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razorsharpteeth · 1 year ago

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TIMING: August, after Parker's attempt to steal PARTIES: Felix @recoveringdreamer and Samir @razorsharpteeth LOCATION: Felix' place. SUMMARY: Samir invites Felix to his place after the Parker situation and the two talk about the Grit Pit, how they got there and how stuck they are. CONTENT WARNINGS: Abuse, gaslighting, parental death

There was an instinct to care within Samir Zidan, even if he tried to deny it. Even if part of him had tried to starve it, stave it off — a solitary existence was not one fit for someone who cared for others, and yet he had forced it onto himself. Even as a ghost, flitting from town to town, he cared. Volunteering. Stopping to help someone whose groceries had spilled. Letting someone go before him in a queue. He called it repentance, or at least an attempt at it.

This wasn’t quite that. This was something larger than volunteering for the local elderly or a small act of kindness. Extending his address to Felix Mendoza was something bigger, wasn’t it? It was born from care, sure, a willingness to have the back of his coworkers (in what was, admittedly, the most abhorrent place he’d ever worked — even fast food places weren’t this bad at following labor laws). It was more personal. It was some kind of commitment to wanting to make this place work.

He hadn’t expected them to take him up on the offer, in all truth, and yet the doorbell rang. Samir moved down the stairs, telling Cleo to stay put and opened the door. Eyes took in Felix, taking him in for hidden and visible injuries. There were scratchmarks. How many fights had he been in? He tried to bite down his anger. “Come in. Shit.” He stepped back in, half-turning around to trudge back up the stairs but his eyes remaining on the other. There was a soft yap from Cleo and he tried not to think about the mess of the place. “Come in.”

—

There wasn’t usually much solidarity between fighters in the Grit Pit. There couldn’t be. The Pit was literally designed to put you up against the people you ‘worked’ with, to make you resent one another. It was intentional, Felix suspected; if you kept the people at the bottom at one another’s throats, they’d never come for the people at the top. Make the fights last even after they left the ring, give them less money when they left each other standing and more when they drew blood. Pull on their chains and blame it on the guy beside them. Felix had never had any friends at work because they weren’t supposed to, because the Pit wasn’t built for that.

But Samir was different.

Maybe it was because it was never really Samir in the Pit, because Samir and Razor were different in a way most fighters weren’t. Even other werewolves didn’t seem quite as separated as Samir was from Razor. Felix thought of their jaguar, the one with thoughts and feelings and a mind of its own. They knew werewolves weren’t really like that, that there was no wolf’s spirit living within Samir, but it felt similar in a way it usually didn’t with werewolves. So Samir invited him over, and Felix said yes. Samir showed sympathy, and Felix accepted it. Samir opened the door, and Felix felt a little safer than he had when it was closed. It was a new feeling. It wasn’t a bad one.

“Hey,” he said hoarsely, drawn in on himself as he ducked inside. There’d been fight after fight since their return from the jaguar’s turn at the steering wheel. No one seemed to believe that their absence had been accidental; Leo had told them as much. You’ve always been a flight risk, Fe. We thought you’d learned your lesson, but I guess you were always slow with that, weren’t you? I thought you were finished being stupid. He’d sounded almost sad as he’d said it, almost sympathetic. But not in the same way Samir was. Samir seemed more genuine. With Leo, it was about control. It always was.

Felix moved into the apartment, glancing to the kitchen chair in question. He shouldn’t sit. He’d get blood all over everything. His blood, the blood of the last couple people he’d fought, maybe leftover blood from the night before that he’d been too exhausted to shower off, too. But their legs hurt and they were tired, and the chair looked like the most comfortable thing in the fucking world, so Felix looked at it and didn’t ask the question aloud but let it hang between them all the same.

—

When his father had died and his mother had checked out, it had been Samir who had taken the brunt of the load on his shoulders. Safiya had helped, of course, but she had been gone when graduation had rolled around two years later and from then on it had been him. Making school lunches. Paying the bills. Trying to figure out the paperwork. Putting a band-aid on Wael’s knee. There was purpose in taking care of others, and perhaps more selfishly, there was distraction.

This wasn’t what he was supposed to do. He wanted his connection to the Grit Pit to exist three nights and days a week, and nothing more. He wanted the pay and more importantly, the ensurance that he would remain tightly locked in a place when his wolf came out. He wanted the privilege of ignorance — not connection, not ties, not anything. But here Felix was anyway, looking worse for wear and taking him up on his own insistent invitation. Because at the end of the day, Samir needed purpose, needed to feel helpful, like the shiniest tool in someone’s toolbelt. Like something that could do more than harm.

Like something redeemable.

But this was dangerous, wasn’t it? Letting Felix into his home, offering care — it was like admitting that the Pit wasn’t as good a place as he would like to think it. Workplaces demanded solidarity, but this wasn’t just a place of work for Samir. It was a cage, a deserved one. Corinna knew of his desperation. She did not know how involved he could get with others, though, how he was not just a man running from law and himself — and his heart and spirit he would rather not give up along with his monstrous, murderous intent. She could have that.

There was no looking away from this, though. “Come on, take a seat,” he said, gesturing to the array of ugly chairs he’d collected. He moved towards his kitchen cabinets, pulling a bottom one open. The pots and pans were of shit quality, but his first aid kit was good. Well-stocked. It had to be, with his nature — usually he healed, but sometimes the worst of it happened on the last night of the full moon and there was no fast-track to take. Giving himself stitches was a skill learned long ago. Samir gave Felix a one over, placing the kit on the kitchen table. “Do you want anything to drink? I can make coffee, tea … I’ve got some beer. Water?” He drummed his fingers against the kit. “If you — well, I’m no nurse. But just shout if you need anything from this, yeah? Fucking Christ. How many fights did they have you do?”

—

Relief clung to him as Samir gave him the permission he needed to take a seat, practically collapsing onto one of those wooden chairs. Felix shifted in an attempt to keep from staining the wood, which wasn’t as hard as it might have been a few hours before. They weren’t in great shape, but they’d stopped by home before coming here and that had at least given things time to stop bleeding, time for their trembling hands to settle at least a little. They still shook, but they could almost hide it now. They could almost pretend it was okay.

“Thanks,” they mumbled, closing their eyes as they leaned back in the chair. Already, they felt safer than they had at their apartment. Maybe it was the presence of another person, or maybe it was the fact that they’d seen Samir fight. Both were silly security blankets to cling to, of course. If that warden chose to attack them, he’d do it whether someone was around or not. He’d proven as much in that alley, when Felix’s screams had seemed to be little more than an irritating inconvenience to him. And Samir was a hell of a fighter when the moon was full, but Felix had no idea if he even knew how to throw a punch in this form. Still, the comfort clung to them like a warm coat, and they let their eyes slip shut for a moment.

But only for a moment.

Samir spoke, and Felix’s eyes opened as they glanced around the apartment. “Uh, no. That’s okay. I wouldn’t — I wouldn’t want to put you out or anything.” They probably couldn’t handle much more than water right now, anyway. They always got anxious after a fight, even a fight they’d won. They’d done well tonight, Leo told them; made the Pit a lot of money, made themself a lot of money, too. They hadn’t even grabbed their pay before ducking out, too disgusted with themself to think about the envelope full of cash and how they’d earned it. It would be waiting for them the next time they came to work — which would be far too soon. They’d still feel sick about it. They thought they probably always would.

“I don’t think anything needs stitches.” They smiled bitterly, adding, “I won.” As if it was victory. It never felt like one. Instead, it tasted far closer to damnation. Felix rubbed at their eyes, shrugging a shoulder. “I lost count. I don’t know. It’s been — It’s just constant, since I got back. Small stuff on the weekdays, then big stuff on the weekends. Which is just — the usual. But more of it.” They shook their head. Embarrassingly, they felt like crying. “It’s fine. Just… a little overwhelming tonight. With everything.”

—

Guilt was an ugly emotion. It ruined ones state of being, broke down the very pillars on which someone was built — that and shame were the great undoers of a person, Samir thought. It didn’t mean he knew how to deal with it. He just knew it was eating him from the outside, spreading like a rot and making him the way he was now. Solitary, short-tempered, clinging to his volunteer work as if it would be his saving grace. It also meant he was getting better at recognizing it in others.

Felix hadn’t walked around the dressing room like someone who took pride in what he did. They had a certain quietness to them, a quality Samir could appreciate. They had revealed, even, that they didn’t want to be here — but the work still demanded to be done and the work came with blood and hurt and sometimes death. Enter at your own risk, they said before people entered the Pit, but that those risk were of the binding variety was omitted to both customer and fighter. It wasn’t prideful work. It wasn’t even thankful work. It was work worthy of shame and guilt — but that didn’t make it easier.

It would be easier if they were all proud of it, if they were sadistic and masochistic fucks wanting to spread violence around for profit. It would be easier. But here sat Wildcat, with their eyes closed and shame hanging over them at Razor’s dingy kitchen table. What formidable fighters they made. Samir decided to distract himself by still filling two glasses of water, placing them on the table and then grabbing a beer for himself. If he was going to risk getting closer to someone he had to most likely fight next moon, then he’d need a boost. “Water’s pretty much free.”

He pulled out a chair, settling down himself and taking a long pull from his bottle. There was a frown on his face. “Congrats,” he replied, the bitterness of the comment mingling with the bitterness of the ale. “Shit, man. And tomorrow, you’re back on too I suppose? I — I mean, I don’t fucking get why they’re doing this, but even so there’s gotta be an end to this, right? Let you recover and breathe a little between fights.” Samir wondered what they’d do to him, should the roles were reversed. Make him fight as a human? Try and force the wolf out? They were ugly thoughts, even if realistic. “No, man, it’s not fine. It’s a lot, all at once, and you’re being punished for something a hunter did — a fucked up one, at that. I’m glad you came over. I’m not sure what I can do to help, but … they say talking’s good.”

—

It was strange, Samir’s kindness. Felix had never really interacted with the other fighters outside of the ring before, something that was largely by design. Friendship, in a place like the Grit Pit, was a dangerous thing. Even a moment of hesitation within the Pit could cost a fighter their life, and in spite of the guilt they often felt for what they did and how they did it, Felix didn’t want to die. So, they distanced themself. They saw other fighters around, sometimes, and they ducked their head to avoid eye contact. It wasn’t hard — most of the other fighters weren’t particularly big fans of Wildcat, who fought hard and dirty and with a great brutality.

But Samir was different. Maybe it was because he didn’t remember the fights he’d been a part of, didn’t know what an animal Wildcat could be when Felix got scared or desperate or both. Or… maybe Samir was just a kind man who’d been backed up against a wall. Maybe every fighter in the Pit was just someone in a shitty situation doing the best they could do. Selfishly, Felix hated the thought. He wanted them to be monsters. It would have been so much easier if they were all monsters.

Offering Samir a small smile, Felix took one of the glasses of water that was placed in front of them and held it in their hands. Not drinking it just yet, but not putting it aside, either. “Thanks,” they said quietly. “I can… do dishes or something.” It seemed only fair. If anything, it wasn’t enough to repay the kindness Samir was offering them, but they doubted the werewolf would accept anything more.

They let out a hollow laugh at the bitter congratulations, wondering if any of the Pit’s fighters were proud of what they did. Maybe some of the newer ones, the ones who hadn’t realized yet just how stuck they were. Or… maybe there were people there who wanted to do what they were doing, people who enjoyed the violence. The thought was a little sickening. “Yeah,” they confirmed, blowing out a huff of air. “And the next night. Schedule’s got me in every night this week, unless I can’t fight.” The only way out of a fight once it had been scheduled was to get injured badly enough in another fight to have your name temporarily pulled from the roster. So far, Felix had yet to experience this. They weren’t sure if that made them lucky or unlucky. It felt like both at the same time, somehow.

“Maybe it’s not fine,” they allowed, “but it’s not like there’s anything I can do about it, either. It is what it is, right? I signed up for this.” Not knowingly, not on purpose, but no one had forced them to sign that contract. The higher ups at the Pit loved reminding them of that if they were ever caught complaining or fighting against the bind. “Yeah. Yeah, talking’s good. Better when you have someone to listen, so… Thanks for listening, man.”

—

Samir had been a person with friends once. His career stretched over a fair amount of jobs, many of them in hospitality and service, and they had all been marked with camaraderie. Working like hell during lunch and dinner rush, breaking open the skin of your hands on accident with knives or pots or even just cleaning agents, yelling at each other, getting lost in the cacophony of stress, smell, sound and hunger. And then, always, ending up chain-smoking, drinking beers until it was time to crawl home and redo it the next day.

Some of those people had been like siblings. People he’d fight with verbally but would always love — or so it had felt, at the very least. Things had happened, of course, since those years of working in kitchens in Floridean resorts. There had been the attack, the murders, the moving. He’d continued to work similar jobs, where solidarity and camaraderie were required to keep your head on your shoulders, but he’d never stuck around long enough for the bonds to become as strong as they had once been.

Samir had been a person built on connection once, and now he was something solitary. The Grit Pit was a place that on one hand demanded some kind of solidarity among its employees, if only because of the nature of the contracts. On another hand, any chance at it was choked by the nature of the work. There was something so very stupid about trying to get close to a person you were paid to fight. And this wasn’t like the mainstream MMA, where it was performance. Razor’s bloodthirst was real.

Who knew what would happen the next time they stood across each other in the ring.

But still, here they were. Felix offering to do dishes, Samir decisively shaking his head. “Do dishes? You’re dirtying one glass. I got it.” He shrugged. “Unless you wanna stay for dinner. Then we can do dishes together.” Cooking for people was part of his nature by now, an instinct born out of necessity, then turned into a career and now … just something he had almost forgotten about. “Every day? Fuck.” He couldn’t imagine it. Especially not being conscious for it. “What do they have you fighting?”

His ignorance about the reality of the Pit was fading in front of his eyes with every question he asked, with every expletive he used to express his discontentment. Felix mentioned the contracts without saying the word. Samir took another long pull from his bottle, wondering if they’d become one of the other fighters who’d die while signed up. “I mean, shit. Sure, I guess. It is what it is. And I don’t know what I can do. But at least we can both agree on the fact that there’s something about it that’s wrong, right?” He fiddled with the paper label on the beer bottle. “That why you tried to run?”

—

They used to be better at talking to people. As a kid, before their mom died, Felix was actually pretty damn sociable. They’d had a lot of friends in school, even if they hadn’t necessarily been a part of the ‘in’ crowd. They’d been the quiet, easygoing kind of kid that everyone got along with, able to go with the flow without issue or complaint. They helped their classmates with assignments, they sat next to whoever had an open seat at lunch, and they’d been good.

And then, a pair of terrified humans shot a jaguar in the woods, and just like that, the world turned upside down.

It was tempting, sometimes, to blame everything that happened after on their father. The way he’d handled his grief, the way he’d made his children prisoners to it, it had done a lot of damage. But it wasn’t the sole factor that contributed to Felix’s shift in perspective. It all started with that shot in the woods. It all started with two humans who weren’t built to hunt balam, but had unknowingly killed one anyway. The world became unsafe in that moment, a dangerous place. How could Felix worry about math problems on someone else’s worksheet now? How could they sit just anywhere at lunch?

The grief festered like a wound, poisoning the world outside of it. The isolation their father forced them into was almost a relief. Even the violence that came with it felt like an easy outlet, even if Felix would have never admitted it aloud. It was so much simpler to be angry, to hurt the world before the world could hurt you. It wasn’t who they wanted to be, but it seemed it was what the world wanted for them.

The Grit Pit seemed like proof of that. Being that quiet, easygoing kid wasn’t an option here, not anymore. In the Pit, you were ruthless or you were dead. Felix had known that early on, when every attempt they made to buck against their contract or unionize the other fighters ended only in more of that endless grief. The Grit Pit didn’t allow time or space for kindness.

And yet, here was Samir. Getting them a glass of water, offering to make them dinner. Felix stared at their hand, at the bruised knuckles and the dirty fingernails. “I wouldn’t want to put you out,” they said again, even though Samir had made it clear now that his kindness was for free. It was a difficult thing to accept, for Felix. It didn’t sit right in his chest.

They blew a puff of air from between their lips, nodding. “Yeah,” they confirmed, and the word felt heavy. “It’s different things. Nothing… sentient. Most of them are easy to beat. It’s just — I’m tired. You know?” And maybe he did. Maybe Samir was one of very few people who could know.

“There’s something wrong,” they agreed. “It — It’s fucked up. But there’s not anything to do about it.” They picked at their nails, feeling embarrassingly close to tears. “I didn’t really want to sign,” they admitted quietly. “I was — I was in love with someone. And he was a part of it. And I thought — I thought they’d trapped him there, you know? They told me the only way to get out of a contract is to have someone else sign in your place, to… Let someone take the bullet for you. And I thought… That’s what love is, right? Taking the bullet. So I did. But he wasn’t… He didn’t want out. And now I do, and there’s no… getting out. Just, this is me, now. This is my life. And I got myself into it. Nobody else to blame, right?”

—

It was through giving that he survived. Not just that, of course — there were other factors that had ensured his survival thus far in the face of the vicious beast he turned into every month and the hunters that had been on his trail before. Sure, ruthless viciousness had kept Samir alive as well (waking up near the corpse of a hunter, or worse, shooting one when fully conscious), but the spirit had to persist as well.

And that was done through giving. Making food for people – strangers or others – or offering small bits of kindness. Volunteering with elderly people who tended to bore or offend him to death more often than not, scrubbing pots and pans in a soup kitchen, giving back to any community he might inhabit, no matter for how long.

He wasn’t religious, but he knew somewhere that this was an attempt at repenting. There would be no redemption for him, but he could balance the scales somewhat, could he not? Samir at least figured he had to try, especially now that he was making money through bloodshed. Three nights a month he was contracted to fight and sporadically he was asked to do some social media things but besides that, he had all the time in the world for kinder ventures.

Like this. He needed Felix to accept his small kindnesses, which were nothing at all. The bare minimum of hosting. Something to drink, a seat to sit on and a listening ear. Samir shook his head. “You’re not. You’re my guest.” He swallowed the expletives that instinctually rose to his mouth.

He took a sip from his beer, the bitter and sweet mixing around on his tongue before he swallowed it. He did know, in a way. “Yeah. I know.” Not completely, not fully, but he shared a space with some of the not-sentient species that fought in the pit. Cages filled with supernatural creatures. Sometimes he’d awake when the moon had sunk and some of the cages that had been full would be empty. He’d wonder if he’d done that. “It’s fucking nonsense, that you’re not getting a beat to breathe between nights.”

There wasn’t anything to do about it. Samir knew that and he was fine with it, for the most part. He didn’t want to do anything about it, or see anything done about it. With the Grit Pit, his wolf wasn’t out and about, running where he might maul another set of tourists or other civilians. But he knew it was different for some. And so he felt guilty as Felix lifted the veil on how he’d come in.

He was quiet for a while, not equipped with the right words and ideas to say something fitting to that. What were you supposed to say, anyway? Part of Samir wanted to ask for a name, but that would mean getting more entrenched in this business, in this ugly place where he survived through self-imposed, tightly controlled ignorance. “Fuck. Shit, man, I’m sorry that he did that to you. Tricked you, that’s … shitty. At least I wanted to sign, you know? In a way. I didn’t know about all the shit that came with signing it, of course, but you know.” He’d been sweet talked, sure. Promised things that fell short, but the core of what he wanted from this all had been true. “He’s still there?”

—

Jaguars were solitary creatures. They weren’t like wolves, who formed packs to protect one another. When he was a kid, living in a house with their father and their siblings out in the woods far away from everyone else, part of Felix had felt that jaguar’s solitary nature. The way the spirit within them preferred the distance, the way it might have liked it more if the other balam weren’t there. The jaguar preferred to be alone, but Felix didn’t.

It was why they’d attached themself to Leo so quickly when he’d shown up. Felix loved their family, but there had been something so exhilarating about being seen by someone outside of it. Leo made them feel as if they were special, as if they mattered even outside of the house where they had no real control over what they did or thought or felt. Leo found those seeds of doubt in Felix’s mind and sowed them so carefully. And it felt like love. Felix wanted to believe it had been, even now. That at some point, somewhere along the way, they’d been loved.

But it was so hard to think so.

It might not have even been friendship, what Leo had felt for them. He’d rarely ever treated them with half as much kindness as Samir was showing them now unless there was some ulterior motive behind it, and Samir was only a step up from a stranger. Felix felt an ache in their chest, a quiet pain put there by someone who probably didn’t care enough to acknowledge it at all.

The Pit was fucked. All of it. Even the parts that gave Samir his outlet for the wolf were built from predatory contracts and the blood of people who might not have wanted to sign them. It was Samir’s teeth that were bloodied with flesh, but it was the people in charge who pocketed the majority of the winnings. It was Felix’s hands that shook, but it was Leo who used the money Felix earned the Pit to his advantage. (He’d always had so much cash on hand to shower Felix with gifts back when they’d been together; it was nauseating to think of now, with retrospect on their side.)

The quiet stretched between them like a tangible thing, and Felix didn’t look at Samir because they were afraid to. Because they didn’t want to see judgment on his face, even if Samir wasn’t the type to judge. Because they were afraid of pity, too, even if Samir wouldn’t mean it as an insult. When he finally spoke, Felix only shrugged. It sucked, it was shitty, but they’d been stupid, too, hadn’t they? Leo had told them as much. I didn’t make you do anything you didn’t want to do. It isn’t my fault you’ve never known what you wanted, is it? You can’t blame me for your mistakes, Fe. It isn’t fair.

They tapped their finger against the side of their glass, nodding carefully. “He’s still there,” they replied quietly. “He — They have him keep me in line, sometimes. Tell me when I’ve fucked up.” They used to think maybe it was the Pit’s attempt at softening the blow, but now they weren’t so sure. They suspected, with a sick twist in their gut, that Leo probably requested to be the one in charge of Felix’s contract.

—

There hadn’t been a lot of people in his life he was comfortable being silent around. He used to be talkative, an easy person to befriend and get to know — never particularly intimately, but still. Samir had simply never been very good at being alone, what with him growing up in a small but filled-to-the-brim home, with his teenage and young adult years having been spent taking care of these people.

But that was before a werewolf had bitten him and made something ugly of him. He had always been an angry person, that wasn’t something just awakened by the werewolf — but it seemed that rage was now even more damaging. That where it had cost walls and doors and the intactness of his knuckles, it had started costing human lives.

No longer was he a man who yelled and broke things — he was a man who turned into something murderous, that ravaged with a fury that Samir knew, deep down, he recognized. And so he’d become solitary, not just because he tended to move around but because he understood that he was no longer meant for such things. People deserved better than him. He, perhaps, did not deserve such niceties either. He was a man with blood-stained hands, a guilty conscience and with no dedication of really clearing that conscience.

He was, or at least he thought he was, a man of numbered days. But it had been five years, and he was still alive. Not out of a reluctance to die, but rather an inability to commit to dying. And because somehow, he’d evaded law and hunters alike.

Still. He was more omen than man. Not made to be a friend.

But Felix sat in his kitchen and it felt somewhat right, this extended olive branch of his. Still, he downed his beer in the silence that lingered, as it wasn’t comfortable. It was pressing. It was so very present, that he might as well take out a chair and invite it to sit as well.

Eventually Felix talked, though. Samir was glad, because he wasn’t sure what to say besides get them a beer (and get himself another one, too). He remained quiet, though, at those two sentences he was offered. Uncomfortable again.

But also angry. Not because of his own situation, or the resentment he held for himself, for his sister, his father, his mother, the world and its institutions, the weather — but on behalf of another. It had been quite a while since that had happened. Samir embraced it. This was a kind of anger that was tolerable.

“Fuck them. For that. Not just roping you in like that, but using it as a – as a tool, a measure of what, fucking discipline?” Of course Felix had tried to run. Of course they sat here now, struggling to accept kindness, a distrust marking plenty of their moves. Samir placed the bottle of beer on the table, trying not to slam it. “He ever hurt you, besides the … obvious, you know?” The manipulation of it all. The lies. He wanted another drink. He wished he didn’t know this, that he could stretch his ignorance a little further, a little more thin. “What do they do to keep you in line?” What did they do to his werewolf? He could forgive that, the measures they took against that mindless monster — but Felix wasn’t that.

—

Since the moment the contract was signed, Felix had been told under no uncertain terms that their situation was their own fault. No one forced them to do anything, no one held a knife to their throat or a gun to their head. They could have simply said no, could have walked away before pen went to paper if only they made the decision to do so. And they hadn’t. Leo had never lied to them directly — no one had. Maybe there had been implications there, but nothing Felix couldn’t have seen through if they’d really tried. It was their fault, and no one else’s. That’s what they’d been told, and that was what they’d believed.

But Samir was looking at them now with anger that wasn’t directed towards them at all. He was calling it fucked up, was righteously furious towards the situation and the manipulative net that had been cast. Maybe he was right — maybe Felix wasn’t entirely at fault here. The instinct to argue, to insist it was their fault was still there, but the words died on their tongue before they spit them out for the first time in a long time, replaced by a strange warmth in their chest at the idea that someone cared enough to be angry for them.

They looked away with a shrug, wringing their hands together. “I guess it’s supposed to be.” The contract was an easy way to keep fighters in line if they grew tired of their circumstances. Even the ones who’d wanted to fight in the beginning sometimes grew uneasy with the nonstop nature of the Pit — the way the contracts were set up were designed to ensure that no one left until the Pit was finished with them. And Felix wasn’t sure they’d ever be done with them. Too profitable, Leo said once.

They took the beer, though they didn’t drink it. Mostly, they just rolled the bottle in their hands, shrugging again at Samir’s question. There was an old desire to insist that that was ridiculous, to defend Leo, to say I was so stupid sometimes, or I didn’t understand the simplest things, or it was mostly my fault, anyway, I was always doing something wrong. Even now, with the bitter taste the end of the relationship left in their mouth, Felix wanted to insist that the blame was always theirs to carry. That everything that happened was deserved, that it would have gone differently had they been smarter or less clumsy or better, somehow.

“He got mad, sometimes,” they replied, both an answer and not one. It was too hard to say the truth point-blank; Felix was so much better at dancing around it and allowing people to come to the conclusions on their own. It was a big thing, for them, the phrasing of it. He got mad instead of I made him mad. One small step for man and all that. Felix lifted the beer to his lips and took a swig, though it was mostly just because they couldn’t be asked to explain further if their mouth was full.

They swallowed the swig as the next question settled, still looking anywhere but at Samir. “Depends on how, um… difficult I’m being,” they mumbled, mouth dry. “It was worse in the beginning. They used a taser a lot.” They’d seen the same weapon used on Razor, too, but they knew Samir didn’t want to hear about the wolf’s exploits. “A collar, for a while. But they let me out of it. Good behavior.” They smiled humorlessly, rolling the bottle between their hands again. “For the most part, they don’t need anything. The contract is… It hurts when you fight against it. It’s hard to even try, like it feels… unnatural. And when you manage it, it’s like…” They trailed off with a shrug. “It hurts,” they said again, because that was all there really was to it. “Even the jaguar. He felt it, I think, when he took control. It’s why he let me back in.”

—

Anger was a curse, he sometimes thought. An affliction much like his lycanthropy, a kind of sickness he could not be cured from. Samir didn’t tend to understand his rage, most of the time — the way it coiled and slipped out, took ahold of him. But this was different. This wasn’t an anger born from unprocessed grief or untreated trauma or whatever other explanation there might be. This was something righteous.

Because Felix had, in the short time he’d known them, proven that there was something good about them. Morality was a tough thing for the likes of him — he’d thrown his own in the wind, attempting to repent for his wrongdoings in ways that would never and could never mean enough. But Samir still thought that there was good and bad in the world and that, in a sense, some people deserved bad to be brought upon them for the bad they themself brought upon others.

Like him. He had told them, at the Pit, that he didn’t mind what they did to his wolf. He figured that whatever had to be done to restrain that beast, should be done. So sometimes he woke up with a kind of nerve pain that came from electric shock, sometimes the collar they slipped around him – with metal prongs pressed against a throat larger than his own human one – was still dangling around his neck when he woke, sometimes he watched how the other creatures were riled up before it was their turns and knew, deep down, that some of these things happened to Razor too.

But he was deserving. It wasn’t like he was masochistic, or at least he didn’t think so. He just thought of himself as something to be punished. The shame of waking in a cage was swallowed, as was the social media work. He was deserving.

Felix, however? Was not.

Yet here they sat, laying out what had happened. Some of it explicitly, but plenty of it unsaid — he got mad. Samir felt the implication hanging in the air, but didn’t prod or poke at it. There was enough to go off, wasn’t there? The methods of discipline. The treatment of the person across from him as cattle. At least Razor was a feral beast. (That’s how they liked him. That was, perhaps, how they intended to keep him.)

The beer did little to placate his restless spirit. Samir had tolerated all he saw at the Grit Pit, but now it seemed indigestible. Maybe he’d been wrong, to invite Felix here and lift the veils he refused to look through — but for now he didn’t reflect on that yet. He just sat with his rage.

“They’re better now, then? Less of that bullshit?” Samir caught himself, the meaning of those words. If Felix was more obedient now, they were just a better trained animal in the eyes of the Grit Pit. “Fuck, I mean — I know they do shit to the wolf, they’ve gotta. I signed for that, I don’t – don’t care. But you’re present.”

He took a swig. “Not trying to justify it, there’s nothing just about it. The contracts, I’ve noticed, whenever I fail to do my promotional work. Fucking hate that shit, and when I postpone it, don’t meet deadlines, I just — it starts with stomach pains, innocuous enough. Rox – she, um, brought me in – she explained it.” He ran a hand over his face. “But it’s, whatever. I’ll do it. But you —”

It was different. Samir took another sip from his bottle. “You want out. Right? I mean, fuck. You deserve to get out.” But what could he do, to help out Felix? Would he do it? He needed Corinna on his side, all the people at the Pit. Last thing he needed was for them to try and get ideas of provoking the wolf outside of the full moon. “I don’t know shit about this fae magic, though. But I know that. You deserve it. It’s not a place for you.” Unsaid, of course, was the fact that it was a place for him.

—

For most of Felix’s life, they’d been under the control of someone else. For years after their mother died, it was their father pulling the strings. He’d used grief and fear as a justification for all sorts of things, and maybe it was understandable. Felix had lost their mother, but their father had lost the love of his life and wasn’t that harder to swallow? Felix couldn’t imagine what it had felt like to him, couldn’t picture it. They had nothing to compare it to, really, nothing to help them understand. So maybe their father had done what he thought was necessary, but Felix wasn’t sure that made it okay. They weren’t sure any of this was okay.

The control the Pit had on them was a lot more restricting than what their father had exercised, of course, and so much less understandable. Sure, there’d been weeks where Felix wasn’t allowed to leave the house as a kid, but there’d always been a reason for it. Their father had seen someone near the cabin that he hadn’t had a chance to ‘take care of’ yet, or he’d heard a rumor that someone was looking for them, or something. It was never without cause.

The Pit was different. The Pit punished you sometimes just for being. Felix had seen it. Animals zapped for not being vicious enough, people who were hurt for losing a fight too badly or not badly enough. They’d seen Razor punished, too, for the smallest things. The staff seemed to enjoy riling the wolf up, and Felix hated it. The wolf wasn’t Samir, Samir insisted, but Felix still couldn’t stand to see him hurt. Not now that they knew the man behind the wolf, but really, not even when Samir had been a stranger. Felix wasn’t the type of person who could cope with seeing others in pain.

Hell of a job they’d gotten for themself, then. Wasn’t it?

“Better,” Felix replied, shrugging a shoulder. “When I’m doing what they want me to do.” Which wasn’t as often as it should have been. Felix had a bad habit of kicking against the goads, of fighting back even in small ways. It never amounted to anything, never earned them anything more than trouble, but at least it let them feel something through the shame. Like fighting back in the small ways made up for the people they hurt in the ring, like anything could.

They sighed at Samir’s anger, shaking their head. “I signed up for it, too,” they pointed out. They didn’t know what they were signing up for, sure — but had Samir? Had any of them? No one who signed those contracts did so with all the facts on their side. Otherwise, most of them wouldn’t have signed at all. “Most of us are present. That’s just how it goes, you know?” Some werewolves, like Samir, didn’t remember what happened in the ring. If Felix shifted fully in a fight, they wouldn’t remember it well, either. But most everyone else? They got a pretty clear picture of what went down, whether they wanted one or not.

Samir was angry, and Felix got that. They were angry sometimes, too. But mostly, they couldn’t do much more than sit in the pointlessness of that anger. What good would rage do? It wouldn’t free anyone from their contracts, wouldn’t stop the Pit from being what it was.

They nodded along as Samir talked about his experience with the contracts. They’d felt it too, of course. “Builds from there,” they said quietly, thinking of all the times they’d tried to leave before they really understood it. “After a while, it — It really hurts. Somebody told me, um, close to the start, that it can — It can kill you.” And that had terrified them. Felix didn’t want to die. Felix wanted anything but.

“I want out,” they confirmed with a small, sad smile. “But it’s not going to happen. The only way out is to drag someone else in. I couldn’t do that, man. I wouldn’t be able to live with myself.” And even if they tried, they weren’t sure Leo would let them. He liked the control so much more than their father ever had. “So what’s it matter, right? It is what it is.”

—

When anger left, there was not much left. In the face of anger there was opportunity after all: something about that burning emotion felt useful, like a weapon to be wielded or at least a push in the back. Anger had made Samir into the hard worker he was, after all. It was how he’d been able to juggle multiple jobs, how he’d looked after his siblings and kept himself afloat. It had been the burning force behind every movement, every struggle, the rock he’d clung to as an ocean of grief pooled around him.

Whenever he wasn’t angry, whenever he let go of that raging thing, he ended up hollow and empty. An echoing shell of a person. Whatever he was now, most days — someone who was pointless in his existence, who raged for his survival but saw no point it at the same time. He took good out of the world, spreading violence. He tried to put good back in, but fell short. He had nothing good to give here besides anger.

And so he offered Felix anger, because there was nothing else to give. To simply sit down and accept the reality of it all was the next logical step and eventually he would take it, but it was an ugly thing to offer. To tell the balam that they and he both just had to swallow it, all this bullshit thrown their way — well, it was true, but it wasn’t nice. So Samir was angry, because this was something to be angry about. Because to be angry in a situation like this was to be good, and he wanted to be good, despite all his previous failures to be exactly that.

There was an implication hiding within Felix words, one Samir hesitated to acknowledge for a moment. “But you don’t always?” He could understand that. He’d fought against former employers too, once he’d grown older and started understanding his rights. But those hadn’t been fae who used violence for profit.

“Sure, but under different circumstances. You didn’t have the full picture.” Had he had the full picture? Not entirely. Samir hadn’t known either, that he’d get trapped in this contract — but he didn’t mind it. He had wanted a solution to his issues and had found one, even if it was twisted and ugly and not honorable, either. “You were manipulated by some asshole. And yeah, shit. I know. I assumed maybe they went less hard on those who had more … awareness, I guess.”

He was quiet for a moment at that revelation, jaw working against itself as his teeth clenched. Fuck this shit. He bristled, got up, ripped another beer from the fridge and slammed it shut. So that was it, then: you had to stay or die. You had to bring someone else in to get out, condemn them too. No retirement plan, because the chance was big you were going to die in the ring. And maybe he deserved that, but not all of them. Not Felix.

Samir slammed the bottle open and sat down again, leaving his anger at the kitchen counter as he tried to compose himself across from Felix. “Yeah. Sure, it is what it is. Fucking seems like it. I wish I knew something we could do, something — shit, that would make it so you’ve not signed your life away to … fucking die in there.” Or die trying to get out. “I’ll — whatever, I’ll try and think, right? Of something.” Would he go against Corinna and her employees, the ones that had granted him the cage he had desired so desperately? He wasn’t sure. He wanted to be good, but he also wanted to be restrained.

—

“I used to do it more. Fight back, I mean.” It felt like the kind of confession that ought to be made in a wooden box, with a priest listening in; like the kind of thing you needed to seek redemption for, to beg forgiveness. They used to fight harder, used to be less complacent. They’d spent the first few days of their contract running, searching for their father or their siblings or anyone who might have been able to help them like a child turning to grown ups when they’d gotten themself in too deep, like something prodigal.

But it hurt. It always hurt. The contract tightened a noose around their throat, made it hard to breathe, and the punishments that waited for them when they finally returned to the Pit with their tail between their legs were no less painful. We have to set an example, Leo told them once, looking almost apologetic as he administered the retribution Felix had earned with their stubbornness. People can’t think that they can get away with this. You can’t think that you can get away with this.

So they fought back less, as time went on. In smaller ways. Acts of rebellion became small things. He showed up to work late instead of not at all, delivered less cinematic injuries to the opponents they faced in the ring, made fights a little less exciting in ways that weren’t quite as obviously intentional as they could have been. They thought their handlers in the Pit probably knew about it, and that made them feel like a little more of a coward. Like they were being placated, their ‘rebellion’ so small that it was allowed to continue. They wanted to do more. They wanted to be brave. They’d just… forgotten how, somewhere along the way.

And here was Samir, brave without even knowing it. Because it did take bravery, didn’t it, to rage on someone else’s behalf? It took a boldness, a heroic streak. It was easy to be angry for yourself and your circumstances, but it was harder to be angry for someone else. Felix and Samir didn’t even know one another that well, and still the anger burned. It was worth a lot. It was admirable, even if Felix thought it was also wasted.

“Nobody has the full picture, Samir,” they said softly. “Did you? Did they tell you everything before you signed?” He knew the answer. If the people behind the Pit were honest, no one would ever sign their contracts. Not even Samir, who claimed to need them. “I was… It was my own fault. What happened. I should have known better. Should have seen it.” They were stupid and they were in love and they’d let that turn them into… whatever they were now. Something different. Something worse. Something they didn’t want to be.

Samir went into the kitchen, and Felix watched him go. They watched him carry an anger that was not for himself, contemplated how it felt to be the reason for it without being the source. Leo’s anger had always been terrifying. Their father’s, too. Samir’s seemed different, somehow. Less suffocating, less of a threat. A dangerous thing, sure, but not to Felix.

They offered the werewolf a small, helpless shrug. What more could they do? What more could any of them do? “For, um… For what it’s worth? You’ve already helped me a lot just by listening. Nobody’s ever really listened before.” They’d been so isolated for so long, and they were only just now beginning to crawl out of that isolation. It felt better than they’d thought it would. “So, um… Thanks. Really. Thank you for listening.”

—

It was a sad statement. The fact that Felix used to, the past tense of it all. The way that they had found cruel reason to stop and cease their fight. Samir wasn’t good at being sad, though, and never had been. He was a person of action, someone motivated and moved by doing what was needed and could be done. But there was no solution to this problem, no clear way to solve the issue. There was nothing to be done, the pair of them tied down by words and contract, like verbal chains binding them down.

So he just felt anger and emptiness. Rolling over and taking it was easier when it was just he who was in a bad spot because of this. “I guess it is smarter to play by their rules. The fucking rules, though, they’re all fucked.” And they could most likely be changed and messed with, their situations and positions altered to fit their needs and wants. Samir wanted to spit on it all. He wanted to drink himself into oblivion. He wanted what he always wanted, which was a solution to a problem that could not and would not be solved.

Pointless, aimless anger it was. As always. The beer helped, the coolness of the glass against his palms. He started messing with the label, as if destroying that would help him in any kind of way. He shrugged at Felix’ question. “No, of course not. Fucking typical, of course, but it’s … it’s whatever, you know. I don’t —” care. He didn’t. Not about what happened to him there. Not whether he’d die there. It was a fate fitting for the fates he’d given others.

“Don’t say that shit. Neither of us are to blame for those shitty contracts, for whatever way we were pushed into it. I might not care as much about how it — what if means for me, but shit, you didn’t know. Neither did I. Yeah? Give yourself whatever grace you’re willing to give me.” It was wasted on him, anyway. He took a long pull from his beer, whose label was half torn off now. It was an ugly display. He’d light a cigarette, but his tense relation with his downstairs neighbors kept him from doing so.

When Felix told him that he’d somehow helped them, Samir felt strange. It was like coming back into whoever he had been a lifetime ago, that person who acted so dutifully and with the knowledge that he was most tolerable when useful. He was glad for it. “Well, then maybe that’s what we can do, yeah? Listen to each other. In other shit jobs I’ve had, I’ve learned that’s crucial.”

He looked into his living room, then back at Felix. “Maybe we should do something else now, though. You any good at Call of Duty? I’ve got FIFA too.” It’d be nice to just shoot the shit and do something to numb his brain, which was working angry over hours. “Could just hang for a bit?”

—

Play by their rules. Felix wondered how long you could do that before you became exactly what they wanted you to be, before you traded yourself for compliance. There wasn’t much choice in the matter. They knew that. They were angry at their situation, they hated being a part of it, they wanted out, but more than anything else, they didn’t want to die. It made them something of a coward, they thought; a braver person would have fought until their last breath, would have kicked and screamed and sacrificed their own life if it meant they could have their freedom. But Felix didn’t know how to be brave anymore. Felix only knew how to be alive. That was all.

They nodded as Samir confirmed what they already knew. The Grit Pit was a system built to be predatory. It trapped its fighters in unwinnable situations without telling them the rules, gave them just enough rope to hang themselves with. Samir didn’t deserve the bind holding him in place, and maybe Felix didn’t, either. Maybe none of them did. But what did it matter? The world cared so little about what people deserved. People got what they got, in the end. There was no justice but the justice you made for yourself.

“Harder than it sounds,” they admitted with a tight smile. It was easier for them to look at Samir’s situation and see how he’d been fooled. Samir had been desperate, had wanted a way to control the wolf that he shifted into once a month without fail, without say. Felix had been… an idiot in love, really. So desperate for things with Leo to be real that he’d tied a blindfold over his own eyes, tightened the cuffs on their own wrists. It was different, wasn’t it? They were more at fault than Samir was.

But they still didn’t think that meant they deserved it, sometimes. Not all the time — there were still nights they sat in the locker room with their knuckles aching and their heart pounding and someone else’s blood on their clothes and felt sure that the life they led and hated was one they’d earned through their own mistakes — but sometimes, at least. Maybe that was better than nothing.

“Listen to each other,” Felix agreed with a small smile. “I can do that.” They relaxed a little at the mention of video games, nodding their head. “Yeah,” they agreed. “Yeah, I’m good at Call of Duty. Probably gonna kick your ass, man.” The air was still heavy. Their chest was still tight. But they weren’t alone. Maybe that meant something, too. Maybe it had to.

#felix.#the chains that bind.#threads.

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ngkiscool · 2 years ago

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Next please

The weekly prompt of @flashfictionfridayofficial was FFF202 The Devil You Forgot

Fandom: Lucifer (Good Omens if you squint), 830 words, no cw

"Next please!" My station was empty, but no one approached it. On the one hand, if offered me a few seconds of relatively rest, but on the other hand, if forced me to shout. Can't be seen resting, not during the rush hour at the Higher Ground.

It was noon of a rather lovely day, finally a sunny day after a week of showers. People strolled in the street, couples shared brief kisses when they thought no one was looking, even the people with the really expensive suits walked a bit slower and enjoyed the rare weather.

Warm beams of sun filtered through the curtains and shed light on the coffee shop, colouring the place with picturesque shades. It also nearly blinded me unless I squinted, despite the many, many times I asked the manager to fix the curtains.

The queue was longer than I've seen in a long time, and not just because of the weather. As if the regular costumers weren't enough, there was a reinforcement – people from the comic con just around the corner.

All day long, I had to deal with costumers who gave me the most unusual names and throw a tantrum if I spelled their name wrong. Some, God forbid, had even asked me which costume they were wearing, and seemed genuinely hurt when I hadn't recognized which TV show it was from.

Honestly, I don't have anything against adult people who dress up as creatures who only exist in a fantasy world. Some of the costumes were pretty, and it was clear that making them required a lot of time and skills. But, just like I don't go around and show my latest sewing art to bus drivers, I don't pay too much attention to my clients' costumes. All I want from them is place a not complicated order and leave a big tip. Nothing more, nothing less.

"Next in line!" I called again, a bit louder this time, and it worked. A costumer approached me, and I started the usual drill of taking their order. Things went smoothly, or as smooth as can be expected when one orders coffee, and I started to relax. Maybe that costumer will act normal through our whole interaction, and won't demand me to guess what was his costume.

It was a good one, I'll give them that. The suit was expensive looking, but nothing a person of means can't find easily. The wings, thought, they looked almost real. They were white, and big, each feature moved separately, and the wings even moved in coordination with his shoulders. Even after seeing a parade of costumes all day long, they seemed special. Like I said, I'm not interested in cosplays myself, but as an artist (and yes, sewing is an art, thank-you-very-much) I can appreciate craftsmanship when I see one.

Usually, people love to get compliments on their costumes, but something vibed weird with this person, so I decided to refrain from commenting. The opportunity, thought, rose when he finished the order, and I asked for his name. The voice matched his outfit – silken, strong, and confident.

"Lucifer".

"I see you are really in the character, even the wings and everything!"

"In character?" A red glint shone in his eyes, gone before I had the chance to complain about the curtains. Maybe if the manages received complaints from customers, not just employees, he would do something about it. One can only hope.

"Yes, with the wings and everything. Very impressive, if you don't mind me saying. Are you participating in the cosplay contest? I'm sure you will win first place."

"Cosplay?"

The temperature in the coffee shop dropped suddenly, and I shivered despite being all hot from being near the oven. The air conditioner hadn't changed, and it didn't look like the other clients had noticed it. Weird.

"Never mind, it's been a long day. I'll just make the order, and here is a piece of lemon cake, on the house".

At last, the coffee was ready, the cake packaged and together napkin and utensils, the take-away bag was handed to him. Our fingers touched briefly, and I felt a chill running through my body, but it was very short. Long day indeed.

I turned to clean the coffee machine, and when I finished and turned to the till again, I was surprised to find a twenty note on it. It was unexpected for two reasons: firstly, it was quite a large sum, as usually people left a fiver or a tenner. Twenty was very rare. Secondly, and even more unusual, was the fact that I hadn't served any costumer in the past few minutes.

Anyway, as my experience at costumer service taught me not to question money, I took the note. Attached to it was a small, white feather, but that hadn't helped to explain how it got there.

Confused, I shook my head, and got back to my work. "Next please!"

#fff202 #the devil you forgot #lucifer #good omens if you squint

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unlimitedhorsepower · 2 years ago

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i mainly blog about media interests i have but i actually care a lot about politics and yknow common human decency. i own two cats, and i owned my late finnhorse mare for over a decade. i miss her and still love horses a lot.

i allegedly study cultural anthropology at an university and used to study equine masseusing and art. however im kinda just surviving on disability pension rn. feel free to ask about anything else, i love talking!

right now ive dedicated this blog to t&b ryan goldsmith for funsies but i like various things. more than you could imagine

queue posts once per day and i basically only queue things unless im actively making new posts

i make a bunch of posts that i dont tag at all. good luck finding them bc i sure fucking cant find them. some posts i just end up deleting anyways

i rarely go into any tags bc i have brain fungus but if you wanted to show me a post by sending it to me i would probably love to see it!

i dont usually follow back bc of the aforementioned brain fungus and instead skim through the latest things on the blogs of ppl interacting with me (if you wonder why i reblogged something from you randomly)

even if i dont reply in the case i get really busy irl etc, i still always read everything sent to me, every single reply, tag and ask!

my art tag: #gabriels doodles

wildly varying quality/effort

i do take requests if you want to try your luck in my ask box

my art-only blog, where i only reblog finished-enough art (im so slow at writing captions ill put my art on here one day for real): @limitedhorsepower

other miscellanous tags & fun facts about me:

#ryanyurikeith

the sun, the sky and the moon with extremely congruent life issues... its so deep and their themes go perfectly together

#gabriels ouroboros kings

barnaby & ryan & keith (side platter of ryan/keith)

the sternbild royalty (king of heroes x2 and the wandering gravity prince) as antagonists.

theyre all part of ouroboros for different reasons, but more loyal to each other than the organization for various reasons

#gabriels salaryman heroes

ryan/yuri/keith mainly, self-indulgent joke about high school romance tropes in an office building

more fun facts about me:

as you can see i have a few different T&B AUs that i may post about or just totally forget and never make content for again despite them being perfectly mapped out in my mind but i love to share facts about them

if you ever interact with me here and thought that my answer didnt make sense, it was probably just that my brain (ADHD&co.) actively works against me and i may make really bad typos or straightup forget to type half of the words in a sentence. but hey. i did my best. never be afraid to ask for a clarification though

i also genuinely suffer from being overtly verbose (again... my brain...) and please dont feel pressured to read something if i sent you an extremely long DM reply or made a really long-winded reblog or something. i just communicate like that but i dont mind if you cant read it LMFAO.

my long sentences makes me seem really serious sometimes even when im not but im very friendly i promise!

and let me know if my typing is hard to read, i can switch to proper capitalization and punctuation if needed

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risaonda · 4 months ago

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what is going on in Lost (is that what thw show is called) if thats too crazy to explain thennn who's a character ur rooting for:3 if any

idk if i ever posted when i did but i actually finished lost recently after forcing myself to sit down and do so (bc otherwise for the rest of my life i'd have I Never Finished Lost thoughts looming over me forever). it sure was a show

irt the post my queue reblogged that's daniel, his gf i don't remember the name of, and juliet who i still don't know how i feel about as a character. they coulda done more with her they killed her a really stupid way near the end but it didn't actually matter. i digress. so daniel accidentally killed his gf (a different one, not the one in the picture) or like fried her brain at least by doing time travel science and then years and years into the future weird shit was happening on the island because of his time travel stuff? i was on my phone a lot during this part idk but she died. i don't remember a lot of the specifics from that part bc in the end it was a blip nothing matters in this show. daniel at some point gets shot by a woman he recognizes is his mother in the past and he tells her this and then u find out his mother knew this was going to happen and sent him back in time in order to make sure this happened because it needed to bc fate or some shit. remember how this was a show about a plane crash

what i DO remember most clearly since it's freshest in my mind is they did this weird backstory for the smoke monster (there's a smoke monster on the island) where u find out he was originally just a guy and he had this brother jacob (jacob is a super important character from like some later season onward he's supposed to protect the island but no one has ever actually seen him. who cares). but u find out that their mom like crashed on a ship on the island while she was super pregnant and everyone else with her died and some lady on the island finds her and helps her out and then after she has her kids the lady kills her? and pretends to be the kids' mom instead??? and is like one day one of u is going to have to take over protecting the island, leaning heavily towards it's going to be the one that becomes the smoke monster (idk if he had a name i don't even remember) but one day he saw the ghost of his real mom and learned the truth and went uhhh fuck this i wanna leave the island LMAO. so fake mom goes okay jacob um actually ur gonna be the new protector and we are killing ur fail brother. i don't remember what all happens after that specifically i was super out of it but the smoke monster present day is pretending to be john locke after he died and everyone eventually realizes That Is Not John Locke and he's trying to leave the island and Go Home. at the end of lost he was the only one i was still rooting for genuinely i was so fed up with everything else. also they killed the like top 3 characters that were left (sun, jin, and sayid) back to back to back out of nowhere. the only other one besides the smoke monster i was rooting for was hugo who won the lottery and was like a millionaire and he hated it and everyone thought he was fucking with them when he told them this (which he didn't usually bc he didn't want people to hang out with him just for his money)

lost ended with everyone realizing they died in the plane crash and they all meet up with each other and help the others remember that they were on an island and died in a plane crash (bc they're like living lives in modern day but Wrong it was weirdddd) and then they all get together in a church and go to heaven. i'm not even kidding. also the more i think about this the madder i get bc michael an earlier character wasn't even there and there was no mention of him whatsoever, but he DID show up as a ghost before that so i can't even pass it off with Oh the actor was like fuck no i'm not coming back to lost. juliet WAS there? but she was not on the plane with them at any point. she was already on the island for years prior to the plane crash that's an entirely separate story i'm NOT going into. nothing made sense. very christian. every time i saw benjamin do anything i'd go that's sooo zep saw of him at one point he went "u broke the rules" or something along those lines and i was like THAT'S THE LINE! HE SAID THAT IN Saw.

#johnnyinmysilverhand #read more bc i typed way more than i expected to #even if it's a bunch of nothing text. this was a plane crash show #i'm not proofreading this also take it as it is. that's how they ran this show anyway

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lovemesomeeddiemunson · 5 months ago

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The Proposal - Part 6

Summary: When Steve Harrington is threatened with deportation, he blackmails his long suffering assistant, Eddie Munson, into marrying him. Steddie! The Proposal Au, Part 6 of 7. 5571 Words

Series Warnings: Blackmail. Food mentions. Mentions of unhealthy relationship with food. Cursing. Self harm (by means of tattooing.) Homophobia. Death of a parent. Abandonment by parents. Shitty parents. Homophobic parents. Parents with entitlement. Classism. Eventual sexual situations (no actual smut!) Brief allusion to a panic attack.

Authors Note: BEFORE READING PART SIX! Please be advised that MOST of the series warnings were written with this chapter in mind. Some of the content herein may potentially be triggering for some readers, and I ask that you proceed with caution and read at your own risk. That being said, this is the final part in this series besides our epilogue. I hope it's everything you wanted it to be.

The rest of the afternoon is a blur - not that it’s difficult. Eddie knows how to follow orders by this point - stand where told, smile even if he doesn’t feel like it…And Johnathan is actually incredibly helpful. With useful tips that make this whole thing…breezy.

The only problem is Steve.

Steve, who had turned on the charm and is determined to kill Eddie with it. Flirting through the whole process - whispering in Eddie’s ear and genuinely making him laugh right when the camera clicks…At one point Steve even queues up Johnathan to snap an idea he’s come up with on his own - of him pulling Eddie’s hand up to his lips and leaving a gentleman’s kiss on his knuckles while Eddie just fucking melts.

He’s so fucked.

Utterly and completely fucked - even as they flit from location to location, switching outfits, and subtly adjusting Eddie’s hair as they go.

And Steve is so fucking clever too, because with those things combined these photos could have been taken at any point. Not necessarily in a day.

It’s padding for their case - a nice little breadcrumb trail of evidence of a - if the Central Park carriage ride is to be believed - very romantic relationship.

Leaving Eddie just, wishing for the reality of it, despite himself.

They finish out the photo shoot at Steve’s once again, taking photos on Steve’s balcony under the setting sun and some twinkle lights. Once they’ve lost said light, officially, Johnathan dismisses himself. He tells them they’ve done great, that he’s off to edit, and he’ll send the finalized images to Steve by the beginning of next week.

Eddie fidgets nervously as Steve sees the other man out, unsure what comes next.

Not expecting, of all things, the exaggerated groan Steve lets out when he returns to him, or his. “I’m sorry.”

Eddie is taken aback, asking, “What are you apologizing for?”

“That was a lot. I know.” He explains. Eddie is baffled. Steve has never cared how much he adds to Eddie’s plate, until lately.

Eddie isn’t sure what to make of it. He laughs it off. “Yeah, well. I’ve been thoroughly compensated for my time, so don’t worry about it.”

Steve almost frowns - like the reminder of their work relationship had bummed him out for all of two seconds before his face smoothed over. “Of course. Still. Let me offer you a small bonus - dinner. Anything you want.”

Eddie is pleased at the offer, the thoughtfulness of it but also, how dinner sounds, just, amazing right now.

So, Steve orders them dinner. Eddie checks in with him, and then at insistence from Steve that he wear something more comfortable than the formal wear they had posed in lastly, he puts on his sweatpants and a band shirt, getting cozy on the couch.

Steve joins him, and Eddie is tense for all of two seconds until he clicks the tv on, asking Eddie what they should watch.

They spend the rest of the time settling on something, Steve eventually getting the door when the delivery arrives. As he retrieves their order, Eddie stands up, ready to head to the formal dining room, when Steve waves him off.

“Stay. I don’t have a tv out there.” He reasons.

Eddie is baffled. “Steve.” He protests, thinking of crumbs and grease and sauce, “I’m a messy eater.”

Steve only rolls his eyes. “I have maids. Plural. Now sit.”

Eddie knew that. He sits. It’s so weird.

Weirder still to watch Steve pop open the box of pizza on that same expensive coffee table, moaning in a way that will haunt Eddie’s dreams at the way the cheese pulls when he takes it from the box and puts it on a plate, offering Eddie the first slice.

They eat, the TV plays, and Eddie decides to analyze it all at a later time, even relaxes a bit.

“I was thinking…about what you said about giving me a key?” Steve tells him after a while, his eyes locked on the food below him.

Eddie swallows his bite before asking. “Yeah?”

Steve fidgets. “I…What I mean is, I took it to mean that you plan to keep your apartment?”

Oh. “I…I wasn’t thinking.” Eddie explains.

“We should discuss it.” Steve looks down. “I assumed you would live here…I’m hoping you’ll be amenable to it. I uh, I have a guest room that should suffice…But then there’s the matter of your apartment. If you were looking to get it back after the divorce, I would be willing to rent it out under a surname, shell corporation, something - I don’t know legal shit but like - whatever you need. I’d pay to hold it until you can take it back, if that’s something you wanted.”

Eddie is floored. “I’m not that attached to it, honestly. I uh…what I mean is, I can look for a new place. After. I’d be okay with that. I know you don’t believe in my music. But I do…So, if there’s shows to be played, records flying off the shelves…hopefully…I’ll have some money come in, and I can get something else-”

“You’ll have that option, Eddie. But even if you didn’t, I wouldn’t put you out on the street. We’ll work something out.” He clears his throat, Eddie can’t help but agree.

“Okay. So…cool. So…we’ll live here.” He says. In this expensive, massive, apartment, with a view. Geez.

Steve nods. “…Do you know when you want to formally move in?”

He’s baffled. “I figured you’d want to run out the clock, I know you like your space.”

Steve fidgets. “I actually don’t mind. Uh not just the living together part but…any of this. You’re really easy to be around.”

Eddie clears his throat, wipes his crumbs from his shirt and cringes. Changing the subject.

“Oh!” He perks up just a bit. “So, if that’s settled, we should discuss when my last day working for you will be.” He suggests.

Steve groans, all but sagging into the couch like he’s suddenly overcome with melancholy. Insists, “I don’t want to talk about that.”

Eddie, thinking it’s for the wrong reasons, keeps his tone gentle. “Stevie, we discussed this. You can have me as an assistant, or you can have me as a husband, but you can’t have both.”

Steve just huffs. “Do you know how hard it was to find someone competent?”

“I will vet the next guy myself, and personally call all of his references.” He’s chuckling, “You won’t be left hanging. I’ll make sure he knows how you like things.”

“It’s more than that.” Steve sighs. “You were the best. You anticipated my needs.”

Eddie blinks - surprised. Steve chews his lower lip. If he’s successfully disarmed by this, then it might be advantageous for Steve to offer his whole truth. A necessity, if he wants to keep Eddie. And god, he wants to keep him. Never wants to let him go.

Confesses, “Solo tu mi capisci.” Wistfully, even if Eddie can’t understand him fully. “It’s why I lied about your demo…I…I knew if I produced it, that I would lose you as an assistant. That was a dick move. And I’m sorry.”

Eddie doesn’t react how he expects him to. He sounds exasperated. “Dude.” He gasps. “You say sorry for everything now, do you realize that? Sorry for this and sorry for that just…stop. It’s not needed. Okay? I get it. I’ve always gotten it. I wouldn’t have kept working for you if I thought you were fully evil.”

Steve doesn’t mean to, but he hopes. It’s as close a compliment as he could deal with, ironically enough. “You mean that?”

Eddie laughs. “Of course. So…are we good? Nod if we’re good.”

Steve nods. Eddie says, “Awesome.”

Steve chooses to press his luck even further. “Would you…maybe want to stay? Feel free to say no but, the guest room is made up and I…I thought too that uh, we could get to know each other more?”

Eddie makes a face. “I don’t know, I don’t think I have anything to wear.” His tone is deadly serious.

The two of them share a look, before bursting into giggles.

“Oh wow. He really did a great job, didn’t he?” Eddie murmurs.

He’s at Steve’s apartment, as he had been every night since the first time Steve had asked him to stay.

His things had followed him here - little by little, slowly taking over the guest room as he transitioned from living in his own apartment to living here full time.

It wasn’t as difficult of an adjustment as he might have expected…Steve had been downright accommodating and the apartment was so nice.

He’d known that already of course, but on a recent work night he’d confirmed it.

Steve had dismissed him early - saying for a room full of their coworkers to hear that he would be home to him in an hour or two, and Eddie had used that time to go into rooms he’d never been in, telling himself that it was fine.

And what the whole place lacked in personality, it made up for in a wine fridge, a million windows, and a really great bathtub.

Fast forward to now, Eddie is peering over Steve’s shoulder while he sits with his laptop displayed in front of them, both of them looking over the edited images that Johnathan had sent Steve.

“He really did.” Steve agreed. Pointing to his favorite. A soft yellow sweater and floral shirt image, with his hair just so, Eddie’s tattoos prominent.

“I like that one I think, for the announcement? What do you think?” He smiles at Eddie. He’s been doing it more and more lately.

Eddie grins back. “A fine choice.”

Steve goes to say something else - but before he can, the pair of them are interrupted by a knock on the door, the two men sharing a look between each other.

“Did you…order something?” Eddie asks. But Steve looks equally confused.

“No.” He stands, crossing the room to answer the door. Eddie cranes his head to see who it is - wondering if he had his days mixed up, and Robin was supposed to be meeting them - but that doesn’t seem to be the case.

When Steve answers the door, there’s a middle aged man there in a light colored suit, a scowl on his face that Eddie would have known anywhere, because he had seen it, indirectly, every day. Would have known it even if Steve didn’t choke out, “Dad?”

“Steve.” His father - Richard Harrington - stands stoically, ominously inclining his head. “Aren’t you going to let me in?”

He looks over at Eddie then, announcing louder because he appeared to be part of this now too, “I want to talk to the both of you.”

Steve shakes his head, voice thready and his face pale, “Listen, whatever this is, whatever you came here for-”

His father pushes past Steve and into the apartment, speaking over him. “Your mom will never hear about any of this,” He says, looking over the whole place in disdain.

Picking imaginary lint up off the back of the couch, Richard explains. “Jim Hopper called me. He told me all about your sham wedding.” He scoffs, his face all twisted up in rage.

“You flew across the Atlantic for this?” Steve glares at him.

Richard just rolls his eyes, and Eddie is shaken at how eerily similar the sight is. Only, unlike Steve - pretty, bitchy, Steve, this scorn was something ugly. “We live in Manhattan now, Steven.” He chides him.

Steve throws his hands up in exasperation. “Well you never sent a Christmas card!”

His father ignores that. “Steve…When it comes out that this is a fake relationship, and it will, you will not be able to enter back into this country.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” Steve says hysterically. “I love Eddie.” And Eddie’s heart still swoops to hear it, even though he knows it’s not true.

“You didn’t convince the immigration officer, and you won’t convince me. It’s all just too convenient, Steve. Ignoring the unnaturalness of it all, you think I don’t know a means to an end when I see one?”

“You’re wrong. And you need to leave.” He grits out.

Richard sighs. “Just let me help you, son. There’s no need to risk your whole future on this, on some nobody. Did you even verify his background? He comes from thieves and scum in some no-name town in Indiana. His most recent legal residence is in a trailer park, for fucks sake! He’s nothing.”

Eddie tries not to show how affected he is by that, but Steve doesn’t.

“Shut up!” He shouts. “You don’t know him. You don’t know me. You don’t - you couldn’t even fathom what it’s like, to love someone based on who they are inside, not what they come from or what they have or even - yes dad - what they have going on downstairs!” He laughs.

“Don’t be crass.” Richard snaps back. Shaking his head in disappointment in a way that Steve was so familiar with. “I know it’s difficult for you, but please, try to see sense. If you allow this nonsense to continue, everything that your mother and I worked to give you, will have been for nothing.”

Steve’s only more enraged at that, stammering before managing to spit out. “You have given me nothing. You left me with nothing. Everything that I have, I earned. Without you.”

His father sneers even more then. “The only reason you knew how to walk in the right way, and dress the right way, and talk in the right way - is because of us. You’re not a self-made man Steve. You are what we made you. You owe your entire existence to us. Something you seem to need reminding of. And yet, as ungrateful as you are, still, I come all the way here on your behalf, to negotiate a deal-”

Eddie isn’t sure what they say from that point. It’s all in Italian. The argument dissolves into words that fly too fast and brutal for Eddie to ever hope to comprehend.

Finally, Steve gets him out of the door, just as he’d been threatening to do from the moment that Richard had gone after Eddie, all while his father snaps, “Don’t be stupid, Steve.” His forehead scrunching in frustration.

Steve just scoffs at that, and at his fathers resigned head shake, his accusatory “Inutile.” Steve slams the door in his face.

The sound echoes in the large apartment, Steve’s hands trembling once it’s all finished.

“Jeez.” Eddie mutters, lingering nearby, as Steve’s chest is heaving still. He whirls at Eddie - and then opens his mouth to apologize.

“Don’t you dare.” Eddie glares playfully at Steve.

Steve barks out a startled laugh. “Fuck, I -” he choked on the confession that wants to come out. Strangles it in his throat. “Thanks.” He says finally, lamely. Then he groans, rubs his eyes.

“No, thank you.” Eddie replies with a little chuckle. “Not every fake fiancé would so valiantly defend my honor.” He clutched his hand to his heart. “It was very sexy of you.”

He’s only half joking. But it works to make Steve laugh, still a little breathless.

“I wish you hadn’t seen that, are…are you still sure about this?” Steve asks, his voice rough from all the screaming. Worried too, that his father would have shaken Eddie’s confidence in the plan, Eddie thinks.

He tries to give Steve a reassuring look, to show him that’s not the case. “I’m still sure.”

Steve doesn’t feel much better. “I suppose that’s…good.”

Eddie frowns, hates the way Steve is still shaken and…so hurt. It isn’t fair. Eddie moves closer, promising, “He’s wrong, you know. You don’t owe him anything.”

Steve’s smile is worn, and Eddie closes the rest of the gap. He comes careening into his space, expression softening as their foreheads knock together gently. Both of them leave them.

“I know you don’t like to hear praise from me that you haven’t asked for - but you’re going to right now.” Eddie explains, quickly tacking on. “So suck it up, Buttercup.”

“No.” Steve shakes his head, not at the declaration, but at the nickname.

Eddie huffs. “Not Buttercup? Damn okay…You’re my angel…dust. Wait, no, that's a drug.”

“Say what you were gonna say or I’m walking away.” Steve jokes. Eddie grins back.

“Dick, he thinks you owe him. You don’t. Everything you have, from where I’m standing, looks to have been accomplished in spite of that asshat. Not thanks to him. That was certainly not a man who had a hand in bringing up someone as awesome as you - as smart, as funny, as kind-” Eddie declares.

Steve gasps, “Kind?” Like he can’t believe it.

“Oh you’re a bitch, don’t get me wrong.” Eddie laughs, voice admiral. “You’re not nice, per say…but you are kind. You act in favor of those you care about. I’ve seen it. Not just tonight, but in a million small ways before now.”

Steve gapes at him, swallows past the lump in his throat. “Eddie…” he starts. Aches to kiss him. Can’t. “No one has ever…” he trails off in a laugh, muttering. “Non ti merito.”

Eddie looks at him curiously. Steve has said too much. Unable or unwilling to elaborate without putting the whole thing they have in jeopardy, Steve takes a half a step back, breaking their contact.

Clears his throat. “Do you want to look at some more photos? I suddenly really want to get this announcement out. I might put it in the newspaper.”

“And have it handed out at your dad’s country club.” Eddie agreed.

Steve barks out a laugh - “How did you know he goes to a - you know what, never mind, I answered my own question.”

The night before their scheduled interview is spent much the same as every other night since the photo shoot.

Eddie and Steve, Steve and Eddie, existing in their home.

Steve’s got Eddie practically splayed out in his lap, and is touching up the black polish on Eddie’s nails, a surprisingly steady hand for it.

Eddie is trying not to giggle and kick his feet. And failing, only to settle himself with one stern look from Steve.

When they’ve almost finished, Steve gets a call on his cell that had sat on the coffee table. “Oh hang on, I gotta take this.” Steve tells him. Eddie nods, thinking it’s an important business call until he hears Steve cheerfully say, “Hey Wayne.”

Phone tucked up to his ear, he resumes painting Eddie’s nails while chattering amicably with Eddie’s uncle - in a way that Eddie quickly deduces, is not for the first time.

Eddie squeaks in betrayal. Steve levels another look at him. He keeps still.

The two chat while Steve finishes up, before Steve caps the polish and gives Eddie’s shoulder a little squeeze, releasing him to sit up, the fidgety man peering down at the flutter of his fingers.

A few minutes later, Steve gets off the call, telling him, “Wayne says hi.”

“I should be telling you that, Steve. Since when are you two so close, hmm?” He presses, batting his eyes at the other man. Not really bothered, Steve’s sure.

“Aw, don’t be like that. He called me the other day, just checking in. I told him about the deal we were working on - he wanted to follow up, see how it went.” Steve grinned.

“He’s adopted you.” Eddie clarified. “You’re his son now.” Eddie leaps agilely to his feet then. Meandering over to the kitchen with a hum. “Gosh, he’s going to be devastated by the divorce. Might try and keep you in the settlement once we’ve separated.” He laughs lightly, only joking, thinking nothing of it.

But his comments roll around in Steve’s mind long after they’ve passed.

Steve tries not to let them get to him - and maybe they shouldn’t affect him to such a degree, but Eddie has held strong to the agreed upon plan all this time.

Even with Steve attempting to ‘woo him’ as Robin put it, Eddie was never affected. He stayed the course.

And Steve…was feeling less and less confident about keeping him.

But more than that.

He’s started to get cold feet about this whole thing. The more he sees of Eddie - the more the other man relaxes around him, the less confident Steve is that he can go through with it.

It comes to a head at the forefront of their interview, with both men sitting in front of Hopper, side by side.

Steve thinks to the woman that had gotten arrested their first time here - how terrified she had been. Imagining the two of them getting caught and Eddie going through that…

Or the inverse.

Say they succeeded here. Say they passed with flying colors - his visa is approved and Eddie bound to him in all ways but the one that matters.

He imagines the first few days and months after they are married. Eddie would continue to be a good assistant, and a doting husband, until the heat is off and then…he would pull away.

He would leave his job, start his music career, his real life, they would eventually divorce, break Wayne’s heart, and Steve…

Steve would be heartbroken too. In love with a man who is too good for him.

And too good for what he was asking. Too good to risk when even the best outcome at this point, would have stolen years of his life for Steve’s sake.

Steve who suddenly can’t breathe when he imagines it.

In front of him, oblivious, Hopper is explaining to them what they are agreeing to undergo today - how the process will work, what kind of scrutiny they will be under. Reminding them once again of the consequences should they fail.

He hears none of it. Eddie is at this side, more assured of the plan now, nodding along in the right places. And Steve…

Steve is staring at him. Like it’s his first time seeing his face, or maybe his last. Committing it to memory, because he has an unshakeable feeling that there won’t be a chance to again.

He’s so fucking beautiful.

“Did you have a question, Steve?” Jim Hopper asks him then, looking pointedly at him.

Steve swallows. “Uh, no…” he supplies. Confusion has started to take over Eddie’s face.

“Your hand is up.” Jim informs him. Oh. So it is.

“Oh it’s…it's not a question, but I do have something I have to say.” He supplies.

“Steve.” Eddie says sternly.

He can’t bring it in himself to meet the other man’s eye. Lowers his hand, his gaze, and murmurs, “It’s okay, Eddie. You’re off the hook.”

Then he glances up to Hopper, tells him. “I have a confession to make…about the wedding.”

Jim raises an eyebrow, and Steve charges forward in the same span, “I forced Eddie to marry me. He…he has all these big dreams. And I knew that if I threatened to destroy them, he would do just about anything…So I blackmailed him, to come here to lie to you. And I thought it would be easy to watch him do it. But it wasn’t and I can’t ruin his life…” he clears his throat.

“It was my fault.” Steve finishes.

“Steve,” Eddie protests, his voice small.

He looks at him now, his eyes glassy. “I’m sorry but, this was a business deal and you held your end…so I will honor my part of it.” He swears. “I will make sure that you get your record deal…you’re a really talented musician, Eddie. You deserve it.”

It sounds like a goodbye.

Eddie opens and closes his mouth, but Steve has already turned his face to level a stare at Hopper, insisting, “You can’t penalize him. He was coerced…under duress…I-I don’t know legal shit, but, it wasn’t his fault.”

Jim chuckles in a humorless way. “Technically no crime was committed as of yet, so I think we can let his involvement in this slide.”

Steve nods. Eddie is still reeling, floundering for what to say as Steve presses further, “So, what now?”

“Well now that you’re leaving voluntarily, it all becomes very civilized. You have 24 hours to head back to Italy. I suggest you get a move on. I’ll be in touch.” Jim dismisses him.

With understanding Steve stands, and he flees. Hopper lets him leave, kicking his feet up on the desk. Smug.

Eddie had just had the rug pulled from under him, and he’s smirking, tone mournful. “I always get my man.” He sighs, shaking his head. “Pity.” Looking Eddie over, he suggests. “You’re free to go, kid. Consider yourself lucky.”

Lucky.

Eddie stands, walking out of the office before breaking into a run. He ends up on the busy sidewalk where not too long ago, Steve had gotten down on his knees to propose.

He’s nowhere to be found.

Eddie stands out there until it starts to rain. Only the wet drops on his face make him move - shielding himself from the storm as he pulls out his phone, looking to order a car on his app - his app that has fucking Steve’s place listed as his most frequent address now.

He breaks. Dials Wayne immediately instead of ordering his car. Blurts out, “The wedding is off.” As soon as Wayne answers.

Wayne waits a beat. Eddie breathes. Finally, his uncle asks. “…Are you okay?”

So Eddie tells him. All of it.

“So, uh, am I okay? No. Uh…I just feel…” He starts to shake with barely contained laughter. “You know what the problem is? It’s that this man is a gigantic pain in my ass. I mean, first he makes my life hell, for years. Years! Years I worked for this terrorist, and he doesn’t have the decency, the humanity, to say a single nice thing to me. Then he goes and he - he - unleashes every fucking kindness you can imagine, Uncle Wayne. He’s thoughtful, considerate, and fucking charming, okay? Only to take it all away again in one final, screw you Eddie. And I mean we had a deal right?!? We had a deal!”

He’s fully shouting now, breathing heavily. “We had a deal. And he pulls this…this crap.” Eddie trails off. Out of steam. Wayne clears his throat on the other end.

Eddie lets out a puff of air. “I’m sorry he just, he…he makes me a little crazy.” He explains.

“Yeah son, I can see that.” Wayne sounds amused. And then, gently, prompts. “So….you’re just gonna let him go?”

After having caught his breath, because - running - ugh - Eddie bangs insistently on the door to Steve’s apartment.

There’s a long pause. He bangs again.

A few moments later the door swings open, Steve there in what looks to be a very well worn gray shirt and jeans. Hair perfect as ever.

Mouth agape, he looks at Eddie - soaked from the storm - like he’s the last person he expected to see at his door.

Behind him, Eddie clocks the moving boxes stacked up all around the living room, labeled with sharpie.

He fumes at the sight.

Cell phone held to his ear still, Steve softly closes his mouth before he says, “Rob, I gotta go. I’ll call you back.” Then hangs up the phone. Shoves it deep into his pocket.

“What are you doing here?” He asks. None of the usual bite he usually puts in his tone.

“I needed to see you.” Eddie answers. Gestures to the boxes. “What the hell are you doing?”

“I’m going back to Italy.” He answers. Like it’s simple. Looking stressed, properly stressed for the first time Eddie can recall.

“Steve, what the fuck?” He stammers, short on what else he can say at this point.

Steve misunderstands. “I already made the calls about your record deal Eddie, there’s no stopping it now. The company bought your demo - they’ll get together with you about-”

“I don’t give a fuck about the stupid record deal, Steve!” Eddie gasps. “I care about you! What are you doing? Why are you doing this?”

Steve winces, stammering though his explanation as he reasons, “It’s like I told Hopper, Ed. I can’t watch you ruin your life for me. So I’m going home.”

“Home? That’s not your home, Steve. Your home is here. Where your job, where your best friend, where-” Where I am. He wants to say. Shakes his head in disbelief. “Steve, please.”

Steve swallows. “It’s just a job, Eddie. And Robin…she understands.”

“I don’t.” Eddie argues. “You’re running away. And you’re - you’re leaving me. What happened to - to I’m yours.” He reminds him of what he said in his office when he'd first hatched this scheme.

Steve looks broken at his question. “You were never mine Eddie. Despite that - Sei tutto ciò che non ho mai osato permettermi di volere - I’m sorry that I tried to claim you that way. I had no right. I can - I can see that now. It was never your burden to bear. Involving you was a mistake.”

Eddie flinches. “Are - are you really that aghast at being married to me?”

“The opposite.” Steve whispers.

“The opposite?” Eddie is incredulous.

“I…” Steve stutters.

Eddie’s angry again. His emotions knocking him from place to place at a breakneck pace. He’s done with the games, the manipulation, the carefully constructed answers. Wanting more. “Tell me the truth. You owe me that much.” He insists.

“Eddie.” Steve sighs, sounding like the older of the two of them. “What I asked of you was horrible. The blackmail was inexcusable and...You didn’t deserve it. And you didn’t deserve to be shackled to me, wrapped up in my lies and my bullshit. You’re so much better than any of it. You deserve so much…more.”

Eddie gapes at him. He continues. “And for the first time in a long time, thanks to you, I realize that I deserve more too. I deserve something that isn’t founded on deceit and pretending. I…I’m ready now, I think, to try and become a person who's worthy of it. And I have you to thank for it…because falling in love with you, it made me want to be a better person. Something I hadn’t felt in a really long time.” Steve smiles, and offers Eddie the door. “I’ll always appreciate you for that. Even if my heart aches to let you go.”

Eddie doesn’t hear the rest, if there’s more. All he’s heard is that Steve - Steve Harrington, his boss and his headache and his nightmare - and, most recently, his best friend…He loves him.

Steve loves him.

And like hell is he letting him get on a plane after that.

Steve tries to show him out, gently, but Eddie bristles against his touch, bursting at the seams to protest. “Wait! Wait! Just, wait…Steve, what if it wasn’t pretend. What if…I feel the same?” He implores.

Steve’s hopeful smile falls. “You don’t mean that.”

“I do.” He swears, choked up.

Steve shakes his head rapidly, voice low as he does that adorable thing he does when he doesn’t want to cry. “Trust me. You - You don’t really want to be with me.”

“Steve.” Eddie protests.

He swallows. “See, the thing is, there is a reason why I’ve been alone since Nancy. I’m not good Eddie. I’m ruinous and full of baggage, wrapped up in my own need to be self-serving. And maybe someday that’ll change, but I’ll be in Italy by then…So…It would be easier if we forgot everything that happened, and I just left.”

Eddie pulls Steve in, doesn’t let him go even as he won’t hear what he’s saying. “You’re right. That would be ‘easier.’”

“Eddie…” he argues.

“Steve.” He says again, more firm. “Listen to me carefully. I’m in love with you. So I’m going to need you to stop berating yourself and just marry me. Because I want to be with you and I can’t do that if you’re expelled from the country. We can figure everything else out later just, marry me, Steve. For real. And I will prove it. I will. I will spend every spare minute proving it. Proving that the way I feel is real.��

Steve shakes his head.

Eddie presses closer. “Steve. Pretty please, with cherries on top, marry me. I’ll get on my knees, even.”

Another head shake. “You had better not.”

“Later then.” Eddie says fervently. “Just…will you?”

Steve thinks. Eddie waits, until finally he whispers. “Eddie…I’m scared.”

“Me too! Terrified. Let’s be terrified together.” He laughs. And Steve stares at him for a few more seconds. Quiet. Contemplative.

“Stevie.” Eddie says fervently then, brown eyes glimmering with hope. “Nod if we’re good?”

Steve smiles, and he nods.

The tension in Eddie fades - and he kisses him. Really kisses him.

“So, let me see if I’ve got this right.” Hopper sighs, glaring sharply at the two of them, “You two are engaged again.”

“Yes.” The two men answer in tandem.

Hopper raises an eyebrow, “For real?”

“Yes.” Steve smiles as Eddie says “Yeah.” Both of them nodding along.

“You’re sure you wanna go through this - because one wrong answer and I’m gonna Take. You. Down.” He threatens.

Steve and Eddie look at each other briefly before looking back at Hopper.

“Okay.” They both simultaneously answer, a little timid but still sure.

Hopper smirks, the challenge long past accepted as he says enthusiastically. “Let’s do it.”

Series Masterlist Next Part: Part 7, Epilogue Previous Part: Part 5

#stranger things #eddie stranger things #eddie munson #steve harrington #steddie #eddie munson fic #stranger things fic #steve stranger things #richard harrington #Steve Harrington has shitty parents #Wayne munson #the proposal steddie #the proposal au #steddie the proposal au #Steve harrington has daddy issues #steddie proposal #bisexual eddie munson #bisexual steve harrington

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freyito · 6 months ago

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I’m so sorry if this is rude, but do you ever plan to update your queue post? I think some of the stuff on it might be stuff you’ve posted, but I’m not sure

ik u said to ignore this anon but ACTUALLY im gonna use this to my advantage. this isn't me like yelling at you lol just so you know. just to reiterate a couple things

the first is i am missing a couple asks on my queue post and i do essentially queue everything the minute i see i got an ask or i get an idea. normally i delete them off my queue or on my pinned post when i finish them (unless they were never on there which kinda happens a lot ((fics and ideas that just. hit me and dont let go)), but i do post a lot late at night and normally when that happens i update my queue and my masterlist the next day over cause i am too sleepy!!!!!

second is since im getting a lot more followers (like a lot more than i thought id get for such self indulgent pieces lol and even as a m! writer in general tbh) i want everyone to know what i said above!!!! BUT ALSO i dont rlly have a set schedule and i try and write when i can. i did JUST get a job so im still kinda learning to balance my writing and stuff like that since they haven't really given me a consistent schedule. so lowkey half the time i'll be like "new fic tomorrow". and then there is NOT a new fic that day. sometimes i just get rlly excited to post a fic and then i space out for a while, that happens a lot when youve got mad adhd and like sooo many things you can do and want to do!! that you just . do nothing.

i also tend to be overambitious (those who have read my fics since i first posted know lol and also my moots) so i'll like load up my queue with all these ideas and then a month later i'll delete some cause i like. totally forgot.

i also have had a couple of gripes with asks i get... which i hope i dont sound rude T_T. LIGHTNING ROUND THO!!!

i've had a couple of anons (before AND now) drop essentially the same ask (same anons), and i know i don't outright say which ask is which cause i try my best to give fics genuine titles, but just know i dont rlly delete asks !!!!!! unless they are against the rules

ON THAT NOTE!!! i urge everyone to pleaaaase read my rules waghhh!!!! i've gotten a lotta asks about a pregnant reader (specifically!!!!). i'm not here to yuck anyones yum at all but i myself am uncomfy with writing pregnancy (simply cause its a huge fear of mine lol). genuinely that is like the ONLY rule people gloss over (granted i need to update my rules uber soon). that doesn't mean i wont write stuff where reader and character adopt kids or whatever, just no pregnancy nothing like that

i've also had anons/people in my inbox ask "when will x fic come out" or ""check up"" on fics. please know that i am working on everything on my own time!!!! i try my very best to drop fics in order of my queue and i do prioritize requests!!!! but there are days where suddenly i am not feeling an ask or a fic i'm writing so to avoid burn out and fatigue and just overall producing a soulless piece i work on a different piece.

i'm also currently switching from headcanons & drabbles to mainly oneshots, cause i've just had a lot more fun writing bigger and proper pieces!!! that doesn't mean i won't write hcs/drabbles when i see fit ofc, but due to this lowkey like 80% of my asks went from "haha silly little drabble" to full on oneshots (and some even full on fics!). so my writing and ""production"" time has been significantly increased.

also another thing of note: over time i've kinda just slowed down if not halted completely on writing fics for fem readers... the Robin one will most likely be my last x Fem! reader simply cause it feels odd for me to write fem reader all of a sudden. mainly cause i am . a boy lol and i did start this account to write for male readers (cause especially after coming out several years ago it was just so hard to find x male readers yk??). I won't be deleting x fem reader requests cause lowkey they are all kinda bangersss so most of the time I will default to gn reader or switch to male reader as i see fit..

also lowkey circling back to the queue and masterlist in general, all my masterlists have a date at the very bottom for when i updated them o7

That was a LOT I AM SO SORRY.... but lowkey had to get a couple things out there T_T i think it's kinda cause i just switched up on mk and went into hsr so fast so my asks def have a different vibe in general lol...

#freyposting

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hoe4hotchner · 3 years ago

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Chapter 11 - After

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x Fem!Reader

Summary: In an upper-class residential Virginian neighborhood, monogamous values rarely get broken. A dangerous serial killer chooses to lay into dormancy exactly there for the next five years with his latest victim. Or for as long as it takes to catch him. Two highly trained and widely different agents go undercover, posing as a married couple to scope him out and make the arrest. They’ll be nothing more than professional for months, working under the same roof.

Word count: 2.9k

Warnings: Lil angst, mentions of sex

A/N: Guys this was so hard to write, I almost gave up bc I honestly didn’t know where I would take this chapter.

Masterlist

Gif credit: ??

Waking up, you felt the coldness of your bed, the missing piece. It was weird waking up next to nothing. After having spent so many nights cuddled up with Aaron in that bed. That wonderful bed that had been yours for a while. You missed it. Waiting for the alarm to go off, you stared up at your ceiling, your eyes following the connections of the white painted planks as you dwelled on everything that had happened over the past couple of months. The assignment. The first night in the house. Meeting everyone for the first time. The party where Aaron had started showing his true colors. And everything after that as well. Thinking about your get-away life with Aaron made your heart flutter. Butterflies flying around in your body and making you feel giddy, like a teenage girl seeing pictures of her crush. You couldn’t help but think back to all the times before, how you’d been at each other’s throats, jeopardizing almost every single mission. You’d thought that it was out of pure hate for the opposing person. When in reality, it had all been the tension, sexual tension, that had misguided both of you.

As your alarm blared out its annoying sound, you groaned as you hit the button, skilfully turning it off as you slipped out from under your sheets. Although you loved your job, you really hated having to get out of bed and go to work. The commute was horrendous at this hour, right in the middle of the morning rush hour.

With half-closed eyes, you stumbled out of your apartment and into the parking garage, finding your slightly rusty car. That was certainly one thing that you hadn’t missed while being away. Having gotten used to the large Cadillac and the way it rolled smoothly over the asphalt, you almost wanted to kick your own car. Seeing the scratched alu rims from the previous owner, the indent under your tail lights from the time someone hit you, the stone chipped windshield from that one hectic day where you took the highway to work. It was a rusty trash can of a car, not even a broke college student would choose to drive around in it. You needed a new car, and soon.

For once, the road to work was not crowded with cars. Perhaps it was the later hour, or the high spirits hearing your prayers. You didn’t mind it, you loved not having to wait in a long queue of cars that would only let two or three cars through the lights at a time, max. It was freeing.

Parking in your spot at the office, you looked at the time. For once, you didn’t have to rush upstairs to get to your desk in time. For once, you could sit down and enjoy a nice cup of coffee, because you had the time. For once, you wouldn’t be late. There was something about everything that made you happier, genuinely happier, it was like a new you had emerged from the Emerald Hills. A you that had changed for the better as you leaned into yourself. A you that wasn’t afraid to make a mistake, to disappoint. You finally had the ability to be you.

You hummed lightly, a joyous melody while waiting for the pot to finish brewing your coffee. It seemed that you were the first person in that morning. Not having checked if Hotch was there. Everything was calm, no sound, no phones ringing, no cases looming over your heads as you tried to consult from afar.

“(Y/N)? Are you humming? Babe, what happened to you in there? And who are you?” You heard the sound of Emily’s voice behind you. She had pulled you out of your own thoughts, snapping back to reality. You spun around to look at her. Carefully sipping the hot mugful of black delicious coffee as you waited, trying to find the right words to say. Emily was right, you weren’t yourself, but this was for the better and you knew it.

“We caught the guy. What’s there more to say.” You smirked before striding away from the conversation and over to your desk. She was left in the kitchen area, watching you with a touch of disbelief hinting in her features, determined to get the truth out of you at some point. They had all seen the way that you acted with Aaron yesterday, and all of them wanted answers. They knew they weren’t going to get it from him, maybe Rossi could, but you were their best offer to get the information.

Upon sitting down in your chair, you noticed the pile of paperwork you’d left unattended before being sent undercover. You cursed yourself under your breath for always pushing it off to the last minute. At this point, it looked more like a mountain, ready to collapse, than a stack of unfilled notes. It was hopeless. Picking up the first file in the load, you flipped it open, skimming over the dates and place names. How on earth were you supposed to remember something so far back? When all your life had been reduced to the glamourous aesthetic of book clubs and wine walks. Your brain had quite literally forgotten how to do work in the time away from your desk.

The rest of the team kept filing into the bullpen, taking their respective seats at their desks as they started working on their own reports. It was weird how none of the usual banter was shared that morning, how everyone seemed so focused on their work at hand. It was like they weren’t themselves like something had changed them during the past couple of months. You wanted to know what, just as much as they wanted to know what had happened to you, but you weren’t ready to talk. You didn’t know where you were standing with Aaron yet, what exactly your relationship had become. But for now, it was best to just let it remain private between the two of you and wait for the next step together.

“(L/N), can I see you in my office?” Almost on cue, Aaron emerged in the frame of his door, looking out over the bullpen, like a king on his subjects. He was quickly gone once again. As you rose from your seat, the rest of the bullpen’s eyes rested on your back. They watched you walk the walk of shame up to the principal’s office, as they liked to call it. You swore you could even hear Morgan click his tongue at you as you passed his desk on your way up the few steps.

“You wanted to see me?” You closed the door behind you as you walked in, seeing Aaron sit behind his desk, hands folded on top of the leather blotter, you felt mesmerized by him. Although you were devastated as you noticed that he had shaved off the beard he had been growing while in character as Nick. Your body remembered the tremendous amount of pleasure he had bestowed upon it, and twice at that. It remembered every single spot his fingers had ever touched. The way his cock had stretched you out and brushed against you with every single thrust. It remembered everything. Somehow it was like his scent was starting to cloud your vision as you stood there, waiting for him to say anything. But he just looked at you. As if he was searching for something that could make him return to your old relationship, before the case, before everything.

“Take a seat.” Aaron gestured to the chairs in front of his desk. They were uncomfortable, you remembered that from every single time he had reprimanded you in his office. He really ought to get some new ones if the rest of the team were to stop referring to it as the principal’s office. You followed his wish and sat down, hands folded in your lap as you tried figuring out what exactly he had called you up for.

Sitting in silence, you waited for him to continue. To tell you what you’d done wrong. What had caused you to sit in this chair? What did he want from you? You were silently panicking. Perhaps even thinking that one of your mishaps from the case could be the root of your visit to his office. It was almost as if Hotch could feel your worry as he spoke next.

“You’re not in trouble, don’t worry.” His face lit up in a grin, watching you visibly relax as you slumped a bit in your seat. “I really just wanted to talk to you about the other night.” You were listening, knowing exactly what night he was talking about. The night where you’d revealed your interest in the Greeks and their mythology as you laid on your balcony engulfed in each other’s arms, stargazing. Something that you’d never done with anyone before. It was a special memory for the both of you, and one that you in particular cherished above anything else. “I just couldn’t help myself. I had to see you. I have no idea why, but there’s not a single minute that goes by without me thinking about that date you promised me.” He smiled at you. This was undoubtedly the most unprofessional you’d ever seen Aaron Hotchner be while you’d worked under him. It was like you were taken right back to high school again. All those jitters of your crush talking to you, the gossip that followed. Everything just seemed so familiar to your teenage years. You couldn’t lie that you hadn’t been thinking about it as well. It was the excitement bubbling. The mere thought of having the real Aaron Hotchner to yourself. Not the unit chief. Not Nick. Not Hotch. Just Aaron. A smile formed on your lips at the thought. Everything was perfect.

“What are we going to do about…?” You nodded your head towards the closed blinds. Aaron instantly knew what you meant as he too remembered the peering eyes of his agents the day prior. Thinking it over for a moment, he nodded once, directing his attention back at you.

“If they ask, tell them that I want your report on the mission on my desk first thing Monday morning.”

“And do you?” You raised a brow at him, already knowing the answer as you watched his lips twist into a small smile.

“Actually, that would be great (Y/N). Now c’mere.” He leaned forwards on his desk. Almost lifting his ass off the seat of his chair as he waited for you to lean in as well. You happily complied, pursing your lips to push them against his. You felt how your heart started beating faster and faster as you were mere inches from each other. You brushed your lips softly against his. Your lips danced together in a perfect symphony, just long enough for Aaron to inhale your scent when a knock on his door pulled you away from each other. Almost as quick as it had started, the kiss ended.

“Enter,” Aaron announced after you had time to adjust yourselves in your respectable chairs. Not a single strand of hair was out of place as Garcia entered the office with her tablet clung against her chest. She looked at the two of you. Desperately trying to figure out what all of this was about and why you seemingly weren’t at each other’s throats like usual. Instead, you were meek. Never had she heard you be as silent as you were right now. And especially not around the unit chief.

“Cruz is on the line for you Sir. Says it’s very important.” Garcia informed the chief. Hotch quietly thanked her before picking up the landline on his desk. He clicked the flashing button, waiting for Cruz to start speaking. You followed Garcia out. Stretching your hand behind your back before you walked out of his office to wave a silent goodbye to the man. Although you didn’t see it, Aaron still fluttered his fingers back at you.

As you plopped back down at your desk, you were instantly surrounded by your fellow agents. Their questioning looks made you feel like you were being interrogated. Even Garcia tried her best to look as intimidating as the rest, but you couldn’t help but smile at her poor attempt. She really was just as frightening as a newborn kitten.

“Now, tell us! What was all of that about?” Rossi was the first to speak. Figuring that although he probably could manage to pressure it out of Aaron, that it would be way more fun putting you under the spotlight.

“He just wants the report done by Monday morning.” You shrugged trying to spin your chair to face your desk. But Morgan was quick to spin you back around.

“Babycakes, you know that’s not gonna cut it. We want to know about the hand holding yesterday! Are you two an item?” Morgan was firm in his tone as he nearly forced you to hold eye contact with him. It was no wonder why most unsubs cracked under his hard stare. You were sure, that if you hadn’t been trained for these situations, that you would’ve cracked too. There was no way in hell that you would tell them that you had sex yesterday before arriving. Or that he had fucked you merciless after the thing with Reid. Even just thinking about it, you could feel your pupils starting to dilate. Mentally slapping yourself, you made them retract again, focusing on the people in front of you.

“I was overwhelmed, alright. That want you want to hear?” Lie. “It’s hard being yanked back and forth between what’s real and not.” The tone in your voice was starting to grow irritated as you quickly started twisting your story back to reality, portraying how you really felt about the situation. “Listen. I don’t know how many times you guys have been undercover. But I truly don’t want to do that anymore. It’s tough. I haven’t talked to my mother for months. Hell, she probably thinks that I’m dead. I grew accustomed to that life. The luxury. The car. The peace and quiet. And now I have to figure out how to resume with my old life. So please and thanks if you would just let me write this report so I can finally go back to what’s normal.” You were sure that you were almost yelling by now as you shifted your gaze between each and every one of your friends. “Hotch could tell that I was tired and overwhelmed, so he made sure that I was okay. Like he would’ve done for any of you.” You scowled at them. Your arms now crossed over your chest as you leaned your body back against the back of your chair. Brows were furrowed as you tried to make them realize just what kind of a situation you’d been forced into on the day you had gotten your assignment. Not of them had been undercover at any time during your years with the BAU. But you, you had even been lent out to other sections and departments in the Bureau. All things that you had never asked for as you had sent in your application for the job.

“Wow, we really didn’t think of that. I’m so sorry (Y/N).” Penelope was the first to speak after you’d reprimanded every single one of them for being as inconsiderate as they were appearing. Of course, you weren’t actually angry with them, but they just had a need to pry in everything that they could. It was their nature. This time around, you really wanted to keep things private.

“Don’t worry about any of it. I’m not mad. I’m just frustrated. You know how many times I’ve been sent out?” Your voice was calmer as you’d taken a deep breath, trying to steady yourself, to be civilized. It was not their fault afterward. “Too many. I’ve lost friends and family members due to the times I’ve been gone. All which I hadn’t chosen to do out of my own accord. I never wanted to go undercover. It’s just a lot. And I hope this will be the last time. Please just let me finish this stupid report that mister hard ass up there wants on his desk by Monday morning.” You hoped that by mocking Aaron, that you would throw them off their scents.

It wasn’t hard for them to understand your frustrations. They knew just how aggravating this job could be. Most of them having done it several years longer than you. To the point where it was all they ever knew how to do. They left you be as you finally managed to turn your chair in. Picking the folder for the report up and started working on it.

It was a living hell trying to write it up, your thoughts running wild as you reminisced about everything that had happened between you and Aaron. How you’d grown as people. You were snapped out of your own head as you heard the sound of your phone going off in your bag lying next to you on the desk. You stuck your hand through the opening, rummaging around until you grabbed the electronic, seeing that a message had popped up:

Already miss you. Date tonight? Wear something nice ;) - AH

Taglist: @bitchwhytho @ashhotchner @ssahotchslover @witchybitch2 @wheelsupkels @red-red-rogue @katiehall99 @mintphoenix @slytherinprincess00 @skylar666 @skyewardolicitycloisdelena91 @cheyxfu @hotchnerxo @rousethemouse @honeyofthegods @ssamorganhotchner @mayasreadingnook @avatarkanemi @mischiefmanaged71 @fullmoonshadowwrites @chelseagirl77 @itsmytimetoodream @isa-the-butler-simp @marvel-mars @blacksstarrynight @lethological-clara

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snackhobi · 4 years ago

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this is my part of the rockin’ around the christmas tropes collab with @yeojaa, @underthejoon @ladyartemesia, @ppersonna, @untaemedqueen, @xjoonchildx ✨ MERRY (early) CHRISTMAS Y’ALL

summary: yoongi is your favourite regular. he’s patient, polite, and predictable, a-large-black-coffee-to-go-please, no cream, no sugar, thank you. rinse and repeat. the seasons might change, but yoongi’s order stays the same.

and then one fateful day in winter, yoongi asks about the weekly specials, orders a cup of christmas and sugary sweetness, and everything starts changing.

pairing: yoongi x barista f!reader / word count: 14.8k / genre: coffeeshop!au, fluff, dash of smut (NSFW)

warnings: slow burn, terrible drink concoctions, pining, miscommunication (kind of/reader comes to incorrect conclusions based on literally nothing), the tiniest bit of swearing, heated makeouts, oral (m receiving), I think that’s it

a/n: I have a lot of people to thank: thank you to my loveliest most beautiful wife @yeojaa for the beautiful banner 🥺💖 thank you to @morndas for helping me name this fic and suggesting some of the awful weekly specials featured within 🥰 thank you to @yeoldontknow for letting me have multiple meltdowns at her and for letting me pick her brain about working in the music industry, and for helping me with plot points I wasn’t sure about!! 💕

also thank you to @hobi-gif for helping me brainstorm the original fic idea with her; she hasn’t beta’ed this fic because I am TERRIBLE and literally finished this like an hour before posting. that’s on me and not her. I am a shambles without her indomitable proof reading skills; any mistakes are down to me, and I apologise for that. I’ve only read this through like once, sorry in advance, I’m literally formatting this while I should be getting ready for work

Being a barista isn’t all bad.

Like, okay, you’re on your feet for hours at a time, the pay isn’t exactly the highest in the world, and coffee beans have a tendency to end up in the weirdest places (how did you get the light roast in your bra?)—but it’s not entirely terrible.

Here’s a (totally not comprehensive) list of good things about working at the Paradise coffee shop:

The free drinks (y’know, for taste testing purposes)

The free food (you probably eat more than you’re actually allowed, but who’s telling?)

Your coworkers (like Taehyung, who is—yep—currently shoving a whole mini panettone in his mouth)

Most of the customers are pretty nice, too (you have some lovely regulars)

(If you had to be more specific, there’s one regular in particular that you really, really like—)

(Yoongi appears like clockwork every week. Just after the Tuesday lunch rush, the bell above the door will sing out its greeting as he steps inside, ordering the same drink each and every time he’s here—a large Americano, to go, plain and simple and unadorned, no room for cream or milk, no added sugar or sweetener.)

(Yoongi really is the perfect customer. He has been from the very beginning, a point of quiet in a churning sea of hot, sweaty people all begging for frappés and milkshakes, the hottest point at the very peak of summer. The queue had been growing longer and longer, out of the doors as the blenders whirred their way through a neverending cascade of sugary, iced blends; the counters were a mess and all the baristas were running around and everything was chaos and in had walked this guy, all dark hair and dark eyes and dark clothes, even in the height of summer—you were ready for death at this point, hands sticky with syrup and apron streaked with flecks from almost every drink from the summer menu, and you’d braced yourself for some terse words, impatience and passive aggressive comments on the long wait—)

(—and this intimidating man had just patiently asked for an iced Americano, calm and quiet and polite.)

(You’d fallen a little in love, then and there. Fallen in love with that simple order, quick and easy to make, and fallen a little in love with the dichotomy of the man who looked like nothing but sharp edges being the softest customer you’d had all day. There was nothing rushed about his motions, no desperate need to get his drink and get away, no anger at having waited for so long.)

(He’d been ready to pay, too, no fumbling with his wallet or money; he’d tapped his card, easy and breezy and all lemon squeezy, but he’d left a tip in change, dropped almost thoughtlessly into the jar. He’d collected his cup with the smallest upturn to his lips, a tilt of his head, and then he’d left, other customers parting before him like the Red Sea.)

(The only thing that’s changed over the months is that the iced coffees of summer have changed into hot Americanos for the cooler months, autumn and now almost-winter, warding off the chill in the air. Everything else is the same; his dark eyes and low voice and patient smile, small but ever present, pressed lightly into the surprisingly soft line of his mouth.)

(So, yeah. Yoongi is your favourite customer. Even if you’ve barely spoken, really, the two of you dancing through the same short script each time he comes in—the longest conversation you’ve had so far is the one where you’d tentatively asked if he’d like a rewards card, and after a moment of contemplation, he’d quietly agreed.)

(You like to think that you’re Yoongi’s favourite server, too. Maybe it’s wishful thinking, but—)

(Taehyung had been stunned into speechlessness, because, to quote his words exactly: “I tried getting him to sign up for a card last time and I swear he just pretended he couldn’t hear me? He just straight up didn’t respond? What?”)

(—you know Yoongi likes you at least a little bit.)

Anyway. You’re getting off the point. Paradise is a decent place to work, the people are nice, and the building is pretty and airy and welcoming and warm, toasty and cosy in the upcoming cold of winter. It’s one of the things that keeps people coming back, that lovely atmosphere.

Another thing that people apparently love about Paradise is the constantly changing menu. It’s not enough to have seasonal menus, no—you need to have weekly specials, apparently, to keep people interested. It’s like a gachapon, but instead of cute little capsule toys, it’s a random mix of concoctions that are hit or miss.

“Well, I liked the Peachy Keen Jelly Bean,” Taehyung says, around a mouthful of sweet bread, still chewing his way through the panettone.

“You’d be the only one,” you reply, swiping a cloth over the counters and crinkling your nose at the pile of coffee grounds you gather. “Iced peach tea with blackberry and vanilla and cherry and watermelon syrup has got to be one of the worst things we’ve ever served.”

That had definitely been one of the misses. This week’s special, though, is far more palatable, if incredibly sweet—Crystal Snow, a white chocolate mocha with whipped cream, dusted with powdered sugar, and a crystallised sugar stick to stir in. Sugar on sugar on sugar, basically. (Your teeth ache just thinking about it.)

But there’s always something so fun about making the winter specials, no matter how sugary they are; the smell of the sticky syrups, the swirl of cream to top off the cup, the dusting of cocoa or cinnamon, everything mulled in the sweet warmth of winter. Even if the drink you’re making is questionable, you get so excited about it, genuinely enthusiastic when you recommend them to customers, carrying everyone into the spirit of the upcoming holidays. You’d hardly describe making coffee a billion times a day fun—it’s pretty exhausting, actually—but you’ve always had a weird affection for the winter menu and the weekly specials alongside it.

You don’t upsell the drinks because you have to. You do it because you want to.

(You’re pretty good at it too. Not a flex: just a fact. Your customer service is on point.)

The only person you’ve never tried to persuade into trying something new is Yoongi. He might not be rude or short tempered, but he clearly knows what he wants, and you hate the idea of ruining the easy flow of his visits. You’re not about to embarrass yourself by asking Mr No-Cream-Or-Sugar if he’d like a drink that's nothing but cream and sugar. Asking about the rewards card had been nerve-wracking enough, even if it had been worth it for the genuinely-unintentional-but-definitely-not-unpleasant brushing of your fingers when you’d handed the card over to him.

(Okay. Look. Yoongi is patient and pleasant and polite and cute. You never thought that you’d crush on a customer, but here you are. He just… oozes masculinity in an understated, self-assured way that has you internally swooning. He looks intimidating and serious but when he smiles his eyes go soft-soft-soft, his voice a low rumble as he gives you his gentle thank you, and everything about him is just so… attractive. Even the way he holds his coffee is hot, fingers loose around the lid as he makes his way out of the café, your eyes tracing every motion as he goes. Like. Come on. Of course you’re crushing on him.)

(Just a little bit, though. Just a little bit. It’s just an itty bitty crush. A teeny weeny crush.)

The bell above the door chimes. Your kneejerk reaction is to snap your head over to see who it is—but you hold it together, instead letting your head turn at a normal, natural pace. It’s just an unfamiliar woman, rearranging the tassels of her long scarf with one hand and holding her phone with the other as the door swings shut, and you deflate.

(... It’s a small crush, you swear. It’s not like this is around the normal time Yoongi appears and you’d thought it was going to be him. Nope. Definitely not that.)

As the woman lingers near the counter, eyes flicking between her phone and the chalkboard menu on the wall above your head, Taehyung finishes licking the panettone crumbs off his fingers.

“It’s Tuesday,” he states solemnly.

“I know?”

“It’s just past two o’clock,” he continues.

“I know,” you repeat, glancing at him quizzically. “You told me what the time was less than five minutes ago.”

“I did.”

The bell chimes again. This time, a gaggle of giggling girls come bubbling into the café, cutting you off before you can ask what Taehyung is trying to say. You go to flick your cloth at him before thinking better of it, not wanting to rain dark roast everywhere.

“Go wash your hands,” you say, just as the scarfed woman approaches the counter, ready to order. A bright smile splits your face, voice rising into its usual peppy Customer Service tone. “Hi, welcome to Paradise! How can I help you today?”

She barely glances up from her phone as she orders, asking for a latte macchiato and croissant, a distracted ‘no thanks’ when you ask if she’s interested in this week’s special. Oh well. The girls behind her, though, all seem incredibly excited when they catch wind of it; they all eagerly listen as you describe what a Crystal Snow is, your eyes lighting up as you mime piping the cream and dusting the sugar on top, laughing when they ask if they can buy extra sugar sticks to take home, because of course they can, you’d be happy to do that for them, would they like those in to-go bags? Yes, the bags are cute, aren’t they, the snowflakes are lovely, you agree.

Taehyung’s just finished wiping the steam wand when you give him the next order. You see the way his face crumples before his brows lift and his lips purse, pleading as he looks at you with big eyes, and you just roll your own eyes affectionately.

“Yes, yes, I’ll make them even though you’re meant to be on the bar, it’s fine,” you say, and Taehyung’s whole face lights up.

You’ve worked with Taehyung long enough by now to know that it takes him until at least Wednesday to memorise how to make whatever that week’s special is. And there’s not a queue, so you don’t mind taking over, pulling espresso shots and steaming milk and pouring everything together, puffing air in Taehyung’s face when he peers at your cream swirling technique. (No matter how many times you’ve tried to teach him, he’s never been able to get it right, usually just farting a mess of cream out of the nozzle and hoping for the best. Results are… mixed.) Maybe the flourish you put into dusting the sugar on top is unnecessary, but, hey. It’s fun. You smile to yourself as you give a small flick of the wrist over each drink, powdered sugar floating down like snow, and, done.

You don’t like to toot your own horn but the drinks come out Instagram perfect, each latte glass set on a tiny napkin on a saucer, sugar stick on one side, and you take a moment to admire your work.

“They’re so pretty,” Taehyung says, and your smile grows wider.

The girls all agree, cooing over the drinks in a way that only makes your smile grow even more, wide on your face. You watch as they squirrel themselves away in a corner, talking and laughing and nibbling their food and sipping at their drinks, pleased at the way their eyes widen at the first taste.

Yeah, it’s the small things that makes your time here good. Being a barista is a thankless job most of the time, as relaxed as Paradise usually is, so you try to appreciate the small things. Like having fun when you make a drink, for example. Making nice customers happy. (Having cute regulars that you can quietly ogle.)

Actually, on the note of cute regulars—

“Your 2:15 appointment is here.”

You tear your attention away from the table of girls at the sound of Taehyung’s voice. “My what—?”

There’s someone in front of the glass display, hunched as they slowly and quietly peruse the selection of pastries and food inside—and you realise with a jolt that it’s Yoongi. You have no idea how long he’s been there, so distracted with patting yourself on the back for making a few nice drinks; oh, God, what if Yoongi had seen your pleased expression? Do you look smug? You probably look smug. Great, now he probably thinks that you’re a self-obsessed clown, honking your nose like some sort of narcissist.

“You’re spiralling,” Taehyung points out mildly, voice low enough that Yoongi doesn't hear.

His surprisingly perceptive comment snaps you out of aforementioned spiralling, and after shaking yourself off, you glance over at him. “Why didn’t you serve him?”

He shrugs. “He didn’t seem like he wanted to be served so I just left him to it.”

To be fair to Taehyung, he’s not wrong. Yoongi is staring intently at a slice of carrot cake—even if he’s never ordered any before—and it’s not until you move to your usual spot behind the till that his attention finally rises, meeting your gaze with his deep, dark eyes.

Your inner schoolgirl feels like she needs to sit down. Your entire stomach and chest is a looping mess of frantic butterflies after making eye contact with the cute boy who you’re crushing on, but you’ve got a great poker face; you’ve worked as a barista long enough that you’re good at shoving your real feelings down, none of your internal turmoil playing across your face as you smile. Customer service mode activate.

“Hi, and welcome back to Paradise. What can I get for you today? The usual? Large Americano, to go, for Yoongi?”

You’re a little softer than you would be with other customers, a little more subdued, dialing down how upbeat you normally are to match Yoongi’s level. His lips lift almost imperceptibly, the faintest smile playing across his mouth, and it takes all your strength for your knees to not immediately buckle.

“Hi,” he says. His voice is soft and low, faintest drawl at the end of his words, and yep, just your weekly reminder that you’re enamoured with him. Cool. “Yes, please, that would be great.”

He already has his card ready, you know he does. He always does; card to pay, loyalty card to swipe, tip to drop in the jar, quick and smooth and easy. This is normally where you’d rattle off the price—as if he doesn’t already know what it is—but you pause, thinking about how intent he’d been on the pastry display, as uncharacteristic as that is.

“Did you… want something to eat, too? I couldn’t, um, help noticing that you were eyeing up the carrot cake?”

Yoongi blinks, wispy lashes fluttering. You can see the muted surprise that flashes across his face, and you wonder if you’ve misstepped, thrown off the usual rhythm of his visit. It’s an unusual step away from your regular script, an ad-lib that he wasn’t expecting.

“Uh, no, thank you,” he says. “Maybe… next time.”

He’s polite as ever, thankfully. You’re not surprised at his answer but you do have to wonder why he was looking at the cake so closely if he hadn’t planned on getting anything; you know he likes getting served by you the most, if the evidence over the months means anything at all, but you don’t think he’d stare at cake just so he would avoid Taehyung. You’re making assumptions based on the fact he just drinks black coffee and literally nothing else, but you’ve guessed he doesn’t have a sweet tooth. (The only time he’s ever ordered food had been two months prior when he’d asked for a single croissant, and nothing since. Taehyung still talks about the croissant sometimes.)

Well, it doesn't really matter. If he doesn't want cake, you're not going to force it on him, and the rest of the transaction goes as normal. Yoongi hands over his rewards card, fingers long and knuckles knobbly and altogether lovely, pays for his Americano—made by Taehyung, cup wrapped in the sleeve that you’ve written Yoongi’s name on, black sharpie bleeding into the cardboard—and smiles at you both when Taehyung hands it to him across the smooth wood of the counter.

“Thanks.” He gives you that slight tilt of his head that he always does, and you smile helplessly back.

He’s a gentleman, through and through, even if he looks as distant as ever; dressed in all black, his ripped jeans the only splash of lightness in his dark outfit. Maybe you’re biased, but no matter what he wears, he looks stylish, somehow. It’s something in his aura. All cool understated elegance and power.

And here you are, in your cream jumper under the dark mulberry apron of your uniform, a flower blooming next to the name on your badge. All chirpy customer service, smiling broad and wide as you go through the same motions over and over with each new person that comes in. Sometimes you wonder what Yoongi thinks of you, as different as you are to him, but at the end of the day it doesn’t really matter—because he keeps coming back, doesn’t he?

“Have a nice day,” you say as he turns to go, and when he glances over his shoulder and says you too, smile soft and eyes softer, you know he really means it.

(And if your eyes always trail after him once his back has turned, who’s telling?)

“You’re staring.” Taehyung’s telling, apparently.

You tear your eyes away from Yoongi, bell tinkling as the door swings shut behind him. “He’s my favourite customer,” you say. As if that explains why you were staring.

“You’ve barely spoken to him.”

“He’s my favourite customer,” you say again, emphatically. “He comes in, he gets the world’s simplest drink to make, is always polite, always leaves a tip, and he goes. Literally the perfect customer.”

“Alright, true,” he says, as if he hadn’t considered that before now. “Cute, too.”

You sigh. A little wistful. “Yeah,” you say. “Yeah, he is.”

Taehyung opens his mouth as if he’s about to say something else when someone spills their drink on their floor with an unholy clattering sound, even if nothing breaks; without saying anything, both you and Taehyung raise your hands, eyes narrowing at each other.

"Rock, paper, scissors," you chant. Taehyung promptly loses, and the pout that forms on his lips doesn't disappear until he's finished mopping everything up.

(“Why do I always end up having to clean spillages?”

“Because you never win rock-paper-scissors. You always choose scissors, Taehyung. You literally always choose scissors.”)

The tradition of the weekly specials at Paradise is a weird one, truth be told. Each Monday whoever’s on the opening shift will enter the coffee shop and find that the board on the wall has been updated, the recipe typed up and laminated, waiting on the counter for the baristas. You all assume it’s the mysterious owner, who no one has ever seen, and no one even knows the name of, apparently.

“Someone has to know their name,” you’d said, once, back when you’d first started, only to receive a shrugs from everyone.

“I heard one of the old baristas say the owner’s name was Jackson,” Taehyung had said, and you’d just blinked at him.

“Huh?” you’d said, but Jimin had rolled his eyes and told you to ignore him, so you had.

This week’s drink is the Marshmallow World. As always, when you and Taehyung start your shift together, you read the recipe and follow it step by step to learn how to make it. Warmed milk, vanilla syrup, topped off with marshmallow fluff instead of whipped cream—not bad in theory, if you like sweet things, although it does pose one significant problem.

“It’s clogged my hole,” Taehyung says sadly.

You sputter on your own drink, desperately hacking your lungs out as you try to stop milk from going down your windpipe. “I’m-sorry-it’s-what,” you wheeze all at once, struggling for air.

Taehyung tilts his takeaway cup at you, gesturing at the lid. (All the mugs are still out back or on a rinse cycle so laziness had forced you to make do.) “My drink hole. It’s blocked,” he explains. “The fluff is getting in the way.”

So, yeah. It clogs people’s holes, apparently. But other than that, you have to admit it’s pretty nice, and if you drink it in the café (and thus out of a mug) then you’re fine. You just get into the habit of warning the customers if they order it to go and laugh about it with them and it’s all fine and dandy and everyone is happy.

It’s starting to get busier, now. The nights are getting longer and the days are getting colder and everyone’s starting to think about Christmas, which feels both close and far away, all at once. Close, because you still have presents to buy and there’s never enough time for it; and far, because the lights have yet to go up and Christmas songs aren’t dominating the radio yet and you have yet to experience the real winter rush. Students home for the holidays and families out to see Father Christmas and workers grabbing Secret Santa gifts, everyone desperate for something warm and soothing, hot and comforting in the face of the snow which has yet to fall.

But there’s something in the air, that cool hush that lets you know it’s nearly here—the changing of the seasons, the burnt sunset colours of autumn melting into the iced blues and greys of winter. No matter if you prefer hot or cold weather, there’s something about the beauty of wintertime that’s undeniable.

And it’s a lot easier to sell something like the Marshmallow World on a day like this, the nip in the air almost solid, biting cold into the apples of your cheeks, nibbling at fingers that are so cold they feel frost-bitten. Once again, your genuine enthusiasm shines through, persuading people to give the drink a go, happy to add a shot of espresso for whoever needs it, desperate for caffeine to buoy them up through the day.

You’ve just finished laughing with a lovely old couple, wearing matching scarves and hats—awwww—waving them goodbye as they go to sit down, when you come face to face with Yoongi, blindsided by his sudden appearance. You’d been so caught up, once again, too busy giggling your way through the conversation with your other customers, able to persuade them to try one special to share alongside everything else they’ve ordered.

“Oh. Uh. Hi,” you say. Your hand is still by your face after you’d given the couple a cute wave, and when you realise, you freeze. Flustered. Behind you, Taehyung is struggling to spoon the marshmallow fluff neatly on the vanilla steamer, making small noises of distress, but you’re too caught up in your own distress to really notice.

Once again, you have no idea how long Yoongi’s been there. You’re slipping. You’re normally aware of him as soon as he steps into the coffee shop. (You know, because you’re always aware of when a new customer steps in. Like any good barista would be.) Had he witnessed you enthusiastically waving your hands and talking about marshmallows and s'mores? Seen the way you'd grinned and laughed as you'd gotten excited over the weekly special, yet again?

Well, if he had, he doesn't seem perturbed at all. His usual smile is on his face, though you would swear it seems a little softer around the edges, almost fond.

“Hi,” he says, and… that’s it.

There’s no addition of his usual that would be great, and that’s when you realise you haven’t asked about his coffee. In fact, your fingers are still curled near your chin, almost like a claw. You clear your throat and let your arm fall to your side, fiddling with the tie of your apron.

“Hi,” you repeat. Flounder for a second. Try to remember your usual line. “Large Americano?”

“Y/n.” Taehyung whines your name from the bar, loud enough that it catches your attention. “The marshmallow isn’t staying. Why do you keep recommending Marshmallow World? Why must I suffer through this torture? Every day I wake up and I make coffee—”

“Sorry, sir, one second,” you say, face scrunching in apology at Yoongi.

“It's just Yoongi,” he replies, gentle, and your heart thuds in your chest. "You don't have to call me sir."

Your face feels warm. "Um, okay, Yoongi." You've said his name before, of course, said it dozens of times to confirm his order, but never like this—by invitation from the man himself, an acknowledgement of familiarity.

Taehyung makes another noise. Yoongi's expression turns into one of faint amusement, eyes drifting over your shoulder to your friend; when you turn around, you can see why.

The other barista’s managed to get marshmallow fluff all over the edge of the glass, on the handle of the cup, all the way up the spoon, on his fingers—everywhere except on the drink itself. It’s funny, in a sad sort of way.

“Wow.” You have no idea how he managed it, but you’re here to help. “Alright, go wash your hands, Tae. I’ve got this.”

The cup is a goner. There’s no way you’ll be able to wipe off the sticky marshmallow. You’re acutely aware of Yoongi at the counter, able to watch your every move, but then you get distracted as you salvage Taehyung's attempt at a Marshmallow World. You just feel grateful that it’s a steamer so you can pour it into a new glass, not having to worry about layers of coffee and milk and foam; it’s a pretty easy fix. Good. (You don’t want to keep Yoongi waiting, as patient as he may be.)

It doesn’t take long to spoon the marshmallow on, whipped peaks in the sticky white, and by the time Taehyung returns you’re ready to present him with the picture perfect drink, not a single lick of fluff anywhere it shouldn’t be. You've got your hands on your hips as you survey your work proudly, and Taehyung sticks his tongue out at you.

“Witchcraft,” he says, and you laugh.

“You’re welcome,” you say. “Alright, shoo, go take this over to the table before they start wondering where it is.”

When you turn back, Yoongi’s watching you. Contemplative. You tamp down the flush that threatens to spill onto your cheeks, face burning, but before you can say anything, he speaks.

“Was that the weekly special?”

You blink. Blindsided. Yoongi’s never asked about the special before, never commented on the A-frame outside, the sign on the wall that sits next to the regular menu. No surprise there—why would someone who only drinks Americanos want to drink ninety-nine percent of the weekly specials you offer? “Um, yeah,” you say. “We’ve got the Marshmallow World this week.”

“Would you recommend it?”

You can’t help it. You light up. You love when customers ask for recommendations, and the fact that it’s Yoongi—whose blood must be made of coffee at this point—who’s asking about it? Americano Yoongi, asking about something without caffeine? Black coffee Yoongi, asking about a weekly special that’s nothing but sugar and sweetness? Something inside you switches on, a Christmas tree, all flashing lights and shimmering tinsel and excitement.

“Oh, if you like sweeter drinks, absolutely! It’s great for a cold day like today,” you gush. Maybe you should reel it in, far more exuberant than you usually are with Yoongi, but. You can’t stop. “It’s warm milk and vanilla, so it’s a lovely comfort drink, and we can add a shot of espresso too if you were wanting a little pick-me-up. And then you’ve got marshmallow fluff on top for some extra self-indulgence. We were meant to, uh, toast the top, actually, but we don’t have the necessary health and safety clearance for blowtorches. I guess you could do that at home if you really wanted to. Everyone likes toasted marshmallows, right?”

Yoongi hums, and you wonder if you’ve maybe gotten ahead of yourself. Oversold it. Maybe he was asking out of curiosity. Just because he’s asking about it doesn’t mean that he wants one—

“Can I get a Marshmallow World, please? Large, to go?”

—or maybe Yoongi is an official convert to the world of sweet drinks, changing after a lifetime of drinking unadorned, unadulterated black coffee. Holy shit. Holy shit? Holy—

“And a large Americano to go, too, please.”

(Record scratch. Freeze frame.

Yoongi of-the-black-coffee is ordering his usual drink, and another. Both large. Too much for one person to reasonably drink before one of them got cold. He’s not ordering for one person; he’s ordering for two people. Of course Yoongi wouldn’t order something as heart-stopping as the Marshmallow World—not for himself, anyway.

Mental maths. Two plus two is four, four plus four is eight; one large Americano and one Marshmallow World is two people. Yoongi and one other person is two people, a couple of people, a couple—

Oh, God.

A couple.

You’ve been crushing on a taken man.

You know how they say your life flashes before your eyes before you die? It’s sort of like that, but rather than remembering your life, you immediately recall every moment over the months where you’ve looked at him or thought about him with even the smallest iota of longing and you want to crawl under the counter and never come out.

You feel weirdly guilty. Like… like you’re some sort of unintentional homewrecker. Even though, you know, you thought Yoongi was single and you haven’t made a single move on him and nor had you had any plans to. The guilt bubbles up inside you anyway.

All at once, you feel immensely, incredibly embarrassed. Of course he’s taken. There’s no way he wouldn’t be, as attractive and nice as he is, and you’ve just been sat here crushing on him like a big dumb idiot.

You are the worst.)

You manage to squeeze this internal breakdown into the span of a few seconds. You’re grateful that you have your customer service face locked on, giving nothing away—from the outside the smile looks just like that, a smile, rather than the rictus of deathly mortification it actually is, burning through you like a wildfire.

Yoongi seems none the wiser, just patiently waiting for some sort of acknowledgement of his order. Most of your brain power is still taken up with the mish-mash of humiliation and guilt that’s roiling through you. Luckily, though, the part of your brain that’s still in the moment (trying to drag you back to the real world, shame-faced as you are) forces you to move before things get weird.

“One large Americano, one large Marshmallow World, both to go.” You tap the drinks into the till on auto-pilot, dimly noting that Taehyung’s been pulled into conversation with the old couple at their table, having delivered their drinks and food to them. It’s just you behind the counter, no one else to man the coffee machines. “Let me get those started for you.”

Luckily, making the drinks means you can turn your back to Yoongi, oscillating through the five stages of grief as you fiddle with hot milk and coffee grounds and paper cups. You always take pride in your work—especially when it comes to Yoongi—and you take even more pride now, determined to make these drinks as lovely as they can be. His Americano is fairly simple, but the Marshmallow World requires a bit more finesse, and you lavish attention on the fluff, swirling it beautifully, even though you know it’ll stick to the lid anyway.

(Okay, listen. Whoever this person Yoongi is seeing must be as nice as he is. They both deserve nice drinks.)

There’s something sweet about it, actually. Before the lids go on, you spent a second staring down at the drinks and the juxtaposition between them; black coffee and white marshmallow, bitter and sweet, night and day. It’s lovely, really, these two opposing things coming together. You wonder what Yoongi’s partner is like. Exuberant and bright, rather than his subdued warmth? A balance, yin and yang, opposite but complementary.

(Isn’t that a nice thing to think about? Finding someone who’s different to you but matches you so well?)

You firmly press the lids into place, making sure they’re secure. The protective cardboard sleeve of Yoongi’s Americano has his name—the name you’ve memorised, written out countless times—while the Marshmallow World has a scrawled happy face, and an enjoy! on it, for this mysterious person who likes sweet drinks. You do sincerely hope they enjoy it. You really do.

“The fluff blocks the hole,” you warn, sliding the cardboard tray for both drinks carefully across the counter. “It’s probably a better idea to just take the lid off.”

Something flickers across Yoongi’s face, too fast for you to identify. But then he nods, lifting the tray up with equally careful hands. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he says.

He’s always polite to everyone, Taehyung and the other baristas, but he seems to smile at you the most. He’s smiling at you now, curling at the corners of his lips, and you smile back, fighting through ten layers of embarrassment and self-inflicted shame to do so. Just because he smiles at you the most doesn’t mean anything. You can smile at people and not have it be weird; it doesn’t mean you return their ill-fated attraction.

Why, oh why, oh why.

By the time Taehyung returns to the counter, having escaped the chatty, kind clutches of the elderly couple, Yoongi is long gone. Your fellow barista finds you crouched down in front one of the cupboards with your head in your hands.

“Y/n?” He sounds incredibly concerned. “Are you okay? Do you have a headache? Are you sick?��

You let out a quiet noise, a mix between a whale dying and a hippo trying to swallow porridge, muffled into your palms. “I’m such a doughnut,” you say. “Just an absolute doughnut.”

Taehyung crouches beside you. “A glazed doughnut or a jam doughnut?”

Your hands drop away from your face as you think. “Plain,” you say, eventually. “Unglazed. No toppings or fillings.” A little sad and disappointing. It seems fitting.

Taehyung puts a hand on your shoulder, warm and comforting. “Do you want to talk about it?”

You feel embarrassed all over again, thinking about admitting your (now-squashed) crush to your friend. It was stupid in the first place, crushing on a customer, especially as you’d barely spoken to him; Yoongi might be cute, and nice, but your crush was silly and dumb and you’d been silly and dumb not to think that he was already in a relationship.

“I’m fine,” you say. “Just going through it. And by ‘it’ I mean life generally, you know?”

Taehyung makes a noise of understanding, patting your shoulder. “Big mood,” he says sombrely. He always knows what to say, empathetic to a fault.

“Uh,” a customer says, craning over the counter to see the two of you. “Sorry to interrupt, but can I get a refill on my coffee, please?”

That effectively kills the conversation, which is good. Keep yourself busy and distracted. By the time you see Yoongi next week, this crush will be dead and gone and you’ll be fine. Just fine. Absolutely fine.

He’s dyed his hair.

It’s a Tuesday afternoon, the café is full of people, and Yoongi has dyed his hair.

You’d spent all of last Tuesday alternating between all-consuming guilt and embarrassment, Taehyung catching you with your head in your hands in one moment and furiously cleaning the steam wand the next, channeling your tumult of emotions into anything that will distract you.

It had worked. Mostly. You’ve had a week’s worth of time since, to get over this month’s long crush, your brain consistently reminding you that Yoongi is in a relationship, with someone who’s probably lovely and attractive and all around just wonderful (just like him). You remind yourself about this every time you find coffee grounds under your nails, or notice milk flecked on your apron, soured and off-white after a day of work; your life isn’t a meet-cute, and you’re not the cute barista who falls in love with the cute regular. You’re the tired barista who makes more cups of coffee in a day than most people probably drink in a year, and Yoongi is the cute regular who’s already in a long term relationship and comes to Paradise just because he likes the dark roast you use. That’s as far as it will go, because this is real life, and not a romance film or novel. (Even if you wished that it was.)

You’ve come to terms with it. Really, you have. But then he has to step into the coffee shop looking like that, his hair bleached so blond it almost looks white, silver hoops in his ears, and he’s still dressed in dark clothes but he’s wearing glasses, no, this isn’t a drill, Yoongi’s dyed his hair, he’s all light and dark, soft and sharp, and you want to crouch behind the counter again. Because he looks so good and of course he’s in a relationship because he’s hot, and you feel dumb for not having realised it sooner.

You can’t hide behind the counter, though. There’s a queue of people, all waiting for your attention and your time, and it’s still just you and Taehyung; none of your usual Christmas temps are back yet, still away at uni, hence the we’re hiring! posters that are up for all the customers to see (and mostly ignore). The seasons are changing and the weeks are passing and the really eager people are starting to think about Christmas shopping; you swear you don’t even need a calendar, able to trace how close you are to Christmas just based on the amount of foot traffic the coffee shop gets. You’re definitely hitting peak.

But it’s fine. You have this down to a fine art. You and Taehyung are both good on the till and scarily efficient at making drinks and plating food, dancing past each other with an ease that only comes with time spent working together and friendship alongside.

People aren’t ordering the weekly special as much, either, not today. You can’t blame them. Candy Cane Dreams is a white hot chocolate, flavoured with mint and coloured green, topped with whipped cream and sprinkles of candy cane bark and red and green drizzle too; it’s… pretty overwhelming. So it means you don’t have to take over for Taehyung from the bar, focusing on smiling at customers and soothing them after their wait, taking their orders and shuffling them along as quickly as you can. You keep a smile plastered on your face as Taehyung pulls espresso shots and grabs tea bags and heats milk, routine and familiar.

When Yoongi steps up to the counter, you’ve barely had time to mentally prepare yourself, so focused on serving everyone else in the queue; it feels like a slap to the face, a kick to the knees, but then you take one deep breath and exhale. Long, deep, slow, forcing air out of your lungs and thoughts out of your mind, and you smile.

You’ve been so careful up until this point, wanting to keep Yoongi happy, wary of misstepping—but he’s just a regular customer. You feel more confident, now, less worried about breaking this tenuous thing you thought you’d had; less worried about what you’re doing being construed as some weird, roundabout way of flirting, because. You know. He’s in a relationship, so it doesn’t matter either way. He’s definitely not interested. You can talk to him like you would anyone else.

So you say: “You dyed your hair.”

And, just like you suspected, Yoongi doesn’t seem bothered that you’ve broken your usual script. “Oh, yeah.” He reaches up, touches his head, as if he’d forgotten. “I did.”

“It looks nice,” you continue, because it does.

He’s smiling back at you. He looks pleased; maybe a little bashful, even, as surprising as that is. “Thanks,” he says, warm and genuine. (The tiny gremlin of a crush that’s still lurking in your soul lets out a wistful sigh.) “Can I get a large Americano and a—” he squints at the board— “large Candy Cane Dream, please?”

(One plus one is two, Yoongi and his other half, the sugar to his coffee.)

“Sure!” Your voice is bright. “I’m guessing the Marshmallow World went over well?”

There’s a brief beat of silence, but you don’t notice, too focused on typing Yoongi’s order into the till.

“Yeah, it was great,” he says after that moment of quiet, and you smile. Good. You’re glad they enjoyed it.

“I’m really happy to hear that,” you say, genuine and bright.

“What’s actually in the, ah, Candy Cane Dreams?” Yoongi asks, and you laugh, leaning forward conspiratorially.

“It’s horrendous,” you say in a low voice, as if you’re sharing a secret. “Have you ever seen green hot chocolate before?”

You’ve never spoken to Yoongi like this, easy and light, and it’s… nice. He gives no indication of surprise at your sudden friendliness after months of barely talking. If anything he looks pleased, and at one point he even gives you a smile you’ve never seen before, wide and wonderful, flashing his teeth and gums. (The crush gremlin rattles at your ribcage like prison bars, trying desperately to escape, but you don’t give it a chance.)

“Alright, let me just swap with the other barista, he’s still not gotten the Candy Cane Dreams recipe down.”

You hear a suspicious crunch as you make your way over to Taehyung. He turns to you with a guilty smile, edged with sugar, munching on shards of candy cane while his back is to the customers.

“You’re terrible,” you say affectionately. “Go take over on the till, I have a special to make.”

Taehyung glances over, sees Yoongi making his way down to the collection point. “Huh. Alright.”

The Candy Cane Dreams recipe might be a questionable one, but it’s definitely fun to make (watching the white hot chocolate turn green makes you feel like a kid all over again, mixing shampoos together in your bathroom and calling them potions), and maybe you’re overly generous with the candy cane bark, giving Yoongi’s beau more to nibble on and enjoy. It’s not Christmas yet but you’re already in a giving mood, so sue you.

“Here you go.” You slide the drinks towards him, the man busy reading one of the vacancy fliers, eyes flicking away from the poster when you appear. Your lips quirk up. “Looking for a job?”

You’re expecting a huff of a laugh, a small shake of the head, but he answers you seriously. “Not me, but I have a friend who is,” he says, reaching to take the tray.

You realise your hands are still curled around the cardboard; you quickly pull away so that there’s no chance your hands will brush. (You might have shoved your crush down as far as it will go, but you have to be careful with your weak, gooey heart.)

“We could do with any help, honestly. Your friend is more than welcome to apply.” You glance over at the queue, which is small but ever present, and you know it’ll only get worse as time goes on. “And, hey, if you ever decide for a change of pace from whatever it is you do, we’d be glad to have you, too.”

This gets a laugh from him, a warm burst of sound. (The gremlin points out that this is the first time you’ve heard him laugh, really laugh, a little raspy and a little quiet and altogether lovely; you beat the gremlin back with a stick.) “I’m better at drinking coffee than I am at making it,” Yoongi says, eyes soft with lingering amusement. “I’ll leave that to the experts.”

You might have gone off script, but the nod he gives you is his usual one, that familiar tilt of the head. “See you next week?” His eyes are dark, dark and deep, and it’s so hard not to fall into them, to fall all over again.

“See you next week,” you echo, hoping the smile you plaster on your face doesn’t look as forced as it feels, as you struggle once more. Yoongi is just nice, okay? He's just being nice, but still. He needs to let a girl breathe.

(He needs to let the gremlin of her crush wither away, instead of making it threaten to come back as strong as before, fuelled by his smile and his eyes and his everything.)

(... maybe you’re not as over this crush as you thought you were.)

It seems like the we’re hiring! posters actually worked.

“I’m Jungkook,” says the new starter, all crooked smiles and warm eyes and thighs so thick they threaten to split the trousers of the café’s uniform, ties of his apron emphasising his small waist.

(“Good lord,” Taehyung says faintly.)

It’s the last week of November and even though Jungkook is still learning the ropes, he’s a massive help, and you know he’ll be a lifesaver over Christmas. He’s eager, learns quickly, and gets stuck right in, material of his shirt straining across his shoulder blades when he rips a bag of coffee beans open with his bare hands, rather than having to use scissors like you or Taehyung.

Taehyung watches with stars in his eyes as Jungkook pours the beans into the grinder. You cover your smile by sipping at one of the espresso shots Jungkook has pulled—full-bodied and dark, rich in your mouth.

“This is really good, Jungkook,” you say. He looks over, eyes squeezing into a smile.

“Thought it would be,” he says, and you can’t help but huff a laugh into the tiny espresso cup. He’s cocky and competitive, telling you that he’d never made coffee before but he was going to do a better job than any of the other baristas here. He’s too endearing to come across as arrogant, though, and you have to admit that the coffee is good. (Not as good as yours or Taehyung’s, of course, but still. Pretty good.)

Taehyung coos at him and reaches out to shamelessly squeeze his bicep. “Jungkookie is a natural barista.”

Jungkook’s cocky smile turns equal parts pleased and flustered. You continue to sip at the espresso as Taehyung moons over him, then the bell above the door rings, and the mooning temporarily is put on hold. (Temporarily, because Taehyung continues to moon over him for the rest of the shift, insisting on doing the bulk of his training, which is fine by you.)

It’s the 1st of December tomorrow, so not only do you have to clean after the café is locked up, you have to put out all the Christmas decorations, too. But it’s more fun that it is work, the three of you dragging the tree out of the storage room and decorating it with a menagerie of tinsel and baubles; Jungkook lifts Taehyung so he can get the star on the tree, wrapping his arms around Taehyung’s waist and hoisting him up effortlessly, leaving your friend with a pleased smile on his face.

Jungkook is new, only on his second shift, but he’s slotted in so easily. He laughs at Taehyung when he wiggles his butt along to the Christmas songs you've put on to play, and he helps steady the stepladder as you string garlands of snowflakes on the ceiling, even if he doesn’t really need to.

He absently readjusts the reindeer headband Taehyung had unearthed from the storage room and proudly placed on his head. “Yoongi-hyung talks a lot about this place,” Jungkook comments, offhand.

If you’d heard this a few weeks ago, you probably would have fallen off the stepladder, inner gremlin grabbing your heart with both hands and squeezing tight-tight-tight. As it is you only pause for a moment, one of the larger snowflakes cradled in your palm, before you go back to your job of hanging them up.

“So you’re the friend he mentioned that needed a job,” you say.

“That’s me.” Jungkook grins, boyish and bright, and you laugh. “He really, really likes this café. Wouldn’t shut up about it, even before he told me that you were hiring.”

You can’t imagine Yoongi gushing about a café to his friends, but then again, he clearly is passionate about his coffee. Jungkook will know him better than you, having a real friendship rather than this patron-and-customer back-and-forth that you’ve had, so who are you to imagine what’s normal for Yoongi and what isn’t? You didn’t even know he was in a relationship, after all. You don’t know anything about the guy, really.

“Well, we appreciate his custom,” you say. “I know Yoongi is the one who actually comes in, but you can thank his other half, too, and I hope they enjoy their drinks as well.”

You’re too busy hanging the garland to see the way Jungkook’s face twists.

“Huh?”

“You know. Yoongi always comes in for his Americano and the weekly special for his partner,” you say.

You’re focused on stepping down the ladder without falling to see the expression on Jungkook’s face, nose scrunched and lips pursed, like there’s something he’s smelled that he really doesn’t like.

“Did he say that to you? That it was for someone else?”

“Hm?” You pause in grabbing another string of snowflakes, glancing up. “Oh, no, I just worked it out, you know? Yoongi is a religious coffee drinker, why else would he order something that’s basically hot sugar water? I think it’s cute,” you add, belatedly. “That he always comes in to grab something for them, too.”

(You wish you had someone to do that for you.)

There’s a beat of silence. Jungkook’s holding the stepladder, ready to move it, staring at you in a way that’s weirdly intense. “I see,” he says, like that isn’t weird or mysterious at all.

Then he drags the stepladder’s rubber feet across the floor with such a loud noise that Taehyung startles, bauble falling out of his hand and shattering. Jungkook, of course, profusely apologises and insists on cleaning it up—but not before making sure Taehyung is okay, of course, grabbing his hands and looking over them, as if the bauble had broken in his palms and not the floor.

Taehyung looks immensely pleased. You just smile quietly to yourself, roll your eyes lightly, and go back to hanging snowflakes as Jungkook speaks to Taehyung, soft and low.

You think your favourite thing about training a new starter is witnessing their reaction to the weekly special.

“So,” Jungkook says, slowly. “You put in the whole gingerbread man—gumdrops and icing and all—and just blend it?

“Yep.” Taehyung’s reply is cheery. “Straight in and whizz it all up.”

This week, it’s You Can’t Catch Me, I’m the Gingerbread Frappé which is a) probably the longest name known to mankind and b) probably the most questionable name known to mankind and c) who orders a frappé in December?

These thoughts are clearly playing across Jungkook’s face as Taehyung coaxes him to drop the gingerbread man into the blender, and you’re too busy enjoying the consternation on Jungkook’s face to notice someone stepping up to the counter—until they clear their throat, that is, and you all turn.

“Hi,” Yoongi says.

“Oh! Hi,” Taehyung says.

“Hyung! Look!” Jungkook says.

“Jungkook, wait—” you say.

“Whirr,” the lidless blender says.

It’s chaos. Frappé ends up everywhere, splattered over the counter and the floor, splashed across the wine-red aprons of both of your fellow baristas, as close to the blender as they were—saving you from any of the sugary fallout, unwitting human shields.

There’s a beat of silence, where you all stare at each other—

And then Yoongi laughs.

You’ve never seen Yoongi laugh this loudly, eyes squeezed so hard you wonder if he can even see, almost cackling as he laughs at Jungkook’s expression, joyful and loud and free. It’s another dimension to him, another new part you witness as Jungkook wipes gingerbread and ice off his face and Taehyung stares at the mess spattered across his hands and arms.

It makes you think of a paper crane. Yoongi is this unfinished thing in your mind, each new thing you learn about him another fold that you add, a flat sheet of paper turned into something entirely and wholly new. You wish that it weren’t so alluring, watching it come together, finding out more and more about this man you’ve technically known for months, but only recently started to get to know.

(You wish that it wasn’t so easy to keep falling for him.)

Once the counter is cleaned, both Jungkook and Taehyung retreat to replace their aprons, leaving you—once again—alone with Yoongi. He’d stopped laughing to tease Jungkook, to gently rib him, but you can see the smile that’s etched on his face, the echoes of mirth written across all his features.

“We usually train the baristas to keep the lid on, I swear,” you say, and Yoongi’s face splits into another smile.

“I was going to say that it’s an unorthodox blending technique,” and you can’t help but smile back at this, even if you’ve been trying not to laugh. Professionalism barely wins out, your lips trembling as you try to hold your giggling back, but Yoongi spots it anyway, looking pleased, like he’s accomplished something by getting you to (nearly) laugh.

You’re not laughing when you have to make one of the special frappés, though. You stare at the gingerbread man as you hold him above the blender, at his cheery iced face and his cute little buttons (not the gumdrop buttons), and brace yourself to drop him.

“I’m so sorry,” you whisper, and let him go, before quickly slamming the lid on top and turning the blender on so you don’t have to look at the betrayal you’ve just committed.

When you turn, Yoongi has an expression of sympathy on his face; for you or the gingerbread man, you can’t tell, but his face smooths the second he notices you looking at him, blinking innocently, as if there’s nothing unusual going on. It’s disarming, seeing that expression on his face, when you’d gotten used to seeing him act more reserved, but it’s cute.

(It is cute, whether you’re crushing on him or not. It’s just a statement of fact, okay? It’s nothing more than that. Even if that tiny gremlin of a crush still lives in your chest, scuffing its feet against your heart, reminding you of its presence when you least need it.)

(It digs its heels in when you put the frappé and Americano side by side, nestled snug in their cardboard tray. You slide it towards Yoongi and you’re a little too slow, fingers brushing his when he reaches for them; you’re surprised by how quickly he moves, how eager he seems to be reaching for his order, fingertips dragging across the back of your knuckles, and the gremlin kicks your heart, pulse rising just at that glancing touch. Even if you know it’s fruitless, useless, you can’t help but like Yoongi anyway.)

(“See you next week,” he says, and you can’t do anything but smile helplessly back.)

You normally love snow. You love waking up to the sight of it, pure and pristine white, adding another dimension to your familiar world—you love snowball fights and snowmen and snow angels, even if it all leaves you feeling cold, chilled right to the bone, nose running and hands freezing. The best part about winter is getting warm again, the season of throw blankets and hot water bottles, knitwear and scarves, tea and hot cocoa, all cosy and lovely and wonderful.

It’s a bit different when you have to work all day, though. You watch as the snow on the streets outside is threatened by the spray of salt and a thousand spinning car wheels and busy feet, ice turned to slush water; for now the snow is winning, though, and judging from the weather forecast, you think that’ll be the case for the rest of the day. You hope it lasts through to tomorrow, too; by the time you get home you’ll be too tired and it’ll be too dark to play in the snow, and it leaves you feeling disappointed and sad.

(Winter is lovely but it can be a hollow season, too, something about the leafless trees and fogged windows making everything feel like an empty dream.)

At least Paradise is warm, even if you’re cooped up inside, safe from the still-falling snow that keeps trying to turn the world into an untouched, frozen wonderland. It’s quiet in the coffee shop today. Only the bravest of people have ventured out into the not-a-blizzard-but-basically-a-blizzard, plastered against radiators and putting drinks to their faces, letting hot steam heat their cold cheeks.

It’s why you’re both surprised and unsurprised when Yoongi appears, bell chiming above his head as the door swings shut and he stamps his feet on the front mat, knocking snow off his boots. He somehow looks disgruntled and soft all at the same time, a royal blue beanie on his head forcing his fringe down to sit messily over his eyes, bundled up warm even if his face is scrunched up and his cheeks are red from the cold.

“I hate cold weather,” he tells you once he reaches the counter, gloves peeled off his fingers so he can reach for his wallet, his nose tinged pink as he sniffs.

You proffer him a box of tissues. “You look like you need it,” you say gently, and he smiles at you, a warm hearth in the cold winter.

“Thank you.” His voice is equally as gentle as yours, and something aches in your chest.

It’s just you behind the counter right now, so you take Yoongi’s order and make the drinks too—one large Americano and one large Latteggnog (a basic latte made with eggnog instead of milk, rich and thick and creamy), this week’s special: everyone’s favourite Christmas drink, but with a twist of coffee.

The quiet gives you time to think. Jungkook and Taehyung are out back, the older barista coming up with the most ridiculous excuses to take them away from the counter; you don’t mind that they’re taking the time ‘counting the coffee beans’, as deserted as the café is.

The café is practically empty and Yoongi hates the cold but here he is, venturing into the ice and snow to get this person he cares about the drink they want, because they’re that special to him. (You hope they realise how lucky they are.)

You’re normally okay being single. Don’t really think about it. But there’s something about today, this moment, that has you reflecting; Taehyung has this budding thing with Jungkook, Yoongi has this steady thing with his love, and here you are, by yourself, alone. It’s hard to summon up your usual energy, going through the motions as you make the drinks. You tilt your head forward, dusting nutmeg on the eggnog latte, watching the way the sprinkle of spice settles delicately and softly in the foam. No flourish, no flick of the wrist, not today.

(There’s two cups in front of you now, but later, when you’re home, there’s just going to be one. Yours. Yours, and no one else’s.)

(When you get home, you’re going to do what any self-respecting single person would do: order too much takeaway, rewatch The Good Place, get emotional over Eleanor and Chidi’s relationship—they’re so different but they’re so perfect for each other, why can’t you have that?—mope for a bit, rewatch The Princess Bride, get emotional over Westley and Buttercup—where’s your cute farmboy who saves you from an evil prince?—mope a bit more, before finally climbing into bed and hugging a pillow to your chest in the space of having someone else there. You know. Perfectly normal single person things.)

When you turn to Yoongi, drinks ready and raring to go, you’ve forced a Customer Service Smile onto your face. They say that just the act of smiling makes you happier, right? Maybe if you smile hard enough, you’ll cheer up, chasing away this sudden sadness that lingers in the back of your throat, scratching at your lungs like black ice.

“Here you go!” Your voice seems too loud for the quiet hush of the café, but you roll with it anyway. “Enjoy your drinks!”

Yoongi takes them from you, hands carefully cupped around the tray, but his eyes don’t leave your face. He doesn’t return your smile, as convincing as it should be (even Taehyung struggles to tell between your real smile and your work smile, sometimes); he stands for a moment, looking at you.

You think he’s about to say something when he clearly thinks better of it. He tilts his head, like he always does, but you’d swear his expression is tinged with concern. “Thanks,” he says. Pauses. “The roads are really icy. Get home safe, okay Y/n?”

Blink, blink. Your eyelashes flutter. You suddenly realise that he’s never said your name out loud, never had a need to, even if he must have known it all along from the badge on your chest. It sounds so good in his mouth, soft and safe.

“Oh,” you say, slow with surprise. “Thank you. I will. You, too.”

Yoongi nods again, as if to himself, before he turns to go.

He stops one more time before he goes. He stands at the open door, glances over his shoulder before he steps out, dark eyes meeting yours, as if checking that you’re still there, still tethered to the ground. Seems satisfied when he finds that you are. He gives you one last smile, all soft around the edges—that’s something you know intimately about Yoongi, that he’s soft through and through, even if he can look sharp, as cold as the ice outside—and then he goes, back into the falling snow to deliver a steaming sip of warmth into the hands of the person he loves.

(Your heart aches.)

It’s the week before Christmas. The whole world has that feeling it always does at this time of year—excited and bright, if a little frantic, the hanging lights in the city a backdrop to people’s last minute shopping, their breaths pluming out into the air as they rush around in the cold. The whole world feels full of life, that final push towards the end of the year; the hearth fire of Christmas before that weird in between before the new year, that held breath of potential, before the clock ticks over and the world is thrown into the next year.

Paradise has been busy. It’s like summer, only instead of sundresses and shorts, everyone is in knitwear and scarves, shivering as they wait to be served, desperate for a drink to warm them up, something to eat to fill their bellies. You spend more time in the coffee shop than you do at home, pulling overtime shifts to help your fellow baristas out—everyone thinks Christmas is a time of relaxation and coming together, but it doesn’t feel like that when you work in a customer facing job, oh no. It’s just non-stop busyness and being rushed off your feet.

(You’d barely had a chance to speak to Yoongi, café full when he’d stepped in, your pace frenetic as you’d danced around behind the counter with Taehyung and Jungkook; you’d slid his drinks towards him, his Americano and the special, and maybe your smile had looked more harrowed than you thought because he’d caught your hand and squeezed it.

“I hope you get a chance to rest over Christmas,” he’d said, concerned and sincere, as you’d stood in stunned silence, not expecting that almost-intimate touch, gentle against your skin.

“I will,” you’d said eventually. Yoongi had seemed to suddenly realise he was still touching you, fingers clasped around yours, and he’d withdrawn quickly, giving you a smile that felt like a whispered secret, before leaving you to deal with the ever-growing queue.)

Suffice to say, it’s been a long week, and you’re tired, and your feet hurt after all the running around you’ve been doing, and you just want to go home. You just need to finish the close, need to finish setting everything up for the open tomorrow, need to finish cleaning everything, and then you can get some sleep.

At least, that’s what you thought. Instead, you’re standing across from Jungkook and staring at him incredulously. You can feel a headache coming on.

“Wait.” You pinch the bridge of your nose. “What do you mean, we need to deliver some coffee?”

You don’t know if Jungkook is being deliberately obtuse, but he just stares at you as if you’re the one talking nonsense right now, and not him. “We have a customer order to deliver,” he says.

“Yes, I gathered that,” you say. “I just mean, why did no one tell me sooner?”

Paradise doesn’t do deliveries, as such. You cater for events, and you technically do deliveries then, but it’s less ‘one coffee to go’ and more ‘enough sandwiches and pastries and bagels and coffee to feed an entire office’. It’s not that you can’t bring someone their order directly, it’s more that you just… don’t.

“Taehyung took the order,” Jungkook says, as if that explains everything.

You pinch the bridge of your nose again. You can’t ask Tae about it, the other man having had to leave just as you’d been about to flip the sign to closed (‘Jimin says Tannie peed in his shoes again! I have to go clean it up! I’m so sorry, I swear I’ll cover a close for each of you next time!’), so it’s just you, and Jungkook, and the slip of paper on the counter between you. You’ve worked with Taehyung long enough to trust his judgement and his decisions, as inexplicable as they might seem sometimes, but you do think it’s weird that he’s taken this delivery on board.

“It’s not too far from here,” Jungkook adds, peering at the address on the paper. “It won’t take long.”

“We have to finish closing, Jungkook,” you say.

He shrugs casually, carelessly. “I’ll do it, I don’t mind. You can just do the delivery and then go home straight after, it’s whatever.”

“It’s not whatever,” you mumble. “Why can’t you deliver it?”

“You’re the senior barista, you’re a better representative of the brand,” he says, and you have no idea where he pulled that from. (You blame Jimin. You know they’ve had shifts together, and Jimin is too smooth-talking for his own good.)

As much as you want to argue, you can’t help but cave, because the prospect of getting home early is one that you’re not about to sniff at. (You’d worry that Jungkook would get home late, what with the amount of prep he still needs to do for tomorrow, but you half suspect that Taehyung will reappear at some point, anyway.) You’re too tired to want to argue. “I just want to say this is a one off, and normally we cater for events, we’re not really a delivery service, okay?”

“Duly noted.”

It’s a simple enough order, anyway—it’s just two drinks. The first is a large quad shot latte with caramel and toffee syrup, extra whipped cream and cinnamon on top (something you’d definitely order, you think, indulgent and milky and with enough caffeine to kick you up the ass). Jungkook dutifully cleans as you start the second drink. The special this week is far, far less sweet than normal; a Rudolph the Red-eyed Reindeer: a simple red eye with a pinch of holiday spice, coffee with an extra espresso shot and topped with cinnamon and nutmeg. You take in a deep breath, swallowing down the warm smell and letting it flow through you before you double check the details on the note.

It takes you a second as you squint at the address, wondering why it looks familiar—and then you pause. This is Yoongi’s office, you think to yourself, and it feels a little like there’s an apricot pit sitting heavy in your stomach, heavy and hard. Paradise had catered a breakfast for them last week, and it hadn’t been on your shift and so you hadn’t gone, but—you’d heard enough about it from Jimin, the type who gets to know everyone and everything the second he walks in the door. You’d heard about the team that Yoongi manages, found out that Yoongi works in music, in artist and repertoire, and when you’d had the chance to Google exactly what that meant, you’d been bowled over. He has such a complex, high skilled job, and here you are, struggling to get a job with your degree, hence the barista thing. (Thanks, economy.)

You hastily shuffle past the address, trying to ward off your sudden sense of inadequacy, focusing on the name instead. What sort of name is Suga? you think to yourself, and then shrug. Probably one of the workers had enjoyed the breakfast the other week and was still hanging around before going on holiday for Christmas, or something.

“Alright, I’m off.” You’re ready to advance into the cold outside: coat on, scarf looped around your neck and hat secure on your head, cardboard tray of drinks clutched in your hands. “If you need help closing, just call me and I’ll come back, okay?”

“I won’t, but, thanks,” Jungkook says, equal parts self-assured and reassuring. “Don’t fall on your ass!”

It is icy outside, the entire world a winter wonderland, beautiful but cold and daylight long gone; snow drifts slowly from the sky above, dusting your shoulders and the top of your hat, flakes caught so softly by the weave of your clothes. It’s the kind of day that’s perfect spent indoors, curled up with the people you love, warmed through and through—and here you are, picking your way across the pavement slush to deliver a coffee to someone. (You’re not even getting paid for this.)

At least it’s not too far, really, just a few blocks away. The building is small, which is a plus, because it means you won’t have multitudes of rooms and offices to trawl past to get to your destination. The receptionist is more than helpful, too, when you say that you have a delivery for Suga; she gives you exactly directions and then she smiles at you, pleasant and pretty and lovely, and that gremlin that’s still clinging desperately onto your feelings for Yoongi whispers: what if this is Yoongi’s girlfriend? She’s beautiful.

Shut up, you think, before smiling back and thanking her, and heading on your way.

This close to Christmas you’d think that the building would be almost empty, but you’d be wrong. It’s not a buzzing hive of activity but there are still people walking around, speaking behind closed doors or laughing through open ones, decorations and tinsel hanging from the ceiling. Up ahead you see a someone come out of a room, shutting the door behind them before they walk in your direction. It’s a man who looks like he’s just stepped off the cover of a fashion magazine and as you pass in the corridor he pauses, raising his eyebrows at you. Not suspicious, just surprised.

“Uh, I have a coffee for Suga,” you say without prompting, as if he was about to accuse you of some sort of nefarious scheme and your coffee delivery is the only thing saving you from that.

“Oh,” mister-model-handsome says, suddenly smiling widely, like this is all perfectly normal and not weird at all. He’s got some of the poutiest lips you’ve ever seen. “You’re nearly there, he’s just down the corridor and on the right. Have fun!”

“Uh, you too?” you reply. (Is he Yoongi’s boyfriend? He’s tall and broad shouldered and incredibly attractive, with the type of smile that makes people’s hearts race, and Yoongi definitely deserves someone like that.)

Your destination seems to be the office the (probably) model just came out of. You look around the corridor, which seems to be deserted now, the hubbub of people elsewhere in the building. You knock quietly, not wanting to disturb the hush that’s filled the air around you.

A beat. Then: “Come in,” someone says, voice muffled through the door.

It swings open easily at your touch. You stand on the threshold, mouth open around the announcement of your delivery when the words die on your lips.

Yoongi’s there, sitting behind a desk and his head bowed as he scribbles something in a notebook. He doesn’t look up. “Shut the door,” he says. Dumbstruck, you do just that, and it’s not until the door’s quietly clicked shut that he starts to raise his head. “Hyung, I already said that I don’t need to eat—”

And then he spots you standing there.

He stops mid-sentence, mouth open, eyes widening. He looks as shocked as you feel, utterly taken aback and agog, and even now you can’t help but notice how good he looks. He’s in a black button up, sleeves rolled to the elbow and top button undone, revealing the pale skin of his collarbones. It’s another juxtaposition, the Yoongi that you’re familiar with (an aura of effortless authority and attractiveness) in a place you don’t know at all, completely professional, his desk neat and the entire space put together. There’s a tastefully decorated tree in the corner but it doesn’t throw off the balance of the room at all.

“Uh.” You cough lightly. “I have… a delivery… for Suga?”

Yoongi stares at you.

“Is this… not the right room? I can go,” you mumble, gesturing over your shoulder with a thumb.

This seems to snap Yoongi out of whatever thoughts he was having as he shakes his head. “No, this is… Suga’s office,” he says. “I just didn’t order any coffee.”

You open your mouth. Shut your mouth. You don’t have an Americano on the tray, but he’d probably like the red eye, coffee with extra coffee, no sugar or cream. Just a little pinch of spice.

“Maybe it was a surprise, or something? Couples get each other gifts all the time.”

Yoongi’s lips quirk up. “I’m not really the type that gets surprised with gifts.”

Something about this strikes a discordant note in you. He’s always delivering gifts of coffee—he deserves those expressions of love returned to him. You can’t help but say as such.

“You’re always giving gifts, though,” you say. “Those weekly specials. I wouldn’t be surprised if your other half is returning the favour.”

Blink, blink. He looks perplexed. “I don’t have an other half?”

Your mouth opens again. “Uh,” you say eloquently. “What?”

“I… don’t have an other half? I’m… single?”

“You’re…” Your face scrunches up, wrinkled in confusion. What? He’s… what? “But you always buy two drinks?”

Silence. Then: “I… the Americano is for me,” he says. “I usually just pour the special away. I only started ordering them because you got so excited talking about them and making them. I never planned on drinking them.”

Your mouth falls open, soft around a quiet breath, a soft oh. “You—wait. You ordered them because I got excited about them?”

Yoongi’s eyes are so dark, so gentle; melted chocolate, warm. “You started to talk to me more, after the first time I did,” he says, and you know you had. Because you thought it was safer to talk to him, though you were secure in the knowledge he wasn’t single—but he is single. “So I kept doing it, because I wanted to talk more to you. I thought you knew? And that’s why you started having real conversations with me.”

You’re frozen in place, eyes as big as dinner plates. Min Yoongi, your futile crush, who looks as sharp as a knife but is as sweet as spun candyfloss, has been coming back week after week—for you. He’s not in a relationship, and he’s been flirting with you.

Or at least he thought he had been. You, however, hadn’t even realised.

“I was going to ask you on a date after Christmas,” he continues, calm and steady, as if your brain isn’t melting. He’s still sitting behind his desk, and there’s something about his tousled hair and bared lower arms—watch on one wrist and a few bracelets on the other—that has your heart pounding, that casual air somehow not at odds at the weight of the surroundings. Because the world is a backdrop to Yoongi, and he makes it work.

“What the fuck,” you say. You realise you’ve never sworn in front of him when something flickers in his eyes; not a bad flicker, no. Definitely not. “I thought you were taken.”

“I’m very single,” he says lightly, belying the weight behind the words. And then his eyes drop to your hands. “You said you have a coffee for me?”

Which leads to this: Yoongi, in his chair, you, leaning against his desk. He’s taken the red eye (of course) while you sip at the latte, relishing the punch of espresso, the flavour of the syrups.

You’re both staring at each other as you drink, air in the room growing thicker by the moment, when Yoongi breaks the silence. “This is probably the only weekly special I’d actually want to drink.”

You can’t help but laugh. “Black coffee with more espresso? That’s you all over,” you say. “The other specials aren’t so bad, though. I think you just need to give sweet drinks a chance.”

You’re speaking without thinking, but the second those words leave your mouth, the air turns electric. Yoongi’s still staring at you, unwavering and intent, and everything inside you is melting, leaving you flushed and hot. The smile hasn’t left his face, which had been warm but it’s changed, evolved, edged with something sharper.

“If you say so,” he says. His eyes are on your lips. “Let me try?”

His fingers are so gentle on your face, hands cupping your jaw as he tilts your head down. All your thoughts leave you. There’s nothing in your mind but Yoongi, his warm hands and dark eyes, the heat of his body so close to yours, his mouth; you can’t help but look down, tracing the shape of his lips with your gaze, a small soft pout that’s so at odds with the weight of his intensity.

When he kisses you, it’s featherlight. Barely the softest of pressures, the potential of something more—and then he pulls you in deeper, and there it is, that heat flickering in your stomach jumping into a full fire. The kiss turns hot and wet as he licks the flavour of caramel and toffee syrup out of your mouth, and he tastes like coffee, dark and bitter; you make a noise against his lips and he swallows it down, pulls you closer.

You’re straddling his knees, a little awkward and cramped in his office chair, but you don’t care. You’ve been wanting to kiss Yoongi for so long, even when you felt like you shouldn’t, thought about his dark eyes and pink mouth, the curve of his lips, the paleness of his hands; a steadying presence around your waist, holding you in place.

When you pull apart, Yoongi’s lips are flushed, kiss swollen. It looks good on him. Really good on him.

“I’ve thought about that more than I’d like to admit,” he says, and you can’t help but feel warmed by it, the realisation that you’ve wanted to kiss him but he’s wanted to kiss you, too.

“This really isn’t comfortable,” you say, wriggling a little—your ass is starting to go numb, sat on Yoongi’s knees—and Yoongi sucks in a quick breath at the way you’re all but squirming in his lap, even if he doesn’t say anything.

Oh, you think.

When you move away, he lets you go without protest, hands sliding off your waist. It’s not until you fall to your knees that Yoongi realises what you’re doing, his eyes widening.

“Y/n,” he breathes. “You don’t have to—”

“Please, Yoongi, I’ve wanted to do this for months,” you say. Maybe it was a little crass to start with, wanting to get on your knees for a man you barely knew just because he was hot and polite to you, but now you know he wants you back. You’re not about to let this opportunity pass you by, staring up at him between his knees, hands braced on his thighs. “But if you want me to stop, I’ll stop.”

He looks torn, just for a second, eyes darting away from your face and to the door. It’s shut, but it’s not locked, and though the building is quiet there’s nothing to say that someone couldn’t walk in at any second.

Without thinking, you lick your lips. Yoongi’s eyes flicker back at the motion, watching how your tongue moves, and you can see how he crumbles.

“I don’t want you to stop,” he says, and you dig your nails into his trousers, electricity shooting through you.

“You’ll have to keep your voice down,” you warn, and reach for his zipper.

It’s a struggle for him, you can tell. He’s already biting his lip by the time you’ve tugged his trousers and boxers down, hardening under your grasp, and you knew his dick would be as pretty as the rest of him. You don’t have the luxury of worshipping him the way you want to, acutely aware of the fact you’re in his office, but it doesn’t mean you’re not going to make Yoongi feel good. It’s dirty and messy, the way you suck his cock into your mouth lewd and wet, lavishing attention on the most sensitive parts; his hips jump as you circle the head with your tongue and jerk the rest of his length with a hand.

Everything’s sloppy with spit and precum and Yoongi’s biting off curses, hand tightening in your hair as you take in as much of him as you can, relaxing your throat and swallowing him down, down, down. When you look up at him through your lashes he looks wrecked, the paleness of his skin flushed pink, and you can’t wait to see that all over. Can’t wait to see Yoongi entirely bare in front of you, when you have the luxury of time and pleasure.

But there’s something about this, too, that has your heart racing, cunt throbbing. You’re running your spit slick lips down the side of his shaft, tonguing the throb of the vein there, when you hear footsteps nearby, muffled through the door. It doesn’t sound like they’re coming in this direction and Yoongi seems almost entirely lost to the feeling of your mouth on him, but you flick your tongue across the spot where the head of his cock meets the shaft and he bows forward, swallowing down the noise that threatened to spill from his lips. He’s so fucking hot like this, falling apart under your hands and mouth, and you know he’ll give as good as he gets.

“Gonna cum,” he rasps. You smile up at him before taking his cock back into your mouth, jerking him off hard and fast as you lick and suck—and when he cums it’s with a noisy exhale of breath, a muffled groan, and even as you’re swallowing down his cum and mouthing at him until he winces with oversensitivity, you’re imagining what he sounds like when he doesn’t have to be quiet.

He’s not shy, either. You’ve barely tucked him back in when he’s reaching for you, kissing you. There’s no taste of coffee any more and you shiver, molten and boneless at the way his tongue presses into your mouth.

“Still want to take me on a date?”

You’re being cheeky, voice light as you joke, but Yoongi’s responding look is equal parts serious and affectionate. He sweeps a thumb over your cheekbone and you relax into his hands, feeling like a cat that got the cream. Here you are, on your knees in his office, the glittering lights of his Christmas tree thrown across your hair and skin, warmed by the touch of a man you’ve wanted for months but never thought you would get.

“Of course,” he murmurs, gentle-gentle-gentle, as if you hadn’t just sucked his soul through his dick—and you love that about him, love his inherent soft core, his big heart. You might not know him as well as you’d like—not yet—but you already know that much about him. “I owe you a present, too.”

Your face scrunches. “What, because I gave you a blowjob?”

At this he laughs, mouth split wide and gums on show as his whole body shakes with the intensity of it. “No, because you brought me a coffee,” he says. He still has your cheek cupped in his hand, palm warm against your skin. “But if you want to say it’s because of the blowjob as well, then sure.”

“There’s plenty more where that came from.” You smile at him, gentle expression at odds with the meaning behind the words and your position—still on your knees.

You don’t know if they ache when you stand, because Yoongi is kissing you again, distracting you. And it’s easy, this back and forth you have, comfortable as you finish the (now lukewarm) coffees and get ready to go, because Yoongi insists on walking you home. Because he’s a gentleman, your gentleman, and he even holds the door open for you.

You’re not sure if you can reach for his hand, if that would be too forward in his place of work, if he doesn’t want to when this thing between you is so tentative and new. But you’re barely halfway down the corridor when he stops you with a gentle hand on your arm; when you look over, he’s smiling at you, and then tilts his chin up.

“Oh!” You stare at the huge bundle of mistletoe above you, tied with red ribbon and messily taped to the ceiling. It brings a smile to your face. “Oh, how cute.”

The hand on your arm shifts down. Yoongi weaves his fingers with yours.

“You know about the tradition, right?” There’s a twinkle in his eyes, and it’s not just from the lights from the ceiling above, turning his dark eyes into warm chocolate, deep brown. “Kissing under the mistletoe?”

You can’t help but blink, surprised at his sweetness, his forwardness. There’s nothing to say that someone couldn’t walk by right now, to see the two of you hand in hand under the mistletoe, but Yoongi doesn’t care at all. He’s staring at you like you’re the only other person in the world, and you feel like a fountain of champagne is bubbling inside you, heady and sparkling and light.

“I think I’ve heard of it,” you say, and he’s still smiling, a small thing, just for you. “Do you think you can show me?”

And he does, with his hand in yours, your lips against his, and up above, the mistletoe sparkles.

(Your phone rings. Caller ID says it’s Taehyung, but when you pick up, he’s not the one who speaks.

“So.” Jungkook sounds knowing, his voice bordering on smug. “How did the delivery go?”

In the background you can hear someone crowding close, put it on speaker, Kookie, I want to hear too, and you can’t help but smile at Taehyung’s eagerness.

“Good,” you say. Yoongi’s palm is warm against yours and you swing your joint hands together, looking at him, entranced by the way the snowflakes dust his eyelashes. The sky above is dark and the wind around you is cold, but the man beside is so bright and warm. You feel wrapped up in it. “Yoongi says he’s going to kill you, by the way.”

“He won’t,” Jungkook says cheerfully, loud enough that Yoongi can hear. He looks fond.

“Well, tell Taehyung I’m going to kick his ass for lying about Tannie peeing on Jimin’s shoes,” you say.

“You won’t,” Taehyung says, equally as cheerful, and you can’t help but smile.

“No, I won’t,” you say.

You think about the seasons. You think about the man walking beside you; the man who says he hates cold weather, but has kept his gloves off so he can feel your hand against his. The man who came out in the snow to order a drink, just to make you smile. The man who looks like winter but feels like spring, something cold bursting into potential, new life.

In the depth of winter, under the snow and twinkling Christmas lights above, Yoongi squeezes your hand.)

taglist: @beyoncesdragon @vensulove

#btswritingcafe #btswriterscollective #magicshopnet #houseofddaeng #yoongi x reader #yoongi x you #bts #yoongi au #bts au #yoongi #yoongi scenario #yoongi imagine #yoongi fanfic #bts fanfic #joy.masterlist #PLEASE feel free to message me with any typos or whatever and I'll get on those when I have a chance

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jenoismydad · 4 years ago

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2 + 3 = You In Me

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Pairing: Tutor!Jaemin x Fem!Reader

Genre: Smut (pwp), Slight Angst, College AU

Words: 4.6k+

Warnings: 18+ content. Unprotected sex.

Synopsis: He agrees to tutor you and you end up becoming good friends even though you both so clearly want to be more. What happens when you let you bodies talk for you?

Jaemin was coming over to help you prepare for a test. You had no clue how he'd agreed to assist you, but you were thankful nonetheless. Jaemin rarely ever studied with girls. Mostly because they were always hitting on him. But it seemed you were an exception. You wondered why but you figured it was because he was trying to make some extra money.

Yes, Jaemin made you pay him. He made everyone pay him so you didn't think too much of it. From what you'd heard, his methods never failed to prove effective. You hoped he could help you study well enough to pass this test. After all, a majority of your grade depended on it.

You'd spent a good amount of your time trying to prepare a nice study space for you both to sit at in your apartment. So far you'd only managed to clean your coffee table and place two cushions for seats at its feet.

Jaemin would be here any minute. You rushed to get everything you'd need for the day, wanting to keep it all ready so that you wouldn't have to interrupt the study session. Your bell rang not soon after. He was here on time.

Opening the door, you welcomed him with a smile. He nodded and entered without a word. Black track pants and a plain white shirt. Jaemin hadn't made much of an effort to dress to impress. He ventured into your dorm, looking around the place silently.

That's when he came across your makeshift study zone. He pointed at it and looked at you.

"We're studying here," he asked, placing his hands in his pockets. He sounded a tad bit dejected. Your eyes widened slightly in panic. Was he not comfortable with sitting on the floor? "Yeah, I figured. Is there a problem," you asked, fearing the worst for no reason. Jaemin shook his head. "Nope, I just thought we were gonna sit in your room. That's where most of the girls take me anyways," he revealed, flashing you a small grin. You immediately felt at ease.

"My room's kind of a mess at the moment," you admitted, joining him near your couch. He took a seat on the floor, placing the cushion behind his back instead. He cleaned his black-rimmed glasses and patted the space next to himself. "Let's get started."

Jaemin was a pro at breaking down the complex concept so that your pea-sized brain could understand it to the fullest. The only drawback with that method was that it took much longer than you'd like it to. Two hours later you'd only finished one of the chapters that would be coming for the test. You still had four more to go.

"Fuck it's already three o'clock," you complained, falling dramatically on the coffee table. Jaemin flipped his pen in his fingers and stretched his body with a yawn. "I don't mind staying overtime," he joked. He'd made a lot of humoring comments during your time with him. The last you'd heard, he tended to be quite serious, never straying from his purpose. Not that you minded or anything, but Jaemin wasn't really meeting the expectations everyone had set for him in your mind. Maybe they were just trying to intimidate you.

"Don't you have to study too," you asked, turning your head to glance at him. He looked at you and shook his head. "I already studied beforehand. Plus, this test's gonna be super easy. You pass it with a breeze," he admitted. As relieving as that sounded, you didn't wanna take any chances. What if he flunked the test because he didn't revise or something. You really didn't want to be the person he blamed when that happened.

"You don't have to stay for my sake. You can go home if you want to. I think I can manage on my own now." you flipped through the pages of your coursebook, sighing in despair. It was a lot to go through. At least you still had half the day left.

Jaemin folded his arms. "Don't worry about me y/n. Not to undermine you, but I don't think you can get through all of this by yourself. I mean, you barely managed to understand the basics. All those chapters just branch off from this one and get increasingly tough to learn."

If this was him trying to convince you to let him stay then it sure as hell was working. You groaned and sat back up. "You promise you won't fail the test because of me then?" Jaemin chuckled. "Of course not. I'll pass with flying colors."

So you resumed studying. Jaemin was right. What he taught you next was more confusing than the first chapter you'd covered. You regretted not paying attention during your lectures. Jaemin never got impatient with you. In fact, he took ample time to make sure you understood everything he explained to you. He was very thorough and you appreciated that. However the more knowledge you absorbed, the more exhausted you felt. It got to the point where you felt like you couldn't study any further. Jaemin then suggested that you take a small break. You couldn't have agreed faster.

"Once we're done you should go through the practice questions that I emailed you," Jaemin reminded, taking a sip of the soda you'd offered him. You gave him a thumbs up and fell on the ground. "You're a lifesaver Na Jaemin."

Jaemin chuckled and turned to you. "I'm guessing it's not just math that you're having a problem with."

You raised your head and narrowed your eyes at him. "Nicely deduced."

"We can get together to study together for your other subjects if you don't mind. No need to pay me either," he offered.

You furrowed your brows. "Jaemin the longer you spend teaching me the dumber you're gonna get."

He brushed you off. "I'm pretty sure it doesn't work like that."

"You never know, and besides, after today you should know that it's gonna take five hundred years to clear all my concepts. Do you even have that kind of time?"

Jaemin tilted his soda can at you. "You'd be surprised at how much free time I have on my hands."

You smiled. "Wait so you're actually agreed to be my personal tutor."

Jaemin rolled his eyes amusedly. "It was my proposition but yes. I wouldn't be your personal tutor though. Just a study partner."

You sat up and leaned back. "So like, studying in the library after class and stuff like that?"

He nodded. "If the library's closed we can come here or I can take you to my place."

You pursed your lips, considering his deal. But something paused your train of thoughts. "Wait a minute. Why are you asking me this all of a sudden? You hardly seem like the type of guy who'd study with someone else."

Jaemin downed his drink, wincing at the fizziness that clawed at his throat. "I've had fun studying with you so far. Like, you're genuinely dumb, unlike some other people I tutor who just pretend to be dumb so they can spend a few hours with me."

You raised a brow. Had he just called you dumb? "I'll try not to take offense, thank you very much."

Jaemin apologized with a laugh.

"Does it make you feel smarter in some type of way," you asked? Jaemin hummed in response. "It kinda does now that you mention it. But I also feel like it would help me revise and clear my own concepts at the same time."

That made sense. "Damn, and here I was thinking you wanted to do this cause you were interested in me."

Jaemin's eyes widened. You raised your hands in defense. "It's just a joke. Don't take it seriously," you assured. Jaemin relaxed at that.

"Let's get started again. We're almost halfway there," he said, changing the topic. You agreed and sat beside him again, pen in hand, ready to go.

You walked out of your lecture with a bright smile on your face and headed straight to the library. Sure enough, Jaemin was already sitting there, waiting for you patiently. You sent him a small wave and skipped over to him. Handing him your graded test paper, you watched excitedly as his eyes lit up.

"Oh my god. You passed!"

You squealed and sat next to him, placing your bag near your feet. Jaemin smiled up at you. "This is such a good score," he added, glad that he'd been able to help.

"Henceforth we're studying together for every single test. I don't care if you're sick or at a friend's house."

Jaemin laughed and nodded. "Sure thing. If it means seeing you this happy then I'm down."

You froze at his words, glancing towards him. He clearly didn't seem to realize what he'd just said. Maybe you'd heard wrong. It was possible. After all, he was whispering. You didn't exactly have the best track record when it came to listening anyways. Concluding that you were mistaken, you pulled out your books and got to finishing up your assignments.

A few hours later Jaemin and you exited the library. You both usually parted ways since your dorms were in the opposite direction. However today, Jaemin followed behind you.

"What are you doing," you asked when he jogged up next to you. "We should celebrate your achievement today," he suggested. That sounded nice. "Okay then, what do you propose we should do?"

Jaemin pondered on your question. "Let's go to the cafe. I'll buy you coffee and anything else you want."

Coffee was perfect. You nodded and agreed. Jaemin grinned and led you to a small cafe that was just a little outside campus.

You both entered the small shop, the tantalizing scent of coffee hitting your senses immediately. Even though it was almost lunchtime, the cafe was brimming with multitudes of students. Luckily, the queue was short.

"Go find us somewhere nice to sit. I'll buy us some drinks," Jaemin said, pulling out his phone. Before you left, you let him know what you'd like.

Venturing to the back of the cafe, you found a secluded booth for two. It faced a large window, one that gave a fantastic view of the campus. You took a seat and placed your bag next to you. After a couple minutes of waiting, Jaemin emerged with your drinks in hand. He handed you yours before sitting down.

"Iced Americano? I see you're into the classics," you chimed, deciding to spark up a conversation. Jaemin took a sip of his drink. "Simple is the best after all."

Of course, it was. "Hey Jaemin," you started, setting your drink down on the table. He hummed. "Do you wanna come over later today," you asked. Jaemin furrowed his brows. "But we already finished studying."

You shook your head. "Not to study. Let's hang out, maybe watch a movie or something like that."

He seemed a bit taken aback, but nothing too alarming. It was just that you two never really did anything other than study together. Sure enough, you'd become close because of it. But you figured as friends, there were other things you could engage in to pass the time.

"Let's do it. What time should I come over," Jaemin asked? "Does seven work for you? I'll order pizza, so you don't need to worry about dinner."

Jaemin nodded. "Seven works for me."

As soon as the clock struck seven, there was a knock on your door. The ever punctual Jaemin would never be a second late. You let him in, eager to get your night started. He walked into your dorm and went straight to your room, plopping down on your bed as if it were his own.

You'd already been browsing on Netflix, wondering what genre he liked. It had never come up in conversation before so you didn't really know.

"What are we watching," he asked, scrolling through the options. You shrugged and joined him on your bed. "I'm not sure. I didn't know what you like," you admitted.

"I usually just watch whatever's in the top ten or 'new this week'," he shared. He stopped at a movie you would never have believed he'd be interested in.

"You wanna watch Yes Day," you asked in disbelief? Jaemin giggled and nodded innocently. "It looks super lame but I've already finished watching everything," he revealed. Here you were thinking you both would watch something more serious instead of a family movie. Instead of spending forty minutes trying to settle on one movie, you decided it best to just go with the first choice.

Jaemin started the movie and leaned back beside you. It was quiet between you both for the most part. You watched the movie in silence. It wasn't as entertaining as you'd thought it would be, but Jaemin seemed to be engrossed in it so you chose to say nothing and continued staring at the screen.

Halfway into the movie, Jaemin stifled a yawn and fell to the side, rubbing his eyes tiredly. He looked at you and pointed to the screen. "Are we gonna keep watching this?"

You let out a breath of relief and exited out of the movie once and for all. "If you didn't like it why'd you make me watch it," you complained, shutting your laptop. Jaemin sat up and crossed his legs. "I thought you were enjoying it. You even laughed at the funny parts."

You stuck your chin out. "You should know what my fake laugh sounds like by now Jaemin." He raised his hands in defense. "The only time I hear you laugh is when you realize you're doing something wrong."

You tsked. "That's called nervous laughter genius. You suck at interpreting emotions."

He hit you with a pillow softly. "Hey, stop making me out for a robot."

"You're the human embodiment of the AI," you joked, dodging the pillow he swung at you. Raising your hands in defense, you shielded yourself from him. "At least I said you're intelligent."

Jaemin paused his attacks. "You're lucky I think you're cute. I'll let you off the hook for now."

You had another one of those moments where you froze, wondering if the words that had come out of his mouth were true or not. He didn't whisper this time. You'd heard everything word for word. But you couldn't believe it.

"Did you just call me cute?"

Jaemin nodded, not seeming too surprised about it. "You aren't not cute," he added. Maybe you were misinterpreting the meaning behind it. Friends called friends cute. It was normal. That didn't mean that they liked each other, did it?

Noticing the conflict in your expression, Jaemin leaned forward and cleared his throat. "I didn't mean it in an 'I have a crush on you' type of way."

Something about that made your stomach churn. You felt uneasy all of a sudden. You wanted to be relieved, that he didn't think of you as more than a friend. But a part of you wished he felt otherwise. You didn't know why, it just did.

You chuckled awkwardly and faced him. "Yeah, of course, you didn't. I don't know why I thought that."

Jaemin hummed and rested his chin on his palm. "Maybe because you wanted it to be true."

"Huh?"

"Maybe you wanted me to tell you that I like you."

You didn't know what to say to that. So you just smiled awkwardly. "But you don't, do you?"

Jaemin grinned. "Do you want me to?"

"No! Of course not, why would I-"

"I'm just messing with you y/n. Don't worry, we're just friends," he assured, finding you getting alarmed quite amusing. You hit his shoulder. "Don't joke around like that. Who knows what might happen."

Jaemin's laughter died down. He met your gaze sombrely. You knew he wanted to say something, but he remained silent. His eyes traveled down to your lips for a moment. You sucked in a breath, suddenly feeling giddy. Jaemin looked back into your eyes, this time with a small smile. You didn't know what he was doing. You also didn't know if you liked it or not. Your mind said one thing and your body said another. Jaemin subtly licked his lips. You had no clue why the action had such a devastating effect on you.

Before you knew it, your lips were on his. Jaemin didn't seem surprised at all. In fact, he relaxed and snaked his arm around your waist, pulling your body onto his. He fell back on your mattress, bringing you on top of him. Straddling his lap, you placed your hands on either side of his head, kissing him with vigor. Jaemin groaned against your mouth, the sound sending warm shivers down your back. His lips were softer than you thought they'd be and he tasted faintly of coffee.

His hands slipped under your shirt, resting on your skin. His touch felt fiery hot. You rolled your hips over his lap impulsively, biting his both lip as a throaty groan left his mouth. He squeezed your waist and trailed his hands down to your ass.

Before things could escalate, however, your bell rang. You both stilled, separating from each other. When your eyes met, you scrambled off of him and sat at the edge of your bed, completely stunned. Jaemin rubbed his face and sat up as well, not really knowing what to say. The bell rang again, snapping you out of your daze. "I'll go get that," you muttered disorientedly, leaving Jaemin in your room. He nodded and stood up. "Actually, I'm gonna go," he said, leaving your room before you could say anything. You heard the door open and shut soon after. Your bell rang again.

You went to open your door. A delivery guy stood before you, hands empty with a confused look on his face. "The guy that just left took the pizza with him. He said that you'd pay for it." You couldn't believe it. Nonetheless, you paid the man and shut your door. What had just happened?

A few days passed after the incident at your dorm. Jaemin hadn't called or texted you and in all honesty, you hadn't made an attempt to contact him. You felt too embarrassed to face him. After all, it was you who'd gone onto him. Even if he didn't push you away it wasn't like either of you had agreed to start making out. You were anxious because you knew you'd ruined your friendship with him.

A part of you missed him. You enjoyed spending time with him, even though all you did was study. Everything was so bleak now that he wasn't around to humor you.

You didn't want to regret whatever had happened that night. It was amazing. You just wished it hadn't ended the way it did. You should have understood that he indeed was joking. Instead, you mistook his prodding for sarcasm.

It made no sense for you to not speak to him. You wanted to make amends, figure out what had gone wrong. But you were scared he'd ignore you. That would just make you feel worse than you already did.

So you passed the days, wafting in your own misery. Pitying yourself as if the entire weight of the world had been thrown on your shoulders.

Little did you know that all it would take was another shitty test score for you to pick up your phone and call Jaemin.

"Help me study," you said as soon as he answered the call. Jaemin was silent on the other end. "Don't just listen to me. Say something," you begged. Your heart felt heavy. You heard him sigh. "I'd rather not y/n." You got goosebumps. "Jaemin, please. We can go to fucking library if that makes you feel better," you suggested, desperate for him to agree. After giving it some thought he finally answered you. "Okay fine. Tomorrow at three. But no longer than three hours."

He hung up, leaving you feeling a tad bit better. You looked forward to the next day. Hopefully, he wouldn't act indifferent to you.

Jaemin sat in your usual spot at the library. He was on his phone, leg crossed over his lap leisurely. You walked up to him and took a seat beside him without a word. Seeing you had arrived, he put his phone away and turned to you. "What are we studying?"

You took out your books and opened them. "This."

Jaemin glanced over the material. No wonder you'd flunked your test. He sighed, placing the textbook between you two. Without wasting a second, he began tutoring you.

No matter how hard you tried, you just couldn't pay attention. You were too busy staring at his face, more specifically his lips. They way he'd lick them ever so often made butterflies soar in your stomach. He'd run his hand through his fluffy hair and adjust his glasses, letting your mind run wild. Jaemin didn't seem to notice your lack of focus. You figured he didn't really care. He kept glancing at his watch. It was like he was waiting for your time with him to come to an end.

Much to your dismay, eventually it did.

"I'll send you a picture of some practice material. You can use that to prepare better," he concluded, getting up from his seat. You quickly stuffed your books in your bag and ran after him.

"Jaemin wait!"

He paused. "What," he asked as he turned around. He sounded disinterested. "Can we talk," you asked? Jaemin sighed and shrugged. "What do you wanna talk about," he questioned, placing his hands in his pockets. "About what happened at my place last week."

Jaemin tensed up. "It was a mistake. I think we both understood that."

You shook your head. "I don't know Jaemin, I'm not sure I did."

He furrowed his brows. "What do you mean?"

"The more I thought about it the more I realized that I wouldn't have kissed you unless I wanted to. Not just that but you wouldn't have let it go so far if you thought it was wrong."

He seemed at a loss for words.

"When you called me cute, you did mean it in an 'I have a crush on you' type of way." You didn't need an answer for him to know you were correct.

"What are you trying to say y/n," he asked, sounding defeated.

"That I like you," you admitted. Jaemin's eyes widened. "And that you like me too," you added.

Jaemin bit his lip. "Okay, so then why were we acting like we hated each other for so long?"

You shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe because you overthink everything and I'm a big pussy."

Jaemin chuckled and slung his arm around your shoulder. "I'm sorry about that babe."

You cringed at the nickname. "Don't 'babe' me. We're not dating. Not yet."

Jaemin rolled his eyes. "Does it really need to be that formal?"

You nodded adamantly. "Of course it does."

He sighed. "Fine. Will you go out with me y/n?"

You smiled and shook your head. "I'd rather not Jaemin."

"Yeah whatever," he said with a scoff, leading you outside.

As soon as you were past your door Jaemin's lips were on yours in an instant. He pushed you against the wall, wrapping your legs around his waist. You held onto his shoulders, sighing into his mouth. "I missed you so fucking much," he muttered, stumbling to your room.

He dropped you on your bed and hovered over you, staring down at you somberly before kissing you again. His lips didn't stay on yours for too long, trailing down to your jaw and then your neck. You tugged at his shirt, urging him to take it off. When he did, you stared at his chiseled body in awe. "I didn't know you worked out."

Jaemin chuckled at your comment and pulled your own shirt off. He flicked the tiny bow on your bra with an amused grin. "This is cute."

You nudged his arm timidly. "I wasn't exactly preparing myself for this moment."

He said nothing further and latched his lips to your neck once again. Running your fingers through his hair, you craned your neck to the side to give him more access. He gently sucked on your skin, not too harsh that it would leave marks. You sighed and fiddled with the waistband of his sweatpants. "Do you want it off," he asked quietly, lips ghosting over yours. You nodded, biting your lip when he pushed his pants down.

His member came into sight, making your mouth water.

Taking your hand in his, he brought it to his cock. Your fingers wrapped around his girth instinctively. Jaemin suck in a breath as he made you stroke his length. His hand slipped past your panties, fingers toying with your clit. You gasped and spread your legs wider, loving the way his calloused fingertips felt. Tightening your grip around his cock, you jerked him off earnestly. In turn, Jaemin began rubbing quick circles into your sensitive bundle of nerves.

Letting go of his member, you hastily pushed your pants down your legs. Jaemin peeled your panties off of you, marveling at the sight of your glistening pussy. "Don't just stare," you complained, shutting your legs, "do something."

Jaemin wordlessly, spread your legs apart and settled down between your thighs. He glanced up at your through his lashes, asking for permission before licking a stripe up your folds. You pushed your hips against his mouth, eyes falling shut when he repeated the action. Holding onto your thighs, he nipped and sucked at your clit, groaning every time your bucked your hips into his face. You gripped onto his hair, tugging at his roots. Jaemin's fingers prodded at your slit, slowly entering your walls. He curled them up, making your arch your back in delight. It felt so good. He knew exactly what he was doing.

With his tongue skillfully moving over your clit and his fingers continuously pumping in and out of you, it didn't take long for you to feel a familiar knot in your stomach. You sat up, pulling his mouth off of your cunt. "I need you to fuck me now." Your voice was hushed, breathless because of how much you'd moaned. Jaemin's eyes had darkened considerably. He pushed you down on your back again and pressed his tip to your entrance.

Jaemin felt bigger than he looked. Not that you were complaining or anything, it just took a while to get used to. He made sure you were comfortable before slowly starting to pound into you.

You grabbed his arms as he fastened his pace, head falling back in ecstasy. Shallow breaths left his parted lips. "You feel so good," he muttered, burying his face in the crook of your neck. His breath was hot on your skin. You wrapped your arms around his neck, humming in response. You were close. Jaemin could tell.

Gripping onto your waist, he went faster, slamming his cock into you as he chased your highs. You cried out his name, squeezing your eyes shut. Your walls clenched tightly around his length, your orgasm crashing down on you intensely. Soon enough, he twitched inside you. His thighs stilled, hips snapping into you one last time before thick ropes of his cum shot into your walls. He let out a pleased groan, voice deep and raspy.

"That was amazing," you breathed, pushing your hair out of your face as Jaemin moved off of you. He smiled and tugged his pants back on, joining you under the covers. "I'm glad you enjoyed it." Jaemin pulled you into his side, letting you rest your head on his shoulder. You laughed to yourself. "What is it," Jaemin asked. You shook your head, looking at him. "To think this all started after you agreed to tutor me."

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