𓆩♡𓆪

Seven days a week, that was what he promised you.

After his two-weeks business trip, your boyfriend would be with you seven days a week.

Honestly, you had your doubts about it at first. You thought maybe he was just trying to comfort you while he was away. However, you soon realized that Chris sincerely meant everything he said.

And the next Sunday when he returned from his business trip, you welcomed him with a warm embrace and lots of kisses.

"As much as you miss me, I have no doubt that I miss you more," Chris said in between the kiss before he hoisted you up to straddle his lap.

"Oh really? Can you prove every word you just said?" you challenged with a smirk as you placed your hands on top of his chest. 

"What kind of proof that you need?"

"Not sure," you pursed your lips and shrugged nonchalantly. "The very very convincing kind of proof?"

"I could do that," he accepted the challenge with a smirk on his face as he cupped your cheeks and sealed your lips with his.

Being away from him for two weeks was pure torture, and now that you finally be with him again, you couldn't contain your excitementㅡ and that showed with the way you were kissing him while impatiently unbuttoning his white crisp shirt.

And not long after, you both were stark naked before he laid you down on the couch and positioned himself in between your legs. Chris then trailed open-mouthed kisses on your inner thighs before he teased your dripping cunt with the tip of his tongue.

Every time he buried his face in between your legs, the sensation was never the same, it felt like the first time all over again.

"Chris, please!" while clumsily thrusting your hips against his face, you begged him to give you more, and thank heaven, he generously complied.

He nibbled on your folds with his plump lips. He skillfully twirled his tongue around your clit. He curled three of his fingers inside your cuntㅡ hitting your sweet spots, all the while playing with your erected nipple.

The weightlessness of the ordinary is all you crave sometimes, but there’s nothing much you can do if nothing about you is ordinary.

Chris was obsessed with the concept of taste for as long as he could remember, which may or may not have played a role in the discovery of his culinary genius. Lucky enough to find his one true passion early in life, he started training from a young age under the best but most ruthless chefs. Naturally, and a bit of unfortunately, his teachers’ hazmat professional personas rubbed off on him along the way because that was the circle of life in the universe of taste. 

Your master screams at you, you scream at your underlings, and they scream at their own pupils when the time comes. That’s just the way it is.

It was military discipline kind of logic, which meant there was no logic at all, so no one ever questioned it, nor did they attempt to break the cycle. If anyone dared, they would probably get shunned from the community anyway because how fucking dare you. This was the world of ceaseless fierce competition, a combat sport that included cutlery as weapons, and it recognized no gender, no age, nothing else besides undeniable skill. If he had what it took, even a boy could put a 50-year-old executive chef to shame and make them sob violently in public. It was that brutal out there.

And Chris loved winning.

He climbed the ladder of his career relatively quickly, making his rounds from a junior line cook to a sous chef in record time, and when it was time for him to command his own brigade, people were willingly submitting themselves to the torture they knew was on the horizon just to be able to be under his tutelage. 

Because Chef Bang was the best of the best. 

Chris was known as a merciless drill sergeant that promoted himself all the way to dictator. Not only did he have no tolerance for mistakes, but he was also a total control freak that would go on a rampage if anything was even slightly disorderly by his ridiculously high standards. He wanted to know what was going on, how much it was going on, who was making it going on, and everything else in between at all times. It went without saying that he was a raging workaholic—whenever he wasn’t at work, he spent his time attempting new recipes, both for his cooks and mixologists, and emerging victorious more than half the time.

Customer service was an entirely different thing in his book. He would regularly visit his dining room to personally check up on his diners, and his entire fucking personality would change the second he established eye contact with them. To everyone outside of his dungeon of a kitchen, Chris was the most swoonworthy guy ever, sexy as fuck with his eyebrow slit, his charming accent, and tattoos covering his arms, making him the target of relentless advances and sometimes blatant thirst comments that he would accept with a smile.

While his tattoos would receive a lot of compliments along with his food, Chris found it infinitely hilarious that his ‘band-aids’ were somewhat of a turn on for these people. He’d gotten most of them to cover various knife wounds and burn marks throughout his career rather than for aesthetic purposes.

But hey, whatever got people’s boats going and made them pay to be there, you know.

He would flirt back, of course, but not because he was interested in these people, nor for the ego boost. He legitimately considered it as PR. Some people were such hardcore fans that they would associate his infamous tyranny in the kitchen with his extreme passion for food and find his duality, quote, ‘very hot’. Their fantasies were all about how this dangerous-looking charmer would blow their backs out, but then shower them with aftercare galore because underneath all those layers, he was such a sweetheart. Right?

Yeah right.

The reality was that Chris was leading a pretty lonely life. He was a distant man that didn’t associate with people much. What he had was his simultaneous fame and notoriety, which left him with no friends besides Minho, his rock and second-in-command sous chef. He seemed to be the only one who could tolerate Chris and his tar-like fucked up sense of humor anyway.

Due to sheer luck, they had been through the same kitchens throughout their careers, or battalions as they called it, and while they had nothing but absolute loathing for each other at first, weirdly enough, a deep bond was forged out of it. Minho had no ambition to have the reins one day, and knowing the genius Chris possessed, he offered to open their own place so that they could create whatever the fuck they wanted to create. Minho would run the people side of things, hire the staff and run the kitchen, whereas Chris would be the captain of the ship. People feared him, some even detested him, but everybody acknowledged him the same, fans and haters alike, which meant they would have no problem recruiting the best brigade any restaurant could ever have.

Because at the end of the day, Chef Bang was the best of the best. 

Once a service night was over, Chris’ rampant rage would simmer down, and he would actually thank his crew with respect, but he had never joined them once whenever he was invited for after-work drinks. He politely refused every time saying he was tired and needed to go home, knowing full well that it was just some formality invitation to be cordial with the boss. After everyone left, he would drink his whiskey double on the rocks in his office all by himself, then hail a cab, go home, and crash. Knowing his tendencies, Minho never insisted except for the nights he really thought Chris needed company. During those select few times, they would hang out at the restaurant bar alone. Just the two of them, shooting the shit over Minho’s Rascal Juice cocktails.

His palate and agility to create masterpieces on a plate was not the only thing that separated Chris from an average person. Not even Minho knew about this, but he was also a dreamer. Not in the romantic sense of the word, not even remotely. This was a name he had given to himself.

A long time ago, Chris had realized he was able to lucid dream whenever he wanted. Pretty cool, sure. Who wouldn’t want to have the time of their lives while they were resting, being able to manifest anything and everything they could think of on demand? It was like a superpower exclusive to the subconscious realm.

Then one day, after a particularly heated argument with Minho, he was seething in fury, almost legitimately wishing to harm him. He crashed on his bed that night to calm the fuck down, but wasn’t able to sleep a wink. Curiously enough, as he was tossing and turning, he felt like he was falling while wide awake, very similar to the sensation he felt right before he was about to fall asleep. He didn’t make much of it at first. About an hour or so later, he finally dozed off and started dreaming about throwing Minho to a pack of wolves.

However, when he woke up the next day, he felt like a truck ran over him. This felt nothing like the pleasant lightness he usually felt the morning after. If anything, he felt more drained than ever and was certainly left with a gutpunch feeling for some inexplicable reason.

“Good, you’re still alive. No wolves kidnapped you,” he spoke sarcastically when he met Minho in his office the next day, “Listen, I’m sor—”

“Don’t even talk about wolves right now, man, I already dealt with a whole-ass pack of them in my sleep last night.”

“How so?” Chris asked with a straight face while internally yelling.

“You were also there actually, feeding me to a bunch. Remind me not to snap at you that hard again if this is the fucking consequence I’m gonna have to deal with,” Minho ran his hand through his forehead, “I’m still breaking cold sweat.”

After Minho left, Chris retraced all his steps from the day before to try and figure out what caused this freakazoid phenomenon in the first place, but he couldn’t come up with a logical explanation on the spot, not that anything about this had any room for logic in the first place. But over time and after a lot of trial and error, he managed to confirm some facts.

He was able to control someone’s dreams if he wanted to.

He did pretty much the same things he did to make himself lucid dream, but it required getting into a more meditative state of mind where he focused on the person whose subconscious he wanted to invade. He was almost hypnotizing himself. That falling feeling alerted him to when the other person fell asleep, and then he got to work. Whatever he dreamed about that night, the other person also did. In excruciating detail. The only side effect to that was that he woke up utterly perished the next day, so there was no point in randomly utilizing this useless skill besides maybe playing pranks on people.

As the cherry on top of the ice cream sundae that was his delightful quirks, there was actually one more thing that kept Chris away from the realm of romance. Everyone thought he didn’t date because ‘Oh my god, he’s married to his career, that’s adorable!’, when in reality, he was… well…

He was already pretty extraordinary as he was with all his fame and whatever the fuck was up with the dreamland shenanigans, now add the fact that he had less than conventional inclinations in bed—it completely annihilated the possibility of dating for Chris. He knew nothing was going to stay fucking private, and it would only be a matter of time before he made the headlines in some TMZ article. He didn’t trust anybody to reveal that part of himself, nor was he ever going to. Not a chance.

At first, he thought this could be stemming from the inhumane amount of stress he had to endure, both during his training and later when he ventured to be his own boss. He was desperately seeking an outlet to blow off steam and he had tried many things. Shooting range, combat sports, more zen shit to fucking calm himself, but nothing worked. 

Nothing gave him the relief of a mind-numbing orgasm.

It wasn’t purely a matter of ejaculation—he needed to cum very hard to be able to release all that electricity charged up in his body that turned him into a verbal assault weapon, but everyone’s usual repertoire just didn’t cut it for him. He was doing just fine for the longest time indulging in solo playtime, but even then it was more like some fucking tantric meditation rather than merely jerking off. Just when he thought he finally found a way out, he started to get numb to the feeling. It wasn’t enough. He wanted more. He needed more.

He needed so much more, and whatever the hell this was, it couldn’t simply be described as having a dirty mind.

He knew his cravings required a considerable amount of trust to experience them within the normal bounds of a relationship, but he had no desire to get to know someone when he could barely stand people. It wasn’t in his disposition to be patient. He consulted other means to satisfy these urges instead, exclusively ruining people to his heart’s content, then leaving them there to jump into the shower immediately afterwards. No further touching. No talking. He was only subscribing to the promised services in the allotted time. No intimacy was necessary.

His compulsive need to wash himself had nothing to do with hygiene purposes. Having extremely sensitive gustatory and olfactory senses, he just couldn’t stand the stench of shame that raided the room once his starvation was satiated. 

He even tried to substitute it with his vivid illusions so that he could relish the pleasure without the consequential guilt, but much like being unable to punch someone in a dream, it was nowhere near the real thrill. Just some synthetic, bootleg copy.

It took a very long time for him to come to terms with it, but he eventually managed to accept his truth. This was the way he was, these thoughts aroused him, these acts provided gratification for him, and no one was getting hurt, so fuck kink-shaming entirely maybe. He thought his instant shower obsession would magically disappear after his epiphanous moment, but it remained a nervous tic to this day.

And every time torrents of warm water cascaded down his body, Chris was questioning how long he would be able to keep this up.

Interesting what could shape one’s life.

You had decided to walk the path of culinary arts just because cooking was therapeutic for you, having absolutely no clue how cutthroat the fine dining industry was. The competitive side of you was cursing a mouthful at you while simultaneously being eternally grateful for tickling it so much. Command over tools? Check. Recipe repertoire? Check. Technique and finesse? Check. Every time you created a dish, years of hard work was emitting from it instead of steam. All for your dream job. The ultimate career goal. 

Working at Chris Bang’s kitchen.

He was like a god to you. You had always admired his genius from afar, and most people who were familiar with the name looked at you like you were an insane person on a suicide mission when you told them what your biggest aspiration was. Several other members of your graduating class had also openly declared they would love to work under him, but while their ambitions consisted of a lot of bodily fluids, you were quite literally after becoming a kitchen warrior, if you will. If the rumors indeed held true, he was completely insane, and his insanity was turning everyone lucky enough to breathe the same air as him into a world-class chef.

And you were finally looking at the fancy sign that spelled Wolfgang with your heart beating in your throat. Every step you took in your professional endeavors was for this moment. 

“Okay, let’s do this.”

You took a deep breath and pushed the door open to face your fate. The dining room was completely empty, and there was someone by the bar polishing glasses of different sizes.

“Hi, I’m looking for Chef Lee?” you approached the person with a confident smile. 

“Minho would suffice,” the man with the sharpest facial features you’d ever seen shook your hand, “For the line cook position, right?”

“Yes.”

“Fair warning, this might be a little different from what you are used to.”

Different, my ass, you wanted to snort, but kept a perfect composure on the outside. Granted, you didn’t know what kind of people this Minho person was used to working with, but once he got to know your personality, whatever reservations he might have had were probably going to disappear. In addition to your still-looking-for-the-fucks-I-give attitude, the head chef you were working under had been mentally preparing you for this for years. You had seen everything—literally everything, so the reputed tantrums of Chef Bang weren’t all that intimidating for you. 

Minho walked towards a flight of stairs to the right of the dining room, guiding you to what looked like an office area, and you followed suit after him.

“You look very familiar, by the way. Where have I seen you before?”

“I do porn. You into gangbanging?”

“WHAT?”

“I’m kidding,” you giggled at his scandalized response, “We might have crossed paths around Park Avenue. I’ve been working at Cul-de-Sac. You saw my resume.”

When silence followed your declaration, you panicked. Maybe it wasn’t the best idea to make such an inappropriate joke to your prospective sous chef as if you were close friends. Once he burst out laughing, you heaved a sigh of relief.

“You’re gonna be fun to have around, but I wouldn’t do that in front of the Chef if I were you,” he led you inside the lavishly decorated office and sat across you on one of the leather couches placed in front of the gargantuan desk, “And one more thing.”

“Yes?”

“He doesn’t know you’re here. Consider it a stress interview.”

Right at that moment, the door banged open, and as Chris let himself in, you were stuck between having a heart attack due to how startled you were or having a seizure for how hard you were fangirling inside.

“How many times am I gonna tell you to fuck your bimbos somewhere else, Min? This is a place of fucking business,” he spat without looking at either of you.

While the man, the myth, the legend sat down on his chair and started typing something fast on his computer with an utterly annoyed expression, Minho grinned and mouthed ‘different’ when he held your gaze. Upon the sudden emergence of rage in the room, your defense mode was automatically activated as a reflexive souvenir from your training years, and you just could not keep your mouth shut.

“Damn, so the famous stories are true,” you spoke with an absolute lack of self-control.

“So you heard stories about me, person I’ve never seen before,” Chris declared utterly unfazed, his bloated self-confidence clearly beyond the realm of humanly possible, “Did you like them?”

“I think my personal enjoyment is not relevant here, Chef.”

“Damn right, it isn’t. Who the fuck are you?”

“She’s our prospective line cook,” Minho replied on your behalf, and you took it as your cue to hand Chris your resume. 

He snatched the paper from your hand and started reviewing it, having no expectations of being impressed whatsoever, but if Minho brought you here in person, he must have spared Chris the trouble of reading mundane lines every aspiring cook ever had on their resumes. When his eyes landed on your latest place of work, Chris was ‘appalled’, for lack of a better word.

“It says here you’ve worked with Chef Corneille.”

“Yes.”

“The fuck are you doing here then?”

“I trained with him so that I could work with you,” you explained with determination, “I know he’s taught you, so you know for a fact I’m fully equipped to be the most efficient member of your kitchen.”

Chris took one last look over your resume, checked you out from head to toe, then placed the paper in front of you with much calmer movements than several minutes ago.

“Thanks, but no.”

“Why not?!”

“Because I say so.”

“That’s hardly a valid explanation.”

Chris let out a long exhale indicative of how irritated he was, then walked towards the huge window by the door and parted the Venetian blinds covering it with two of his fingers.

“Come here. Look at this,” he pointed at the kitchen downstairs, busy with people clad in black uniforms prepping for service, “I run a brigade of fifteen people. How many women do you see?”

“Two.”

“Do you know why?”

“Because they’re obviously talented?”

“That’s fucking default in my kitchen. Think harder.”

Why the fuck else would they be in Chef Bang’s kitchen if they weren’t the best cooks he had at his disposal? You were looking at him blankly, and Chris didn’t have much patience to wait for an answer from you.

“Because they don’t fucking cry when I raise my voice. They know it’s never personal. They listen well and execute my commands perfectly.”

“And so can I.”

“You’re not getting it,” Chris took a step closer to you and spoke menacingly, “I don’t run a tight ship around here, I run a fucking dictatorship, okay? I don’t have time to wipe anyone’s nose, and you seem to run that pretty mouth a little too much. I don’t have tolerance for any kind of disobedience.”

“With all due respect, you’re not getting it, Chef,” you responded without even moving an inch, “You really think I don’t already know what your command approach is? For years I’ve been working towards one goal only, and that’s to work with you. Put me through any test you want. I’ll prove to you I’m the best asset you can have on your brigade.”

“This is not my first time hearing such bold declarations. Words mean nothing to me.”

“And that’s why I need you to see it in action. I’ve mastered your style and know all your recipes by heart,” you insisted resolutely, “I was under the impression that tenacity was the one thing you would look for in your crew, but suit yourself.”

Minho was having a blast watching this exchange unfold in front of him. No one had ever dared to engage in a fucking dialogue with Chris before—he would usually spew an entire monologue of reckless things, not giving a shit about offending anyone, and they would just ‘Yes, Chef’ him in return. To an outsider, it wasn’t noticeable, but Minho knew how much you caught Chris off guard.

And Chris actually seemed to enjoy it.

“Probationary period until whenever the fuck I see fit,” he announced with a straight face.

You wanted to fucking scream your lungs out due to sheer euphoria, but as hard as it was you kept a façade as convincing as Chris’. Meanwhile, your prospective boss leaned into your face and basically urged you to brace yourself for the hell he was about to drag you through.

“But you’re welcome to quit any time,” he spoke with quiet terror then headed back to his desk, “Minho, put her on tear duty.”

“Tear duty?”

“You didn’t expect to be a sous chef on your first day, did you?” Chris pulled his chair into his desk, “There is a fifty-kilo onion sack in the storage that needs to be prepped for dinner service. You’re going to handle it all by yourself.”

“Right– right now? I don’t have a unif—”

“FUCKING MOVE!”

It must have been the most bizarre ‘You’re hired’ ever. Everything happened so quickly that you were barely able to digest the fact that you were working here now. Minho handed you your very own Wolfgang uniform in jet black and started giving you a comprehensive tour—the dining room, the bar, the delivery area, locker rooms, the storage, and finally the kitchen full of your new teammates. 

Your overall impression on your first day was that the brigade consisting of the most skilled cooks and mixologists you’d ever seen was very welcoming; the waitstaff were super chill and frequently diffused the tension from the service window; the maître d’ seemed like the gossip central of the restaurant carrying whatever information he picked up from the guests back to the kitchen; and having Minho as your commanding officer was actually quite nice. He was definitely firm but in a more snarky way, and the brigade still respected the shit out of him. 

Chris, on the other hand…

The second the restaurant opened for service, he became this god from the underworld, most probably a descendant of Hades. He timed everything perfectly so that each order on a ticket was sent to its table at the exact same time, in impeccable temperature and freshness. He never settled for anything less than flawless, and while he did occasionally compliment the excellent results, if the sear on the sea bass was so much as a slightly lighter or darker shade than what he exactly wanted it to be, he would crush whoever was responsible for it.

He would crush you, you would cry inside, hate your life choices, have a brief existential crisis, then get back up and continue cooking. That was basically hidden in the job description.

During the day, Chris was giving you super mundane tasks during prepping. You were basically chopping vegetables the whole day. You knew the kitchen had a rotation system, so every person was responsible for a different station for each service. On your very first night, you were assigned to the garnish station, naturally thinking it would be a temporary thing, but Chris just wouldn’t move you. An entire week passed by like this, and just when you were thinking whether this would be your new reality, he gave you a whole entire whiplash by assigning you tasks next to impossible to complete in such a short time span. Gut tens of kilos of fish, extract all the lobster meat from the shell—even from the legs, prepare lamb racks, make fresh pasta from scratch, chop, grate, fry, grill… You weren’t breaking. 

Why weren’t you breaking?

On the night of the steakhouse special, he started riding you even harder and straight up assigned you to the meat station when he fucking knew most of the orders of the night were going to involve the use of that grill. 

“How long on the New York Strip?”

“Two more minutes, Chef.”

“You said that two minutes ago.”

“That was before you poured water on the grill when you got mad, Chef.”

You were doing everything he said perfectly, but his problem with you was never really about your results. 

He just did not like it when you talked back to him even if you thought you were standing your ground.

“Stop,” he snatched the tongs from your hand, “Go to the dessert station.”

“I’m about to fin—”

“FUCKING MOVE!”

You shot him a brief look then switched places with Mike. Chris followed you like your personal ghost haunting you and spoke down your neck.

“What is it? Too pedestrian for you? The pretty princess can’t be bothered with making desserts now?”

“You didn’t give me the order yet, Chef.”

“Maybe I’m waiting for it to dawn on you.”

“You realize I’m holding a freshly sharpened knife in my hand.”

“You realize if you fuck up in any capacity, you’re out the goddamn door, and I’ll make sure you can never work in a kitchen again.”

He walked to the service window, ripped the ticket, and slammed it in front of you.

“Table 18, one couple, sizzling chocolate brownies with ice cream. How long?”

“Ten minutes, Chef.”

“If the consistency is off, I’ll bake you into this myself.”

As Chris was about to make his way to the service window, you heard a snapping sound at the back of your head. You didn’t even expect that reaction from yourself, but you started hysterically laughing.

“If you think you’re intimidating me with this, you gotta try harder, you know.”

An audible gasp was heard from the people who were already eavesdropping on your conversation. Chris stopped dead in his tracks and invaded all your personal space with a dangerously calm voice.

“The fuck did I say about disobedience?” he spoke under his breath, “Are you incapable of processing simple instructions?”

“This is not about defying you. I’m making a very reasonable comment here.”

“Now you listen to me.”

He trapped you against the metal station with both his arms on either side of you, hellfire shooting from his eyes.

“Reasonable doesn’t exist in my kitchen, little miss know-it-all. Tyrants don’t reason with people, you hear me? Stop running your fucking mouth and make—the fucking—DESSERT!!!”

“Yes, Chef,” you smirked at him.

Chris left the kitchen fuming from his nose and slammed the door to his office. Minho put Trini in charge and followed after Chris, but he was laughing his ass off, enraging him to no end.

“What’s so fucking funny?!”

“She just doesn’t give up, and that’s pretty entertaining to watch,” Minho approached the desk Chris threw himself behind, “You wanna pull her hair while you’re at it?”

“The fuck are you talking about?”

“I know that look. You’re intrigued,” he walked towards the window that oversaw the kitchen area, “Been a while since I’ve last seen it.”

He half-opened the blinds to reveal the frantic flow still going on downstairs. They were both watching you make the chocolate sauce in one corner.

“Not to mention, she’s smoking hot. I wouldn’t mind attempting to hit that,” Minho broke the silence and turned to Chris again, “If you’re not calling dibs, I will.”

“Whatever. Have at it.”

While Chris was pouring a large glass of water for himself, Minho put an envelope in front of him.

“What’s this?”

“Culinary Institute panel talk. They want you for a Q&A session.”

“You go in my place.”

“They asked for Chef Bang.”

“So?”

“So, everybody knows what you look like, fuckface,” Minho grabbed his glass and downed it himself, “I’m not about to partake in identity theft for you. You’re going.”

As Minho left, Chris swiveled his chair to his back and his eyes landed on you again. He watched you in silence for a while. He really was intrigued by you, but you were also making him so mad for some reason. Something kept boiling inside him because of you.

Not that anybody knew about it, but Chris actually had a little thing for troublemakers. 

After the restaurant closed that night, he went home and basked in the relief of the cold shower. The entire time he was washing himself, he thought about why you were getting on his nerves so much. You were talking back too much. You were defying him too much. 

And maybe you needed to be taught a lesson.

He dried his hair with a towel, threw it to the side, and got into his bed naked. He closed his eyes and manifested an image of you behind his eyelids, channeling all his attention on you. Your eyes, your face, your body, your mannerisms, the sound of your voice…

“Let’s confuse you a little bit tonight, shall we?”

You were frantically trying to find your way. Judging by the sound of it, you were walking on a wooden surface. It was so dark that when you spotted the reflection of a faint neon light in the distance, a drop of relief started to spread all over your body, and you started darting towards it with quick steps.

“You’re late.”

You heard a click. It came from a lamp being turned on, and the abrupt illumination let you know the voice belonged to Chris. He was sitting on an armchair, but he wasn’t in his work attire. 

If anything, he looked like a sexy demon clad in a black suit.

The reflection of the neon light was coming from the left side of the room through frosted glass. It looked like a sign, but you couldn’t decode what it said. The walls looked like they were made of velvet, deep purple in color. The room was mostly dark except for the light next to Chris, a bright lavender shade exuding from the lamp on what looked like a nightstand. You could barely discern the shapes of the other objects around you. There was a bed behind him. A frame hanging above the headboard. It looked like a painting of something unrecognizable. Something like a dresser on the right side of the bed. Or maybe a cabinet. 

It was pitch black beyond the bed. When you turned around, you saw that the door you just entered through was gone. It was a velvet-covered wall now.

There was a tinge of menace in Chris’ voice, but he wasn’t yelling. That was an odd change. Was he mad? Was he going to reprimand you?

“I’m sorry, I got lost. I didn’t kn—”

“Don’t talk back to me,” he emphasized the word, voice still somewhat serene, “I didn’t ask you a question.”

He beckoned you over to come closer to him, and you walked as if you didn’t have any control over your legs. As if they moved on their own.

“Sit.”

He pointed to the bed, watched you sit down, then walked towards you. There was a smile on his face, but it was far from cheery. It spelled absolute mayhem. It should have been scary. It should have caused you to panic maybe.

But it sure as hell shouldn’t have been this enticing.

“Am I scaring you?”

“No, why would you sc—?”

“Shh.”

He pressed his index finger on your lips, and your eyes closed. He smelled like the ocean; a faint wave of iodine was exuding from his body. It felt like a refreshing summer night breeze.

“You’re going to learn to do as I say,” he spoke barely above a whisper, ”Today, we’re going to practice your listening skills.”

He sat right next to you, and his eyes were traveling all over you a bit too intently as if he had X-ray vision. His mouth was watering for some reason.

“You’re beautiful, you know,” he licked his lips and finally met your gaze, “Did you notice how the crew looks at you?”

“How are they looking at me?”

“Like they’re eyefucking you.”

“No, they don’t.”

“You’re right, they don’t,” he smiled, “That was me.”

You felt a tingling sensation between your legs. As much as your professional appreciation somehow managed to surpass everything shallow, you could never deny what an homme fatale Chris Bang was. His entire aura was just so seductive.

And from the looks of it, maybe dangerously so.

You never had a chance to examine him from this up close before. Sharp lines, full lips, broad shoulders, a piece of his chiseled chest peeking through his blazer… And this man just said it was him that was eyefucking you.

If you knew, you would have bent over for his convenience.

“I don’t like it when you talk back to me,” he brushed your hair back with his fingers, “Or I think I like it a bit too much.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you’re awakening things in me, and I want you in the worst ways.”

He was looking at you like he was awaiting a scandalized reaction, but it never happened. Hot as fuck dude telling you he wanted to have his way with you, and what was he expecting? A firm no? A slap on the face? A bashful aversion of eyes?

It seemed like Chris didn’t cross paths with many people of your kind.

“Do you taste as good as the desserts you make?” his hands descended down your cheek and he started stroking it, “Shall we find out?”

Your throat was incredibly dry for all the hydration in your body was currently pooling between your legs, and your heart was beating fast. You wanted to answer, at least make a sound, but you were drawing a total blank.

“Am I making you uncomfortable, beautiful?”

“No, it’s not– it’s not that…” you cleared your throat.

“It’s not that,” he mirrored you, then tilted his head, “Then what is it?”

What was it? Was it how his scent itself was so damn intoxicating? Was it the way he talked to you? Was it how his touch was so feathery that you actually wanted to tell him to press his hands deeper into your skin?

“Am I turning you on?” he asked, trying to hide the excitement in his voice.

You didn’t give a fuck about how improper this could be seen as by a third party because you were enjoying the shit out of this, but you were still questioning how appropriate it was for you to tell the truth. You were in the middle of an internal debate, but Chris didn’t like your silence.

“Here’s your first lesson, beautiful. When I ask you a question, you answer,” he slithered his fingers into your hair and held it in a firm grip, threatening to pull on it, “Let’s try again. Am I turning you on?”

Fine. If he wanted it, he was going to get it. You took a deep breath and let it rip.

“Yes.”

He closed his eyes, broke into a very satisfied smile, and pressed his forehead on your temple. You felt his warm breath seeping into your body down your neck. His grip on your hair loosened, and he softly demanded.

“Then get rid of your panties for me so I can eat your pussy.”

You were startled to death when you heard a sharp gasp coming from the darkness to your left as if there was a hidden audience there. You didn’t exactly know how many people there were, but it sounded quite crowded.

“There are people in here!”

“Yes, they’re here to watch us,” Chris replied with a look that questioned why you were even this surprised in the first place, “That’s why we should put on a good show. Meet their expectations.”

He pulled you in from your chin and kissed your cheek. It was as chaste as it could be, but you felt absolutely electrified. It was like Chris was possessing you like the demon he was.

“Back,” he pointed at the pillows with his head, “Lie back for me.”

You kicked your shoes off and climbed on the bed, then watched him crawl towards you. It was only then you noticed what you were wearing—a blouse and a skirt, both so not your style. You wondered whether you were high when you purchased these since you didn’t even remember shopping for them. Chris slid your skirt up to your waist and dragged your underwear down your legs, his breathing getting heavier at the sight of your pussy.

“Minho called dibs on you, but he can kiss my ass. I’m not letting anybody have you,” he softly caressed the sensitive skin, “You’re fucking gorgeous. Spread your legs for me, beautiful.”

You fulfilled his request. He hissed in delight, and his hands started sliding down your supple thighs.

“Perfection. Just look at the slick on this,” he reflexively licked his lips, “All for me?”

You smiled, but it was more in the shade of his. You watched him nestle between your legs and the way he started torturing you. He was ghosting his hands on your skin. His breath was on your folds. You could almost feel his lips on you, but he just would not touch.

“I wanna eat it so bad, but keeping you on your toes is just as much fun,” he looked up at you, “Do you want me to?”

You liked the buildup. Any indication that you were frustrated, and this demon was sure as hell going to drag it on however long he could. You responded as calmly as you could manage.

“Yes.”

“Then say I want you.”

“I want you.”

“Say I want you to eat my pussy.”

“I want you to eat my pussy.”

“Say I want you to eat my pussy, Christopher.”

He said his own full name like that, and it hit you like a truck. You had no idea why it affected you so, but you didn’t hesitate.

“I want you to eat my pussy, Christopher.”

“There you go,” he kissed your mound, “That’s how you’re gonna address me when we’re alone from now on. When it’s your turn, you can call me whatever you want.”

“Whatever I want, huh?”

“Yes,” he confirmed, “I’m never stingy with rewards. I’ll fucking worship you if you do as I say.”

It caught you so off guard that you couldn’t help the clench. Was he just randomly throwing things out there, or did he actually somehow study you?

“Tempting, isn’t it? Having me at your whim?” his smirk grew wider, “Play your cards right, and you’ll have me be the floor you walk on. Understood?”

“Yes.”

“Good girl.”

The way you throbbed was embarrassing this time around, and much to your dismay, Chris noticed it, and he found it beyond delightful.

“I’ll make sure to let you know when you’re being good, then,” he kissed your knees and pulled himself up, “Tell you how incredible you’re doing. Praise every inch of your beautiful body. You’re just the thing I like.”

He discarded every single garment wrapped around your body, and when he was done, he took a minute to bask in the view.

“Amazing,” he brushed your breasts with his thumbs, “You’d fucking kill a man just with the sight of these.”

“You seem very much alive to me.”

“Lactate for me, then we’ll talk.”

So he was that kind of a man, huh? 

Chris took off his jacket to reveal his naked torso hidden under it, and you started salivating. His body was simply unreal, and judging by the way his cock was pressing hard against his pants, it seemed like the feeling was mutual.

He started touching your body. Softly. Gently. The more he made his way down, your anticipation was building to a ridiculous level. The suspense was about to kill you, and he knew. Of course he knew, and he took some psychotic pleasure in it. At long fucking last, he finally arrived where you wanted him the most.

“Pretty, right?” you uttered as he admired your pussy.

“Mhm. Very pretty. Very eatable,” he placed a kiss on your mound again, “You know what you are. I love that in a woman.”

He stole one taste from your folds, just one swipe of his tongue on your clit, but it was still enough to make you sigh in contentment.

“Savory,” Chris hummed to himself, “Would go great with my nightcaps. Would make an incredible secret ingredient for sexy cocktails.”

“Maybe you do have an impeccable palate,” you quipped.

“You think I’m joking,” he looked at you seriously, “I’m not.”

He lightly pressed his thumbs on your labia to spread you like a feast for him, then soaked you more with his saliva.

“I will have your flavor at my disposal,” he firmly declared, “You either cum for me in a vial to keep or I’ll have you squirt into my shaker. Your choice.”

“Oh, fuck!”

Chris closed his mouth on your cunt, and you flinched in your place. It was intense. His tongue was gliding all over the place. His lips were at work kissing and sucking on the sensitive skin. The more you moaned, the firmer he was groping your thighs, and that tinge of pain mixed beautifully with unadulterated pleasure.

“Talk to me,” he spoke between his deep kisses on your folds, “Tell me how good it is. Tell me how good I’m eating your pussy.”

He wanted praise. He wanted your praise. The man who shouldn’t be touched with a ten-foot pole when angry was craving attention from you.

Why was his desperation so fucking hot?

“You know how to work that tongue, I’ll give you that,” you caressed his hair, “but I don’t believe this is your best.”

“It’s not,” he smirked in response.

“You said they are here to watch me cum, no?” you tilted your head, “Then get to it. Give me your best.”

“Feisty,” he bit into his smile, “I think I kinda like you.” 

He grazed his teeth on your thighs, and then bit into them. You whimpered at the sensation.

“But you need to learn how to read the room,” he warned you with a stern voice, “Keep that up, and I’ll fuck that sass out of you. It won’t be pretty.”

“You’re welcome to try.”

His breathing was getting heavier. He was clearly getting excited, and his excitement was flaring something in your gut.

“God, I want to do very questionable things to you,” he gritted his teeth, “but we’ll start with baby steps. Ease you into it.”

He swiftly turned you around, and you felt his heat on your back shortly after.

“You get me a little too hot, you know,” he started caressing your back, “I like it when you bend over. Your ass is so perfect, it begs me to hit that.”

You felt his hands slide down to your hips, sinking his fingertips into the flesh.

“I kinda wanna grope it,” he lazily kneaded the soft skin, “Kinda wanna eat it. Kinda wanna cum inside.”

His lips left a wet kiss on your lower back, then you felt his tongue licking the salt on your skin.

“And what if I made you cum like that?” he turned you around again and kissed your swollen clit, “What if you ask me to fuck your ass the next time?”

“Next time?”

“This is only our first time, beautiful,” he caressed your legs, “We’re playmates from now on. I’ll always make sure you have the best time with me. I’ll make you cum like you’ve never cum before. I’ll praise you. I’ll worship you.”

Then he held your gaze, and you saw something threatening gleaming in it.

“But I own you. I need you to understand that.” 

He spread your legs apart again, unfazed, as if he didn’t say what he just said, and his thumb started drawing lazy circles on your clit.

“We’re not done until I say we’re done. We don’t stop until I’m full. I don’t pleasure you for you; I pleasure you for my own enjoyment and I don’t give a shit if you pass out from consecutively cumming. I am having my way with you until I’m satisfied. Until my hunger for you is completely satiated,” he placed a sloppy kiss on your thighs and smiled to himself, “With a body like yours, it doesn’t seem likely to ever feel full, but I’ll try my best.” 

He wrapped his hands around you again, warning you he was about to crash into you very very soon.

“I’ll show you a great time. We’re going to have so much fun.”

When he started a full on makeout session on your cunt, you arched your back. His mouth on you felt so good that you were instinctively wrapping your fingers in his hair and tugging on it. He liked it. He liked it as much as you did because he was moaning into you every time you did that. His eyes were fixated on you as he was devouring you, watching your every move, every flinch, trying to calculate when you would snap. You were moaning louder, and louder, and louder, and it was only a matter of seconds before you let out your loudest scream, but then…

“Why did you stop?!”

“Shh, what did I tell you about listening to me?” 

Chris watched the way your pussy was throbbing, more so because of your frustration this time than anticipation, and it put a crooked smile on his face.

“Pretty. So fucking pretty,” he kept admiring you, “Want me to stuff you full?”

“Yes!”

“Then tell me to fuck you.”

“Fuck me.”

“Fuck me, Christopher,” he corrected you, his voice a tinge louder.

“Fuck me, Christopher.”

“Good girl. See how easy it is to listen?” he pulled on your arms to make you sit up, “Of course I will. Anything for you.”

Chris switched places with you and got rid of his pants first. Then he pulled close to make you sit on his lap, your back flush against his chest, and prodded your entrance with his flushed cock.

“Spread your legs wide. I want them to see how you’re getting fucked.”

He was loving how wet you were due to his relentless catch and release and met absolutely no resistance sliding in. After a couple of delicious pumps to stretch you properly, he started ruthlessly pounding into you, dismantling you with the way he moved inside.

“You’re dripping, beautiful,” he panted against your neck, “Wouldn’t it be fucking amazing if I licked your cunt while fucking you? Close your eyes.”

His hand traveled to your clit to play with it, but rather than a rubbing sensation, you felt like… he was eating you out.

“Feels good, yeah?”

“Too fucking good!” you threw your arm back and grabbed his nape, “How is th– How—?”

“I’m spitroasting you myself. Isn’t it so much fun being my plaything? You can’t get this anywhere else, beautiful,” he chuckled into your ear, “Open your eyes now. See what they’re doing watching us fuck.”

You snapped your eyes open and realized the room you were in was actually a set on a stage, and there was an entire audience in front of you clad in formal attire. Everyone was wearing black, nightgowns, tuxedos, two pieces, crisp suits paired with perfect hair and make-up. You couldn’t really tell how big the hall was as the crowd was blending into the darkness towards the back of the room. The one thing they had in common was the masquerade masks they were wearing while watching your performance.

Some of them were touching themselves. Some of them were making out. Some of them were giving each other head. Some of them were fucking. It was an entire dirty free-for-all down there. When the realization hit, you started hearing moaning from the audience, and it was getting louder. Nobody gave a fuck. They were just watching you and getting so turned on that they felt the need to do something about it. You didn’t even know if these people were complete strangers or not.

“The better I make you feel, the louder they will moan,” Chris groped your thighs while panting into your ear, “Now moan my name. Tell them who’s ruining you.”

“Chris.”

“Louder.”

“Chris!”

“Like that. Just like that,” his rhythm got much faster, “I’m so close. Keep going.”

You uttered his name over and over again as Chris fucked your soul out of you, and when he finally caught the high he was chasing, he bit into your shoulder and came so hard that you almost felt his cum squirting in the pit of your stomach. He got what he wanted, but you were still an absolute mess wriggling on his lap.

“Bit frustrated, are we?” he teased your clit, “Do you want to cum, beautiful?”

You nodded enthusiastically, whimpering in sheer frustration and contemplating whether you could take him out if you wrestled him right now.

“Then say please.”

“Please, Christopher.”

Unprompted. You finally gave him what he wanted all along. Chris was so pleased with the way you uttered his name with that much desperation that he couldn’t help breaking into a wide grin.

“Such a fast learner. You’re fucking incredible,” he kissed your neck and talked softly into your ear, “What can I do for you? Whatever you want, I’ll do it.”

“Whatever I want?”

“I told you. If you listen, I’ll do anything for you.”

“Just… fucking pick up where you left off,” you answered in a hurry, on the brink of screaming your lungs out, “Lick me all over.”

“That’s it? Thought you’d at least give me some challenge,” he lazily laughed, “You want your pretty pussy eaten?”

“Yes!”

“Say it. Properly.”

You broke free of his grip and turned around, shooting him an absolutely menacing look.

“You’re gonna eat it all up and you’re gonna fucking like it, Christopher. I want my pussy spotless.”

His jaw dropped when he saw you snap like that. His surprised expression slowly turned into pleased, and took its final form as utterly seduced.

“I told you you would fucking kill a man.”

Chris grabbed you by your nape to pull you in for a kiss, but it was as violent as it could get. So sloppy. Wet. You were tugging on each other’s lips, gasping for air, but neither of you was willing to let the other have the upper hand. Barely a couple of minutes had passed since his orgasm, but he was so damn riled up already. You somehow managed to pull him under you and sat on his face, almost causing him to lose his mind in the meantime.

“God, your cunt’s so fucking pretty and my cum’s dripping out of it. Fuck!” he briefly looked into your eyes before diving into you, “You can choke me between your legs if you want.”

He slurped on his leaking cum first, fondling you everywhere he could reach, and then positioned your clit right on his tongue. This just couldn’t be real because it was impossible to feel that good, gratification running laps after laps throughout your entire body. Chris was a god. He really was a god of pleasure, and you felt yourself getting addicted to him with each lick. Each slurp. Each breath. Each passing second.

“Chris, you’re… You’re so… FUCK, CHRIS!”

Your legs were shaking, and he knew what he was doing to you. His eyes were purely diabolical, almost threatening to kill you with overdose pleasure. He was the sexiest, most beautiful thing you had ever laid your eyes on, and he was right there under you, pleasuring you to death. Desperately. Wanting your validation, wanting confirmation, wanting to be told he was doing a good job.

It was turning you on so bad you were about to fucking die.

“You’re fucking amazing,” you looked into his eyes, “I don’t mind not cumming if you’ll keep eating me like that for hours.”

His eyes closed in satisfaction, and he started moaning into your pussy. His tongue was working wonders on you. His lips were working better than any aphrodisiac. He groped your ass and made you ride his face faster. It was next to impossible to endure. 

You were dripping into his mouth, and he was happily slurping on everything you had to offer. He just couldn’t get enough. You wrapped your fingers around his cock, back to its full hardness again, and he started moaning louder. The elevated volume and harder vibrations quickly brought you to the edge. You stroked him harder. He slurped on you louder.

You arched on your bed as your alarm woke you up, waves after waves of pleasure coursing through your body. You had been sleeping for fuck’s sake, but you felt fatigued, legitimately fucked out because of a dream. A fucking dream. But it felt so real. So visceral. 

You actually came untouched.

You took the most confused shower of your life that morning, got ready, and left for work. You were very distraught the entire day, randomly thinking about the impossibly intricate dream. Why did you dream this? Why did you dream about him? In that context? What did it mean?

But more importantly, why the fuck did you like it so much?

“Chef wants to see you in his office.”

Minho’s voice pulled you back to earth again, and you felt your stomach drop. You washed your hands still somehow dazed, thinking about how to keep your composure as you climbed those steps.

“Come in.”

Chris looked horrible as if he was super hungover, but there was a very content smile on his face for some reason. Little did you know, the perfect opportunity to hit you with a fatality was right there for him to take.

“You’re coming with me to this institute thing.”

“What is it?”

“It’s a speaking engagement,” he pushed an envelope towards you on his desk, “You’re gonna talk to a room full of people.”

“WHAT?”

There was a raging blush spreading all over your face when you were suddenly reminded of a certain audience situation from the night before. Chris raised his brows to indicate surprise and concern at the same time.

“Is everything okay?”

“HUH? Yeah, er erhm… I uh– Yeah it’s fine,” you spectacularly failed in your attempts of composure, “What– What am I going to talk about?”

“Your experiences with Chef Corneille. Then I’ll take over.”

If there was tension between you two before, right now it fucking quadrupled, and Chris loved seeing you this flustered. You were nothing but a pain in his ass since day one with all that backtalk. Even as assertive as he was sometimes. It reminded him of flavors battling over dominance. 

Well, you were also clearly competitive. As obsessed as he was with perfection, never having a single dish returned to you. You were talented. You were tenacious. You were a pro. 

You were beautiful.

Nevertheless, this was his kitchen. If he told you to be mild, you were supposed to be mild. You were supposed to respond ‘Yes, Chef!’ to everything he said.

Everything.

“Dress for the occasion. I don’t wanna see you like a plain bagel,” Chris leaned into his chair, “That’ll be all. Go back to prep.”

You felt your annoyance return at full force in the presence of his vulgar self again. You closed the door behind you and mumbled to yourself.

“What an absolute ASS!”

Yes, he was, and he never hid it from anyone. He showed one side to his brigade and the other to his customers. He was so close but unreachably distant. He was always in some crowd but forever alone. He was a total hypocrite.

You just didn’t know the full scope of his hypocrisy yet. 

「© 2023, exxxtraoddinary · No translations, rewrites, or reposts permitted」

“I’m fucking poisoning you, aren’t I?”

Cavalier. Presumptuous. High-and-mighty. Show-off. A trainwreck. A goddamn fucking know-it-all. 

Lee Minho.

You had found him at his worst all those years ago like a little stray cat drenched in rain, hissing at everybody who dares to come close just to make itself look intimidating. He had lost a friend and he was hurting a lot, making his defenses taller than The Great Wall. Made of iron, impenetrable almost.

You had fallen in love with his full moon smile hidden under layers of midnight brokenness.

“Do not say such things!”

“You and I both know who you really should be with,” he spat, jaw and fists clenched in unison, “We should… we should just break up.”

Another outburst again. Minho was a man comprised of intense emotions. Pleasant delight to manic euphoria, tinge of arousal to fatal lust, mild irritation to unhinged fury at record speed. You loved how passionate he was, but it was indeed true that it was hurting you every once in a while.

But calling that poison?

“Please,” you begged him in tears, “Please don’t do this.”

He loved you deliriously, but it wasn’t enough to keep him from letting you go because he thought you belonged with someone else. Someone who had a decent command over his own emotions, someone who would make you mostly happy rather than half the time. They would at least be able to stay in your good graces when their pros trumped their cons.

Whereas Minho was in a vicious cycle of erasing all the rights he accumulated with a single colossal wrong.

“I know how much I’m hurting you. It’s who I am at this point. I can’t help it,” he averted his eyes from you, squeezing his eyes to push his tears back, “Just… Don’t make this any harder.”

“Minho, please… We can get through this together. We can—”

“It’s not your job to fix me!”

And just like that, he walked away. As if all those years you had spent together were just a dream. As if all the dreams you had did not exist. As if he had never called you his sun. It had caught on so much that you wouldn’t even call each other by your names; he would call you Sunny instead, and you would call him Moony. 

Sun? What sun? 

Light was a social construct, and it could go to fucking hell. Ever since Minho left, it was always new moon for you, and darkness was all you knew. Everything lost its color and turned into bleak monochrome shades.

And it was getting dimmer with each passing day.

You were going crazy. You talked to your friends about the same things over and over again. Nothing was consoling you. Nothing was able to splash a bit of cold water on the hellfire that broke out in your heart. The lilies you loved so much had died. It kept raining torrents. You cried and cried and cried over him until you ran out of tears to cry. You had never felt this helpless in your life. 

Minho used to sing quiet lullabies for you in his arms. 

You lost sleep. 

Minho used to make grilled cheese sandwiches for you on Saturday mornings. 

You lost your appetite. 

Minho used to draw silly doodles on post-its and stick them all over the house so that you would laugh when you saw them. 

You lost joy. 

You bundled yourself in your cocoon of blankets for days on end, hoping it would pass. Sooner than later. Sooner than later. Sooner. Sooner. Please, I’m dying over here.

“It’s time, sweetheart. Come on, get up.”

You were so consumed in grief that you had lost all sense of reality. To this day, you were thankful to Hyejin for dragging you to a therapy appointment that day.

It still took a long-ass time, but you at least managed to reach a state of neutrality instead of violently breaking down when you heard the name Minho. The hellfire was put out, but the gentle sizzle of the everburning amber was still there. You had no choice but to come to terms with carrying that around for the rest of your life.

When it was time to reintegrate with the rest of the world again, you even entertained the thought of having someone in your life. You went on several dates. There were people you genuinely liked among them, too, but it always ended up the same.

“You’re still in love with your ex, aren’t you?”

Maybe. You were deluding yourself into thinking otherwise, but maybe… Even after all this time… 

You couldn’t help it. Minho was your first true love, so naturally, the cut he left behind was the deepest of them all. He still popped into your mind every now and then, making you wonder how he was doing. Whether he was happy or not. Whether he was thinking about you.

Whether he was regretting his decision at all.

When you woke up that Saturday, you had a really bad craving for grilled cheese, but you realized were out of ingredients. If you left right away, maybe everything would be different, but you decided to leave after taking a shower that lasted twenty three minutes. When you left your apartment, you briefly returned because you forgot to take out the trash. The cab you took ran one red light on the way, and you debated whether you should go to the bookstore now or after you finished your shopping, eventually opting for later.

…all of which cumulatively contributed to the exact moment you thought you finally went insane in front of the dairy aisle.

“Sunny?”

A bolt of lightning struck in the exact spot you were standing when you heard that name rendered in that voice. You heard something erupt in the distance, and the tremors of a violent mushroom cloud destroyed everything into a pile of goddamn debris.

When you slowly turned your head to your right, you indeed saw the one thing you were dreading to see for so long holding bread slices and a block of cheddar in his hands.

“Minho.”

His equally shocked expression was slowly replaced by a smile, and once you saw those cheekbones raised again, you felt your heart thumping in your ears. 

“I can’t believe it’s actually you. You look fantastic!” he threw the groceries into his shopping cart and approached you, “How have you been?”

Your heart ached. He looked as good as you remembered him. Even better actually with those waves in his hair. The dark circles under his eyes were long gone, and while happy was up for debate, he at least looked healthy.

“I’m doing better,” a vague smile appeared on your lips, “How have you been?”

“More or less the same neighborhood.”

Both of you were looking at each other, and there was something akin to an awe-filled silence between you. It wasn’t tense, but it was extremely intense. You were replaying every single memory of Minho in your head at x100 speed and wondering if he was doing the same. One wrong word could pop the oddly cozy bubble that immediately enveloped this moment, and you weren’t ready for it to end yet. You wanted to beg him like he used to when you tried to drag him out of bed.

Please, Sunny, just five more minutes!

“Are you in a hurry? Can we grab a cup of coffee right outside?”

You had managed to take one step forward after fighting all those demons. What if this was ten steps back? What if this small encounter was going to leave another unfillable void in your soul, and what if—?

“Of course,” you heard yourself say despite everything that was yelling at you inside your head. He smiled at you again.

It made you wanna throw yourself into the freezing cold ocean every time he smiled.

After completing your purchases, you made your way to the coffee shop in front of the bookstore, and Minho headed to the counter without even asking you what you would like. He returned with two large cups of dark roast americano, and you could smell the drop of caramel syrup in it. He still remembered how you took your coffee. 

Your heart sizzled.

“Thank you,” you dragged the coffee towards yourself on the table for two, “You grew out your hair. It really suits you.”

“And you dyed yours. I really like the color.”

There were so many things you wanted to say, so many questions you wanted to ask, but you didn’t even know where to start. Then something caught your attention as you kept playing with the lid of your cup.

“You got a tattoo, huh?”

“It’s Polaris,” Minho touched his left wrist, “It’s for my daughter. She’s my little star guiding me.”

Your heart dropped to your stomach so fast that you felt queasy. Did you… hear that correctly just now?

“You… you have a daughter,” you flashed him a terrorized smile.

It wasn’t a question, but it was. It wasn’t an interrogation, but it was. So he did find someone after you. Not only did he find them, but also… Also…

Did you do to her the same things you used to do to me? Did you also tell her you loved her endlessly? Was she able to touch you like I would? Did you miss me when you realized I beat her at that one good? 

“Yeah!” he brought out his wallet and showed you a picture in it with a smile, “Her name is Nari.” 

“N-Nari?”

It would have hurt less if he started torturing you right then and there. Lilies… He named his daughter after goddamn lilies. Mr. I’m-Poisoning-You had indeed gone ahead and found a toxin-immune terrain to breed.

Was this a fucking joke?!

“Oh wow, she’s the spitting image of you!”

“She’s great,” Minho looked at the picture fondly, “Being a father really changes you, you know. It puts things into perspective.”

Of course you knew. You had always known he would be a terrific father. A quirky one, for sure, but filled to the brim with love for his children. 

“How about you? You got any kids?”

You couldn’t believe you were asked this question by Minho as if you didn’t plan to have two kids once upon a time. One boy and one girl, the best of both worlds. Preferably twins. He was going to annoy the shit out of you with your son, and you were going to retaliate with your daughter because that was, quote, ‘How she will learn to be a boss lady later in life’.

“No,” you flashed a broken smile at him.

The mood was getting considerably solemn. What were you expecting anyway? For him to not be over you? He was the one who wanted to walk away, so why the surprise? What kind of hope were you holding onto all this time?

Were you unknowingly holding onto some hope all this time?

“Uh… So what do you do?” you attempted to change the topic, “Did you make it as a dancer like you wanted?”

“I’m actually a chef now,” Minho leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms on his now broader chest, “If you’ve ever been to Four Seasons downtown, I’ve probably served you.”

“Whoa, isn’t that a Michelin restaurant?”

“Which I’m responsible for obtaining.”

“That’s fucking impressive!”

Neither of you touched that radioactive waste zone again until you reached the bottom of your coffees. Instead, you talked about stuff you would do at a college reunion. What happened after you graduated? Were you able to land a good job? Of course you were; your professors never shut up about how promising you were. Your boss, though? He could go fuck himself. The chef thing? While he was wondering Minho found himself in the cookbook aisle at this very bookstore one day, and it was all downhill from there. He had never thought about turning his hobbies into a career before and he should have done that sooner.

Both of you spent an entire hour like this. Pretending. Acting like you weren’t extremely shaken by the other’s presence, and in complete disbelief that this was the reality you were leading now.

“It was great to see you,” Minho spoke as you were leaving the place.

It was a disaster to see you, you wanted to yell at his face. I’ve been doing so fucking well up till now, and now I’m back to goddamn square one. Why did you have to fucking show up again?

“You too,” you smiled at him instead.

When you least expected it, he reached for a hug and all of a sudden… 

That familiar scent.

Sandalwood. Ocean. Salt. Sunscreen. Forest breeze. Pine trees. Passion. Love. Lust. All in the same whiff.

Minho. 

The one that got away. Willingly.

Even after all this time, I still love you.

“I really hope this won’t be our only encounter,” he sheepishly smiled and took his phone out, “Do you mind if we—?”

“I don’t think so, Minho.”

His expression immediately fell. He was sulking. You hated it when he pouted. You just wanted to give him the entire universe so that he would smile again.

But this past hour had taken the life out of you.

“I’m sorry, I– I didn’t mean to assume,” he put his phone back and turned his eyes to the ground, “Of course. When you agreed to have coffee with me, I just thought…”

“It’s not that.”

You creased your brows trying to pick your words carefully. A part of you was still mad at him for what he put you through, but it wasn’t like you wanted to get back at him for it. You were trying to move on, and exchanging numbers and having him around was certainly not the way to do that.

You could never be friends with him again. Not when you knew what he tasted like because you knew for a fact that he tasted like your soulmate. 

And you were forever doomed to be the fully functional half of a perfect whole without Minho.

“I almost died trying to get over you,” you finally met his gaze, “It was nice to catch up, yes, but you seem to have much more important priorities now.”

You reached out for his hand, and he watched you stroke his tattoo with your thumb.

“My daughter.”

“I’m very proud of you, you know,” you smiled genuinely for the first time, “I know it’s not unheard of for people to change, but I’m very glad to see you changed for the better.”

Minho opened his mouth to say something, but no words came out. Instead, he smiled at you again, albeit in a thousand pieces.

It made you wanna burn yourself alive every time he smiled like that. You instinctively pecked his cheek and hailed an approaching cab.

“Say hi to the missus for me,” you smiled at him as you got in and took out your earphones from your pockets, “Houston Drive, please.”

Only after the cab took off was Minho able to register what you just said.

“Wait!” he dropped his bags, “Sunny, please wait!!!”

Minho started running after the yellow vehicle gliding down the road like a yellow serpent but to no avail. He eventually slowed down to a halt, panting hard as he held his knees in complete fatigue. With his last remaining strength, he yelled after you as if you would be able to magically hear him.

“THERE IS NO MISSUS, SUNNY, PLEASE!”

“You’re fucking kidding me!”

“Nope. I’d rather gargle cyanide than bring him up in a conversation,” you talked into the speakerphone as you were tearing the lettuce in the kitchen, “Minho is a daddy now.”

“And who’s the bitch?”

“Jin…”

“I SAID WHO’S THE BITCH I JUST WANNA ACCIDENTALLY RUN INTO HIS WIFE SOMEWHERE WITH MY CAR!”

While Hyejin’s murderous intentions to avenge you were appreciated, you didn’t possess the knowledge that would satisfy her.

“I didn’t ask.”

“What do you mean you didn’t ask? Aren’t you at least a little bit curious?”

“I’m not about to spiral myself into a comparison olympics, sweetie.”

“Urgh, fucking Lee. Pops out of nowhere like a goddamn jack in a box after all this time,” Hyejin scoffed into her receiver, “If I ever see him, I will crack his ring finger!”

You initially laughed at her violent comments, but then… something hit you.

“Actually, he wasn’t wearing one.”

“A married man and is not wearing his wedding ring?”

“I mean… I assumed he was married.”

“Let me ask you something, Sunny,” she sarcastically emphasized, “Did you or did you not hear it from his mouth that he was married?”

You drew a total blank at her words. No, you hadn’t asked him that because why the fuck would you? Who would have wanted to know what would be their untimely demise?

“But he has a daughter.”

“That literally doesn’t answer my question,” Hyejin insisted, “Did he tell you he was married?”

“He– he didn’t.”

“WOMAN!!!”

You didn’t know what to make of her reaction. When you were still together with Minho, Hyejin was the number one fan of your relationship, but obviously, people had to choose sides after a breakup. She was always there for you through your darkest times, but now…

Was she insinuating what you thought she was insinuating?

“Here’s what we’re doing,” she continued, unbothered, “Next week, you’re getting into your classiest slut attire and we’re having dinner at Four Seasons for operation ‘This is what you missed out on motherfucker’. I’m making a reservation right now.”

“Hyejin, please!”

“I SAID WHAT I SAID. DON’T MAKE ME RUN YOU OVER, TOO!”

Then she hung up on your face.

Minho didn’t say it, yeah, but it didn’t necessarily mean that he was single, either.

But what if he was?

What if he was?

What if…?

“So what if he is?!” you threw your phone on the couch in exasperation.

On the D-Day, you took the longest shower of your life drowned in your thoughts, and started to get ready for your dinner plans as if you were going on a fucking date.

The possibility of seeing Minho again stirred something in you, no matter how much it was in a work context. If anything, you were nervous to be in his fascinating Michelin chef presence, quite possibly fucking shit up in the hottest way possible. Because that was what he was. Intense. No matter what he did. You didn’t even know how you would be able to see him considering… He had to be in the kitchen, no? It wasn’t like the man was serving people himself. Would you make up an excuse? Would you try to sneak into the back? Would you purposefully send your food back, or ask for the chef to come over so that you could pay him compliments in person?

Why did you agree to Hyejin’s plans again?

“Good evening. Did you have a reservation?”

You were there to have dinner, no? Basic human needs and whatnot. Then why did it feel like this man was questioning your entire life trying to decide whether you were worth being there or not?

“Yes. I believe it’s under Ahn Hyejin?”

He went through the gargantuan notebook he had in front of him, and once he confirmed the name, he made his way inside.

“This way, please.”

You thought he was going to lead you to a table in the middle of the people crowding that large hall, so naturally, you were befuddled as hell when he passed the restaurant area and guided you towards a more secluded place.

“I’m sorry, I think there’s a mistake. I’m supposed to be having dinner with my friend?”

“Yes, ma’am. Ms. Ahn has booked this VIP room for you.”

“For me?” you creased your brows in confusion, “As in she’s not coming?”

He finally slid a door open and gestured you to go in. There was a table for two inside in front of a window looking over a fantastic city view along with a lot of kitchen utensils. You walked towards one of the chairs and sat down.

“Enjoy your experience,” the maître d’ left you by yourself in that extravagantly luxurious room.

Confused out of your mind, you attacked your phone to call Hyejin to ask where the hell she was, but she wasn’t picking up. The one time you needed her the most…

“Dammit, Jin!”

She was the one who came up with this plan without telling you what the plan fucking entailed, so what in the fresh fuck was up with that indeed?

“Good evening.”

You heard the door slide open again. A person clad in jet black kitchen attire let themselves in and greeted you without looking at you. You could literally hear the fireworks or a nuclear bomb go off in the distance when you turned towards the source of that honey voice. The person’s expression, on the other hand, was in between being on the brink of crying and flashing the most genuine smile of their life.

Your heart melted into a puddle when you saw him.

“My name is Lee Minho. I’ll be your personal chef tonight.”

“You’ll— my— personal what?”

He had a very entertained smile on his face seeing how flustered you were.

“Well, isn’t that why you came here tonight? To dine?”

Was it??? The last time you checked, you were under the impression that you were going to have dinner with your best friend to throw shade at your ex. Not be in such an unnecessarily close proximity to him that you would question all your life choices that led to that moment.

“I– I don’t… Hyejin booked…”

“Ah, of course. The boss lady herself,” Minho slightly bowed at the name as a sign of respect and then licked his lips with absolute mischief shooting from his eyes, “So you did tell her about me, huh?”

“Why– why– why would I do that?”

“I find it a little hard to believe that she of all people would coincidentally request me. I know she put a bounty on my head back in the day,” he casually handed you a menu, “Would you like my recommendations or would you like to create your own menu for tonight?”

He was standing tall with an upright posture right next to you with his arms clasped behind his back, waiting on you like your personal bodyguard. You had noticed how he must been working out a couple of days back, but those bulging veins that traveled from his elbow down to his hands confirmed it for you.

Minho used to despise moving.

“I’d like to have so very much wine, please,” you handed the menu back to him while gulping. He chuckled in delight.

“As for the food?”

“Surprise me.”

His chuckle turned into gentle laughter for some reason.

“With pleasure,” he took the thick cardboard away from you.

Minho opened a very decent bottle of cabernet sauvignon first to accompany your appetizers, and then promptly got to work. You watched him create magic right before your eyes. The way he was executing his craft with such passion and enthusiasm felt like you were supposed to be paying to watch him cook. It was that satisfying, and he made it look so easy. Smooth wrist movements, a tight grip and flawless command over his knives, brows furrowed and lips slightly pouting due to concentration. You didn’t even realize how much time had passed when he finished your first course.

“Please enjoy,” he placed an incredibly fancy-looking black porcelain plate in front of you.

And when you took your first bite of the food…

“God—DAMN, Min, you used to struggle even with pasta. How the heck did this happen?!”

You knew you fucked it up royally when you met Minho’s gaze. As nervous as you were, the familiarity of having him around had tricked you, and the word just slipped from your lips. Min. The way he looked at you so longingly when he heard that name from you again… After all those years…

You wished the ground would swallow you whole.

“Thank you. I appreciate it very much,” Minho broke into a very comforting and content smile sensing your internal struggle, “I’ll get started with your entrée.”

He proceeded to prepare your main course, and as he was busying himself with it, you suddenly blurted out with the courage you got from your wine.

“Why don’t you make it for two?”

“Are you expecting company?” he asked not looking away from his cutting board.

“I’d like you to join me.”

He finally met your gaze, and you saw the whirlwind of emotions stirring in them. Surprised, definitely. Undertones of happy. A tinge of excitement maybe. And then he smiled.

It made you wanna lock him in the tightest embrace every time he smiled.

“I can’t do that while I’m working,” he returned to his cooking, somewhat bashful.

“You can if a paying customer is asking you to,” you insisted, “Please.”

Please? Did you just say please?

Did you know how many years did he wait for you to say that in any context? Did you know how unequipped he was to say no to that request?

Without saying anything, he threw another marinated steak on the grill in front of him and added another portion of baby potatoes right next to it. Shortly after, he pulled two plates from the cabinet below him and decorated them exactly the same. 

Minus the little demiglace sun he drew on your plate and a crescent moon on his.

After he placed the plates on the table, he grabbed a fishbowl wine glass for himself and poured a generous amount of burgundy courage into it as if he wanted to drown himself.

“To you,” he raised his glass. 

You reciprocated. Your glasses kissed each other way more fearlessly than you two could coexist in the same room. If Minho cooked dinner for you in the privacy of his own kitchen, it would only be slightly more intimate than this.

You both ate in silence for some time. You savored every bite, every flavor he managed to squeeze into that plate. It might have been completely delusional of you to think this way, but for some reason, everything everything in front of you tasted so sweet just because Minho made it for you. Nothing in this world could be this concerningly delicious to make you think whether you were having your last meal or not.

“Minho, I’m going to ask you a question.”

To hell with it. The itch at the back of your brain was about to drive you crazy, so you just had to scratch it before you snapped and went on a fucking rampage.

“Yes?” he asked you with his brows raised.

“To be brutally honest, I’m kind of scared to hear the answer,” you put your fork down and stared at it, “Are you…?”

How to ask this? How to not pry but pry at the same time? How to make him think you didn’t have the ulterior motives that you absolutely had? What if he gave the wrong answer? Because there was a wrong answer here.

“You’re– you’re married, right? To Nari’s mother, I mean.”

“No.”

A total lack of pause. He answered your question so nonchalantly as if to say What the hell is wrong with you?

“Really?! I mean…” you immediately cleared your throat, “I mean, are you– are you divorced, or…?”

“We never got married.”

What the hell was that feeling of relief spreading throughout your chest at a concerning speed?

“Why not?”

“Because we were never together to begin with,” Minho took a sip from his wine, “Nari wasn’t exactly born out of love.”

The clouds passing by his beautiful face… They were a distinct type of nimbus. Quite dark. Charged with lethal bolts of lightning. If they rained, they would sure as fuck create disastrous floods after them.

“Her mother and I… Let’s just say our relationship lasted for less than an hour under a lot of haze,” he started drawing circles on the rim of his glass, “There was a time in my life when I turned to less-than-ideal means to…”

Then he pierced a hole in your soul with his eyes.

“To try and forget you.”

Once upon a time, you knew a man. He wasn’t aware he had pirated his entire personality from someone else, and he would do anything to get his way. Anything. Even say things that would mean so much to an average person with zero restlessness on his conscience because he didn’t have one. He just didn’t give a fuck who he was hurting as long as he got what he wanted.

Years later, that very same man was sitting right in front of you, holding his heart between his hands openly and giving you a free pass to crush it into mere dust if you wished. The amount of vulnerability in his voice… He knew he deserved it. He knew he deserved the worst of it.

“I’m not proud of it, but I’m taking responsibility. She was the one who wanted to keep the baby, but she is nowhere to be found most of the time. So I filed for full custody.”

“You’re– you’re raising her on your own?”

“Yes,” he smiled and then switched to his playfully cocky mode you were a bit too familiar with, “I mean Rose helps us a lot of course, but I’m not about the give her all the credit. I’m indeed a superdad to my baby.”

You involuntarily chuckled. Why of course, even in the form of a joke he just had to compliment himself because that was Lee Minho for you.

“How old is she now?”

“She’s four.”

If someone had told you that years later you would be listening to this beautiful disaster with Everest-level cockiness talk about his baby girl fondly, you would die laughing.

Minho wriggled in his seat and cleared his throat, then spoke without looking at you.

“Well… Are– are you…?”

“Am I what?” you reached for your glass.

“You know,” he dragged his finger down the stem of his glass as if that was the most important task at hand, “Have someone. In your life.”

He seemed almost scared to look at you, but eventually mustered his strength to face his fate. You dragged on the silence for as long as you could handle and shook your head no. Not only was there massive relief on his face, but Minho also let out a very deep breath that accompanied his blooming smile.

“Sunny.”

The tone of his voice changed all of a sudden. Serious. Determined. He reached for your hand over the table and fearlessly looked deep into your eyes as he talked this time.

“I’ve never stopped having feelings for you. Never.”

His skin on yours once again. Hesitant but oh so soothing. Asking to come home.

All your senses were extremely heightened somehow.

“I thought I was doing what I believed was the best for you, but I hit rock bottom. I lived my life as a walking corpse after I let you go, but you know why I’m glad Nari exists?”

Every time he talked about his baby girl, all his razor-sharp features softened, and the amount of compassion he had for her was simply bursting out of him.

“She turned me into a man that I always wanted to become for you. She is teaching me about patience. She is teaching me about unconditional love,” Minho swallowed a sob to push it way down, “And she reminds me so much of you.”

This right there was how cruel life was. You both had to be dragged through hell and back in your own ways to become the people you were at that very moment. Nothing had gone according to the plan, but then it made you think. 

So what if it hadn’t? 

Would that necessarily be the better option? What if you and Minho stayed together to the point of resenting each other so badly that you couldn’t stand the idea of sharing a life anymore? So what if it wasn’t you two that were supposed to change each other for the better? At the end of the day, Minho was a household chef and a devoted father who seemed much more level-headed, and you were a successful editor-slash-writer who refused to put anyone else right at the center of your life anymore.

All things considered, did that really turn out so bad?

All things considered, could you give him another chance?

All things considered, would you be able to find it in your heart to forgive him?

“You’ve always been my Moony, Min,” you smiled at him through the tears threatening to fall, “And always will be.”

His smile, on the other hand, grew so devastatingly big that you were almost blinded.

“I was thinking, after I’m done here would you like to—?”

“Excuse me, ma’am.”

“DO YOU MIND, GENE?”

The poor maître d’ was just doing his job, but Minho got so annoyed to be interrupted at the best part that he couldn’t help the volume of his voice and startled both of you.

“I sincerely apologize,” he judged the crap out of Minho solely with his eyes and put a little envelope in front of you, “Ms. Ahn extends her regards.”

When you opened it, you saw that it contained two keycards in it for room 1116.

“Well, Gene, Ms. Ahn is indeed here, isn’t she?” you closed the envelope and shot him a knowing look, “I promise I’m not going to do anything. I just want to know.”

The tall man in his crisp brand-name suit got flustered out of his mind but felt obliged to provide you with an answer anyway.

“We’ve been strictly instructed to monitor your mood and let her know if you were in distress, ma’am.”

“Thank you very much. While I don’t appreciate the CCTV treatment, please tell her I’m really enjoying myself.”

As the man apologetically bowed and made himself scarce, you removed one of the keycards from the envelope and slid it towards Minho.

“Here’s your tip, Chef Lee,” you spoke with the softest but infinitely seductive tone, “Why don’t you pick up a bottle of your most expensive champagne and meet me upstairs?”

Without giving him a chance to speak, you got up to your feet. Minho’s eyes followed your every move and his jaw dropped when you came that close to him and leaned in.

“You remember how we used to not let each other sleep, right Min?” you placed a little kiss on the mole on his nose and left him there to marinate in his feelings for a while.

You thought he would take a while to arrive, but shortly after you entered the room, you heard a knock on your door.

“Can I come in?”

“Why didn’t you just let yourself in?” you looked at him in surprise.

“I uh– I wanted to make sure you actually want this,” he scratched his neck, “Maybe you’re having second thoughts, or maybe y—”

You shut him up by kissing him, and his eyes immediately closed. His lips in yours again… So soft. Occupied the space in your mouth just right. Burned you with the amount of desire they were coated in.

Some things had changed, yes, but some things were never going to change.

He still tasted the same.

“Does that answer your question?”

When you looked at him like that and dragged your fingers down his cheek, Minho lost his remaining sanity and devoured your lips. You pulled him in from the collar of his uniform as he shut the door behind him with his foot. Your hands were all over each other wanting to touch everything at the same time. You guided his hand between your legs to show him how wet you were already, eliciting a deliciously loud groan from him.

“You fucking know how weak I am for you, so you’re doing it on purpose, aren’t you?” he spoke into your mouth, “Keep this up and someone’s getting knocked up tonight.”

“Then fucking put your money where your mouth is. I dare you to breed me.”

“I hope your birth control fails.”

“I hope your condom breaks.”

“Joke’s on you. I don’t have one on me.”

You pulled him in for another fiery kiss, but when you attempted to take off his top, he stopped you.

“No, no, no, baby, I need to shower first.”

You shuddered when you suddenly heard the address he used to have for you. Minho also realized what he just called you and examined your face intently to determine the level of his fuck up. 

“I’m– I’m so sorry. Force of habit.”

“It’s fine,” you smiled at him contrary to his expectations, “More than fine actually.”

“I promise I’ll be back in five minutes. Time me.” 

You giggled as he grabbed a towel and bolted to the shower. When he reemerged from the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist and his wet locks sticking to his face, he still had forty-three seconds to spare, and you almost lost your whole entire shit when you saw him half-naked after all this time.

Minho had always been gorgeous, but now in addition to that, the man had become totally ripped.

“Now where were we?” he sat right next to you and attempted to kiss you again.

“Nuh-uh,” you stopped him in panic as if you weren’t on the brink of jumping him yourself, “You did kill the mood. You gotta work me up again.”

“Again,” he echoed you, “So I did work you up before.”

Even when he knew what he was doing to you, Minho would always try to coax you into saying it out loud. Give him attention, tell him how pretty he was, praise his oral skills, moan his name when you were cumming… He lived for that shit.

But once his lips touched your skin again, there were no remains of the playfully brazen guy anymore. It was like he was trying to tell you something without actually saying it.

“Did you miss me, too, Sunny?” he kissed the corner of your lips and started moving downwards, “Did you miss me as much as I missed you?”

His hands were all over you, albeit moving very unhurriedly. He was inhaling you a lot as if he had been to war and was down bad with homesickness.

“Say yes,” he spoke into your neck while pulling the straps of your dress down, “Even if you didn’t, please say yes.”

“But yes,” you affirmed and kept repeating it like a mantra to him, “Yes, I missed you to death. Yes. Yes.”

No amount of shampoo or shower gel could hide his sandalwood scent from you. You were getting lost in him just like you always did as if you didn’t spend any time apart. Minho stopped for a moment and looked at your face while stroking your cheeks, eyes beaming with adoration.

“You have another tattoo?” you touched his right shoulder, “Don’t tell me that’s for your daughter, too, because this looks depressing.”

It was a completely blackened sun as if it was in an eclipse. His expression turned serious all of a sudden.

“It’s for you actually.”

Your heart dropped to the pit of your stomach.

“You were my sun. You still are. I already felt like I had completely eclipsed you, but when we broke up, my entire world darkened,” he caressed your hair, “It’s a little brighter now thanks to my little girl, but it’s… It’s not the same.”

You were suddenly overcome with so many emotions that you found yourself on the brink of crying. Minho’s eyes. Minho’s lips. Minho’s love. Minho. Minho. Minho.

“Love me,” your voice quivered, “You owe me years’ worth of touches. Just love me.”

“Shh, it’s okay now,” he kissed your hands and laid you down, “I’m right here.”

You let him pacify you with his touches as he stripped you fully. He caressed every inch of your body softly and marked every piece of skin he uncharted with a little kiss. As if he was discovering you afresh. 

“Hate me all you want. I deserve it,” he pulled himself up to your eye level again, “Just let me kiss it all better. However long it takes.”

Then he proceeded to place his wet ‘days of the week’ kisses that you had missed so so so much. 

“Monday.”

Your lips.

“Tuesday.”

Your neck.

“Wednesday and Thursday.”

Your breasts.

“Friday.”

Your tummy.

“Saturday.”

Your thighs.

“And Sunday.”

Your clit.

“You remember how we used to party on the weekends, right Sunny?”

You inadvertently let out a giggle seeing him smirk at you that mischievously.

“Let’s see if I remember it correctly,” Minho got comfortable between your legs, “This spot is for sucking.”

He wrapped his plush lips around your clit and sucked on it with a barely there pressure just to tease you. He knew it would never be enough even if he kept this up for hours.

“This spot is for kissing.”

He moved right under your clit and kept placing feathery kisses on the area. He was slowly pushing you towards the very edge of impatience and he loved the way you kept flinching under him. 

“And this spot is for licking.”

Then he slithered down to your oozing entrance and started to lick into you with intermittent kisses. Just like on the nights you made up after a huge fight.

“Ah, Min…”

“Call me your baby again,” he spoke quietly into your pussy but you could feel his words inside you, “Call me baby like you used to.”

His way of passionately apologizing to you over and over again. He was drawing little suns and crescent moons on your pussy with his tongue, hoping you would recognize them. Hoping you would accept them as tokens of how sorry he was.

“Fucking god, your taste,” he contorted his face in absolute delight, “You taste better than the rarest delicacies, Sunny.” 

He put your hands on his head for you to guide him, wrapped his hands around your thighs, and started a heavy makeout session with your cunt. The feeling was so intense that your eyes rolled back.

“I’ve kicked several addictions so far, but this? I’m never getting sober,” he wiped his chin smeared with your arousal and sucked on his finger, “I’m addicted to you. Down bad. Always have been.”

He gently slipped two fingers inside and started massaging that spot right behind your clit. Your moans were slowly transforming from quiet little staccatos to dragged-out sounds of pleasure as if you were belting a note.

“Better, right?”

“Much better,” you tugged on his moist locks, “God, you’re fucking amazing with those fingers, baby. You’re… You’re so… Oh, fuck!”

Minho was never able to control how he reacted to you whenever you praised him in bed for any reason. He was in dire withdrawal as it was as it had been such a long time since you showered him with compliments. You might have said one word, but it still automatically awakened Minho’s beast mode because if there was one thing he loved more than anything, it was competing with himself. In any capacity. His fingering got a little faster, and he alternated between sucking and licking long drags on your pussy until you came all over his fingers. He licked them clean and crawled on top of you to kiss you with his cum-stained lips.

Once you gathered your wits again, you laid Minho down and hovered over him. You kissed him with the very same days of the week. His scars. His tattoos. Like you were accepting his apologies. Like you were accepting him for who he was. He kept wincing under you in pleasure and tried to catch a glimpse of your face as you made your way down.

“You remember how we used to fuck for hours on Sunday mornings, right Min?”

You worshipped his abdomen just the way he liked it, touching and placing wet kisses all over. His large hands were caressing your hair as he watched you with his head tilted, dying of anticipation of the moment your lips would finally meet where he needed you the most. Minho loved the prelude, always had, and his breathing was much faster already. 

“Should I go further down?” you teased him by kissing his crotch, “Should I?”

“Don’t make me beg!”

You would, but maybe some other time. You took his flushed cock in your mouth and started blowing him as slowly as possible. Deep. To taste his essence rather than pleasure him. All of a sudden, it felt like he was never gone, and this was just another night in your bed you were spending together until the faint blue lights of daybreak told you to stop fucking and go to sleep.

Even after all this time, I still love you.

Minho didn’t rush you. He was so scared you would come to your senses and leave him all alone for good that he couldn’t even move. 

He wasn’t about to mess it all up again.

“I’m right here”, you held his hands to reassure him, “I’m right here, Min. I’m not going anywhere.”

Once you said that, all the muscles he was unknowingly clenching loosened and he relaxed into the pillow, completely letting go and just relishing the feeling of you around him. He was getting dangerously close to his release, but that wasn’t a part of his plan.

“Don’t!” he stopped you when you started choking on him, “Don’t make me cum. Not yet.”

When you let go of his cock with a loud pop, Minho immediately sat up and pulled you in for a deep kiss. His tongue still tasted like you in your mouth.

“Beg, baby,” you scratched right under his chin, “Beg to fuck me. Beg for me.”

“Let me make it up to you,” he brushed your hair away from your face, “Let me show you why I’m your other half. Why we belong together. Please.”

“What if I say no?”

“Please, baby,” Minho pleaded with his lips on your neck again, “Let me fuck you. Let me fuck you deep. Let me fly us both. Let me drive both of us crazy right here right now. You know I can.”

If Minho’s weakness were your praises, then yours was his relentless begging. You were ready to spread your legs for him four sentences ago, but what fun would it be if he didn’t turn into an utterly desperate lover so eager to please? You placed your hands around his neck and harshly pulled him down with you, signaling him you were ready.

“Oh fuck, you still feel like heaven inside,” Minho took deep breaths as he carefully settled inside you, “You still fit around me so snugly.”

How full he made you feel inside every single time was insane. No matter how much he stretched you, no matter how wet you were for him, it didn’t matter. The second he started moving inside you, that feeling was so intense that your eyes rolled back with a loud moan.

“You still react the same to me, Sunny,” he chewed on his lips and picked up his pace just a measure, “Does it still feel as good, baby? Do you like the pressure?”

You slammed your hands on his hips and groped him for how overwhelmed you were with pleasure.

“God, it feels much better than I remember!”

“Wrap your legs around me. Let me go deeper.”

When you did as he said, Minho was able to angle himself properly to reach a critical spot inside you.

“Fuck, that’s deep!”

“I know how my girl likes it. I know all your hotspots,” he maniacally smiled, “I know how exactly you like to cum like the back of my hand.”

“Getting cocky there a bit?”

“Tell me if this rings a bell,” he continued to fuck you deep but now with slower thrusts, “Folds teased until you’re rabid. Pussy fingered and clit sucked until it’s numb in my mouth. Breasts fondled. Thighs kissed. Legs massaged with my cum as your aromatherapy oils.”

You involuntarily groaned at how fucking brazen he was being with you. Minho grabbed both of your hands and pinned them right above your head.

“Then it’s my turn, and I fucking drill you into this mattress like my personal pornstar, and you take it like the good girl you are. Sound familiar?” he started moving with sharper, more precise thrusts, “Do you deny any of this? Do you deny that I know how to fuck you just right?” 

“Min, please!”

“I’m made for you, baby. Don’t you ever forget it,” he unleashed himself on your lips like a starving predator.

All that filled that dark room for a while was both your muffled moans melting into each other as well as the obscene sounds of skin against skin and lewd squelches coming from sopping wet cunt.

“Listen to you. Fucking dripping,” Minho sharply hissed, “Go ahead baby, you can soak me more. Don’t be shy.”

“Fucking– Just– Fuck, you’re– How d– oh my GOD!”

“Aww, I know baby, I know,” he placed an unnecessarily chaste kiss on your forehead, “Getting fucked by your man so good you can’t even talk properly. Am I doing that good of a job pleasuring you?” 

“You’re doing perfect, baby.”

“Am I still your good boy, Sunny?”

“Keep talking like that and I’m gonna fucking sink my teeth into you!”

“I dare you to bite me.”

You could try to wriggle away all you wanted but Minho’s grip on you was like a deadbolt. You weren’t able to move an inch. He slowed way down and watched the way he disappeared into you while biting his lips so hard they were about to bleed.

“See? See how it slides right in? I turn you on so bad you can’t help getting wetter,” he shoved a couple of fingers inside your mouth to suck on, “Night after night, I dreamed of this. You. Getting so fucking wet around me that I have no choice but to cum.”

You weren’t able to talk anymore, but what you really wanted to do didn’t require any words anyway. You swirled your tongue around his fingers and looked at him so desperately that there was no way he wasn’t going to react to this.

“Don’t look at me like that with those begging eyes, or I swear to god I’ll breed the shit out of you,” he landed a light smack on your thigh and took his fingers out, “And you best believe it’s going to hold. Your walls are so swollen already.”

“All talk no play. You’d fucking better finish inside,” you rattled him, “My pussy’s too pretty not to be eaten or creampied, and that’s a fact.”

“Yes, it is. It fucking is. It deserves to be creampied first and then eaten,” he threw his head back in absolute ecstasy, “And you already know I swallow.”

Minho channeled all his focus on that particular spot inside you that you liked so much. The curvature of his cock was aligned just right to end you.

“Now let me hit that exactly the way you like it.”

He buried himself into you to the hilt. Once he bottomed out, he pushed a little more forward and started hitting that spot hard in a staccato rhythm like a pulse, never once pulling back.

“Oh, FUCK YOU!”

“Right there, isn’t it? You love getting this spot fucked,” he was more than satisfied watching what he was able to do to you, “God, you’re literally ascending.”

It was only at that moment did Minho realize one of the closet doors to the left side of him was plated with a mirror. Once he caught a glimpse of the two of you in the frame, he throbbed hard inside you.

“Oh, jesus fucking christ!” he turned your attention to the same destination, “Nobody can ever do it like us, baby. Look how fucking hot we are.”

Minho being his otherworldly sexy self, fucking the life out of you like there was no tomorrow was already enough to blow your mind, but when you actually saw yourself getting fucked…

You could literally feel yourself excessively oozing.

“Soaking the sheets, huh?” he contently chuckled at the trail you were leaving under you, “Time for my girl to give it to me good, then.”

He swiped his thumb on his tongue and started going to work on your clit. While you thought the level of eroticism was going to end you, it suddenly became…

Something else.

“I belong right here, Sunny. Don’t ever leave me without you,” he started going harder, “I’m begging you. Please.”

You held him by his waist and pulled him for a kiss with your arms around his neck. You were both clearly so overwhelmed by your emotions. It was never just lust with Minho. Every time you fucked, it felt like a reaffirmation, a renewal of promises between you. You had badly broken and bruised each other once upon a time but at the end of the day…

“It’s you,” he spoke into his mouth breathlessly, “It’s always been you. You own my heart, Min.”

If you kept talking, he was for sure going to be moved to tears. Minho suddenly stopped and rested his back against the headboard, promptly making you straddle him to pick up where he left off.

“I’ve always loved you, Sunny. I always will,” he rolled his hips into you, “Tell me you love me, baby.”

“Even after all this time,” you moved away the locks of his hair covering his eyes, “I still love you, Min. I love you to the moon and back.”

To the moon and back.

To the moon.

Your Moony.

Minho finally lost all control and started fucking into you so fervently that it was impossible for you to endure that pressure.

“Say it again.”

“I love you.”

“Again, baby.”

“I love you, Min.”

“Oh, fuck, I’m about to cum!”

He gently pushed your chest back to make room for his thumb and started rubbing you frantically. The second you contracted hard around him with that high-pitched moan, Minho let go and came really fucking hard as if he was having a spasm. He came so much and it was so wet between your legs that you didn’t know which of those drops belonged to you and which ones belonged to him.

“Don’t pull out,” you grabbed him by his nape and pulled him closer, “Deeper. Fuck your cum deeper into me.”

“You’re driving me clinically insane,” Minho bit into your lips, and then promptly kissed them along with your cheeks and your forehead, “Just like we always wanted, huh? The best of both worlds.”

You rode out your high in that utter state of bliss and collapsed on top of him, but even in his fucked out state, Minho clung to you like a koala bear. He kissed your shoulders and your neck, wrapped his arms around your waist, and pulled you into his embrace.

“I did miss you so much,” you started playing with his hair once you both calmed down, “But there are some realities we need to talk about.”

“You mean Nari.”

“Yes,” you averted your eyes avert from him, “I can’t just appear in her life just to disappear again, Min.”

“But who says you need to—?”

“You know what I’m talking about,” you interrupted him, “I don’t even know if she would like me.”

“Well, considering she’s growing up with the fairytales I tell her about Sunny the Princess, I think she wouldn’t mind seeing her in the flesh, but I digress.”

“You what?!”

He let out a loud cackle at your reaction and kissed your lips.

“I know the situation is not what we thought it would be, but Nari could be our child, baby. We can give her a baby brother, too,” he pressed your hands on his chest, “I’m ready for this. If you’re also willing, just say the word, and we can have our happily ever after.”

A happily ever after. With Minho. Maybe the means of getting there didn’t really matter after all as long as you got to have it. Nevertheless, it wasn’t a decision about two people’s lives anymore.

“This seems too big of a decision to make overnight.”

“Then tell you what, how about we ease into it?” Minho propped up on his left elbow, “I take you out on a few dates, we fuck on the third date, and if you see a promise by then, you meet her by the tenth date. How does that sound?”

“Damn, tenth?!” you widened your eyes in shock as if Minho just insulted your entire ancestry, “I have to wait that long?”

“She’s hard to get. You can’t just appear in her life just to disappear again.”

You landed a light smack on his arm for mimicking you, but the picture he painted for you was more than fair.

“That sounds lovely.”

You kissed him to your heart’s content to avenge all that time you spent apart. With his eyes closed, Minho’s hands never left your skin as if to make sure that you were indeed real and right next to him, and this wasn’t one of those dreams again.

“I love you, Sunny,” he glided his fingers down your cheek, “You complete me.”

“Even after all this time?”

He flashed a smile so endearing you almost melted into a puddle right then and there.

“Always.”

He wanted to punctuate that moment with a kiss at the expense of getting your lips painfully swollen, but the deeper he kissed you, the more something was awakening in him again. Before you knew it, his hands were slithering down your back and groping your hips.

“Already?” you looked at him all surprised.

“You have no idea about the drought I was in for years, so yes, already,” Minho pulled you under him and trapped you under his frame, “If you fall asleep, I’m fucking you awake tonight.”

AUTHOR'S NOTE

🍮Like my content? Consider supporting my work with a pudding!

Happy belated anniversary to The Zone.

If you enjoyed this story, feel free to share your thoughts with me in reblogs, tags, or in my inbox. As long as you're kind, that is.

-R. (CB97%)

«GENERAL M.LIST» · «ABOUT/FAQ» · «ASK» · «TREAT ME TO PUDDING?🍮»

📢Regarding tagging: Please do not ask me to tag you if you won't be meaningfully engaging with my work. Additionally, I do not tag ageless and/or blank blogs, nor can I tag you if your blog is listed as "invisible" / if you've changed your URL and didn't let me know. Thank you for your cooperation in advance!

Laughs echoed in the oval pitch, five-hundred feet long and one-hundred and eighty feet wide, with the tall spectator towers, four colors to them but switching down to two every match, to signify the playing squads. Red jerseys and flowing capes, helmets, gloves, and brooms of every kind looked back at the leader, ready for some flying action after a long summer break away from Hogwarts. The castle in question appeared grand as ever from afar, its stone walls and top peaks standing proudly, indicating centuries of magic and wizards alike.

“Quit your yapping!” Changbin barked, coming to stand next to his best friend. The murmurs of the crowd seized immediately. “Go ahead, captain,” he smiled brightly at Chan.

Chan smirked, nodding at him. “Thanks for that,” he turned to address his teammates. “Welcome to another year of Quidditch. As you can see, one of our Chasers, as well as our only Keeper have graduated, leaving us no choice but to hold trials for new members. I took it upon myself, Bin here lending me a hand on picking out their replacements.”

He gestured at the unfamiliar figures standing awkwardly at one side, not quite blending in with the rest, brooms clenched tight. The two oldest broke in toothy grins, trying their hardest to reassure. After all, the age difference wasn’t that significant.

“This is Jake, a Third Year student, and Eunwoo, our fellow senior. They’re both excellent fliers that will hopefully help lead us to victory against the Slytherins.” Snickers all around, whispers of not-so-kind words spreading among the team. Chan chuckled, sharing their sentiment. “Yes, no one counted on the loss of last year, but we’ve held that Cup, we know its weight, and we know exactly what to do and how to play to earn it again,” he finished his pep speech with a clap of his hands. “So, then, if everyone’s ready, a round of applause for our new friends, and let’s begin!”

“Let’s fucking go!” Changbin shouted, lifting his broom in the air, before mounting it and flying away to his spot as a Beater, alongside Jungkook.

Practice lasted nearly two periods, the captain dimming it important for everyone to get accustomed to the way the new boys moved around, and of course, to teach them all about their positions. Jake had been recommended by Hagrid, mentioning how he met him back on his First Year, and how much of a natural he was on his broom, passing the class with flying colors, and afterwards helping him with miscellaneous tasks that included heights much taller than the gatekeeper could reach. Eunwoo had played once before as a Seeker when he was much more compact sized and curious about the sport. Then, he’d resigned as classes got more difficult, assignments multiplied, and time was of essence.

Seventh Year seemed like a good year to return to it. It was everyone’s last opportunity to enjoy flying before heading off to jobs at the Ministry, or studying in Trade School, or returning to Muggle life. Their last chance of being carefree, doing something they love unapologetically, without regrets.

For Chan it was one step before going professional, chasing after his dream of being part of his home country’s regional team, the Wollogong Warriors. Australia was an ocean away from England, he’d left it for Hogwarts at an early age, but his heart would never forget his roots, his birthplace. When he’d moved into his dorm, the Warriors poster with the moving team members lining up for the picture, had been the first thing he’d taped on the headboard of his bed. A reminder to never lose focus of his one true love, of what he'd been shown of magic, of flying, at the mere age of six. Being a half-blood, the balance between the two worlds, it was as easy as breathing to him. Because he’d been raised in a loving home, because no one refused him his real nature, what he was, what he’d grow up to be.

Unlike some, Chan had a purpose. A premeditated life. Regional, then international. And no one would get in his way, no one dared. No one could. Being captain of the Gryffindor team was just the start.

“Time!” he yells, flying close to Jake who paused his movements to stare at his captain. “Good play, mate, but you see what you just did there is called stooging. Not more than one Chaser can enter the scoring area,” he explained, patting the boys’ back encouragingly.

“You’ll get the hang of it,” Changbin offers, flying past them with his bat.

A slight drizzle made everyone look up at the gathering clouds, a nasty storm winding up to fall upon the grounds. They agreed on doing a few more rounds before Chan called it a day. They all had classes to attend pretty soon, anyway. Not to mention his growling stomach.

“This would be a good time to end it. Great job everyone! Don’t forget, we only have two more practices before our match with Hufflepuff, so please take care of yourselves, and I’ll see you around.”

“Fuck yeah!” Jungkook exclaimed, earning a few whistles and claps.

As everyone landed on their feet, running to escape the rain that grew stronger with each minute, Chan took shelter under the gateway of the field, catching his breath before heading to the Great Hall for some lunch. Changbin stayed behind as well, talking to you about Seeker techniques.

You’d been their Seeker since your Third Year, getting better with each match, winning them the Cup twice. An important member of the team, no one could disagree, but also—his childhood friend, his first friend coming to Hogwarts, and eventually…his fuck buddy.

“Well, why are you just standing there, Bang Chan? Let’s go, I’m starving,” you speak out to him, lifting the hood of your cape, conjuring an invisible umbrella with your wand. “Get under, losers.”

Changbin huffs, his brown hair getting in his eyes, heavy with humidity. “I’ll have you know—”

You sigh, your lips turning inwards into a thin line. “I don’t care, Seo. I’ll leave you to drown. Who forgets their wand? What kind of wizard—” and the bickering continues, the two of you going at it tirelessly, as you make your way to the castle, the yet unchanged green scenery stretching before you.

Chan, ever the smart guy, keeps his wand with him at all times, exactly for situations like these, and fixes himself an umbrella as well, walking alongside you, enjoying the pattering of rain, the way your fingers search for his own, the faintest of touch between you, as you make Changbin go red with embarrassment, your teasing overwhelmingly immodest at times. He doesn’t miss the wink you throw him out of the corner of his eye.

He smiles to himself.

Passing through the Entrance Hall, you cast a drying spell on the three of you, taking off your gear as you head to the Great Hall. It’s uncommonly quiet as you take your seats, the long tables mostly empty, albeit for a few students snacking on fruit and nuts, finishing homework, or reading to themselves. The big windows bleed a cloudy blue over everything, the rain finally taking its full form, hitting against stone, against grass, against still water. You’re smack in the middle, the Gryffindor bench facing straight ahead to the headmaster’s seat at the teacher’s tabletop. McGonagall had gone completely soft on them, what with it being the last year before her retirement and losing the Quidditch Cup, rather unfairly if you might add. Slytherin colors were pretty, but everyone held a certain pride for their Houses; it had nothing to do with prejudice.

Not anymore.

Chan waves to the Ravenclaw table, Jisung hunched over thick books, a big teapot at his side. He seems entirely lost within the words, scribbling away with his quill, but his head snaps upwards, his eyes dazed, as he waves back mechanically.

“Don’t go crazy over there, yeah?” the captain calls out, and Jisung grins, soft hair covering his forehead.

“Assignment due this evening, Bang. Need the credits.”

“He’s a lost case,” Changbin muses, his signature smile in place as food appears in front of them. “Merlin’s beard, is that orange cake?”

You giggle, and dig right in. “You’re the lost case here, Binnie.”

Silence falls upon you as plates clink, utensils move, the pea soup and bread disappearing in record time, pumpkin juice clenching your thirst, cake satisfying your sweet tooth. Changbin’s tooth, especially. That man has an unmatched weakness for dessert of all kinds, it’s unbelievable, yet his physique is even better than Chan’s, something you thought impossible. You’d witnessed his naked upper body and all its glory last year at a game of ‘truth or dare’ in the Gryffindor common room, drunk on firewhiskey. It had been a chaotic night, and most of it a blur, really, but this one thing you remember.

Well into the game, he’d taken a dare. ‘Do fifty push ups shirtless.’ It’d been one of the girls that often followed him around after classes, and she’d said it bravely, like she’d rehearsed it a few times. He complied, of course, jumping at the opportunity to show off his toned arms and chiseled abs. Quidditch helped immensely, but this was work done mostly by himself, in his room. You knew because Chan joined him frequently, the two of them working out into the late hours of the night, when everyone else was asleep.

You also did things after hours, after everyone else had gone to bed. But you’d rather not talk about that, the mere thought painting your cheeks a flushed shade of pink.

“We need to talk strategies,” Chan spoke, his serious face on, as he leaned closer to you. “The new guys are good, but they need to get better. We can’t afford to lose matches.”

“Give them some time, mate, yeah? Jake hasn’t played a game in his life,” Changbin reasoned, enjoying a bite of baked orange.

“That’s true,” you agreed. “Not to mention Jisung’s reading, have you forgotten?”

“For fuck’s sake, not this again.”

Chan’s eyebrows rose. “You don’t believe in Divination, Seo? Is that why you failed so miserably?” His and your eyes meet, the teasing ensuing like it’d never stopped to begin with.

Your friend rested his head on top of his hand, feigning annoyance. “You two idiots are so incredibly gullible, it’s laughable. Seeing the future? What’s next? Flying unicorns?”

You laugh, holding your stomach, the enchanted ceiling thundering. “Says the one that attempted to give them wings as a gift for his sister's birthday.”

“I almost succeeded,” Changbin makes a face, giving up. “Who knew pegasus' really are mythical.” He fake-sulks for a bit, serving himself another slice of cake, gulping it in four bites. “In any case, how’s Slytherin not winning, giving us the Cup by default? There are other teams besides theirs.”

Chan looks at you and you look back, blinking. The silence is deafening. Changbin realizes, choking on juice. You smile, patting his head. Rude.

“Wow. That’s shit spirit for our fellow Houses, isn’t it? Shame on the both of you.”

“All I’m saying is,” the captain raises a leg up on the bench, popping a grape in his mouth. “As long as they don’t get it, I’m fucking content.”

“We’ll discuss strategies at the next practice, okay? I have Charms to attend. Please go to class, N.E.W.T’s are a thing, you know,” you get up, blowing a kiss in their general direction, and wave again at Jisung. He smiles in return. “Both of you go shower, you stink.”

“Love you too, baby girl,” Chan retorts, a lazy smirk on his face.

Your elective courses were giving you a hard time already. You’d never been a top student, nor were you looking to become one now, but your grades had, at the very least, been average, passing you through your exams easily, staying between Acceptable and Exceeding Expectations since your Fifth Year. All this, on top of Quidditch, and wanting to internship at St. Mungo’s—it was too much, you would suffer in ways you’ve never experienced before, you could already tell by the strain on your neck, that ache running down your spine, the thud your bed made every night you’d fall on it.

September hadn’t even ended yet. You sigh as you tighten the hold on your books against your chest, walking to your fourth and last class for the day—Potions. You’d bumped into Changbin earlier, him on his way to Transfiguration, you running a quick errand for your teacher before the subject began. The truth of the matter was, your friends were on a different wavelength than you, and because of that, you’d see them less and less over the course of this year. Chan had taken it upon himself to overlook First Years’ flying lessons, giving his all to that sport he loves so much, with only a couple selective classes to fill in the blanks, and Changbin wanted to become an Auror, so his time was spread across a few things, Defense against the Dark Arts being one, spending his weekends at the Ministry of Magic, and Quidditch bringing you all together.

Meanwhile your dream was to become a Healer, someone that’s supposed to know all, or at least a bit of everything, so in that way, you think you set yourself up for insanity from the get-go. Working hard for extra credits, spending awful hours in the library alongside Jisung, the two of you skimming through countless books, empty teacups, and ink-stained sleeves. If you didn’t have magic, you’d think it impossible for a person to graduate from this school. It was a nightmare already.

But you did it all, anyway. At least there were no wars to be fought, like times passed, at least no dark wizards threatened to burn the world down, kill innocent lives, rule in blood. Just the hum of fall, the sound of lightning over the mountains, early starts in your days, and late notes, draped over answers, and essays, and ancient scriptures written in calligraphy, words unrecognizable—

Sitting down at your usual place in the very front, you waited for your professor, making small talk with your classmate; a pale, Hufflepuff girl you shared a ton of other classes with. She suggested studying together later that night, and you agreed, excited for a different library partner. You liked Jisung, but he was too quiet when focused, too much of a bookworm. Not a bad thing, of course, but not a particularly good match to your more animated character.

“Good evening, class,” the professor entered, smiling kindly.

After the resignation of Slughorn, Potions had never been the same. And still, that old man had half a mind teaching, the other half rubbing shoulders with the rich students, inviting them to his exclusive club every single year. You wondered what it was like back in the day when Severus Snape taught. You figure it was glorious.

“We’ll go over a Sixth-Year potion today, something I’m sure you’re familiar with. The Draught of Living Death.”

His robes swung with him as he turned his back to the rest of you and started scribbling instructions on the board, guiding you through what you’ll need, encouraging you to light the fire under your cauldrons. You take a peek at the back of the class—Kim Seungmin, Head Boy of Ravenclaw, Lee Minho, pureblood of Slytherin, his desk tidy, his fire lit, his eyes shining in the dark ambience of the room. He notices your stare, stares back. You gasp, turning away in a hurry, embarrassed. You’ve never talked to him, yet you grew up together inside the walls of this very castle, shared similar tribulations, and had mutual acquaintances. It was funny, really. You were a muggle-born, and did not belong in this world, learning the same things as him, excelling in them, waving your wand around.

In a different time, you’d be ridiculed for it, he’d hunt you for who you were, what you represented. But as it is now, in modern days, long lines of aristocracy, money dating back to the sixteenth century, mansions with engravings of his very name on his doorstep still very much present—he did not care for such insignificant things, not anymore. None of them did. The wizarding community had shifted, it had finally changed to tread with the footsteps of the times and age. You’d been glad for it, although couldn’t quite shake the feeling of your fellow muggle-borns, how they didn’t have the same privilege you do now, to live free, without shame, amongst people who’ve known this incredible thing since they were born, when you’d only learned of its existence a mere few years ago, through a letter that would change your entire trajectory.

What a strange feeling. Carrying the weight of history.

“Who can tell me the seven ingredients of this potion?”

You raised your hand immediately, eager to voice the answer, and gain your House some points. So were other students, apparently.

“(Y/L/N), go ahead,” he signaled to you, the lines on his forehead carved deep, that friendly smile never leaving his aged face.

“Valerian root, Moondew, Flower head…”

After class ended it was already dark, the grounds illuminated by the flames of torches. Making your way with the Hufflepuff girl to the Great Hall for dinner, (her name was Chaeyoung she’d introduced herself); she’d seen you around with the boys, but was too shy to approach you, was very glad when you did. Loud voices, and relieved students filled the corridors, ready for some food and a good night’s sleep, and you couldn’t agree more—if only you didn’t have to spend most of your night at the dreaded library, with its frightening silence, and tall bookshelves that stretched as far as the eye can see.

“Hello, Gryffindor girl.”

Your yawn was cut short, books clutched tight against your chest—next to you, falling in step, was Royalty Incarnate Lee Minho, the very guy you failed to look straight in the eye only moments prior. You both blinked at each other, as your feet instinctively stopped moving.

Chaeyoung eyed you strangely, as did most students that passed by you. Minho seemed to pay them no mind, as if they didn’t even exist. Such was the nature of Slytherins, encasing themselves in glass, stepping over everything that did not serve their purpose, going through life aloof, unapproachable. What was this boy doing with you, then? What was his business?

“Can I help you?” you prodded him to continue, curious.

Dark purple hair falling into round, glittery eyes—for many centuries now, you’d learned, this was the Lee family’s signature give-away; silky, prune colored hair. Just as was Hwang's slitted, serpent-like shape of the eyes. There’s been so many of them, the line running so far back, that these things have developed a pattern, a tradition. Like freckles or moles for the Muggles, but grander, more distinct.

He gives you a quick smile, kind but impatient. He really is very handsome, you think, but— otherworldly, not to be messed with, not to be touched. Dark magic in human form. The only student to have a Phoenix feather wand core in all their school years. Powerful. You’ve only known him by rumor, never by fact.

“Certainly,” he replies curtly. “You are to be a Healer, yes?”

You furrow your brows, no idea as to where this was heading. “Indeed.”

Minho grins at you, then, all perfect straight teeth, boyish charm. “Excellent. A very promising intern, I hear.” To your evident confusion he provided an explanation, “My family is directly involved with the hospital. I require your assistance,” he stopped mid sentence, and glanced at Chaeyoung who was listening in.

“Excuse us,” he spoke politely, grabbing you by the arm. You looked at him bewildered, but followed along just for the sake of understanding why, out of everyone and especially a Gryffindor, would be his first thought of selfless aid?

“I am in the process of starting a very intricate potion, Ms. (Y/L/N), and having heard of your Potions grades, as well as the exemplary impression you’ve left on the Head of St. Mungo’s, I just had to recruit you,” he finishes, and gives you one long convincing look, before moving away, his touch dropping from your aching arm.

His words don’t quite register in your ears. Sure, you were a fairly good student and tried your absolute best with your internship, but what sort of potion couldn’t be followed with simple book instructions and a friend’s support?

Minho’s eyes flashed. It dawned on you. Unless…

“This isn’t school related, is it?”

“I’m afraid not.”

Bringing your books closer to you, your mouth turns into a thin line, disapprovement on the ready. You did not know this boy, had nothing to do with him, and certainly owed him even less. What he was asking of you was—ridiculous. Insane. Intriguing.

“And what is your purpose with this potion, Lee?” you asked after a short pause.

The Slytherin straightened his back, smoothed his expensive robes with one hand, and glanced at you over his nose. You did not break eye contact, determined to get the truth out of him. Serpents had a way of manipulating themselves out of situations—you’ve seen all of their tricks.

“Step the fuck back, Minho.”

A body crashed onto yours, enveloping half of you into big, muscled arms, a familiar cologne invading your nostrils. Bang Chan to the rescue, as always, Changbin close behind, both clad in warm, red sweaters with your House emblem. Looking up at your best friend’s angular face, you couldn’t help but notice the barely contained possessiveness he’s been letting himself show more and more lately. Both boys had always been protective of you, but considering the last relationship status change you’ve had with the captain, it made the dynamic strange, the waters untested. You, unsure of how to feel when he acted like this.

The purple haired boy smirked faintly, hands raised in front of him. “No trouble here, Bang, just small conversation between classmates. We’re allowed, are we not?”

Chan’s hand squeezed your shoulder, a silent question. You nodded your head, something he saw out of the corner of his eye, his hold relaxing slightly. Nothing changed in his stance, though. Defensive, ready to kill for his own—a true Gryffindor, through and through.

“What would you have to say to my girl?” It felt like time stopped, as soon as he uttered the word. “Say it, then. Go on.”

People were beginning to gather; Changbin cleared his throat in warning. You looked around, sighing as you did. It always had to be a showdown, a fight for dominance with Chan. Feeling your blood boil, and your nerves strain in the back of your head, you jerked away from him, Minho smugly watching you do so, hands coming to clasp together behind his back.

“Let’s go, Chaeyoung,” you said to your new friend, desperate to leave all three boys stewing in their own testosterone.

“Seems like you jumped the gun there, Christopher, yeah?”

“(Y/N),” his voice yelled after you. “(Y/N) wait, goddamnit!”

“Let her go, Chan.”

“Like hell I am,” was the last thing you heard, before the same arms pulled you towards the opposite direction of the one you were heading, the Hufflepuff girl gasping audibly at your capture.

“Listen to Changbin, Bang Chan,” you warned him, fighting against his scorching touch.

“When do I ever listen, baby girl?”

His breathing erratic, eyes determined, mouth set, the Gryffindor took you to the West wing of the castle, away from everyone else at this hour of the evening, and shoved the both of you inside a forgotten closet, wand out to mutter, “Capacious Extremis.”

The space enlarged twofold at once, and you were able to wiggle out of his vicious grasp with a forceful tug. He let you, that dark gaze studying you intensely.

“What the fuck was that?” you demand, beyond furious with his caveman behavior.

He huffs, passing a hand through his disheveled hair. “Never fucking mind that—what were you doing with Lee Minho out in the open like that?”

You scrunch your face. “‘Out in the open’? What does that even mean?”

“You know what it means.”

He stared you down with hard eyes, trying to figure you out. That’s what Chan did the most; tried to figure everyone out, what made them tick, what was the thing closest to their souls. So he’d be prepared, so he wouldn’t lose. You sigh, suddenly exhausted. It was a wise choice you’d made long ago, picking your fights with him.

This one just wasn’t worth it.

“We were just talking, Chan,” you move your feet to close the gap between your bodies. “I promise.”

Another thing about your captain—he will never waste a good opportunity.

Your lips smash together as his arms wrap around your waist and back protectively, possessively. He groans into the kiss, his tongue taking yours for a short dance, a fight of sorts, pleasure shooting through you like an arrow, like all the other times before, where he’d cornered you, asked for your surrender. Snatched you, anyway. He had this instinct of knowing what you wanted, what you most craved.

Right now it was him, what he offered. His hands on you, fingers tracing their way back into places he’s explored before, has owned countless times after hours, in beds, couches, cold astronomy stairs, closet walls…

“Obedient, are we now?” He mumbles smugly against your mouth, trapping you between his firm chest and stoned wall.

You grab the sides of his face and bring him back in, savoring the minty taste of his full lips. His hands immediately disappear under your robes, lower themselves to your skirt, pulling it up, sinking into the wet fabric of your cotton underwear. You gasp, and let out a broken moan, pressing into his calloused palm, loving the friction it provides for your aching pussy.

“Shut up and fuck me, Bang Chan,” you whisper in his ear, as you cup him over his trousers. He hisses, cursing your name. You smile. “Think you can do that?”

Chan chuckles darkly, rubbing circles over the small bundle of nerves at the top of your cunt. You roll your hips on his digits, holding onto him for dear life, nails digging on his broad shoulders, stomach churning, his cock stirring for attention in your other hand. Your lip trapped in between your teeth, you unzip his pants, dipping in his briefs in search for that delicious length that has filled you so many nights. And days. Some afternoons, after practice, not so far away from the rest of the team, something you both had giggled about, the exhilarating feeling of getting caught messing with your minds—

You’ve fucked a lot, you realize, cheeks burning. But it always made sense, it always felt good. You’d told yourself when it stops being those things, you’d walk away, but as he pulls your panties down, and you guide him to your entrance, sloppy, wet kisses running down your neck, to your collar, over your breast, you think it might not be so easy, after all.

Chan sinks inside you slowly, growling as he does. He squeezes your ass, your thigh circled tightly around his hip, but it’s not enough. Not for you, not for him. He needs more, he needs control.

“Jump on me, baby,” his voice is soft but the command is curt.

You lose contact for a split second as you slightly jump in his arms, the hardness of the wall digging into your back. The pain barely registers in your brain, as he slams into your cunt with fervor this time, the stretch incredible, his length hitting the deepest spots inside of you, so deep you feel him in your tummy. Your head drops on his shoulder, and you’re unable to control your moans, your very self, as skin hits skin, the sound filthy, sweat dripping from your forehead and staining his sweater, his hot breath on your cheek, whispering incredible things, words that will have you seeing stars—

You’re so fucking wet for me, baby girl, clenching around my dick so good, go on, take whatever you need, you know I got you, I’ll give it to you, love, let me see your face, let me see that pretty fucking mouth. Fuck, baby you’re so wet…

Your thighs hurt where he holds you, but your release is so close you couldn’t care less about bruises and soreness. You use his shoulders to sink down as he pistols up, the both of you entirely focused on getting off, sex in its most primitive form. You miss the eyes full of awe, of adoration, or more like, you ignore them. You won’t comment on the way he presses his mouth on the apple of your cheek, either, your name nothing but a ghost of a whisper on his tongue, a way of pushing himself forward, of bringing you to your climax.

“Come on, baby girl, give it to me. Give me a good one, milk my cock, that’s it, fuck, that’s my girl, such a good little slut, aren’t you?” He grunts on your skin, moving his lips to your ear, picking up the pace, tearing you from the inside out. “For me. Just for me.”

“Yes, yes…” you moan, and clench around him one last time, your body convulsing, vision blurry.

He chases after you, thrusts fast and precise, spilling around your tight walls, his load hot and sticky, and he wants nothing more than to—your legs touch the floor at once, as his hands grab your face aggressively, bringing you in for an open mouthed kiss, sweaty and breathy, mouths dry and searching, always searching for each other. You’d be lying if you said this didn’t mean more sometimes, somehow.

Sometimes it’s everything, it’s all that holds you down, that could hold, gravity meaningless pitted against Bang Chan and his warmth, the way he envelops you in his arms, the safest place in the world. As you play side by side, as you fight for the same cause. It’s easy and it’s familiar, and it’s home. As natural as breathing.

“Tell me you’ll keep your head straight,” he says seriously, looking down at you worriedly. “Minho is…” his dark eyes cloud over, “Don’t go making deals with the devil on me just yet, you hear me?”

You sigh into him and he shakes you gently, getting your eyes on his face again. “Please, (Y/N)?”

You nod, rubbing your wet thighs together, remembering you have a library date with a girl you left behind unexpectedly. What must she be thinking?

Oh, but who cares? This was so worth it.

“Okay. If it means that much to you, I won’t.”

“You promise?” He doesn’t let you go.

“Yes, Chan,” you say pointedly. “Jesus.”

He cleans you up with a quick spell, his hands raising your panties up your hips, touch lingering. You wiggle out of his grasp, giggling. He smirks, still crouching down as you open the closet door and walk away from him.

“Leave him out of this!” He calls out behind you.

“He’s your God, too,” you sing teasingly, making a run for the Great Hall.

The fourth Saturday of September, just before Hallowe’en, Gryffindor competes against Hufflepuff.

It’s a tough match, only for the incessant stormy weather that’s been building up, turning the field into a muddy mess, clouds hanging low for days, visibility incredibly poor. Practice had been good, but not great and flying conditions were, to say the least, not ideal, but the team has had to go through worse, and so they’d persevere as they always did, with a strategy set in place, everyone knowing exactly what they were supposed to do, instructed down to a T.

Bang Chan yelled for Jake to watch out as Yang Jeongin, a Fifth-Year Beater knocked one of the Bludgers his way, bat swinging, competitive smile on his pale face.

Jake momentarily lost control of his broom, cursing as he came down fast, holding on to the wooden stick for dear life.

Chan motioned for Changbin to go help him, as he pushed through the two Chasers standing in his way, Quaffle under his arm, heading straight for the opponent’s hoop. Thunder cracked as the ball went past the Keeper and into the big ring behind her, earning Gryffindor another point.

“Fuck yeah!”

The towers burst into applause and cheering, a small Second-Year boy announcing the success of his Houses’ team, praising the captain. Chan threw his fist in the air, basking in the attention and excitement of the crowd, Changbin and Jungkook flying close to clap his hand and back, as they flew past and back to their positions.

“Another great goal from captain Bang Chan! We’re counting eighty points, so far, to Hufflepuff’s sixty.”

The game had been in progress for two hours now, but the adrenaline rushing through Chan’s veins, his ego inflating, expanding over his team, his boys (and girl)—it meant everything. Tiredness was just a concept in front of all this; glory and winning, for an athlete, was greater than anything else. Nothing could come close, could compare. Perhaps, with the single exception of you bouncing on his cock, head thrown back, nails digging into his skin, absolutely beautiful in your vulnerability.

But the rain grew nastier, colder as the end was still nowhere in sight. You’d been searching through the heavy clouds for the Golden Snitch nonstop since the game had started, with not much luck. You’d encountered the opposing team's Seeker once or twice, but for the most part you were flying solo, half blind, while your team fought the good fight underneath you, compensating for your apparent bad seeking skills. You were frustrated, growing angrier by the minute with yourself for losing the small golden ball so fast. If only you could get one good glimpse of it…

“Losing your touch, (Y/L/N)?” Kim Sunoo teased, shouting over the rain as his broom whooshed behind you.

“Not a fucking chance,” you yelled back.

“C’mon, let’s fly above!”

One reason you enjoyed playing with Hufflepuff—this. The healthy competitiveness, the good spirit of the game, and a promised fun time, nothing less nothing more. It was such a stark contrast to Slytherin’s sinister, sneaky way of navigating through the game. And the injuries were considerably fewer, as well, the stakes never higher than necessary.

Above the storm, it was quiet. Peaceful. The both of you halted your brooms, stilling for a second, scanning the serene skies for the Snitch. Sunoo frowned, disappointed and embarrassed to go back down with empty hands, and you were too, determined to find the freaking thing and end this forsaken match—

There. On the horizon, much closer than it looked.

“Bye, Sun!” You laugh, as you rush towards your desired target, hand outstretched, so near you could feel it, taste it.

Victory.

“Hey!” You heard before you dipped in the clouds, the rain and clapping of thunder entering your ears once again. It did not matter.

You had a clear view of the ball, and you’d get it. No matter what.

“A missed shot from Sim Jaeyun, a shame for the Gryffindor team!”

Not for long, you thought as you willed your broom to fly faster, wiggling your fingers as if that would be any help to achieving your task, the Snitch teasing you with its whimsical moves. You were relentless, though, years of experience preparing you for its mood and difficulty to attain.

You really just had to go for it.

So, you did, Sunoo flying dangerously close, his own hand reaching. In your attempt to trap it in your palm, your broom tumbled and knocked you over. A scream tore from your throat, lightning flashing, as you almost lost control and fell off your trusted stick—if the Hufflepuff hadn’t helped you upright, his grip tight on your shoulder. Your heart beat fast, as your eyes went wide, head snapping his way.

“Thank you!”

The Fifth-Year smiled at you, his cheeks rosy and cute. “No problem. Go before I come for it.”

You nodded quickly, and parted a cloud appearing on the field waving your fist around. The crowd watched you fly to your teammates, the intensity of the rain calming down as if on cue, Chan the first to notice your arrival.

“It seems (Y/L/N) (Y/N) has caught the Golden Snitch!” Roars sounded off like sirens. “Gryffindor wins!”

The colors on the high towers then show yellow and red, proud and bright, even amidst the grayness, and you grin wide and content, as you come face to face with your best friend and captain. Your boyfriend, he would correct you.

He’s glowing, wet and exhausted, pearly whites showing. “That’s my fucking girl!” He barks, as the entire team erupts in celebratory song.

‘Come around and see

Gryffindor will win

With Bang Chan in our team

And (Y/N) as our Queen

Gryffindor shall win!’

The common room was rowdy, to say the least.

Seventh-Years had snuck alcohol in from The Three Broomsticks Inn apothecary, and were currently helping themselves and others to a few cups of it. The fire was lit, the walls rich in color, the music blasting and the portraits laughing and discussing their own years at Hogwarts, their historical wins against the other Houses and their parties that lasted until the early hours of the next day, charms keeping the voices and ruckus from echoing throughout the rest of the castle.

Bang Chan and Changbin were busy being obnoxiously loud and quite drunk in the middle of the room, many students gathering around them like true fans, asking the two make-believe celebrities of Gryffindor all sorts of questions they had absolutely no problem answering. Your boyfriend was sprawled over the leather couch, freshly showered, brown hair falling over his eyes in loose curls, as his most trusted friend occupied the armchair, a mug of firewhiskey filled to the brim, making his eyes glossy and his mood light.

You shook your head at them, chuckling softly as two younger girls approached you, congratulating you on today’s win. You thanked them politely, popping a few nuts in your mouth. You could never be them; the center of attention, the center of the universe, it felt like sometimes, but you were just as deserving of praise and honor as them. Being a Seeker was hard enough, but being held at the same standards as Bang Chan?

Impossible. You wondered how he did it, then reminded yourself that he was born for this. Fame, prestige. He loved it, lived for it, and had dedicated his entire life for it. It was second nature to him, but to you?

Oh, but it’d end soon enough. And then a whole other chapter would unravel itself for you to tread carefully through it. The rest of your life, your career, what you’ve been working so hard towards. Quidditch was a hobby, and a damn good one, but it wasn’t the end goal.

Chan finds your gaze and holds it, smiling suggestively your way, and winking. You smile back, lifting your cup to him. He beams, and your heart swells.

You loved him but this, whatever you two had, would end too. And none would be the wiser. You couldn’t call it a waste of time; after all, for what it was, it made sense. Plus the sex was incredible. But you couldn’t ignore the cold, hard truth—he’d leave for Australia, and you’d go into intensive training at the hospital, books and medicine being more than enough to fill your time. 

He’d ask you to go with him, and you’d get defensive and ruin your friendship. He’d get mad and you’d go months without communication, until finally you’d hear news of his dating another girl, someone that could keep up with him, and break your own heart ten times worse than before. It would play out exactly like this, because that’s the natural way of a relationship between an athlete and a bookworm. There’s no meeting halfway for them, there’s no meeting at all.

You notice a couple making out on the stairs going up to the dorms, a full table of Six-Years playing cards, and your team preparing for butterbeer pong, a tradition of yours at this point, introduced years ago by a muggleborn that established it as the game-to-play after a successful match. It was harmless enough.

Except for the fact that your captain was an incredibly competitive and stubborn man that took everything way too seriously.

“Round!” Changbin roars, as all the boys cuss and down shots of firewhiskey at once. “Fuck, that’s what I’m talking about.”

“One hell of a headache is waiting for you tomorrow, Bin,” you comment as you near the long table the game is about to take place on.

Chan is helping set the cups in order with his wand, Jungkook filling them with the appropriate amount of the beer concoction, the red of their wool sweaters in such contrast to their pale complexion.

“I’m a wizard, honey, I’ll make it go away before you can say Merlin’s full name.”

Everyone in close proximity clutched their chests, laughing at the burn. You raised your eyebrows daringly. Challenge accepted.

“Sure, though not a very good one, are you, honey?” You retorted mockingly.

“Well, shit, you got me there.”

The room burst in ‘ooh’s’ as someone lifted your arm, declaring you the winner of this little showdown. Chan chuckled, the side of his mouth lifting, admiring your proud face. He was next to you before you could even blink, taking you in his strong arms and crushing you against him, lips on your ear, breath warm, comforting.

“You’re trouble, you know that?”

You smirk, pulling away slightly. “The best kind.”

His hand snaking its way around the nape of your neck, he brings you in for a kiss. You could taste so many things on him, but you think his heart was the most rewarding of them all. Your foreheads touch, as everyone in the room fades away, light years away, the two of you holding gravity, and the fucking axis of the very earth in place.

Nothing mattered when you were with Bang Chan, and you were beginning to think that wasn’t such a good thing, after all.

“The only kind,” he swears. “The only one I want.”

The game starts with Eunwoo missing a clear shot, and paying the price for it. After him, Jungkook follows (three wins in a row before ultimately losing), a giddy Changbin nearly ending the game at once with his excellent performance, but not before knocking everything over as Jungkook tackled him for “cheating.”

“No one leaves until I have a fucking turn!” Chan barks, and the team scrambles to pick up the mess, setting the table for their leader.

The entire common room gathers with bated breath to watch their captain win against beer and plastic balls, and you can’t help but marvel at the way all seems to still for this man. He carried such power, such influence, and he was the nicest thing around. Always fair, loyal, a sweetheart to his friends, a general out on the field. You’d follow him to battle if it came down to it, as would literally every single person in this room.

It was very sudden, your need for oxygen. The air was stifling, everything moving in slow motion as Chan succeeded in putting the sixth ball in the glass cups. A new song is in the process of writing itself for your favorite boy, you sense it in your bones, in the way the people in the portraits haven’t said a word since he started playing.

History will include him in its thickest books. But you? If you stay with him, you’ll be nothing but a mention, an afterthought. ‘She was there, but he was bigger than life,’ and it’ll be true, but it will all be for him, and it wasn’t jealousy, nor envy—

It was confidence in knowing you deserved better. The best.

“Where are you going?” He asks, when you move away from his peripheral vision.

Heads snap towards the question, curious.

“I’ll be right back,” you announce, drowning. “Please don’t follow me,” you continue in a smaller voice, hoping he hears you.

And it must’ve been something in your stance, or your face, or your eyes, who fucking knows, because this time—

He doesn’t chase after you. He listens.

Your feet take you to the Great Entrance.

For what time it was, you expected no one else to be around, making it easier for you to break down and cry after a long, stressful day. You weren’t particularly keen on letting anyone in on the small fact that you were losing your entire mind over how hectic your life had become, and you certainly weren’t about to be reckless about being out of your dormitory after hours.

It was fairly simple to move around the castle at night, though, if one was careful enough. There was only one teacher patrolling the corridors and they were currently located on the other side of the staircase, giving you the go to make a run for it.

You’d also placed a silencing charm on you, for good measure, because you weren’t about to be the person that gave and took away points from their House all in one day.

You never counted on coming face to face with Lee Minho like this. He took notice of your nervous state, and it was then you noticed the pin on his robes. Head boy, you shut your eyes tightly, cursing yourself inwardly. Of course.

“I take it your midnight stroll didn’t go exactly as expected?” He comments sarcastically, but his tone is flat, and his perfectly shaped left eyebrow is raised.

He’s taller than you, not by much, and you guess the authority he holds also gives the illusion of height, multiple books hovering in mid air behind him. You guess he was making his way from the library to his last patrol of the night before resigning to the Slytherin dorms in the dungeons.

It really was just your luck bumping into him, wasn’t it? Especially after that one awkward evening a couple of weeks ago, his proposition still unanswered days and days after. Minho blinked twice at you, seeming to be waiting for your answer to his remark.

You snap out of it, biting your lip, and you see him follow the movement indifferently, your cheeks turning red under his intense stare. He doesn’t seem to pay your embarrassment any mind, though, as he deems you unworthy of his time and goes to pass right past you.

“You still haven’t told me,” you call out. He stops. Turns. You hesitate slightly, “The reason why you’re making an illegal potion.”

He muses your words for a second, turning them over in his mind. “Not so much illegal, as…frowned upon.”

Huh? “Well, what is it?” You press, taking a brave step forward towards him.

His beauty is unparalleled, only perhaps, and you do not say this lightly, second to that of Hwang Hyunjin’s, making it so incredibly hard for you to look at him straight on. His eyes are so big and glittery, looking as if they’ve swallowed entire stars in them, and his jawline is so sharp and sexy it feels like you’re cheating on Chan just by glancing his way. He looked immaculate, even at this late time, and you’d blame it on the pure blood thing, but Changbin was upstairs making a fucking fool of himself, ten different stains on his clothes, drunk beyond all reason at this point, you’d bet good money on it.

Not Minho. Never Minho.

“It’s dark magic, (Y/N),” he nears you slowly, taking his sweet time with a prey like you. “Necromancy.”

You looked at him, and looked again, just in case he was making some sort of sick, twisted Slytherin joke that you didn’t understand and were just another victim of. Dark humor is eclectic, yes, but harmless in the long run. Unfortunately, he wasn’t batting an eye to your reaction. If anything, he appeared to be…disappointed?

It was hard to tell through a million layers of frost.

“Dark magic is illegal, Minho,” you say and you feel like the dumbest person alive at that moment.

He stares at you like you are. “Many would disagree,” he retorts calmly. “All magic is the same to a wizard.”

You tilted your head, begging for him to be joking, and certainly not enjoying the glamoured jab at your blood. It was petty and so below who you perceived him to be, that you had to second guess the way he worded it in order to keep your sanity.

And your points.

“You want to raise the dead?” You whisper incredulously.

He smiles briefly at that, but his mask quickly falls back into place. “I’m offering you a chance to make one of the most difficult, intricate potions known in magic history. The craft is something that interests you, correct?”

You stutter, feeling like you’re being manipulated into something completely out of your comfort zone. Despite this knowledge, you can’t bring yourself to refuse.

“Yes, but I would very much like to stay out of Azkaban if I can help it.”

He considers you seriously, then. You almost think he’s gonna turn around and dismiss you, considering you unable to complete his task, but then he takes one step closer and gazes at you through thick eyelashes.

“I’m enchanting skeletons for Hallowe’en.”

You squint up at him. “You’re lying. You don’t need a potion for that.”

His lip twitches, and you think you see a ghost of another of those rare smiles. It’s gone too soon for you to tell. A purple strand of hair falls in his eye, and your fingers itch to touch it.

“Will you help me?” He chooses to ignore your statement.

“Now I’m helping you?” You challenge him, before you can stop yourself. “Where did all those other fancy words go?”

Minho drinks you in, every single one of your features being studied, before he pulls back, a breathy chuckle escaping his pretty mouth.

“I can see what he sees in you.”

“Don’t make this about him.”

There goes that infuriating eyebrow again. “Oh?”

You roll your eyes. “I’ll help you,” you repeat the, apparently, Slytherin taboo word. “If you tell me what I’m getting myself into.”

Your breath gets stuck in your throat as you see him lean towards you, his cheek touching the side of your face, a woody scent enveloping your senses. You’re unable to move, it seems, he has you under a complete spell—and it’s not the one you cast with a wand. I underestimated him, you think, panicking.

“A revolution, sweetheart,” his enchanting voice whispers in your ear. The castle stares back as your eyes glaze over with numbness. “Your name in history books. It’s what you want, isn’t it?”

And it shouldn’t have taken you as long to figure out as it did, Chan’s words of caution ringing true in your head, because nothing could be clearer, really—

Lee Minho is a Ligilimens.

tags. dedicated to @streetlight-s 🖤 | @ughbehavior, @cb97percent, @koorminii, @hellishmoons, @lix-ables, @americanokisses, @j-0ne25, @danyxthirstae01, @she-wintersoldat, @fa3body, @letterstolilah, @exclusivej3ss, @seungschacco, @heeseung-lover686, @heetr, @arieslost, @skz317cb97.