forward by the elastic until your chest clashed against his. His nails grazed the skin just above the fabric, teasing the sensitive area before his hand dipped lower. He let the material slide over your hips, his knuckles brushing your skin as he pushed it down. When the panties reached your thighs, he let gravity do the rest, the fabric pooling around your ankles.

Jihoon’s hands immediately found your waist, lifting you like you weighed nothing and setting you on the cool marble of the bathroom sink. The contrast between the chill of the counter and the heat of his body made you shiver, your legs instinctively closing.

“Uh-uh,” Jihoon said, his voice a frolicsome warning. His hands gripped your knees, spreading them apart again, wider this time. His gaze dropped, and his breath audibly caught as the light from the mirror illuminated you perfectly—your thighs trembling, your folds glistening, and the way your body clenched and unclenched in forethought.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, his thumb brushing the inside of your thigh as if to test if you were real. “You’re so fuckin’ pretty down here. Like, actually unreal.”

Your face burned at his words, but before you could respond, his hand was back. His index finger dragged lightly through your folds, collecting your slick before circling your clit with a featherlight touch. Your eyes squeezed shut as your turned your head to the side, as if the sight of him would make you weaker.

“Jihoon,” you whined, your voice high-pitched and needy.

He grinned at that, his other hand bracing your hip to keep you from squirming away. “Patience.” he murmured. 

His finger pressed more firmly against your clit now, rubbing infinite motions that made you rest your back on the mirror, instantly melting. Just as you felt the stimulus start to build, he stopped.

Your head snapped up, a frustrated groan leaving your lips. Jihoon only laughed, leaning in to kiss your cheek, the corner of your mouth, before pulling back again.

“What’s the rush?” he teased, his finger sliding lower to brush against your entrance but never pushing in. “We’ve got all night.”

You whimpered, your hips bucking toward his hand. His smirk widened, and he slid his finger back up, tapping lightly against your clit like he was testing how much more you could take.

“Jihoon! N-no!” you practically sobbed, your thighs trembling as you clenched around nothing.

“No…,” he said, his voice low and commanding. “I want you shaking for me.”

He alternated his technique, sometimes circling your clit in lazy patterns, other times tapping. Each time you came close to your orgasm, he pulled back, leaving you swaying on the border.

Your breaths came out in short, shallow pants, and your hands gripped the counter so hard your knuckles started to hurt. “Please,” you begged, your voice breaking.

Jihoon leaned in, his lips brushing yours as he whispered, “Just one more time.”

This time, he used two fingers, sliding them in a v-shape around your clit and moving them side to side in quick, ribbing motions. The sensation was unlike anything you’d felt before, and your hips jerked involuntarily.

“Shes so puffy already,” he murmured, his eyes locked on your cunt as he worked you over. “I can feel you shaking, baby. You gonna cum for me?”

You nodded desperately, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. “Yes—please, Jihoon, I can’t—”

Jihoon pulled his hand away, and you sobbed. Your chest heaved as frustration and desperation coiled tight inside you, tears welling in your eyes.

“Aww, baby,” Jihoon cooed, his voice a mocking singsong that somehow felt like a soothing balm and fuel to your fire at the same time. His hand cupped your cheek, thumb brushing a stray tear that slid down. “Look at you. So needy. You’re so wet already, and you think you’re ready for this?”

Your breath caught as he grabbed his cock, thick and glistening at the tip with precum, and let it rest heavy on your stomach. He tapped it against your skin, each tap leaving a sticky, wet line that trailed down to your bellybutton.

“See this?” Jihoon asked, his tone low but tinged with teasing. He shifted his hips, dragging the head of his cock up your stomach so you could feel its full length. “How do you think this is gonna fit, huh? You can’t even take my fingers without cumming. What makes you think this cock’s gonna slide right in?”

You blinked down at him, the weight of his cock against your belly making your head spin. It reached your bellybutton, almost too far, the swollen head ruddy and glistening like it was mocking you, daring you to try.

Jihoon’s gaze softened for a second as he caught the wobble in your lip and the glossy sheen of your tear-filled eyes. “God, you’re too cute,” he muttered, before his hand was back between your legs. “Alright, sweetheart,” he said, cooing again as he pressed the pad of his finger to your entrance. “Guess I gotta get you nice and stretched out for me, hmm?”

You felt the slow, steady push of his finger as it slid inside you, every nerve brightening at the intrusion. Your walls clenched around him instinctively, and Jihoon let out a quiet groan.

“There we go,” He slid his finger in deeper, curling it slightly to press against your front wall. Your hips bucked at the sensation, and Jihoon smirked. “Right there, huh? You like that?”

“Y-yes,” you gasped, your hands scrambling for purchase on the cool marble.

His finger pulled back almost completely before sliding in again, this time with a second one alongside it. The stretch was immediate, but your body welcomed it, pulsing around him. Jihoon wasted no time, curling his fingers and dragging them against your walls in a way that made you see stars.

“God, you’re so tight,” he muttered, his free hand resting on your trembling thigh to keep you steady. “You’re squeezing me so good. Can’t wait to feel you clench like this around my cock.”

His fingers picked up a rhythm, alternating between deep, curling strokes and quick, shallow thrusts that kept you guessing. He started adding little motions that made your head spin—scissoring his fingers to stretch you further, pressing his thumb firmly against your clit while his fingers stayed inside, or twisting his wrist slightly to drag his fingertips over new spots.

“You like that?” he asked, after noticing your hand chasing his fingers. “Of course you do. Look at how you’re dripping for me. You’re making such a mess, baby.”

“Jihoon—o-oh my god,” you whimpered, your back arching off the counter as his fingers found a particularly sensitive spot.

“Yeah? Right there?” Jihoon grinned, adjusting his angle to hit it again, harder this time. Your breath hitched, and he chuckled. “That’s it. So good for me.”

You couldn’t help it—the words tumbled out of your mouth in a whispered chant, your voice trembling with every syllable. “Thank you, thank you, thank you…”

Jihoon smiled fondly at you, his cock twitching visibly against his stomach. “You’re so sweet when you beg,” he said, pulling his fingers out momentarily just to slide them back in with a delicious stretch. “You’re gonna make me lose my mind.”

This time, he focused on your clit with his thumb, rubbing quick, tight circles as his fingers curled inside you. He replaced fast stimulation and sudden, devastating stops.

“Ngh—Please,” you whimpered, your thighs trembling as you gripped his forearm.

“You’re so close, hmm?” 

He slowed his movements again, dragging his fingers out just enough to feel the way you clenched around him, desperate to keep him inside. His thumb moved in teasing patterns over your clit, never quite enough pressure to satisfy.

“I need it,” you choked out, your voice breaking as tears streamed down your cheeks.

“I know, baby,” he said, his tone softening again. He pressed a gentle kiss to your temple before his fingers resumed their relentless pace, curling and pressing against that sweet spot again. “But you’re doing so good for me. Just a little more, okay?”

The coil in your stomach tightened impossibly further, and you knew you couldn’t last much longer. Jihoon seemed to sense it too. His fingers curling like they were made to be inside you, massaging your g’spot with a rhythm that felt borderline illegal. His thumb merely rubbed your clit now, just enough to make you twitch, and the devilish smirk on his face said he was doing it on purpose. His other hand gripped your waist, steadying you like he knew you’d collapse if he let go.

“Um—thats why your strawberry mille-feuille is so good,” you suddenly gasped out.

Jihoon blinked, momentarily confused before realization dawned on him. His lips curled into that sly, cocky grin. “Wait—are you thinking about my dessert skills right now? While I’m two knuckles deep inside you?”

You whined, too far gone to deny it. “You’re too good with your hands!”

He chuckled, curling his fingers harder until your knees buckled. “Guess it’s a good thing I’m versatile then, hm?” His tone was light, but his fingers? Ruthless. He angled his wrist slightly, hitting that spot with pinpoint correctness, and you swore your vision went static for a second.

Your body jerked, your clit grinding against the heel of his palm as he shifted his thumb to flick at it—just once, but it sent sparks shooting down your back. His fingers pushed deeper, scissoring slightly, then dragging out achingly slow. “Jihoon, please," you whimpered, your nails digging into his wrist.

“Please what, baby? Want me to keep going? Or stop again?” he teased, his thumb pressing down on your clit just to lift off a second later, leaving you sobbing into his shoulder.

You wanted to slap him and beg him all at once. Instead, you cried out, “Don’t stop—oh my god—Jihoon!”

His smirk faltered for a second when your walls clamped down hard around his fingers, and a rush of wetness coated them. His hips grinding involuntarily into nothing, his cock throbbing visibly. “Greedy little thing.”

You couldnt form words anymore, your head falling back as your whole body spasmed. you chanted his name, completely gone, tears stinging your eyes as the coil in your stomach snapped hard, the force of your orgasm smashing you.

Jihoon didn’t stop. His fingers worked you through every wave, his thumb pressing firm, messy circles on your overstimulated clit until you physically had to push at his chest. “Too much” you croaked, but your legs trembled so bad you knew you couldn’t get far if he decided to keep going.

“Too much?” he repeated. He slowly slid his fingers out, holding them up for both of you to see, glistening and soaked. 

Jihoon still breathed heavily like he was the one being stimulated, giving you time to catch your breath, but you weren’t letting go. Your arms wrapped tight around his neck as you pulled him in, your lips pressing to his. His tongue slid against yours, massaging it in a way that sent heat straight to your sopping pussy. The sound of wet, sticky smacks echoed in the bathroom.

This kiss wasn’t rushed or desperate; it was soft, and so heartbreakingly sweet. Jihoon’s hands roamed over your waist, and as much as he loved the way you tasted—loved the faint hint of the wine you’d shared earlier, the lingering sweetness that seemed to pour from your lips—there was something deeper about it.

Jihoon knew tastes. He knew them better than most people ever could.

He knew the tang of citrus, the buttery richness of a perfectly baked croissant, the smoky depth of roasted meat, and the way sugar could melt on your tongue like magic. He’d spent years chasing after flavors, crafting them into stories on a plate. But none of it, none of it, had ever come close to the taste of you.

It wasn’t just your lips or your skin—it was the whole experience of you. The warmth of your arms wrapped around him, the faint floral scent that clung to your hair, the way your body felt like home against his. If someone ever asked him, in an interview or at some fancy gala, what his favorite taste was, he already knew he’d be in trouble. Because he’d want to say “you.” And how could he not? You weren’t just a flavor; you were comfort food, the kind that nourished your soul in a way no recipe could replicate.

He pressed closer to you, losing himself in the feel of your lips, of your tongue stroking his with an intoxicating rhythm. You were both so caught up in each other that you didn’t even notice when he shifted his hips, the tip of his cock brushing against your entrance. It wasn’t until the head of it nudged inside that you broke the kiss, gasping sharply as your chin fell forward, your moan feeling hot against his mouth.

“Jihoon—” you choked, and it made his stomach twist. He grinned against your lips, nasty and triumphant, his teeth grazing your bottom lip as he tilted his head back slightly to look at your face.

“You didn’t even notice, hm? So focused on kissing me good, you didn’t feel me slip in?”

Your nails dug into his shoulders, your head tilting back as another moan escaped you. Jihoon’s grin only grew wider, so big it almost felt boyish, but there was nothing innocent about the way his hips pressed forward, inch by inch.

Your walls clenched instinctively and then gave way, molding around his girth. You tilted your head down just enough to catch a glimpse, and the sight alone made your stomach tense.

The thin, glossy skin of your folds was stretched taut around him, clinging desperately as if your body didn’t want to let go. The contrast was stark, almost hypnotizing: the way your wetness coated him, leaving a shiny trail that dripped down, pooling at the base where your pussy tried to hug. He followed your gaze to glance down between you, his lips parting in disbelief.

“Goddamn, you’re taking me so well..” He shifted slightly, pressing a little deeper, and yyour vision blurred.

Your head fell back against the mirror as you moaned, your chest heaving. 

He cut you off with a slow roll of his hips, his cock pushing further, stretching you impossibly more. You gasped, your nails dragging down his shoulders as your body tried to adjust. “That’s my girl. Thought you could handle it.”

The slick sounds between you were filthy, echoing in the shadowy bathroom. You couldn’t stop the way your hips shifted, trying to meet him halfway despite the stretch. The movement made him groan, his hands tightening on your hips as he pressed you back against the marble sink.

“Fuck, you’re dripping,” he said, his voice almost a whine as his eyes flicked to where your bodies were joined. “You’re gonna ruin this counter... the floor..”

Your walls fluttered around him, pulling him deeper, and the motion earned a sharp intake of breath from Jihoon. 

His cock pulsed inside you, the wet heat of your walls squeezing him like a vice, clenching around every inch he gave you. His teeth caught his bottom lip as he pulled back just slightly, dragging against your sensitive core before thrusting back in. He wanted to watch you unravel, to hear every desperate sound spilling from your lips.

His hands slid from your hips to your thighs, pushing your legs wider to take him deeper. He paused to glance between you again, mesmerized by the way you swallowed him whole. “Can’t believe this tight little pussy’s taking all of me.”

You whimpered at his words, the sound shamelessly loud in the quiet bathroom, and it sent a quiver down his back. He smiled satisfied, as he leaned in, his lips brushing over your ear. “You like it when I talk to you like that, hm?” he teased, his tongue flicking over your earlobe before he nipped it lightly. “Tell me. Tell me how much you like it.”

“I—fuck—I love it,” you stammered. Your nails scraped down his back, leaving faint red lines in their wake. “Love when you—when you talk to me like that. Love—oh my god—love when you’re inside me.”

“Yeah?” His thrusts slowed again, almost unbearably so, the head of his cock pressing against your g’spot with each measured roll of his hips. He let his forehead drop to yours, his breath mingling with yours as he grinned. He changed his angle slightly, shifting his hips just enough to hit a spot that sent fireworks exploding behind your eyes. The slick, wet sound of his cock moving in and out of you filled the room, mingling with the gasps and moans you couldn’t hold back. 

Your head fell back, hitting the mirror with a soft thud, and Jihoon chuckled, his lips brushing over the curve of your jaw.

“Careful, baby,” he said, massaging your scalp with a care that made you lean on it. “Can’t have you breaking the mirror just ‘cause I’m fucking you so good.”

Your laugh came out breathless, cut off by a sharp gasp as he suddenly pressed harder on your clit. “Jihoon, please—”

“Please, what?” His thrusts slowed again, torturously so, and he pulled back just enough to make you whine in protest. His fingers tightened on your thighs, holding you in place as he watched you with dark, hooded eyes. Your hands slid to his neck, clinging to him desperately. “Please, gonna cum.”

“You want me to fuck you harder? You want me to make you cum all over my cock, baby? Say it..”

“Want you to fuck me—ngh,” you rolled your eyes.  “Want you to fuck me harder. Make me cum, Jihoon. Please.”

“So wet. God, I could fuck you all night. Don’t think I’d ever get enough of you.” Your walls clenched around him, and he cursed under his breath, his head dropping to your shoulder as he struggled to keep his pace steady. “You’re gonna make me cum if you keep doing it.”

“Then cum,” you whispered insistent. Your fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer as your lips brushed over his ear. “Cum for me, Jihoon.”

He groaned, his thrusts growing faster, rougher that you thought that your sink wouldnt handle it. But even as he pushed you closer to the edge, his focus never wavered. “I—shit—I need to make you come first. I have to, baby.”

You shook your head violently, your own orgasm already clawing at the edge of your sanity. “No—no, I’m so close, Jihoon,” you gaspedr. “Just—just keep going, don’t stop—please—”

His hips jerked at your words, his cock twitching deep inside you as his body teetered on the brink of losing control. His thrusts slowed further, unsteady and disjointed as his thumb continued to draw tight, firm circles on your swollen clit.

“You feel so fucking good,” your voice sounded sultry and wrecked, your eyes locking onto his. “So deep—so fucking thick. Jihoon, I can feel you in my stomach. You’re so big, you’re gonna ruin me, baby. Do it. Come inside me. Fill me up.”

That did it.

The sound Jihoon let out wasn’t even human—a choked, strangled mix of a moan and a curse that hit its peak as his body shuddered violently. “Oh—shit—ah, fuck, fuck—!” His cock pulsed hard, the first spurt of his cum hitting so deep inside you that you felt it bloom with warmth against your cervix. You swore you could feel each throb as he came, his hips snapping forward instinctively to bury himself even further, his moans blending into desperate gasps. “Ah—hah—baby—!”

The heat, the pressure, the way his orgasm filled every inch of you—it all tipped you over the edge, dragging you into your own release. Your walls clenched around him, milking him for everything he had as you cried out, “Jihoon—fuck—yes—!”

You arched into him, your hips lifting slightly off the counter to grind against his cock, riding the quakes as your climax ruptured through you. The movement made Jihoon gasp, his hands flying to your hips to still you. “A-ah—fuck—stop—baby, stop—hah—ah, shit—!” His voice cracked as he groaned, overstimulation evident in the way he hissed through gritted teeth. “T-too much—oh my god—aw, fuck—!”

Jihoon’s laughter broke through his moans, a breathless, disbelieving chuckle that melted into another string of curses as he shuddered beneath you.

Finally, you stilled, your body collapsing into his as your head dropped to his shoulder. Both of you were trembling, your breaths ragged and uneven, your hearts pounding in sync.

The room settled into a quiet purr after the chaos. The bathroom was small, its muted light casting soft shadows on the tiles. But in this moment, it might as well have been the biggest place in the world, holding all the unsaid things between you, the weight of your shared history pressing down like a furry coat.

“Do you remember the first time we met?” Jihoon asked suddenly, his voice soft, almost hesitant, like he wasn’t sure he wanted to dig this deep. He looked at you then, his eyes more serious, like he was searching for something in your face.

You laughed, a small, shaky sound. “You mean when you accused me of stealing your recipe for strawberry shortcake at the first days of competition? Yeah, hard to forget.”

His lips quirked up, but it wasn’t quite a smile. “God, I was such an asshole,” he muttered, shaking his head. “I didn’t even taste it. Just saw your name on the board and thought, ‘Oh, great. Another rich kid with connections, swooping in to take what I’ve worked my whole life for.’”

You frowned, your fingers twitching where they rested on his chest. “You really thought that?”

“I didn’t know you,” he admitted, his tone apologetic. “I was so used to fighting for every little thing, you know? Scholarships, internships, a spot on the team—hell, even a secondhand stand mixer. And then you walked in, all… pretty and shiny. I just assumed you’d never struggled for anything in your life.”

You bit your lip, unsure how to respond. Because yeah, he wasn’t wrong—you hadn’t grown up worrying about money or how you’d pay for school. But you’d struggled in other ways, ways that people like Jihoon—driven, hyper-focused, and painfully independent—might not have seen.

“That’s not fair,” you said softly. “You don’t know what I’ve been through. Just because I didn’t have to fight for a secondhand mixer doesn’t mean I haven’t fought for other things.”

“Yeah,” he murmured. “I know that now.”

The quiet between you stretched, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It felt… cogitative. Like you were both sifting through the memories, pulling them out one by one to examine under the bathroom light.

“The NGO,” you said suddenly, your voice intruding upon the silence. “That’s when everything changed.”

Jihoon nodded, his hands still on your waist, his fingers tightening slightly. “Yeah. When I saw what you were doing—what the competition money was for—I felt like shit. Here I was, thinking you were just some spoiled kid looking for another trophy to add to the shelf, and you were… Something that important.”

You swallowed hard, your throat tight. “It wasn’t just me. It was all of us—Fred, the kids, you. God, Jihoon, you don’t even realize how much you’ve done for this place.”

He shook his head, a self-deprecating smile tugging at his lips. “I don’t know about that. I just… I wanted to help. And honestly, it was selfish at first. I needed a job, and you offered one. But then…”

“Then you fell in love with it.” The journey from strangers to colleagues to whatever this was had been anything but smooth. It had been messy and painful but it had also been beautiful in its own way. “I hated you, you know,” you said suddenly. “At the beginning, I mean. You were so… cold. And I thought, ‘How the hell am I supposed to work with someone who looks like he’d rather set the kitchen on fire than have a conversation with me?’”

He laughed, a genuine sound that softened the strain in the room. “Yeah, I hated you too. Thought you were this privileged, clueless brat who’d never survive a day in a real kitchen.”

“And now?”

“And now…” he bit his lip, analyzing your face as he tilts his head. “I can’t imagine my life without you in it.”

“Jihoon…”

“I mean it,” he said firmly, his hands moving to cradle your face, his thumbs brushing gently over your cheeks. “You’re… you’re my favorite taste, you know? Out of everything I’ve ever made, ever eaten, ever dreamed of tasting—you’re the one thing I’ll never get enough of.”

You let out a shaky laugh, your heart swelling in your chest. “That’s cheesy as hell.”

“Yeah, well,” he said, his lips quirking up into a small, shy smile. “Sometimes the truth is cheesy.”

Jihoon’s smile faltered just a bit. “Sometimes, though… I wonder if you really forgave me. Like, deep in your heart.”

You blinked, stunned by the sudden shift, and searched his face for more. His brows were slightly furrowed, his jaw tight, like the weight of the question had been pressing on him for longer than he cared to confess.

“Forgave you?” 

“For the way I acted back then,” he said, his gaze dropping briefly before meeting yours again. “The way I doubted you. The things I said, the things I did, the things I thought. I mean… I know we’ve moved past it. But deep down, I’ve always wondered if there’s a part of you that still holds onto it. That maybe you… couldn’t fully forgive me.”

You didn’t even hesitate. “I did,” you said firmly. “I forgave you, Jihoon.”

He tilted his head, skepticism flickering across his features. “How can you be so sure?”

“Because I don’t blame you for it anymore,” you said, leaning into him slightly, needing him to understand. “At that time, I had this picture in my head of what my life was supposed to look like. The glamorous Michelin-starred restaurant, the prestige, the accolades… It was all I wanted.”

“And I ruined it.”

“No,” you said firmly, reaching up to cup his cheek. “You didn’t ruin anything. If anything, you gave me something better.”

His eyes searched yours, still unconvinced. “But what if… what if I hadn’t? What if I hadn’t been so bitter, so determined to take you down? What if your dessert had won anyway?”

You paused, the weight of the question settling between you. “Or what if I’d won, Jihoon? What if I’d walked away with the title and the prestige and never thought about anything else? What if the organization never existed because I was too busy chasing some dream that wasn’t even mine anymore?”

He frowned at that, his lips pressing into a thin line. “You think… things were meant to happen this way?”

“I don’t know,” you admitted, your voice softening. “But I’d rather believe that they were. That everything—every fight, every misstep, every moment we wanted to strangle each other—led us here. To this.”

Jihoon let out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “You always were the optimistic one.”

“Not always,” you said with a small smile. “But I am about this. About us. About what we’ve built together.”

He exhaled slowly, his gaze dropping to where his hands rested on your hips. “You know… I think about it sometimes. The restaurant, I mean. How it’s under new management now. How I used to dream about a place like that—sleek, modern, perfect. And then I look at what we’ve done with the organization, and it’s… messy and chaotic, but so beautifull. Like it actually matters.”

“It does matter… And maybe that’s the point. Maybe the restaurant was never supposed to be our story. Maybe this is.”

He looked at you then, something shining in his eyes. “You really think so?”

“I know so,” you said, your lips curving into a gentle smile. “Because if it wasn’t, we wouldn’t be here. We wouldn’t have the kids, the bakery, the messes we can’t clean up without three people and a prayer.”

He chuckled at that. “The messes are your fault, you know. You’re the one who thought it was a good idea to teach a bunch of middle schoolers how to make éclairs.”

You grinned, leaning into him. “And you’re the one who decided to teach them soufflés.”

He rolled his eyes, but his smile was soft. “Well played.”

As you looked at him—messy hair, tired eyes, and a softness in his expression that you rarely saw—you felt something settle in your chest.

“Jihoon,” you said quietly. “I wouldn’t change a thing.”

— // Two Years Later // —

The NGO was quieter than usual. You noticed it the moment you stepped inside. Normally, the kitchen buzzed with the chaos of kids laughing, mixing ingredients, and occasionally bickering over who got to use the electric mixer. But today, there was an eerie calm.

“Hello?” you called out, setting your bag down on the counter. The faint scent of something baking lingered in the air, but it wasn’t enough to mask the odd tension. “Where is everyone?”

You wandered into the main hall, expecting to see at least Jihoon with his clipboard, corralling the kids into some elaborate baking lesson. Instead, the room was empty save for a lone piece of paper taped to the center of one of the tables.

“Come to the garden.”

Your eyebrows furrowed. The garden? The small plot out back that you and Jihoon had transformed into a herb and flower garden over countless weekends?

Curious, you made your way outside, the warm sunlight spilling over the neatly trimmed rows of basil and lavender. At first glance, the garden seemed empty too, until you heard the faint giggle of one of the kids.

“Okay, who’s hiding?” you called out, scanning the area.

Suddenly, the kids burst out from behind the hedges, each holding a small bouquet of flowers, their faces lit with excitement. “Surprise!” they shouted in unison, running toward you and handing you the mismatched bundles.

“What is this?” you asked, laughing as you tried to catch all the flowers being shoved into your arms.

But before anyone could answer, Jihoon appeared at the edge of the garden, looking uncharacteristically nervous. He was dressed neatly, his usually casual outfit swapped for a crisp white shirt and a pair of dark slacks. His hands were shoved into his pockets, and his lips quirked up in a nervous smile as he approached.

“Jihoon?” you asked, your heart skipping a beat.

The kids scrambled to the side, forming a small semi-circle as Jihoon stepped closer. He stopped just in front of you, his dark eyes locking onto yours.

“You always said this garden was your favorite place,” he began. “You said it’s where you felt the most at peace, where everything feels real. So I thought it was the perfect place to do this.”

Your heart raced as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small velvet box.

“Yah… What are you doing Jihoon-ah?,” you whispered, your voice trembling.

He dropped to one knee, the kids giggling in soft gasps and excited murmurs. “I’ve spent the last two years trying to figure out how I got so lucky. How someone as stubborn and chaotic as me ended up with someone as kind and brilliant as you. And honestly? I still don’t know.”

You laughed softly, tears already welling in your eyes.

“But what I do know… is that I don’t want to spend another day without you. You changed my life, and you keep changing it, every single day. So…” He opened the box, revealing a delicate ring with a big, oval, sparkling diamond. “Will you marry me?”

The kids broke out into cheers before you could even process what was happening. Your hands flew to your mouth as you nodded quickly, too swamped to speak. Jihoon’s grin spread wide as he stood, slipping the ring onto your finger before pulling you into a tight hug.

“Yes,” you finally managed to say, your voice muffled against his buff chest. “Of course, yes.”

The kids swarmed around you both, cheering and hugging as Jihoon pressed a kiss to your temple. “I had a lot of help,” he admitted with a soft laugh, gesturing toward the group. “They’re surprisingly good at keeping secrets.”

“Well, I can’t believe you pulled this off,” you said, laughing through your tears as you looked down at the ring.

“I had to,” Jihoon said, his voice soft and sincere. “Because I wanted to give you a moment as perfect as you’ve made my life.”

The kids had prepared cupcakes with little fondant hearts on top, and the staff brought out bottles of sparkling cider to toast the two of you. Jihoon never left your side, his hand warm and steady in yours, his smile never fading.

As the sun set over the garden, painting the sky in hues of orange and pink, you leaned into Jihoon’s side, the ring catching the last rays of light.

He tilted his head to look at you, his lips quirking into a soft smile. “You know, I was thinking,” he started, “when we’re, like, seventy or something, do you think we’ll still be able to handle all the chaos the kids bring?”

You snorted a laugh, turning to face him fully. “Seventy? Jihoon, I’m not even sure we’re handling it well now.”

He laughed with you. “What happens when we’re too old to keep up with their energy? You know they’re just going to keep multiplying, right? They bring their friends, their siblings, their cousins… It’s like a never-ending kid buffet in there.”

You shook your head, leaning into his side. “First of all, let’s not talk about being seventy when we just got engaged. Can I at least have a honeymoon phase before we’re planning for wheelchairs and dentures?”

He raised an eyebrow, his lips curling into that naughty smirk. “Honeymoon~?” he drawled.

You rolled your eyes, biting back the grin tugging at your lips. 

“And you’re stuck with me now,” he teased, waggling his eyebrows before leaning back, the smirk still firmly in place. “So, where are we going for this so-called honeymoon? Somewhere romantic? Tropical? Or do you just want to stay in and let me make you dinner—while wearing nothing but an apron?”

fanfic inspiration by @thepoopdokyeomtouched thank you for giving me the motivation to write this fic! you're the sweetener to my blog's flavor. wishing you all the best this holiday season!

[yoru-exe]

KINICH ࣪ ִֶָ ⋆ . heart eyes

kinich isn't sure if he should be embarrassed about it, but if he's being honest, he thinks more than he feels. dealing with emotions has never been his strong suit. so when his system acted funny when he laid eyes on you — a total warrior-stranger at the stadium — it took a very long time for him to understand why he felt so.

when his heart refuses to cooperate, he relies on his wit, like he always does. he couldn't put his finger to his emotion yet, but he knows exactly what to do to something precious — he protects it, like the parcels his clients often entrust him with. so he starts to play the protector role whenever he teams up with you for assignments given by the archon. he look forward to those opportunities much more than he's willing to admit though.

for someone who preaches about allocating a specific amount of energy for task execution, seeing kinich giving extra effort into it sure raises some brows, of which his pixelated companion specifically wouldn't shut up about.

"are you planning to die sooner? that's why you wield your weapon even when i, almighty dragonlord, k'uhul ajaw is up here above all?", his evil laughter boomed in the sky, though fallen on the saurian hunter' deaf ears.

"just shut up and and clear this mess quickly. not like you're doing much anyway". he easily slashed away at an enemy, while ajaw fired is dragon breathe in annoyance, "how dare you!".

the battle ended much faster with them working together. while he didn't want to make it a habit for ajaw to think that he can sit back while he does the hard work, he definitely wanted you to feel so.

"thanks, but i can protect myself, you know."

"i know, but i still want to protect you".

kinich swore he saw your cheek turned reddish. did the heat bother you? it sure was quite sunny that day. before he could ask if you're feeling alright, you quickly moved to inspect the wound on his forearm, so he couldn't see your face anymore. but he's not one to oppose, so he left your to it.

it was a mission that the two of you embarked on a particularly long journey. throughout the travel, he got to know more about you, and each time you open your mouth to speak, he paid close attention to each word you said as if they were magical and he's enchanted.

then, by the time the mission completed, you arrived at a point that's closer to the scions of the canopy, so you expected to walk yourself home on your own. to your surprise, kinich had another plan.

"i'll take you home. do you have everything you need? we can rest first if you'd like to".

it took you a little while to process his action before responding, "but you'll have to circle back to your tribe. mine is still further ahead. you don't have to trouble yourself-".

"i don't mind".

kinich isn't a man of word, but his action speaks so loud that while he's still trying to figure out the emotion he feels towards you, you had already feeling the same for him.

⊹₊ author's note ₊⊹

i mean, idk, this idea randomly came to me while i was doing laundry of all thing. love at first sight kinich sounds kinda ooc imo? but i kinda like how this one goes sooo

[rootspiral]

Agatha All Along deep dive: episode 8 part 7

(Wandavision entries: [1][2][3])

(AAA entries: ep1 [1][2][3][4] ep2 [1][2][3][4] ep3 [1][2][3] ep4 [1][2][3][4][5][6][7][+1] ep5 [1][2][3][4][5] ep6 [1][2][3] ep7 [1][2][3][4][5][6] ep8 [1][2][3][4][5][6][7][8][9] ep9 [1][2][3][4][5][6])

more Oz references! fury of the elements, one very pissed ex, same thing.

god but how much I love rio going feral?! it's so stupid I'm giggling and kicking my feet about it. you'd think a very old, very wise being would react like a grown ass adult after a breakup, especially because it was such a long time coming. but does rio go home to process things quietly? noooooooo she summons a whole storm and sits on a roof waiting for agatha to come out of her basement, so she can be an ass about it. if they were humans rio would be slashing agatha's tires and smashing windows and throwing rotten eggs at her house drunk at three in the morning, and you know what? good for her!!! she's been fucking trying to work things out in a mature responsible way, and it was never going to work, agatha was never going to grow up. so fuck it. agatha wants to be immature? we'll show her immature! I support my girl going full petty and unhinged, let her cry and scream and eat a whole ice cream tub and then throw it all up, let her piss all over agathas' rhododendrons, my girl has earned it.

AND she's brought her favorite soul-reaping orchid with her! she's like, I'm gonna do it! this time I'm gonna getcha! I will drag your ungrateful ass to our son kicking and screaming if I have to!!!!

...girl. we both know you ain't. like agatha is literally about to die and you still won't reap that soul without her consent. absolute loser behavior.

and agatha... well, agatha never backed off from an immaturity showdown. oooh she's gonna out-toddler you for sure.

but it's so interesting that the Road didn't give her her powers back. tbh I don't think she ever lost her powers at all, seeing as she's first and foremost a succubus and that power works just fine, if alice's fate is any indication. it's more like, three years under the spell completely drained her battery and she desperately needs to feed.

and agatha wasn't planning on joining the Road at all, as far as she was concerned it didn't even exist. like with lilia, jen and alice the Road gave her not what she asked, but what she needed all along: her prize was that moment of closure with nicky

so rio cannot kill people, she can only make them wish they were dead, and I just realized, her special talent is also being fucking annoying, just like agatha

by the way, rewatching wandavision I realized that his name is JOHN, not herb! I'm so sorry I've been calling you the wrong name this whole time, my guy. ALSO MOVE OUT OF THAT NEIGHBORHOOD DEAR LORD

same goes for you two. harold you have a daughter!

(omg a literal harold, they're lesbians.)

agatha sees the fire moon and it reminds her of alice. she draws a circle for the expelle hoc malum protection spell she's learned from her. she had a coven only for a day and look how much they've gotten under her skin.

rio gives an incredulous sigh. are you calling me "evil"? it's like, we've been over this!

I know that baby and I love you, but also you're very much sitting on a rooftop cackling like a maniac. how can these two be both so tragic and so so fucking ridiculous at the same time.

it's like, she's absolutely right, she's no villain and she's no demon, agatha should stop treating her like one and punishing her for it. but also... stop begging her to, for fuck's sake. rio, my love, have some dignity. stop chasing. you did a dramatic exit half an hour ago, WHY ARE YOU STILL HERE

agatha trying to exorcise her ex wife with a spell: clownass behavior.

rio blowing the circle away with a kiss: also clownass behavior.

but is she wrong????

lilia's turn to come in handy!

I'm sorry but... a whole sink? she threw a whole sink at her head?? this scene is so fucking hilarious, like I know some people found rio ooc but to me it makes perfect sense. I'm just sorry she didn't throw a toilet.

GO HOME, RIO. it's okay, we're gonna put up a picture of agatha in your living room and throw poop at it until you feel better or smth, it's gonna be okay, you let it all out.

^^literally rio

jen's moment: vulnus ab aqua curare.

I don't think it's going to help you much though, babe. remember when agatha kept poking wanda with a stick and got her ass kicked to oblivion in return? she's been poking DEATH for two hundred years. what did she expect???!?!

THAT IS THE HOTTEST SOMEONE HAS EVER LOOKED, DEAR LORD

and considering that rio chooses an outfit for each soul she reaps: this is what she chose for agatha??? girl, be for real!!!

aaaand she gets kicked into a wall a moment later. after her devastating sexy ass walk with the high slit dress and all. complete loser behavior.

(also hilarious: agatha's laundry hanging there the whole time)

billy came back to save agatha (awww) but not before conjuring a cool wiccan costume and doing a very dramatic entrance (awwwwwwww). literally her son.

I agree tbh

agatha's face when she realizes billy is choosing to give her magic: this is the first time someone does it willingly. and sure he is super powerful (she drained poor alice in a second), but I keep imagining a world were agatha is an important, cherished member of a community, maybe playing the vital role of teacher and knowledge keeper, and the community willingly donates magic in return, all together and on a regular basis, like people donate blood, so that no one dies and she doesn't starve.

look at how the beam changes color, and just how happy she is to finally eat. it's just the way she was born, you know? I hate that evanora turned it into something horrible when it didn't need to.

oh god, that stupid outfit again. that is agatha's "I'm such a scary merciless bitch and I don't care about your feelings" outfit. as if.

and then she realizes she's killing billy. look at her face, a moment ago she even said how good all this power feels. she could easily take it all. but of course for billy she has to stop.

so, can agatha actually control her powers? well, it's complicated, isn't it? she definitely couldn't when she was very young. possibly she never sought to learn how to as time went on.

(thank you for your patience, everyone, I'll update more regularly from now on. and you all know what happens next entry.)

go to episode 8 part 8

[syluslnd]

Just read House Of Cards and it got me good ༼⁠;⁠´⁠༎ຶ⁠ ⁠۝ ⁠༎ຶ⁠༽ aksbsjsanoaksdjsnkasjian– *dead*

Anyways, can you make the continuation of that story?

(Tired of me being delusional so now it's his turn for him to be the one who is delusional)

From what I read, Sylus always in denial when his men sent every piece of her until the last moment he snapped. What if he goes back into being delusional then? That MC is still in bed with him. Or going to the arcade with her (clearly he go there alone because MC is ☠️)

How people inside there giving him a weird look because they see some disheveled man talking about he would buy the entire arcade (in the game. Canon.) for his beloved.

Thank you!! (⁠人⁠ ⁠•͈⁠ᴗ⁠•͈⁠)

pt 2 to this story

house of cards;shattered

(note-It makes me so happy you liked it so much that you needed a continuation🥹thank YOU & I hope you really like this, kisses xx)

────୨ৎ────

The days following the discovery of your body were a blur for Sylus. The once-cold and calculating leader of Onychinus was unraveling at the seams, haunted by a rage so consuming that it drowned out everything else.

The names of the men responsible for your death, those who dared to touch what was his, had been whispered to him by his remaining loyalists like and kieran,sylus wasted no time tracking them down.

He wanted them alive. He wanted them to feel pain-slow, excruciating pain, the kind that would make them beg for death long before he was willing to grant them that mercy.

The first man was found in a decrepit building, hidden away like a rat. Sylus didn't speak as he dragged the man into the basement of one of Onychinus's many safehouses. There was no need for words.

He was beyond talking. His mind buzzed with one singular thought: revenge.

The man was tied to a chair, blood already trickling down his face from where Sylus had struck him. Sylus circled him slowly, like a predator stalking its prey. The cold gleam of his knife reflected in the faint light and the man whimpered, begging for mercy.

"I wonder” Sylus muttered under his breath, his voice low "how long it'll take for you to break."

With a quick flick of his wrist, he slashed the man's arm, drawing a deep line across the skin. Blood welled up instantly, dripping to the floor in steady, rhythmic beats. The man screamed but Sylus barely heard it. His eyes were cold, unfeeling, even as the man squirmed in his restraints.

One cut turned into two. Two turned into ten.

Sylus worked methodically, slicing deeper each time, his hand steady, his mind eerily calm. He didn't rush. He savored each scream, each pathetic whimper. The man's blood coated Sylus's hands but he didn't care. He wasn't thinking about anything but the pain he wanted to inflict. Pain for pain.

Blood for blood.

He broke the man's fingers, one by one, relishing the sickening snap of bone beneath his grip. The man's pleas for mercy fell on deaf ears. Sylus didn't stop. He wouldn't stop until every single one of them paid for what they had done to you.

By the time the man finally succumbed to the pain, falling limp in the chair, Sylus had carved his face beyond recognition. Blood pooled at Sylus's feet, staining the floor. He stood there, panting heavily, his body covered in the man's blood, his chest heaving. But it wasn't enough. It wasn't nearly enough.

The second man suffered a worse fate. Sylus had perfected his technique by then. He used a blowtorch, searing the flesh from the man's arms and legs, watching as the skin blistered and peeled. The smell of burning flesh filled the room but Sylus didn't flinch.

His expression remained cold, detached, as if he were performing a routine task rather than torturing a man to death.

The man screamed so loudly that Sylus had to gag him but it didn't make a difference.

The man's eyes told him everything. He was terrified. Broken. A shell of what he had once been. Sylus took his time, dragging out the agony for hours, refusing to let the man pass out. When the man's legs were charred beyond repair, Sylus ended him with a single, swift cut to the throat.

But it still wasn't enough.

Each time he killed one of them, Sylus felt a strange emptiness settle over him. He had thought that their deaths would bring him peace. That they would give him closure. But all he felt was a gnawing, festering wound inside him—a hollow void that no amount of bloodshed could fill.

The final man was the one who had sent the message, the one who had orchestrated the whole thing. Sylus saved him for last. This time, he wasn't quick about it. He made sure the man felt every second of pain.

Sylus shattered his kneecaps with a crowbar, slowly, deliberately. The man writhed, trying to crawl away, but there was nowhere to go.

Sylus grabbed him by the hair, forcing him to look up.

"You think you've won?" Sylus hissed, his voice shaking with fury. "You think taking her from me made you powerful?"

The man spat blood, laughing through the pain. "She...was just...a toy..to you..."

The words hit harder than any physical blow could. Sylus's vision blurred with rage. He drove the crowbar into the man's ribs, one after another, each crack echoing in the cold room. The man choked on his own blood, gasping for breath but Sylus didn't stop. He kept hitting. Kept swinging. Until the man was nothing but a bloody, broken mess on the floor.

Finally, when the last man was dead, Sylus stood over the carnage, his breathing ragged. His hands, arms, even his face were stained with blood. But as he stared at the bodies, at the destruction he had wrought, something inside him cracked.

He had avenged you. He had made them suffer. But why did it feel so... hollow?

Then, something strange happened. A thought—no, a delusion-began to take root in his mind. You weren't really gone. You couldn't be. You were too strong for that.

Too stubborn. This had all been some elaborate trick, a twisted game to test him.

That was it. You had never been dead.

He just... needed to find you.

The next day, Sylus was smiling, genuinely smiling for the first time in what felt like an eternity. He was covered in dried blood but that didn't bother him. None of that mattered. What mattered was that he was going to see you.

He walked through the streets of Onychinus with a spring in his step, ignoring the wide-eyed stares and gasps from the people around him. The blood that clung to his clothes and skin was irrelevant. He was happy. He was going to take you out, like you had wanted. You were waiting for him. You always waited for him.

Sylus reached the arcade, stepping through the entrance with a grin. The bright lights and sounds surrounded him but all he saw was you, standing at the claw machine. You were there. Of course, you were there. You'd always be there.

"There you are, kitten" he said, his voice soft, almost tender. "I told you l'd be back."

But the arcade had fallen into a stunned silence. People stopped in their tracks, staring in shock and horror at the blood-covered man standing in the center of the room, talking to... no one.

Sylus didn't notice. He walked toward the claw machine, where he could see you in his mind, laughing at your failed attempts. "Let me help you this time" he chuckled, reaching out as if to guide your hand but his fingers grasped only air.

A child whispered to their mother, "Mommy, why is he talking to himself?"

The mother pulled the child closer, her face pale as she hurried them out of the arcade.

More people began to leave, their eyes darting to Sylus in fear but he remained oblivious, lost in his own delusion.

He leaned against the claw machine, his bloodstained hand leaving a smear on the glass. "You always get so worked up over these games, sweetie" he teased, his voice dripping with affection. "But I always knew you could win if you just had a little patience."

A man behind the counter fumbled with his phone, clearly calling the authorities. His hands shook as he kept his distance, terrified of the blood-soaked maniac who was clearly not in his right mind.

Sylus's eyes sparkled with something close to joy. "You're laughing at me, aren't you?" he said, his tone playful. "I can't help it. I just missed you."

In his mind, you were there. Smiling.

Laughing. Perfect, as you had always been.

But the truth was a far darker reality. He was alone, talking to nothing but empty air, the ghost of your presence haunting his fractured mind and the onlookers could only watch, horrified, as Sylus-the feared, ruthless leader of Onychinus-spoke to someone who no longer existed.

The doors to the arcade opened and the authorities arrived. But Sylus didn't notice.

He was too busy laughing with you, too consumed by the fantasy he had created, a world where you were still alive, still with him.

In the end, the tragedy wasn't just that you were gone. It was that Sylus had lost his mind trying to keep you alive in his own twisted way.

and the reality, cold and unforgiving, was that nothing could bring you back.

[hello-from-nrc-infirmary]

Centennial Celebration

Book 2: A Century of Circumstance

[1] [2] [3] [4] [5A] [5B] [6]

Chapter 7: Steadfast Soldier

Koa navigates the mountain terrain effortlessly. The elk silently flicks an ear just before he goes for a jump. Glancing at Vern again. The green fire around Steel’s eye blazes as he realizes the sprite’s eyes have closed.

“Aye! Wake up! I…”

Koa’s voice rings in his head, “is he asleep? Is his pulse low?”

“I can’t check like this,” Steel retorts, “but.. yeah, he’s sleeping.”

The elk slows for a moment and waits, “well?”

He hesitates before carefully checking his pulse point. Vern’s skin is damp and freezing. His pulse… shit.

“It’s… too low. We gotta move.”

“As long as it’s there, we have time,” Koa assures, “we just need him back before Deep Sleep sets in."

“Deep what?”

The elk’s antlers gain a faint sparkle. Koa slashes the air, making a brief rip in space. Jumping through, it closes immediately behind them. The portal robs Steel of breath in his lungs for a moment.

“Deep Sleep! Humans call it hibernation.”

He coughs as Koa weaves through trees. Steel recovers as the forest gives way to a clearing with pink asters lining a path to a small cabin. The elk follows a side path to a mountain spring. Purple columbines and edelweiss circle the water, along with moss and a few clovers. Koa lowers himself.

“Make sure he’s submerged up to his chin.”

Steel glances from Vern to the water and back. Oh for… Steel clicks his tongue as he dismounts. Looking the slumbering sprite over, he removes Archie’s coat from him.

“Hey.. your cloak will get heavy,” he tries shaking Vern. A slight frown sours his face when it doesn’t work. “Sorry, I’ll have to-“

“-I understand you wish to be courteous,” Koa’s ear twitches, “Considering the circumstance, Vern will be forgiving. Please move quickly.”

“Okay.. alright.”

Steel hesitantly unfastens the cloak. Letting the fabric fall across Koa while picking Vern up. He rushes to the water’s edge and doesn’t hesitate to step in.

“Huh.. it’s warm?”

Koa lays at the edge, “submerge him-“

“-yeah yeah, up to his chin.”

He moves towards the center and sits. He has to adjust Vern to lean against him. The green in the sprite’s hair ripples to a watery blue, though the gray strands stay.

“Wake up,” he almost shouts. Blot drips onto Vern and Steel quickly tries to rub it off, “shi-.. sorry.”

The silence of the forest seems to deepen around them. He watches as a few small cuts to Vern’s cheek slowly heal.

“… I can’t do much, I'm sorry,” his voice softens, “I’m just some calm permablot.. I’m not…”

What? Not what?!

“.. I don’t doubt you’d find a way to deny what I’m saying.”

Koa perks up, ears twitching. Steel can hear the others approaching, too. He doesn’t bother turning around. Instead, he hesitantly wipes a few more drops of blot off of Vern.

Song: I'm with You by Avril Lavigne

Book 1: [1] [2] [3]

Book 2: [1] [2] [3] [4] [5A] [5B] [6] [7]

Book 3: [1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6]

[jjwolves]

WHERE IS MY MIND ⨯ ୭ ⨯ ୭ ⨯ ୭ ⨯ ୭ ⨯ ୭

What: 5 Headcanons of Taski Maiden X Reader

Who: Taski Maiden from ENA Dream BBQ (By Joel G)

How Much: ~1200 Words, ~7 mins

Credits: Image Banner → Joel G

Warnings: None

You were friends with Taski first. Most entities didn’t pay any mind to the imp-thing so long as she didn’t hex them with a prank, but your schedule was always open and your door was always unlocked (she’d come through the window if it wasn’t) for whatever shenanigans she had planned for the day. Most days, she has a list of things she’s really excited to do with you that’s scribbled on a discarded notebook she plucked out of the trash or the corpse of a really flat, pale worm she scraped off of a tree. It’s common to see little pictures scribbled in the free space, portraying things like you and Taski sneaking into the Needle Course Casino, digging up fossils and tying big snails’ eyestalks together (it’s funnier when they trip up than when they trip down, according to her). You once asked Taski why she makes a list at all. She kept matching your stride, smile unwavering as she turned her head to look up at you. “To maximize, babeh. We only gotz so much time before you wanna go home or sumthin’ boring-slash-dumb like that. And once you’re gone, it’s not as fun. So. Maximizing.” You weren’t sure what to say. Didn’t she have fun on her own?

It’s an odd thing for a tricky vagabond like her, but you think that she’s started to develop a degree of separation anxiety. There are days where you can’t go out and flip the world upside down looking for treasure with Taski. Sometimes you need to spend the in-between at Doctor to remove the balloons that came out of you before they lift you into the sky, or you need to go to the Inquiry to to convince the entities there that they should take pineapple taxes instead of watermelon ones (watermelons are harder to get, of course, but it’s a whole thing that I’ll spare you the details of). You know. Professional stuff. When you get back home you find rings, perfect little crop circles, of strange padded footprints whose feet had spent the day pacing in the yard and on the roof, somehow, in agitation. Stewing. You had a good guess as to who it was. And when you see Taski again? She’s mad. Not too many of these disruptions happen before she turns to shadow and teeth and legs that endlessly wade through Hell. “ADMIT ITTT! YOU’RE T1RED OF MEEE!!! I KN0CKED AND KNOKKED AND KNOKCED AND PASED ALL DAY!!1 POO!” Confused and a little defensive, try to explain that there are certain obligations that were serious business. Why is she so upset about this? It’s not like she would have wanted to come along with you to such dry places. “SHUT UP!1 START TALKING! THATZ NOT TRUE!! You never even said anything or asked me or nuthin!! I woulda gone!!” You ask… why. “BECAUSE I JUST WOULDA! You’ll be bringing me with you next time, and DON’T FORGETI OR YOU'LL REGRETI, CHUMP!”

Taski insists that she goes with you whenever you have day plans, and when she insists, it doubles as a secret promise. You don’t necessarily mind having her come along with you, but you expect her to get bored pretty quickly and start causing chaos if she doesn’t have some sort of distraction. When you have to go to Inspection Plaza, Taski is already at your side and babbling about her lifetime ocean ban. A plan to keep her distracted begins rolling around in your head and your body spits out a subconscious gesture as a solution: an open hand extended to Taski. You hear a small gasp, and before you even realize what you’re doing, her hand is already grasping yours as tightly as it can, three digits clumsily interlocking with yours. Your mind catches up to the situation and you regain the mental faculties needed to be embarrassed, but as you go to withdraw, Taski holds on tighter. “NO! IT’S MINE!! NO BACK-TAKESIES!”

From then on, it is always time for handholding, and while touchiness isn’t something new coming from Taski, the small, tender gestures she starts adopting are. She starts gently pulling on your clothes to lead you in a direction or get your attention. She locks your arm between hers and lets you drag her around. Sometimes, when she’s particularly excited, she climbs up your torso and wraps her hands around your back, awkwardly hanging off of you like a front-facing backpack. You think you like her more than you first thought, and you find yourself unbothered by the new tendencies you seem to have unlocked in her. That is, until Taski decides that, as her favorite person, she doesn’t even want to part from you at the end of a skybox cycle well-spent. Normally she walks you all the way to your house and stands still at the doorway, hair slowly writhing around as she stares vacantly forwards. This time, though, she walks right on through with you and makes herself at home, moving past you and further into the house to properly inspect it. Her red eye rolls around excitedly as she fidgets with the front of her dress. “Ooh! You gotta house! I mean I know you gotta house but it has insidez!” You have no idea what she’s doing, and you don’t think she does either. You decide not to say anything; despite how weird it is, something tells you that it’s good to have her here. That night, it’s dark so you don’t see her—only hear her—crawl under your bed and sleep there. You pick up on a purr which modulates in pitch between a low rumble and a high-pitched droning, like a bug is buzzing around your head.

Things resume as normal—as normal as they get, anyway. You spend a LOT of time with Taski, skipping stones over rivers of liquid amber and having her cling to you at any other time. You think she might have a thing for you, and it’s pretty obvious in retrospect, but not as obvious as it is now. Smugly, albeit with a decidedly inhuman, dark gray blush, she gives you a challenge. “I got an epic challenge for you!! You gotsta look DEEEEEP into my cursed eye. NO BLINKING OR STINKING! And don look away or you LOSE!1! And to dump sugar in the dealio…” She fishes some sort of rainbow-colored ball of yarn out of her pocket(?). “Your epic challenge’s epicer prize!!” You accept—you know that she probably stole that or fished it out of a lake, but you don’t care. “Begin!!” And just like that your intense ¾ staring match began. You realized that her “cursed” red eye had little flickering images in the pupil the longer you looked—something resembling little feet walking in circles—but it was too tiny to see. You got closer and closer to see better, breath hitching when you realized you were, like, centimeters away from her face. Taski blushed furiously as she took advantage of the situation, grabbing the back of your head and forcing your lips together. She obviously didn’t know how to kiss, really, but that was superseded by her enthusiasm. It was like she was trying to eat you alive and sew your soul into desert flowers. When you separated, she was excited, shaking you back and forth. “WE RE4LLY! WE RE4LLY! I wanted to do that for so long!! Pleaze PLEAS CAN I BE YOUR FAVORITE THINGIE?! I CANT WAIT ANYMOR3!” But she was already your favorite thingie, and she always would be.

A/N #1: It is hard to write for Taski, but she's my favorite character so it's worth it. She misspells things and uses phrases incorrectly, sometimes mixing them, and that goes against my writer-instincts incredibly hard. (Ex: Instead of "sweeten the deal", she forgets the phrase and says "dump sugar in the dealio", similar to how she gets the order wrong for "cheater cheater pumpkin eater" and calls you a "pumpkin eater cheater" in-game. Little stuff like that is what matters.)

A/N #2: I don't think Taski "courts" normally. (Not that any ENA character does.) I think she just gets closer and closer and closer and one day you're married or some ENA-world equivalent before you even realized it. She just glides right into the relationship because that's pretty much her entire lifestyle and she's kind of feral.

[xo-myloves]

@nenynra -Duff being so lovey dovey with the reader, it sounds embarassing, but he does it 'cause reader was having a bad day:)

𝕊𝕌𝕄𝕄𝔸ℝ𝕐: 𝚈𝚘𝚞’𝚛𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚍𝚊𝚢—𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚐𝚘𝚎𝚜 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚘 𝚒𝚜 𝚌𝚛𝚢 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚙𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚘𝚠. 𝙳𝚞𝚏𝚏 𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚊𝚜 𝚜𝚘𝚘𝚗 𝚊𝚜 𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚔𝚜 𝚒𝚗, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚎𝚜𝚗’𝚝 𝚊𝚜𝚔 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚔—𝚑𝚎 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚙𝚞𝚕𝚕𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚊𝚛𝚖𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚕𝚎𝚝𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚏𝚒𝚐𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚒𝚝 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚘𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎. 𝙰𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚊 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚎, 𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚊 𝚛𝚒𝚍𝚒𝚌𝚞𝚕𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚢 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝙶𝚞𝚗𝚜 𝙽’ 𝚁𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚜’ 𝚍𝚞𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚖𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚜, 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚗𝚘𝚛𝚝 𝚊 𝚕𝚊𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚍𝚊𝚢.

༞༞༞༞༞༞༞༞𝚂𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚙 𝚍𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚖𝚊𝚗༞༞༞༞༞༞༞༞

You weren’t having a bad day.

You were having a fucking awful day.

The kind of day where everything went wrong in ways you didn’t even think were possible. Spilled coffee, missed calls, that weird tension in your chest that wouldn’t go away no matter how many deep breaths you took. The kind of day where, by the time you made it home, you weren’t even sure if you were angry or just tired of being a person.

You were still sitting on the couch, curled up in your hoodie, staring at the wall when Duff walked in.

He took one look at you and sighed. “Shit, babe. That bad?”

You didn’t even answer—just let out a low, tired groan and let your head drop back against the cushions.

Duff smirked. “That bad, huh?”

You shot him a half-hearted glare. “Don’t mock me. I’ll cry.”

His smirk softened into something else. Something quieter. “Yeah?”

You nodded miserably. “Yeah.”

He didn’t say anything after that—just kicked off his boots and plopped down on the couch beside you. And, because Duff wasn’t the type to let you sit in your misery alone, he immediately stretched his arm over the back of the couch and tugged you into his side.

“C’mere.”

You let yourself fall against him, head resting on his shoulder, his warmth seeping into your skin. He smelled like leather and the faintest trace of cigarette smoke—comforting in a way you didn’t have words for.

For a while, neither of you spoke. The silence wasn’t heavy, wasn’t awkward—it was just there, settling between you like an old song you both knew the words to.

After a while, Duff exhaled, rubbing slow circles into your back. “Wanna tell me what’s up?”

You shrugged against him. “Not really.”

“That bad?”

You nodded.

He was quiet for a second, then: “Wanna hear a story?”

You huffed out a small, tired laugh. “Is this gonna be some deep, profound Duff-ism?”

“Nah,” he murmured, grinning. “Just a stupid story.”

You sighed, closing your eyes. “Go for it.”

Duff adjusted slightly, getting comfortable, his fingers still tracing absentminded patterns against your arm. “Alright. So, 1987. We’re on tour, right? And everything’s fucking chaos. Like, pure shitshow levels of chaos. Izzy’s missing, Slash is already drunk, Axl’s threatening to kill someone—I don’t even remember who, just someone.”

You snorted. “So, a normal day?”

“Basically.” Duff chuckled, shaking his head. “Anyway, I’m having the worst fucking day. Just—hungover, exhausted, done with everyone’s bullshit. And then, right before we go on stage, I trip over my own fucking bass cable and wipe out in front of like, ten people.”

“Oh my God.”

“No, wait, it gets worse,” he groaned, clearly enjoying your reaction. “So, I hit the ground hard. Like, fully ate shit. And I swear to God, right as I’m lying there, questioning all my life choices, fucking Axl leans over me and goes, ‘Wow. That’s embarrassing.’”

You were full-on laughing now, covering your face with your hands. “No way.”

“I wish I was making that up.” Duff grinned, pulling your hands away so he could see your face. “Anyway, my point is—some days just fucking suck. And sometimes, all you can do is eat shit and get back up.”

You rolled your eyes, but you were still smiling. “So, the lesson here is…?”

“The lesson,” Duff murmured, leaning down so his lips brushed your forehead, “is that even on the worst days, you’re still my girl. And that means I’m not going anywhere.”

Your chest tightened. Not in the heavy, miserable way it had all day—but in the warm, stupid, I love this man so much it’s annoying kind of way.

“You’re lucky you’re cute,” you muttered.

Duff grinned. “I know.”

And for the first time all day, you felt okay.

[fatkish]

Demon Child Pt. 11

You and Genya had been traveling through the maze that was the infinity castle. You and Genya had been destroying any demons you came across but for some reason there seemed to be less and less demons. As Genya slowed to a walk, you sensed a familiar presence. You knew this presence, it was Kokushibo, and he was close. You jumped down from Genya’s shoulders and grabbed his hand as you quickly and quietly led him towards Kokushibo. As you got closer you started to hear voices talking.

When you looked around the partition, your eyes widened as you saw Kokushibo standing in front of Muichiro who was pinned to a column with his own sword. Muichiro’s sword was going through one of his shoulders and he was missing his left hand. You looked around and spotted his hand. You looked at Genya and put a finger over your lips. You then darted out and grabbed the disembodied hand and hid behind another column. Fearing that you would be spotted, Genya went to shoot Kokushibo but he appeared behind him.

With Kokushibo gone, you ran over to help Muichiro. You held his severed hand to his wrist and used your healing spit to reattach it. After testing his hand out, Muichiro grabbed his sword and pulled it out. You then healed his shoulder and ran back to where Genya was with Muichiro. When you got there, you saw that Genya had been cut to pieces. Your eyes welled with tears as you began to piece him back together. You saw over your shoulder that Sanemi was fighting Kokushibo. You began working faster to help Genya. After you placed the final part of Genya together, your tears began to mend his body and fix him.

You and Muichiro helped Genya up and you three turned to help Sanemi. As Sanemi continued to fight Kokushibo, Kokushibo managed to slash Sanemi’s abdomen. As you, Genya and Muichiro watched, you three began to concoct a plan to help Sanemi. As the fighting between Kokushibo and Sanemi continued, they kicked up a dust cloud. As the dust settled, a figure could be seen. Once the dust cloud disappeared, Gyomei could be seen, wielding his morning star and hatchet, ready to fight. Gyomei walked over to Sanemi, “Shinazugawa, fix yourself right now, I will take him on while you do that” Gyomei said.

Gyomei walked forward towards Kokushibo, swinging his morning star in a circle. As he launched the star, Kokushibo dodged it. As Kokushibo went to attack, he noticed the hatchet heading straight for him. Stepping on the chain, Gyomei managed to swing his weapon to wrap the chain around Kokushibo’s neck. Unable to slash the chains, Kokushibo ducked to avoid the chain. Gyomei continued to swing his ax and ball around, Kokushibo tried to dash straight for Gyomei, but Gyomei leapt into the air and flipped over Kokushibo. Gyomei managed to wrap his chain around Kokushibo’s sword to try and break it.

As Kokushibo’s sword regenerated, he spoke to Gyomei. “Everything that breaks…will regenerate right away… your attacks…are useless… pitiful human” he told Gyomei. As Gyomei stood across from Kokushibo, holding both his weapons in each hand, he confessed. “I wanted to save this for when I faced Muzan…but if I fail here, I’ll end up back where I started. I’ve got nothing to lose in using it here” Gyomei said as his demon slayer mark appeared on his wrist. You looked on in sadness as you ran over to Sanemi and healed his wounds.

As you healed Sanemi’s wounds, Kokushibo and Gyomei began to converse. Kokushibo commented that since Gyomei was past the age of 25, he may very well die this night. He went on to say that Gyomei has mastered his body and Techniques to such a degree and they will vanish from the world once he dies. Kokushibo asked Gyomei if he thought that was tragic. Gyomei told Kokushibo that he doesn’t find it tragic. Gyomei explained that even without the mark, being a demon slayer means that there is never a promise of tomorrow. Gyomei goes on to question the point in trying to preserve his life force this late in the game. He then comments that no one with half assed resolve like that becomes a pillar.

Kokushibo reiterated that he wasn’t taking about something as trivial as one’s life force. Becoming a demon means that one can preserve their body and techniques. To turn down that offer is something Kokushibo can’t comprehend. Gyomei tells Kokushibo that of course he can’t comprehend it. The Hashira were born as humans and they are proud to die as humans. Gyomei then comments on how Kokushibo lied about something. When Kokushibo asks what he lied about, Gyomei tells him that there was an exception, someone who lived past 25 who had a demon slayer mark.

Kokushibo stood still, slightly shaking in rage at the thought of his brother. He then quickly shot forward in an attempt to behead Gyomei, but Gyomei blocked it. You had finished up healing Sanemi and he went back to the fight. Gyomei and Sanemi together began to fight against Kokushibo. As they fought, you hid behind a partition and began to mediate. You told Genya to watch your back and keep you safe. You then relaxed and began to fall unconscious.

When you woke up, you were back in that dark void but this time there were giant statues of everyone. You wandered around until you saw Kokushibo’s statue. You then jumped up and began to soar until you landed on the statue’s face. You placed your hand on the statue’s cheek, “Kokushibo, please listen. I don’t want to have to fight you!” You said. You tried to get through but Kokushibo’s mental barrier was too thick. You tried again though. You placed your hand on Kokushibo’s statue’s forehead. “Michikatsu! Please listen! Yoriichi loved you. All he wanted was to be a swordsman like his beloved twin. You inspired him, he loves you, here, I’ll show you”

You began to release the memory of the love Yoriichi felt for his twin through your aura. Outside the mindscape, Muichiro had his sword stabbed through Kokushibo’s abdomen. As Kokushibo was about to grow swords all over his body, he froze. His eyes filled with tears as he felt the the love Yoriichi had for him. As he was frozen and distracted, Sanemi took this chance to behead Kokushibo. As his body began to crumble to ash, his statue in the Mindscape began to shatter as well. As the statue crumbled, you stayed and continued to bathe the statue in an aura of love.

When you come out of it, you walk over to Kokushibo’s remaining things. You look down sadly at them before shedding a tear for whatever reason. As the others get patched up, you all continue on your way towards Muzan’s location. While you all are running there Genya asks you a question. “Y/n’ what was it that you were doing? It looked like you were meditating.” Sanemi, Muichiro and Gyomei’s ears perk up at the conversation. “I was in the mindscape. There, I can use my emotional manipulation to manipulate a target’s mind.” You explained as Gyomei carried you.

“It that why Upper One was crying? Can you do that to Muzan?” Sanemi asked. You nodded. “I could, but I would need powerful emotions to use against him. I used Kukoshibo’s brother’s emotions against him. It won’t work against Muzan.” You explained. “Y/n, I’m sorry to tell you this, but if it gives you strong enough emotions, Master Kagaya, miss Amane, their two daughters, Tamayo and Shinobu, have all died” Gyomei informed. You froze as did everyone else when the castle began to shake. The shock of the news was enough to keep your mind occupied when the castle collapsed and everyone was brought to the surface.

When you open your eyes, you’re alone. You push the rubble and debris off of you and you slowly began to walk forward. You weren’t even aware of your surroundings, you just walked. You focused on sensing for Kagaya, Amane, their children, Tamayo, Shinobu. You tried to feel for them but you found nothing. Memories of each of them began to flood your mind. Cuddling with Kagaya and Amane, all the games the Ubuyashiki kids played and taught you. The foods they introduced to you. Tamayo’s kind smile. The stories she’d read to you when she had the time. All the times Shinobu hung out with you and taught you things.

You didn’t realize the tears that were starting to fall from your eyes. You didn’t realize that the sounds of battle were growing closer. As the memories of the people you loved kept flashing through your mind, you didn’t realize that you stumbled right into the battle against Muzan. But he did. You were completely disassociating with reality as you faced the facts that these people were gone forever. The man who you saw as a father, and the woman who you saw as a mother, the people you thought of as family, they were gone.

Taking Notice of you, the battle stopped. Both sides not wanting to risk injuring you. You just stood there numbly, looking down. “Well well, if it isn’t my little niece/nephew, why don’t you sit back and let me handle this alright?” Muzan spoke in a sweet voice. You paused and looked up, you slowly turned to look at Muzan. Seeing him, the reason why your loved ones are gone, seeing him smiling at you. You couldn’t take it anymore, and the dam broke. You screamed as tears flowed from your eyes, and suddenly the entire battlefield was engulfed in a blue aura. Everyone began to cry in some way. Some more than others, but Muzan fell to his knees sobbing.

Despite how hard he tried, Muzan was unable to fight the effects of your blood demon art. You see, his sister had a special blood demon art, one that allowed her to manipulate the emotions of demons. The closer the demon was to her, the more powerful the effect she had on them. You inherited her blood demon art. Seeing as you are half human, your blood demon art works on humans too. The Hashira saw that this was their chance to take out Muzan. With only 30 minutes until sunrise, the Hashira begin their attack on Muzan.

While that happens, Muzan is brought to a place he recognizes. (Picture at the start) Looking around, Muzan Recognizes this place as his little sister’s mindscape. This is the realm of the subconscious, and his niece’s subconscious is the exact same as his sister’s. Still in tears, Muzan feels a familiar presence. One that he felt vanish. He felt the familiar presence of his sister. Y/n stand across from Muzan, with tears in their eyes. Muzan is still on his hands and knees but looks up at you. With tears still in your eyes, you ask Muzan “why are you doing this? Why are you making people suffer?”

“It’s not something that you could understand. This world is infested with disgusting imperfections and I seek to rid the world of those imperfections.” Muzan said. “Tell me Uncle, if you finally achieve your goal, will you be happy? Will perfection bring you happiness?” You ask. “Of course it will!” Muzan shouts. You frown. You look him in the eyes, with a look on your face. It was the exact same face that his sister looked at him with before she left him, which brought back memories of Minako.

Before Minako left for good, she and Muzan had an argument. She told him that she felt horrible about taking lives and wanted to put a stop to demons hurting innocent people. She told him that demons don’t have to make their victims suffer. That the right thing to do is to deliver their victims a swift and painless death. He told her she was being silly and wrote her off. She told him he was being cruel and he told her she was being childish. She left in tears and that was his last memory of her.

You walk over to your Uncle and gently place your hand on his cheek, “I know that you’re not going to change. I know you think the world is imperfect but those imperfections are what makes life perfect. If everyone was perfect at everything then what would be the point in living. Life is about growing and learning and experiencing things. If you get rid of everything you deem as imperfect, you risk getting rid of what makes you happy.” You removed your hand from his cheek. “The sun will be rising soon. And I won’t let you leave.” You said. And then you both were back in the real world.

You activated your blood demon art and created a bubble surrounding the battlefield. The bubble was filled with your healing aura, it healed the Hashira while sharp winds cut and sliced at Muzan. The sun began to peel over the Horizon and you solidified the bubble, making it impossible to leave the bubble. As Muzan began to burn up in the sun’s light, everyone watched until there was nothing left of him.

After the battle, you ran over to Gyomei as he collapsed. “Gyomei, I can fix you, I can negate the effects of the mark, but you can never use stone breathing or anything other than basic breathing techniques. If you do, the mark will come back and I won’t be able to do anything about it again. Will you let me save you?” You asked. Gyomei smiled at you and rubbed your head. “If that’s what you want, then go ahead and do it. You smiled as you closed your eyes and began to seal the mark, removing its effects on Gyomei. After you sealed the mark, you grew weary and ended up fainting.

Part 12:

Tag list: @shortneko @tomiokasecretlover @jspidey5 @nousija

[asunsetgrace16]

✧ 𝗦𝗔𝗧𝗨𝗥𝗗𝗔𝗬 𝗦𝗟𝗘𝗘𝗣𝗢𝗩𝗘𝗥 ⎥ 𝗙𝗠45

Pairing: Fraser Minten x fem!reader

Warnings: fluffyyyyy, one kiss (I think), one swear

Summary: Y/N stays over at Fraser's for the first time after their usual Hockey Night in Canada Saturday date

Notes: To clear up any confusion, this is a repost of an old post but I have been doing some blog maintenance and have changes how I answer fic requests.

Thank you so much for the request! I love writing for Minty and there is a lack of Minty content on here. I also made up the entire game except for the misconducts that were given in an actual Florida-Ottawa game last fall. Request.

masterlist⎥ navigation

Word Count: 978

As per weekly Saturday tradition, Y/N and Fraser watch whatever hockey game is on TV. Both avid hockey fans and players, they both grew up watching Hockey Night in Canada, rooting for their teams with unabashed pride; Fraser for Vancouver and Y/N for Winnipeg. Occasionally, their hockey-watching dates are over FaceTime when Fraser is out of town for games and he often falls asleep, his phone dying overnight. 

Tonight, however, isn’t one of those nights. The Blades played a rare Saturday matinee game, ending just before four. This gave the couple time to make dinner before the start of the game. His billet family is away visiting relatives for the weekend, so it’s just the two of them. They settle in for the game with plates of spaghetti and salad. Ottawa is playing Florida tonight.

“This should be interesting.” Y/N comments, “nothing good ever happens when the Tkachuk brothers are on the ice together.”

“Very true. How many fights do you think will happen?” Fraser asks, half-Joking, half-serious.

“Oh, easily three or four.”

The game starts off fairly uneventful. No goals from either team and only a penalty or two. But you can tell the teams are chippy with each other. It's the start of the second when things finally amp up. It starts with a slash to the shins of Jakob Chychrun from Nick Cousins, sparking Brady Tkachuk to get involved. The refs are able to break it up before anything exciting happens. There is a pair of goals in the last 10 minutes of the first, so the teams are tied heading into intermission. The second follow is much of the same pattern; a goal for each team, a few minor penalties, and one scuffle. They had barely taken their gloves off before the refs broke it up, boring.

“ Boo.” Fraser says to the TV, “Let them fight, it’s more exciting that way.” 

Y/N laughs and rolls her eyes. But he's not wrong, “You just like to see Matthew stir shit up.” 

“You've got me there.” 

It's in the dying minutes of the third one Fraser gets his wish. A cheap shot from Carter Verhaeghe sends Parker Kelly into the boards awkwardly. He doesn't get up as both teams end up in the corner. Claude Giroux tries to pull Parker away from the fight. The rest of the guys grab each other and start fighting, well most of them anyway. Brady and Matthew are both in the mix. Helmets are off, gloves and sticks are scattered on the ice and the refs are circling. Parker got some help getting to the bench and is getting checked by a trainer. The fight goes on, eventually guys are in headlocks, jerseys are half off, and others are piled on the ice, still swinging punches. The refs break up the fight, sending the guys towards penalty boxes before dishing out the penalties. 

“Every player on the ice gets a 10-minute misconduct, except for the goalies and Ottawa number 27.”

Both Fraser and Y/N are staring, absolutely dumbfounded. Almost never do 10 players get game misconducts. 

“Well, there's the entertainment for the night.” Y/N quips.

The last few minutes pass quietly, the benches are looking very bare, five guys gone from one side and four from the other. Fraser has nodded off by the time the game ends, and Y/N isn't far behind. She turns off the TV and folds the blanket that she used. She sighs tiredly, looking around the dim room. Fraser’s half-asleep on the couch, all sleep-warm and face cast with shadows from the kitchen lights. Y/N moves about the room, gathering her bag and phone. She smiles softly, love in her eyes as she looks as Fraser. She wakes him gently, prompting him to go to bed.

“Just stay.” Fraser mumbles sleepily, yawning. 

“I…I don’t know.” Y/N hesitates, wanting to say yes.

“Please.” He interrupts, giving Y/N a soft, pleading look.

Y/N stays quiet for a minute, reaching out to brush a piece of hair off of his forehead, “Ok. I’ll stay.”

“That’s my girl.”

Y/N flushes, turning shy all of a sudden. She looks away, avoiding his gaze. They haven’t slept over at each other’s places yet, and it makes Y/N’s cheeks warm.

“Why’d you get shy?” He asks as they walk to his room.

“What? No I didn’t”

“Yes, you did. Look, you’re blushing.” He grins at her, poking her cheek.

“No I’m not.”

“Yes, you are. And it’s cute.”

Y/N gives him an exasperated look, she will never admit it but Fraser is right. It’s their first night sleeping over together so it takes an extra few minutes to get everything sorted. She is a little jittery, nervous to share Fraser’s bed with him. Her brain goes into overdrive as she tries to avoid making things weird. Fraser gives her a shirt to sleep in and he pulls on a pair of sweatpants. They stand on opposite sides of the bed, unsure of how to proceed. Sure, they have cuddled before, but usually that was on the couch or her cramped twin bed at school. Fraser climbs in, throwing back the covers and he holds his hand out for Y/N to grab. She takes it climbing into the other side. He pulled the covers over them, rearranging his pillow for optimal comfort. Y/N does the same, relaxing more as the minutes go by. Fraser reaches over and shuts off the lamp, sending the room into darkness. By the light of the moon, they face each other. Fraser pulls Y/N closer, giving her a sweet kiss on her forehead before tucking her into his chest. Before long, the couple has drifted off, wrapped up in each other’s arms like it's the most natural thing in the world.

[tojisun]

I’m in such a soap mood rn and that hockey!soap ask just near ruined meeeee!! What if he is dating a more alternative girl and he goes out of his way to find his tooth on the ice, making sure his team know that it’s not weird and he is not being over dramatic cuz its actually a very big deal. The next time his team sees her is at their engagement party and when they ask to see the ring she shows off a real pretty gold band with a pointy tooth replacing a stone.

this is so fucking peak im shaking like an old dog

part of this rambling teehee; f!reader // sugar, spice, everything on ice (hockey au mlist)

“wan’ ma’ fuh-kuh’ tooh’,” johnny grumbles, throbbing mouth muffled by the towel he’s using to stop the bleeding, before turning to kyle who blinks at him.

the game hasn’t resumed yet which is honestly a drag at this point, johnny thinks, because there’s only nine seconds left and sure miracles can happen within that time—some teams seem to have abundance of those—but does johnny even care anymore? no.

he’s angry and tired and in pain, and all they gave him was a white ass face towel and pinched smiles, before handing his team a four-minute penalty too. what the hell?

he would’ve complained if it wasn’t for the burning feeling in his face, thrumming from the base of his jaw to the tender press inside his cheek where the tooth was ripped out of his gums. he’s glad he was able to throw a punch in retaliation, that and the fundamental silver lining—

his loose tooth is out there.

johnny needs it.

“you… want your tooth?” kyle asks, looking at him like he’s the oddest creature in the rink. “why—”

the face-off begins, kyle and johnny turn, watching the puck fall, lumbers smacking against each other in the final grapple and skates slashing the ice, taking speed and taking force only—

the horn blows, marking the end of the game.

“fuh’ yeah!” johnny screams, banging on the glass protector, before he curls in the open arms of his teammates, laughing, bloodied gum forgotten.

they’re kicked out of the penalty box, finally—“it’s been twenty seconds, ‘tavish.”—and johnny gargles something unintelligible to price who skated towards them for a celebratory hug because there’s something johnny needs and he needs it now before the ice girls come in to swipe the rink.

he whirls past teammates trying to pull him in, waving his glove in lieu of a response because he can’t dignify them a proper one, not with the way his eyes are trained on the ice like this is his first time skating again, hesitant and eyes all-seeing.

he skates at the scene of tragedy, nose scrunching at the faint blood but otherwise empty patch of ice. god. where the hell did that go?

johnny almost gives up, almost decides to just knock out another tooth, probably the molar this time, when his eyes finally snag something that looks like it doesn’t belong on the ice. it’s tucked there in the corner of the rink, unassuming and still pink with blood.

“oh, y’r tooth,” simon grunts beside him.

“ye’,” is what johnny manages. “‘m taki’ it home.”

“…sure, whatever,” his friend says like he hasn’t done anything weirder. remember montreal 2019? yeah.

johnny skates towards the little thing, plucking it off the ice and holding it tight within his palm. he turns, blinking in surprise at seeing both kyle and john there beside simon now. the other guys are still parading, celebrating their victory with the audience, so johnny doesn’t know why his closest circle are here.

“what.”

“y’know you don’t need that for the implant, right?” john asks slowly like johnny’s some spooked thing.

“uh-huh,” is all johnny says, not understanding what price is insinuating now that the adrenaline’s wearing off, and the sharp stinging pain in his gums thrums harder from within. “leh’ go. wan’ medi-hin.”

kyle huffs, shaking his head fondly, before leading the pack out of the ice after a last lap for the audience. johnny keeps up with them, bright in his own happiness, pain be damned, because their fans deserve to see the fruits of their unwavering support.

besides, he knows someone’s out there, cheering for him louder than anyone else is.

.

“ah, there it is!” johnny cheers as he rummages through his locker, grinning when he meets the curious eyes of his teammates to show off his prized possession.

“your tooth?” enzo asks, face scrunched in his slight disgust. “don’t you wanna, you know, chuck it out?”

kyle murmurs something to reyes, something distinctly like, “just leave him be, mate,” but johnny bulldozes through, excited, and replies, “hmm? nae. i’m givin’ it to my girl.”

johnny doesn’t even notice the sudden silence in the room until the awkward petering laughter of gus.

“he smashed his head harder than we thought, no? probably needs more than a dentist.”

johnny rolls his eyes with a huff and flips him off, but he stops when he noticed the genuine concern in kyle’s face, the poor lad looking at him like he truly believes gus’ words and that he’s a second away from dialling for the standby medical team for johnny.

“what,” he bites out, shoulders hunching because why are they looking at him like that?

“it’s your loose tooth, johnny,” kyle answers, bug-eyed like there’s something obvious that johnny isn’t getting.

“i know.” it’s johnny’s turn to be confused. “‘s why i’m giving it to ‘er.”

“oh for fuck’s sakes— johnny, fill us in: why are you giving your girl your tooth?” price finally pipes in, looking more tired than he was on ice.

oh! johnny thought, his mind finally catching up to the situation. he breaks out into a smile, giddiness going rampant in his chest again, his stomach swooping at the thought of it—

“i’m proposin’ to her.”

a beat.

“that answers fuck all!”

he doesn’t even know who screamed that anymore, jumping in his own surprise at their explosive reaction, before yelping when a leg pad—probably price’s—was flung over his way with sharp accuracy.

“riley!”

.

you and johnny invited the boys and their plus-ones to celebrate the engagement, keeping most of it as private as one could after johnny posted a picture of you crying in his account, with the caption, “she said yes!”

(“couldn’t you have posted that selfie of us with the ring instead, baby?”

“shit, m’bad, bon. s’just that ye were too cute cryin’, almost had me panicking when you wouldn’t stop heaving.”

“…right. okay. can i post a different picture then?”

“of course, bonnie.”)

(yourname

liked by jmactavish.91, specgru_newscentral, and others

yourname a lifetime with this fool <3… (read more)

jmactavish.91 your fool

yourname my fool 🩷)

the party was vibrant, formalities thrown away at the promise that not a single photo would be posted without anyone’s permission. any news sites were explicitly banned, guests screened because you and johnny had wanted to, at least, keep one celebration for the engagement closed off to the world.

you’re chatting with simon’s girlfriend, who is so shy and sweet, bug-eyed because she said she’s only ever seen you from her phone when she watches your games, when johnny returns with his mates and instantly slots himself beside you.

simon nods at you in greeting, while john and kyle repeat their congratulations, beaming at your quiet chuckles while johnny preens at them, so boyishly charming and endearing.

you can’t help but brush a kiss on his jaw, faint as to not transfer your gloss to his skin. johnny tips his head down and looks at you like you’ve hung the moon for him.

“since y’r engaged, i just gotta say,” kyle begins after sipping from his flute. “did you know ol’ johnny wanted to propose to you with the tooth he lost last season?”

johnny snorts and you two share a fond look, even as you quirk your brows up because you are so sure he told them, at least.

“lord,” john whispers, catching on.

“oh,” kyle adds, humour leaving his face, and is replaced with incredulity. you would have giggled if it weren’t for the fact his eyes are now trained on your hand as if to gauge how it looks.

simon grunts before you can show it off to them, and when you all turn to him, he just shrugs, avoidant, until his partner pokes his side with a confused tilt of her brows.

“i mean,” he begins, almost petulantly. “it’s johnny.”

he sniffs like that explains anything, and, given than you’re the person marrying johnny, it really does. you can’t help the giggles now, and you turn, smothering them on johnny’s shoulder who is busy cussing out his friend in murmurs.

“may i?” john asks, apparently tired of dancing around the topic.

“or course!” you reply, smiling, and put your arm out to show to them the pretty ring that your boy has given you with a warm promise of an eternity shared with him. if you’ll let him.

(there were so many more you wanted to tell johnny, so many more you wanted him to hear, but they all fell short. they all felt incomplete. but right there, in that moment, you knew what it was that you had to say. what it was that would let this bring his promise to life.

“yes,” you gasped out, choking on your own tears. “a hundred times yes, johnny!”

you two were trembling as he slid the ring on your finger, hearts throbbing with all the love reserved for each other.)

they crowd around your arm, leaning, their eyes bulging at seeing johnny’s tooth nestled there, in between the gold and the little diamonds surrounding it, and—

“i saw that fall off his mouth, oh my god.”

you laugh at kyle’s words, your heart so full and so fond because everything is just so beautiful.

johnny nuzzles his nose on your cheek, ignoring his lads in favour of kissing you.

[vnards]

Bear Price Pt 11

taglist I think @odettecigno @kittypan @poisonedsultana @thesevi0lentdelights @bina-passion-fruit

“She talks about you a lot.” Alex began again as both him and Price lumber their way to the shooting range. Price reminds himself that he's doing it for you. Anything for you.

Price hasn't been very chatty. Not on purpose. He couldn't get many words in between Alex's yammering.

So he gave up trying to speak, only interjecting affirmative grunts occasionally. Carrying his .17 rifle behind his back while he led the two of them to an approved range.

“We're ‘ere.”

John pulls out a water bottle to take a few swigs. He examined Alex as they got settled in the space. He was agile. His breath no heavier than when they started, a little sweaty, but nothing out of the ordinary. As if it's a warm up.

Price was suspicious of him., a gut instinct that pulls his attention away from his younger appearance and charm. It's not working on him, and they both knew it.

“What'd you bring to shoot?” Price grunts.

Alex pulls his gun from his bag, “A .12 gauge.” John rolled his eyes.

“You brought a shotgun out here to shoot?”

Alex paused, the fakeness to his smile dropped for a moment, that glint in his eye near deadly, “John,” He puts his gun aside, “Let's be honest to one another?” Alex offered the seat across from him, keeping the playing-ground equal.

John’s happy to finally drop the act. “Gladly.” He wrapped his arms across his chest, his beast’s feathers ruffled.

Alex begins, “We're only here because of her.” Only for her. “It's because she wants you to be nice to little ol' me.” His smile had a sharp edge to it, “Then we can stop bullshitting and end this shit.” He swipes his teeth with his tongue, dangerous.

John's beast began to growl at his threat. “You can go fuck yourself as far as I'm concerned, buddy.”

His grey eyes held a sharpness behind them, that was no doubt. Price glanced down to his hands. His claws were out. A damned beast.

Price let himself get big, his fur beginning to cover any extra skin. The smaller beast transformed in kind; his limbs lengthening as he lands on all fours. A grey wolf stared back at him.

The bear roared.

He knew, of course. That damned scent that bothered him. It was this skinny, lanky wolf who touched what’s his.

The bear lurched forward and the wolf danced back. The bear rolled in the wolf's way, coming close to crushing the smaller beast. But the wolf was faster. The beasts survey each other in circles, teeth snarling. The wolf begins to …laugh.

The wolf was the first one to transform back, his stride untouched from beast to man. “Let it be known, bear.” He speaks, “I'm not here for her. I'm here for you.” A rough grunt comes from the bear. “You've made it so known that's she's yours, I just had to know who claimed her.”

“A strong shifting beast.” A pleased groan escapes from the wolf, “I couldn't imagine passing up the opportunity.” His smile didn't reach his eyes. “I will take what's yours,” they both come to a stop, “And I will kill you.”

They lunge at each other, claws out and taking chunks out of flesh. Luckily, the shifters will regenerate faster than you could ask questions.

The wolf man is able to scratch at John's face, tearing off a bit of cheek as he slashed at him. The sting felt like nothing at the moment, so Price tries to grab the meaty flesh of his arm with his teeth.

He lands his strike and pulls, hearing the muscle rip apart and the wolf man howled followed by a choppy laugh. Alex threw his head back, “I haven't felt this alive in years!” He proclaims.

John could only grumble under his breath. This shifter is not sane, that John knows. He must get rid of this threat before he even thinks about causing you any damage. He goes to aim for his throat, wanting to end this before it get any worse. But the man is too quick. Spry similar to the wind.

This time when the beasts clash, they drop their shifting forms and begin to grapple in their human forms. They are face to face. There's a trail of blood running down Alex's hairline but the shark-ish smile amplified the gleeful glint in his eye. Price tried to not admit how unsettled he was.

All his years in the military, he had taken out some of the most evil of powers. He was able to keep moving through a mission, regardless, of how shaken he was. But this. This…being was nothing like he'd ever seen before.

“You're going to leave this town and turn back now or else-"

“Or else what? You finally fight me?” Alex sneers.

Price used his body weight to throw them both off balance, rolling with the move in order to pin Alex down under him. He's got him effectively pinned, hand on his throat, but still, Alex smiles as he look into the face of the bear.

“I tear you from limb to limb for stepping on my territory.” He growled, pushing him further into the ground.

Alex’s smile mocks him, “Big bad bear is really grumpy, huh?”

A bear claw comes down and slashes his face, a set of three ruining that pretty boy face of his. The claw wrapped around his throat, blood pouring from the wounds and sliding down to soak into his fur. “The only reason you’re not dead is because my girl would be unhappy. So run. Run and if I ever see your face again I’ll make sure you’re bird food.”

The wolf shifter finally had the nerve to look worried, reaching up to grip the bear paw crushing his windpipe.

Price wasn’t a man to give second chances, but since his retirement—since you, he’s tried to be more lenient and forgiving. It would prove to be a mistake.

John let the wolf man escape his clutches. They stared at each other for a moment, no words being exchanged. Then Alex bolts into the forest.

“How was hunting with Alex?” You ask him later.

John kept his face neutral as he answered, “He didn’t show up.”

<-previous part masterlist

[atlabeth]

you’re beautiful — anthony lockwood

summary: a meeting goes wrong, feelings come out. you’d like to be sedated again, please.

a/n: so this started as part of “leave the door open” but then i decided i wanted something different (hence the wound dressing scene) but i really liked what i wrote there so here’s an entirely different fic! wow enjoy

wc: 2.5k

warning(s): reader gets stabbed, quite a bit of blood, couple death jokes, mention of not eating, hurt/comfort, fluffy ending tho

There was a saying in Lockwood & Company, courtesy of its namesake, that, if you had enough confidence, you could dazzle any ghost into submission. 

Nothing but facetiousness of course, but it was true in a symbolic sort of way. If you didn’t believe in yourself, in every slash of your rapier and every circle of filings and every salt bomb measured to perfection, then there was no use showing up at all. You might as well sit down and wait for the ghost-lock to set in. 

Lockwood’s words kept coming back to you every time you doubted yourself, his charming smile and eyes popping up in your mind, twinkling as he made you laugh. 

And those words were certainly echoing through your ears as you stumbled through Portland Row’s door, a hand still pressed to your abdomen when you collapsed. Your rapier, still holstered, clattered against the floor.  

George called your name from the kitchen, cheerfully oblivious to your joy. “You’re finally back! How did the meeting go?” 

When you could only groan in response, he emerged into the hallway and his eyes instantly widened. “Oh my god— Lockwood!” 

He rushed over and helped you up, propping you against the wall as his eyes darted all over. He took one hand away to push up his glasses, and you noticed he already had some blood on your fingers. “What in the world happened?” 

“The meeting didn’t go well,” you grit out, sucking in a breath as a sharp column of pain shot through you. 

“I could gather that,” George said wryly, and when you heard footsteps, you both looked up to see Lockwood taking the steps three at a time. 

“What in the world happened?” he asked brazenly, a wild look in his eyes. 

“That’s what I asked—” George said, and your breathy laugh was interrupted by a grimace. 

“The meeting didn’t go well,” you repeated. 

“I need actual details,” Lockwood called as he went off in search of the medical kit. 

“Everything was fine,” you grumbled. “But as it turns out, our lovely source Mr. Pallworth was more skilled in getting into trouble than actually being an informant. He was in debt to some even lovelier relic men.” 

“Oh, god,” George muttered. You winced as he put more pressure on your wound, having taken over for you. “I’m sorry, but this is so you don’t bleed out.” 

“Did you get into a fight or something?” Lockwood marveled, bounding back over with a white box in his hands. “Because it looks like you were stabbed.” 

“One point for Anthony,” you said groggily. “Mr. Pallworth ran off the moment he could, leaving me to deal with his mess. I was indeed stabbed. Only once, somehow. The relic men deserted when the police showed up, and I wasn’t far behind.”

Lockwood knelt down next to you, and he looked at you for permission. You nodded, and he pulled your shirt up to expose your wound. He did a good job hiding his grimace as he began to gently wipe away the blood, but it was still there. “Why did you come here and not immediately to the hospital?” 

“I don’t know if you remember, Lockwood,” you breathed, “but this job that we’re doing is not exactly legal.” 

“I don’t care,” he enunciated. “This is above our paygrade, and your life will not be on the line because of our lack of medical knowledge.” 

“We either have to help her here or get her to a hospital,” George said, “because if we sit here bickering, she’ll bleed out before we make a decision.” 

“I’d rather die here than a hospital,” you said.

“You’re not going to die here,” Lockwood said harshly, and his hands opened and closed into fists. You could almost see the gears turning in his head. He eventually let out an annoyed sigh and glanced at George. 

“Phone 999,” he said. “She’s not dying because of her stubbornness.”

George nodded, grimacing at the blood on his hands—your blood, you supposed, which made it worse—and he ran off. 

“I knew I shouldn’t have sent you there alone,” Lockwood grumbled as he started taking things out of the medical kit. 

“No, you didn’t,” you said. “We had no reason to believe anything like this would happen.”

“Well— I should have known!” Lockwood’s voice rose, and his jaw clenched as he got himself back under control. He continued to clean out your wound, and you could hear George rattling off information in the distance to the authorities. 

“You’re cute when you’re determined,” you said. 

“I am determined to not let you die in our foyer,” Lockwood said.

“The foyer.” You mimicked Lockwood’s voice. “So posh.”

“If she’s being this annoying, she can’t be doing too bad,” George said dryly. 

“Loopy from the blood loss,” you said offhandedly. You frowned as it sunk in. “Maybe I should go to a hospital.”

Lockwood heaved a very dramatic sigh as he continued to keep pressure on your wound. “At least you’re coming to your senses now,” he said dryly. He was still kneeling next to you, his hands covered in your blood, that wild look in his eye. “What the hell took so long?”

“I’m not…” you blinked the black spots out of your vision, “good with hospitals.”

“Well, I’m not good with you dying,” Lockwood said.

George came back over. “I’ve called the police—an ambulance is on the way.”

You groaned, half from the pain and half from the thought of the police. “We’re going to have so much explaining to do.”

“Leave that to us,” Lockwood said. For some reason, you found yourself grabbing his hand. He didn’t hesitate, his throat bobbing as he laced your fingers together. “Just hold on for a bit longer.”

You nodded, your mouth going dry for a moment when you looked at him— really looked at him. 

There was unbridled fear in Lockwood’s eyes, the slightest glimmer of tears. If you weren’t slowly bleeding out, if the black spots weren’t taking over your vision, if your grip on his hand wasn’t loosening, you might have been embarrassed at his closeness, at his doting.  

But apparently, you weren’t. 

“You’re beautiful,” you murmured. 

And then everything went dark.

-

You were assaulted by a barrage of lights and beeping, too-bright fluorescents and the sterile scent of disinfectant alerting even your still groggy mind that you were in a hospital.

There was something in your arm—multiple somethings, actually. A tube with a lot of red in one arm, and another with clear liquid in your other arm. Blood and an IV, you guessed. 

Right. You were stabbed, and one does not just walk away from a stab wound without a few problems. 

You weren’t dead, though, and that surely counted for something. You would have to thank Lockwood later, for his stubbornness beating out your own. 

“You’re awake,” a voice breathed, and you realized it was just the boy you were thinking about. 

Lockwood sat next to you in a chair pulled up at your bedside. His tie was undone, hanging around his neck, and he’d draped his jacket on the back of the chair. His eyes were slightly red, but there was undeniable relief sketched into his face. 

“I am.” Your voice was raspy from disuse, and you grimaced at the soreness in your lower chest. “How long has it been?” 

“A few hours,” he answered. He cleared his throat and moved to the edge of his chair, and your eyes followed the movement. He was holding your hand— he’d been holding your hand. “You— um, you had surgery. A small one, it didn’t take too long, but—” Lockwood’s voice broke, and he laughed mirthlessly as he shook his head. “It was scary. Terrifying, actually, but…” he managed a smile. “You came out the other side. You always do.” 

Your breath caught for a moment, and your grip on his hand tightened subconsciously. “I’m so sorry.” 

“What are you sorry for?” Lockwood asked wryly. “It’s not your fault you were stabbed. You did a rather excellent job fighting them off, actually. It could’ve been much worse.” 

“I’m sorry for putting you and George through this,” you murmured. “I worry about the two of you every second of every day, and most of the time it doesn’t come to fruition. This—” you laughed, which immediately turned into a wince— “I’d say this is fruition.” 

“I’m just glad we got you here in time,” Lockwood muttered. He looked at you, his eyes boring into you with equal parts concern and desperation. You used to hate that about him, especially when you joined, how it always felt like he could look at you and know every single thing. “You said the police showed up in the fight. You were obviously injured— why didn’t you get them to call an ambulance? Why did you risk it all to come back to Portland Row?” 

“I told you. The job we took on was illegal, and I felt it was going to be a much bigger mess than we needed to deal with.” 

“I don’t care how illegal it was,” Lockwood said stiffly. “You were hurt— you were in danger. That comes before anything else, alright? You come before anything else.” 

The intensity of his voice made you pause, unable to do anything but… look at him. His hair was tousled, no doubt from running his hand through it endlessly as he was wont to do whenever he was stressed. His undone tie and discarded jacket, his eyes, red from… from crying, most likely. He cried over you. 

When your hand tightened around his this time, you did it on purpose. 

“Thank you,” you murmured. “You’re probably the reason I’m alive.” 

Lockwood managed to crack a smile. “It wouldn’t look good for the agency if my employees started dying. I don’t have very many to lose.” 

That got a genuine laugh out of you, and you tried your best to ignore the subsequent wince. “Of course. That’s why I pulled through, to make us look better.” 

“Your efforts are much appreciated,” he said, that small smile still on his lips as he rubbed mindless circles on your hand with his thumb. 

The door creaked slightly as someone pushed it open, and a smile broke out on your face when you saw it was George. 

“I was wondering where you were,” you said. 

“Tea,” he said, lifting the drink holder with one hand and a box with his other, “and donuts.” He looked at Lockwood pointedly. “You’ve got to get something in you. It’s not exactly healthy, but the sugar will help.” 

You looked at Lockwood. “You haven’t eaten?” 

“I was preoccupied,” he said dryly. 

“That’s no excuse,” you said. “Eat your donuts, and as soon as we get home, George is cooking you something.” You looked up at him. “Right?” 

“Right,” George agreed. He handed Lockwood one of the cups and set the box on the table, and he smiled as he took a seat across from you. “You look much better. You’re bossing everyone around again—I take it you’re doing better too?” 

“Much,” you nodded. “Thanks for getting me here, by the way. I’d probably have bled out if it weren’t for you.” 

“Of course.” George took a donut from the box. “I can’t let you leave me alone with him.” 

“Oh, I would never,” you said wryly. 

“I’m surprised you’re willing to be alone with him after what you said,” George said offhandedly, and both you and Lockwood stared at him. 

“George—” he started. 

“What do you mean?” you interrupted. 

He made that funny little expression where he knew he said something he probably shouldn’t have, and he busied himself with his donut. “Nothing.” 

“George,” you deadpanned, “I’m the one in the hospital bed. I have pity points. Tell me.” 

Lockwood sighed and leaned back in his chair, though you noticed he still didn’t let go of your hand. 

“I’m guessing you don’t remember what you said,” George said slowly. “Before you blacked out, I mean.” 

“No.” Your eyes darted between the two of them. “Why? Did I say something awful?” 

“Not awful,” Lockwood said, still looking away. “Pretty far from it, I’d say.” 

“Why are you two acting so weird?” you asked. “Spit it out!” 

“You called Lockwood beautiful,” George finally said, and you just about died right there. “Right before you went out, you said he was beautiful.” 

You blinked. Looked at Lockwood, who didn’t seem to be the slightest bit embarrassed—god, was he smiling?—looked at George, who was this time busying himself with his tea. 

“You’re kidding,” you said. 

“...He’s not,” Lockwood said, tilting his head to the side. “You did do that.” 

“Looked up at him, said ‘you’re beautiful’, passed out.” George shrugged as he took another sip of his tea. “Quite dramatic, I’ll give you that. It drove Lockwood absolutely insane, too.” 

“George,” Lockwood said sharply, “don’t you have a phone call to make?” 

He chuckled. “Yeah. How could I forget?”

You weren’t even able to watch him as he walked out of the room, leaving you alone with Lockwood. You wanted to melt into the bed. This was the absolute worst way for your feelings to come out, feelings that you were content to let sit forever and never really reveal. Apparently, you couldn’t even almost die with dignity. 

“It’s alright,” Lockwood said. “You don’t have to be embarrassed.” 

“No, I do have to be embarrassed.” You stared up at the ceiling. “I do have to be embarrassed, because my last words could have been ‘you’re beautiful’.”

“Why?” he asked. “Do you not think I’m beautiful?” 

You groaned, and if you hadn’t been practically immobile, you would have buried your face in the pillows. “Get a nurse to sedate me again, please.” 

Lockwood flashed that irritatingly pretty grin as he took your hand again. You hadn’t even realized he’d let go. “Relax. I think you’re beautiful too.” 

You raised your eyebrows. “Even now?”

“Even now,” Lockwood said. “Always.”

“At least you’re not saying it half-conscious and dying,” you mumbled. 

“I think it’s better I’m saying it now,” he said. “You know I mean it.” 

You looked him in the eye. “You really do?” 

“What did I just say?” Lockwood chuckled. “Always. Forever.” 

You felt the heat creep to your cheeks. “I can’t believe this is what it took to get you to admit your feelings.” 

“It took this for you to admit your feelings,” he countered. “It took you admitting them for me to admit them. I never really knew you felt the same way.” 

“I guess I have a flair for dramatics,” you said wryly. 

“It seems so,” Lockwood said. “How about after all this is done, when you’re good and cleared by the doctor, I’ll take you out for tea. My treat.”  

“You pay my salary,” you said. “Everything is practically your treat.” 

Lockwood grinned. “Do you want to go on a date with me or not?” 

You smiled, and you pulled your joined hands closer. You pressed a kiss to his knuckles. “I’d like that a lot.” 

“Excellent.” He smiled as well, a breath of relief coming out of him, and he leaned closer. “Just remember that you don’t have to get stabbed to get me to ask you out on a second date.”  

[therocketeer0501]

Emptiness Machine

Starscream X Reader (Mech Pilot AU)

Author note: Hey everyone I’m so so sorry it’s been so long. This has been the worst three weeks of my life. Currently staying with my dad and having to see what exactly happens going forward. That aside please enjoy chapter 9 of emptiness machine! And thank you for your patience. ❤️

Chapter 9

The crushing hug the scout had you in nearly cracked the brand new welds that had been used to repair you. You chuckle as he finally lets go but keeps a servo wrapped around the arm of your mech. The other bot, Ironhide, waved at the two of you from the door.

“C’mon we ain’t got time for tearful hellos. The others are guarding the open spacebridge as we speak.”

He starts out the door and bee goes to pull you along with him. The restraints that Starscream had ordered the drones to place on you were still binding your wrists. You awkwardly stumble along letting him guide you through the smoke. He and Ironhide had done quite a number on the drones through this hallway. you smile a little knowing later you would congratulate them on their victory. After turning down a few more hallways, you join up with the lambo twins and Hound. They urge you forward and through the last set of blast doors. The scene that awaited you was straight out of a science fiction comic book. Optimus himself stood in front of the open space bridge locked in hand to hand combat with Megatron.

Optimus swung his axe missing Megatron’s helm by mere inches. The Decepticon leader taking the opportunity to drive his energy blade up just missing vital energon lines running through his opponent’s neck. The prime countered, his joints straining as he swung the heavy weapon down in a brutal arc. Megatron sidestepped just in time to watch the axe slamming into the ground with a deafening thud, sending up a spray of sparks.

Before the axe could be pulled back, Megatron darted in, his energy blade flashing in the dim light, a precise thrust aimed at his opponent’s chassis. Optimus twisted, deflecting the strike with a swift, brutal swipe of his axe. Megatron’s blade grazed his plating, but he barely flinched.

There were scowls on their faces as they circled each other, each waiting for an opening to strike. Optimus growled deep in his frame, lunging forward again, his weapon whistling through the air. His opponent narrowly avoiding the strike. The energy blade was raised just in time, blocking the blow but the sheer force of it drove him to his knees. With a growl of fury, Megatron pushed back, rolling aside, narrowly avoiding a second strike.

He sprang to his feet, his blade now a blur as he countered with a series of fast, slashing attacks.The two bots locked optics, and in a flash, they were upon each other again, weapons clashing in a deafening frenzy of power and precision, each driven by eons of war and the raw need to destroy one another.

This wasn’t a fight Optimus was trying to win. As you look closer, you see the Autobot leader carefully leading Megatron to the opposite side of the room from the portal. An effective strategy and flawless distraction. Using his own fury against him. You can’t help but smile a bit as Bee tugs on your arm, pulling you towards the portal. Ironhide and the twins had already gone through and Hound was right on their aft. No one wanted to stick around while the two big shots had it out. Letting the scout lead you forward you brace for the dizzying swirl of noise and light before disappearing behind the rest of the team.

As you come out on the other side, you see the familiar sight of the launch bay. Right behind you, a heavy ped step announces the arrival of Optimus. He’s clutching a fresh wound on his shoulder, but other than that he seems fine. Relief and exhaustion grip you and your knees buckle beneath you. Bumblebee luckily still has his digits locked around your wrist and catches you as you lean forward. His worried tone faded to a deafening ringing sound as your optics white out.

When you wake hours later, you expect to be disconnected from your mech. Instead, you are laid out still connected to your machine on one of the medical berths Ratchet uses to treat injured Autobot. Your chassis is open, exposing your real body. Tubes and energon lines are connected at various points around your frame. Blinding white light from above you makes you blink a few times, trying to adjust your optics to the harsh glow. From the cockpit of your mech, a familiar voice mumbles.

“She’s awake. Seraphim can you hear me?” Dr. Antonov’s voice was muffled by the layers of plating and wires he was behind.

You groan in response and he moves to be closer to your helm. You turn and train him with golden optics. “Dr. Antonov. It’s good to see you. Is…everything alright?”

The doctor stayed shut away in his lab most days. After years of working for the government, he had finally retired. He was promptly brought back for the express purpose of finishing his research on Cybertronian biology after first contact. He was a kind man, albeit a bit odd and antisocial. The corners of his eyes crinkled as he smiled up at you. His greying, dark hair a mess as it usually was.

“You’ve had quite an ordeal haven’t you Sera? Honestly I was surprised we got you back in one piece! Given how Prime had described the Decepticons.” He reached out and patted the side of your helm gently. You look back at your open chassis.

“Doctor, why haven’t I been disconnected?” as you asked this, his smile faded. He looked his age once again as he turned slowly to walk back to where he had been.

“Something is interfering with your ability to disconnect from the Seraphim frame. If we try to sever the connection in this state…your consciousness could be lost.”

Before you could process his words, you hear shouting outside the door. Muffled voices and sounds of a struggle could be heard. Two bots were arguing.

“You better let me in old timer before I let myself in.”

“She’s just waking up, we don’t want to overwhelm her with company. Besides, we don’t know if the doctor has broken the news to her—“

The bot guarding the door was cut off as the other shoved his way into the med-bay. The giant metal door slid open and quick ped steps announced the arrival of a very worried and fussy friend.

•••

“You absolute failure! I cannot believe you allowed Optimus Prime and his lackeys to bridge directly onto the flight deck of my ship!” Megatron sent a devastating kick into the side of the kneeling figure before him. It sent the bot jolting to the side, nearly purging his tanks from the force of the blow. Venting rapidly, Starscream tries to re-align his vocal apparatus to speak.

“Lord Megatron! Please I was interrogating the prisoner! Didn’t you want the valuable information she was carrying?” Another blow to the helm as he bowed low, trying to appease his leader’s anger. Dizzy and disoriented he tried to right himself, only to be grabbed by a wing and flung across the room. There was a sickening crunch as his wing dislocated and hung useless by a few cables. His body hit the opposite wall and he landed in a heap unmoving. The gathered Decepticons seemed to flinch in unison as the Warlord stalked towards the seeker.

“Starscream you imbecile. I told you to take care of it. Didn’t I? I wanted that thing offline! It had no such intel to give you. It was taking you for the fool you are! And now Optimus prime has ground bridge coordinates for the flight deck of the Nemesis!” He reached out a clawed servo and grabbed the seeker around the throat. Lifting him off of his peds. Starscream sputtered but couldn’t get the words out. Energon leaked from the split in the mesh of his lip where Megatron had landed a solid blow earlier. He bared his denta at his leader and scrabbled at the grip around his throat as Megatron squeezed. Starscream’s optics flickered as he was about to lose consciousness. A calm and steady voice interrupted the two.

“Lord Megatron if I may, the abomination did in fact possess coordinates for other energon mines. Isn’t that correct Soundwave?” Shockwave’s even tone despite the mauling of his second in command, made Megatron pause.

He growled and dropped the body of the seeker and he crumpled into a heap on the floor. Turning his attention to a very uncomfortable looking Soundwave, Megatron began to stalk over looking eerily calm. As he approached Soundwave produced a small disk. One he had hoped to keep hidden for his own research. But Shockwave had seen him downloading the information from the prisoner. He handed it over, there was no information on the location of the base of operations for their enemy, however, the location of half a dozen energon mines wasn’t bad intel at all.

While Megatron was discussing the new intel with Shockwave, Starscream winced as he hauled himself up. This wasn’t the first time his leader had taken out a defeat on his frame. He gritted his denta against the pain and limped painfully out. He needed to be away from here. Anywhere but here before panic gripped him once again. He felt his spark start to spin faster as he hobbled to his habisuite to do his own repairs.

[starxanemone]

꩜ⴰ ࣪˖ BIG BAD COP, CUTE LITTLE BUNNY

oliver aiku x fem!reader — slight nsfw. oneshot.

big bad cop goes to the club in search for a little plaything. too bad his target was slightly off the mark.

warnings ! mdni ! mild sexual content — sub!oliver aiku, femdom!reader, teasing, neck kissing, very slight dirty talking. slight sexism on aiku's part, but it's okay, we're gonna put him in his place !!

note — target locked on oliver aiku. i've been writing more nsfw stuff because i'm on my period lol. also, let me know if you guys want a part 2!

He’s not completely sure how this happened. One second, he was waltzing inside the club—flashing and circling lights catching his heterochromatic irises every few seconds, loud music blasting into his ears, and bodies grinding against each other—he’s drinking and rizzing up some random pretty girl, and the next he’s got a hand squeezing his neck.

It was halloween. Naturally, it was easy to find just any random hot woman around him—one that would be worthwhile to be around for the night. Although he admits that he hasn’t done anything past the few kisses here and there, and sure, maybe he’s exaggerated many of his little “escapades” to his friends, Oliver would say that he’s still got experience.

How hard could it be? It’s all in the mindset, really, and most of the time, he’s just not really up for the super sexual stuff. Girls were easy to fool, but they were difficult to get rid of. They fall too easily and latch their nails on tight, he thinks to himself. It’s better to just play around, albeit more safely.

And so, when he spots a girl out sitting at the very corner of the room, the corners of his lips twitch.

Bingo.

You were wearing a little white dress with pink flowers designing the fabric. Your bunny ear headband flopped cutely against the side of your head each time you moved to look around quietly. You were dressed like a bunny and you looked like the cutest one out there with your adorable eyes and seemingly quiet personality sticking out against the loudness of the setting.

Oh, but where and when did it become different?

Was it when he approached you and you looked up at him from where you were seated? Was it when he whispered into your ear about how pretty you were? Was it when you grinned with a sort of twinkle in your eye that got him questioning himself?

Or was it just you?

“You seem like a pretty confident person, Mr. Aiku.” You smile up at him, cheeks bunching and the corners of your eyes crinkling.

“Oliver’s just fine, sweetheart,” He returns your smile, though his appears more suave. He’s got it down to a tee. He’s been doing this for ages and girls always fall at his feet whenever he gives his million-dollar smiles. “And yes, though I’m far from perfect, I would still say that I am.”

It was good to sound humble. Girls didn’t like guys who were full of themselves.

“Hm? Are you sure?” You tilt your head innocently, almost sounding teasing to his ears. “Are you sure about me, then?”

“About you?” He’s confused by the strangely straightforward question, but he takes a sip of the alcohol in his hand to hide it. “Of course.”

He sets his cup down onto the counter and slowly brings his hand up to caress your bunny ear headband. Easy does it—slow and steady. He pinches the fluffy fabric between his fingers and leans in slightly, staring into your eyes as he grins, “You look like a good girl. A cute little bunny.”

You laugh at his words and he’s thrown off by the response.

Was it too much? But no, lines like that always worked on girls who looked like you. Girls who were quiet, dressed in frilly girly clothing, and looked like they were dragged into such a raunchy club like this by their friends to give them more ‘experience.’ Shouldn’t your round cheeks be red like a strawberry right now?

Where did it go differently?

He blinked owlishly when you gingerly place a hand on his right thigh, pressing against the black slacks of his police uniform slash costume and simultaneously against his skin when you whisper into his ear. You were leaning over a little and as he glances momentarily over your shoulder, he sees a fluffy circular tail pinned above where your ass was. A shiver runs across spine and he still hasn’t let go of your bunny ears.

“Didn’t you know that it’s rude to assume? And…” You chuckle into his ear, your voice dipping slightly deeper to an almost sensual-like quality. “... that it’s also rude to look so openly?

His eyes widen, snapping to yours immediately in bewilderment. His hand drops to his sides.

Oh— oh. You saw that.

Truly, he was asking the wrong type of question here. Because it did not matter where or when it went differently, because it was more correct to focus on the ‘who?’

And it was you.

Slowly, he feels your hand moving up from his thigh, brushing lightly against his clothed stomach, then to his chest, before it reaches up even further to encircle around his neck. You squeeze once. His eyes remain wide and he gulps, looking up at you when you move to stand in front of him.

What…

At this point, he wasn’t really sure what to expect anymore.

You thumb his neck, lightly caressing his throat. You move your thumb down, inserting it between the space of his dark blue collar to touch his collar bone. You feel him shiver once more, so you grin.

“Too much?” You tilt your head in question, voice with a teasing lilt.

He jolts in surprise, shaking his head in response. His throat had already gone dry, and he honestly wasn’t sure about what to say or do next. This hasn’t exactly happened before and he hadn’t calculated the possibility of this happening to him.

By now, you’ve both ignored the people surrounding you along with the blinding lights and the booming music that envelops the entire vicinity. But it was fine; nobody really cared. You were aware enough from the frequent visits with your friends that nobody gave a flying fuck about the next two strangers shoving their tongues down each other’s throats for everyone to see.

He was wrong about you at that part too. You weren’t a good girl and you most likely weren’t dragged here.

“Do you want to continue?”

His brain has short-circuited by now, but you guess it’s working enough for him to nod, albeit a little shakily.

“I need you to speak up for me.” You pout. “I only take a ‘yes’ or a ‘no.’”

“Y-Yes…”

“Good boy.” You coo and he feels his cheeks and ears instantly flush. He’s never had any woman say that to him before nor speak in such a manner, and especially not in a cute little innocent-looking bunny costume.

He breathes in deeply when you swing your legs over his thighs, sitting down on his lap with your arms slung over his shoulders.

“Have you ever kissed someone, darling?” You breathe out the question against his ear and he shivers at the sudden warm air tickling his skin.

“O-Of course, I have.” His answer comes out a little defensively and you giggle in amusement at the tone.

“Just making sure because I don’t want to be the one to take a good boy’s first kiss away from them.” You tell him sweetly before pressing your lips against his neck.

You press your lips all over the expanse of his neck; one, two, three times, even more, and he can’t count anymore when his brain melts at the repeated sensation hitting him in one of the best parts and spreading across his body like wildfire. He feels your lips part as your tongue rolls out to brush against his skin and he grunts at the sudden sensation, his hands moving up to hold your waist, clammy fingers digging slightly hard. But when you part your lips even more to pull his skin between your teeth, a sudden groan escapes his lips.

“Oh?” You giggle against his neck. “You like that, huh? You like it when a cute wittle bunny girl bites you and puts you in your place, don’t you? What a naughty boy.”

Fuck. Where is this even going? He’s never had a girl talk and do things to him like this before. Usually it was the other way around—him playing with the girl like a little toy for him to control. But the thing is, it never went way beyond the little makeout sessions and the cheeky touches on clothing-clad skin.

“I’m a ‘good girl,’ right? A cute little bunny, hm?” You hum, sucking on his neck momentarily, hearing him release another quiet groan before pulling away. “Well, here’s my observation. You’re a big bad cop and you came here to look for an adorable girl to fuck with and add to your ‘collections.’ But here’s the thing, baby: appearances can only tell you so much.”

You pout as you scold him mockingly. You grasp his face firmly, cheeks squishing a little between your hold as you force his heterochromatic gaze to focus on yours.

He tries to ignore the way the term ‘baby’ makes his heart flutter. Like seriously, what was he? A budding high school kid in the middle of a raging puberty?

“Oh, looks like (First Name) has found another one.” Oliver hears someone say at the corner of his ear amidst all of the music. He turns his gaze to the girls standing a few feet away from right behind you to see that they were grinning right at your back. Their gaze turns to him and he gulps when your—he guessed—friends send him a thumbs up, two of them mouthing a ‘good luck.’

Another one? He furrows his brows, the words somehow causing his stomach to drop slightly. Was this how the girls he was with felt? He never truly considered it, too caught up with always being in the position of power.

You turn your head curiously a little to gaze at what he was looking at. You wave at them enthusiastically for a second before turning back to look at him, his cheeks still squished between your fingers and unshaved chin pressing against your palm. It was as if they weren’t even there in the first place.

You release your hold on his face to pat his cheek. “Now, where was I? Oh, yes. I was having fun playing with you.”

You reach behind him to run the sharp nail of your middle and index finger against his clothed back and he automatically sits up straighter at the ticklish feeling. “You act all sauve, all dominant, but you don’t seem like you’ve got a lot of experience, do you? I can tell.”

“Here’s what I think,” You pretend to think for a second, looking up at the ceiling before snapping your gaze back to him with a wolfish grin. It really looked out of place from your little bunny costume. “I think that it’s all just a front to mask your fragile ego. But it’s okay, pretty boy, I got you. You don’t need to play pretend with me.”

All of your words combined with your sensual touches has got his mind jumbled up and in a frenzy. You were more intoxicating than the cocktail he was sipping previously, and likely the only thing that could ever make him drunk like this.

All he could muster was a small pathetic, “Okay…”

You reach up to grasp the back of his hair, tugging on it lightly causing him to gasp. “Address me properly.”

Huh? He blinks, frantically wracking his brain for the right title amidst the slight searing pain erupting around the back of his head due to your firm hold.

“M-Miss?” He tries unsurely.

You unclench your hand and pat his cheek again condescendingly. “Good job! You got it on the first try. You will address me as such for the duration of this night, m’kay?”

For the duration of this night. This night and this night only. His heart clenches a little and his stomach knots underneath his skin. Of course it wasn’t going to go way beyond that point, and really, who was he to complain? He’s done the same thing to multiple other girls in the past. Maybe this was some sort of karma or something.

Nevertheless, he answers. “Okay, Miss.”

He was going to be in for a long ride.

[xo-myloves]

Hiii I never requested something so I don't really know how this goes but I LOVE your writing

Can you write something with current slash like reader is friends with londen and they are having a sleepover but reader couldn't sleep so see went downstairs and slash was there and then smut

English is not my first language so I hope its readable

𝕊𝕦𝕞𝕞𝕒𝕣𝕪: 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚋𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎𝚜 𝚊 𝚜𝚎𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚝 𝚌𝚛𝚞𝚜𝚑 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚋𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍’𝚜 𝚍𝚊𝚍, 𝚜𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚑, 𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚙 𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍.

༞༞༞༞༞༞༞༞༞༞༞༞༞༞༞༞༞𝚂𝚕𝚎𝚎𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛༞༞༞༞༞༞༞༞༞༞༞༞༞༞༞༞

“Hey you’re cool”

“Hey you’re cool”

That’s how me and London became friends, quite simple right?

Me and him and ride or die, he was my best friend, I’m his, he means the world to me, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to fuck his dad…..

You have to let me explain, his father is the guitar player of Guns N’ Roses, his dad is fucking slash.

Fucking slash.

Going over to his house was always the worst, I acted like a love sick puppy, seeing his father was always emotional, in many ways, he was so easy to talk to, if it was about music, movies, snakes, boys, anything, he was always there for me if I needed to talk about anything.

In a different way though, if I talked about another man, he’d get jealous? Like saying if they fuck with me, he will fuck them up, or get someone to do it, (probably axl) needless to say, he cared about me, in what kinda way? We’ll never know…… well that’s so I thought.

✢✢✢✢✢✢✢✢✢✢✢✢✢✢✢✢✢✢✢✢✢✢✢✢✢✢✢✢✢

“Oh shut the fuck up and get me a rootbeer” came from London, we were laughing are asses off, making stupid jokes, high as shit.

We stole some weed from middle schoolers, they don’t need it anyway… right? Meh, I don’t fucking care.

“Fine you dickhead, just don’t fall fucking asleep.” I huffed out, flicking him off as I left his room, him blowing a kiss back, rolling my eyes at his annoying ass.

As I walked down the stairs and stumbling to the kitchen, trying not to fall on my ass, god we smoked so much. My head was spinning, my legs felt like noodles, my eyes were blood shot as all hell, Jesus I looked like a mess.

As I was rumbling through the cabinets, I heard slight footsteps, I didn’t see shit, so I was shitting my pants, the fridge light was too dark to see anything, I grabbed my pocket in hopes my phone would be inside.

Fuck.

I couldn’t call out, I didn’t want to wake anyone up in the house, and neither did the human in front of me, before I knew it, I felt a hand on my mouth, it was very soft, too soft.

“Hey it’s me, don’t freak out.. just come with me.”

I heard slash’s voice, I immediately went to ease and let him grab my hand and take me to his desire destination, he didn’t walk to fast or slow, just enough to get me to his room quickly.

“What’s up? Did I do something? I’m sorry I didn’t mean to be loud.” I immediately started apologizing and hoping I didn’t wake him, or that he’d be mad I was high out of my mind.

“No, no, you didn’t do anything sweetheart.” He cooed me, bringing me in for a hug, kissing the top of my head, resting his chin on it, having me utterly terrified and confused, but just wrapping my arms around his waist.

“I just… you l-looked so gorgeous today..” he spoke softly into my ear, my cheeks immediately light up, letting out a little giggle, as he traced little circles with his nails on my lower back.

“Heh… thank youuu…” I dragged out the “you” longer than you normally would, loving how sweet he was being.

“I’ll let you go if you tell me the truth.” He spoke randomly, my gut dropped, was he going to ask if I liked him? It was fucking obvious, I bet even London knew, I hope he doesn’t…

“W-what is it..” I spoke in a worried tone, releasing from the hug softly to look up at him, “are you high?” He chuckled softly, looking down at me with his big brownish black eyes. Making me even giggled.

Thank god.

“Yeah… I am.” I shyly spoke, covering my face in his chest, he rubbed the back of my head, laughing softly with me, “hmmm so what does this mean? That you aren’t the good girl you always try to seem to be? Always sucking up to me?” He spoke out in a playful tone, those words weren’t meant to be dirty but fuck my mind could only go there.

“Hmmm I could be your good girl..” I spoke abundantly, it was so fucking random and stupid, why would I say that, I realized what I said after I spoke, making me gasp and cover my mouth, my eyes widing.

“Is that so? Didn’t know you were dirty as well… I should’ve know you’ve always had a thing for me.”he teased me, putting one of his fingers on my chin making me look up at him, more sucked into his eyes this time.

“Please.” Those were the only words that could leave my mouth, and that’s all I needed to say, slash got the message, before I knew it his lips were pressed against mine, his tongue exploring mine, every square inch.

“Fuck ive always wanted this.” Slash grunted into the kiss, that immediately went to my pussy, making her pulse, one of his hands going to my breast making me even more weak for him.

“Facefuck me.” I blurted out, leaving the kiss for the moment, his eyes widening at my statement, “you sure honey?” He spoke in such a sweet manner, I can’t with him, he is such a sweetheart.

I nodded my head right away, immediately going to my knees in front of him, wanting him to use me, wanting to be all his. “I’m not going to hurt you, get up, I want YOU to feel good.” He spoke, pushing me up by my shoulder, pushing me to the bed softly.

Striping my pajamas pants softly, leaving me in my black thong, his eyes were locked onto my pussy, I felt like he could see it pulsing, he wrapped his finger around the thing fabric, exposing my clit to the cool air, his lips parted at the sight.

“Spread your legs for me baby.” He spoke as I laid on my back, with his hands on my knee caps, letting him spread me open, his calloused finger tip glazing over my wet throbbing clit, making me gasp softly.

“Slash” I moaned out softly, my eyes locked into his big poofy hair, as he touched me, before I knew it, he slipped his THICK long fingers into my wet core.

“Does that feel good honey? Because we gotta hurry up, London might hear you, didn’t think you’d be so fucking loud.” He giggled softly, acting like he wasn’t fingering the shit out of me, making my thighs twitch, it’s like he knew my body, it was amazing, he knew where to hit and flick everytime I needed it.

“Shit slash.” I moaned, ready for my climax to release all over his hands, he knew it was coming, he went faster, rubbing my clit with his thumb and three fingers fucking me like not tomorrow, before I knew it I left with a wet white coat all over him, with moans and an eyes roll.

“Was that good doll?” He spoke softly, licking my release off his fingers. Fuck he’s so hot.

“Y-yes it was amazing..” I spoke softly, picking up my panties off the floor and my pj pants, looking up at him.

“We can do that again, I’ll text you when London goes out, I don’t wanna ruin what you guys have.”

Hmm maybe that could be a plan….