#its so nice to be assured by others that i am good enough so thank you for treating me kindly 🥺💕💕

[saturnnat]

hiii i wanted to to tell you that you seem reaaaal nice and if you wan to you could take my idea so basically it's obvi nat x fem reader and we're teaching nat how to crochet at first she's telling us how boring it is and that it's lame but secretly she loves how we teach her and she likes it so some time later she'll crochet us a dino for birthday or anniversary but it will be a bit non-profesional so she thinks we don't like it since its her first real crochet animal so we assure her that we love it and then she sees us sleeping with it at night💓💓💓💓💓

You’re so sweet! It took me a little while to finish this since I’m very busy with college, but here it is! I hope you like it! <3

Birthday Gift

Pairing | Natasha Romanoff x Fem!Reader

Word Count | 917

Summary | You will always love Natasha's gifts

"Are you crocheting?"

You look up to see it was Natasha who broke your peaceful little bubble of silence.

“Yeah, I am.”

“Isn’t that for like, old people?” the redhead snorts.

“Hey now, don’t be mean! It’s a lot of fun!” you hit her lightly, not appreciating the way she’s making fun of your hobby.

“Really?” she raises one eyebrow. She doesn’t know if she should ask you more about it, or just leave you be. She does think you look cute, sitting cross-legged on the couch, completely focused on the task in front of you.

“Really! I can teach you if you want,” you suggest, “I promise it’s not as difficult as it looks!”

Natasha contemplates your offer. You do look relaxed, and she honestly could use a hobby that doesn’t involve guns or punching a bag.

“Alright. You can teach me.”

“Really?!” your eyes light up, you weren’t expecting that answer.

You rummage in your bag, that you crocheted yourself, and hand your girlfriend a crochet hook and a ball of yarn. For the next 30 minutes, you try to explain the process to the impatient redhead.

“And this is what you call fun?!”

“Come on, Tasha! You just need to practice a little bit,” you smile, “before you know it you can make your own bags and stuffed animals!”

“I’m the Black Widow, I don’t need stuffed animals,” she mumbles.

You roll your eyes at that, but continue helping her nevertheless.

As much as Natasha hates to admit it, she does think crocheting is quite fun. After some practice, she doesn’t have as much trouble anymore, following patterns and other tutorials. And of course, she enjoys every minute of time she can spend with you when you teach her. She would never really admit that either, though.

With your birthday coming up, and her finally being able to follow a bit more difficult patterns, she decides to make you something. Your slight obsession with dinosaurs has never gone unnoticed by Natasha, and she adores you for it. You already have quite some dinosaur stuffed animals, but she decides to crochet one for you anyways. Unfortunately for Natasha, it turns out a bit more difficult than she expected. She spends hours trying to make the stuffed animal look right, and she almost gave up a few times. She decided against it, luckily, telling herself that if you didn’t like her gift, she could always buy you something else.

After a few days, the dinosaur is finally finished. It doesn’t look professional, far from it, but the redhead hopes it will be good enough for you. She makes sure to wrap the thing in dinosaur wrapping paper, she’s sticking to a theme here, and she plans your birthday breakfast. She can’t spend your birthday with you, much to her dismay, so she hopes the dino and breakfast will make up for it.

“Happy birthday, baby!” she beams, when you walk into the kitchen, still waking up a bit.

“Tasha! You didn’t have to do this!” you blush, looking around the kitchen, “it smells delicious, did Wanda help you?”

Your girlfriend shoves you lightly when you make the teasing remark but admits to it anyways, “she might’ve helped me with some stuff, yeah.”

“Well, thank you. It looks, and smells, great,” you smile, and Natasha swears she could die happy right then and there. It is your birthday, however, so she decides against it.

“I got you a gift too,” she admits shyly, showing you the wrapped-up gift.

“Nat! You didn’t have to do that?!” you exclaim, while accepting the gift, “I love the wrapping paper though.”

“I knew you would.”

Natasha watches you nervously, as you carefully unwrap the gift. She doesn’t miss the way your eyes light up when the handmade stuffed dinosaur is revealed to you.

“Did you make this?” you ask, full of disbelief.

“I did. I know it’s not that good, but I tried-” she rambles, suddenly scared that you might actually hate the gift.

“Natasha, shut up, it’s so cute!” you cut her rambling off quickly, “I love it. Thank you so much!”

You walk over to her and press a kiss on her cheek, showing your appreciation for the gift. The rest of the morning is spent eating your breakfast and talking about what you have planned today. All the while your new gift is proudly being shown off at the middle of the dining table. When Natasha leaves for work you hug her goodbye and whisper once again how much you love the little dinosaur she gave you.

It’s late when Natasha gets back from work. She’s carrying a bag of your favorite food in one hand, hoping you haven’t had dinner yet, and a little birthday card in her other hand. It’s from all of her teammates, wishing you a happy birthday.

“��алышка, I’m home!” she calls out when you don’t come greeting her right at the door.

She frowns a bit when she doesn’t see you in the living room or kitchen. She leaves the takeout on the table and walks over to your bedroom, hoping to find you there.

When she does, her heart flutters and she has to fight back some happy tears. You fell asleep, a thin fleece blanket covering you. In your arms you’re tightly clutching the little dinosaur Natasha gave you. Natasha walks over to you and crouches down to give you a kiss on your forehead.

"Happy birthday, pretty girl."

[wonijinjin]

KIM MINGYU (+ JEON WONWOO) - BITTERSWEET

author’s note: this is a fic for the @caratsland event, it was a very long process to write but i am proud of this fic, my first true long fic and angst, hope you guys enjoy! inspired by the song bittersweet.

song recs: recommended songs for this fic are bittersweet by wonwoo mingyu and leehi (obviously hehe), i don’t understand but i luv u by seventeen,

synopsis: can two broken hearts find peace, happiness, and heal each other?

word count: 5.2k | genre: heavy angst, hurt/comfort, love triangle | pairings: wonwoo x f! reader, mingyu x f! reader | warnings: mentions of alcohol, heartbreaks, cursing, bad mental health, mentions of food, tiny bit of physical fighting

mingyu had always been in love with you, since the moment he met you; he couldn’t get you out of his head, it was something about the way you smiled at him or the way your eyes lit up when you saw him. just like as if he was put under a magical spell, he was mesmerised by you, he felt like you were his soulmate.

except, this was not a fairytale. this was real life.

“hey, you seem like you just got dumped or something let me treat you to a drink, okay?” a guy next to you observed.

he could recall the the first time you two had met like it was yesterday. it happened to be in a place odd enough; a bar. you had the first heartache of your life and went out to drink your pain away and happened to sit next to him at the bar.

“is it that obvious?” you laughed weakly. he offered a grin in return. “i know a broken heart when i see one.” he said with the same smile on his face. “speaking from experience?” you blurted, a bit tipsy, hands clamping onto your mouth following the remark. his soft look saddened. “sorry, didn’t wanna pry into your life.” you apologised, shame rising in you. “no worries.” he said reassuringly. he saw your almost empty glass and got back to the topic. “so, which one is the lucky drink today?” he joked, motioning for you to choose one from the menu on the table. “surprise me.” you said, playing along with his silly game. “my pleasure.” he faked a bow in sitting position, tilting his head. “you have to turn around or at least not look at the drink, it isn’t gonna be a surprise if you do.” he emphasized, “don’t worry, i am not gonna put anything in it, she can assure you about that, right?” he projected his gaze towards the bartender who nodded siletly. “okay then, but it better be good.” you giggled, twisting your body in the opposite direction so you couldn’t see the drink itself. after the bartender finished the mysterious beverage, she handed it to you, and you accepted it. “thanks.” you returned her kind smile and took a sip of your drink, not knowing what kind of alcohol it contained. “tequila? you have a good taste.” you said after tasting the medicine-like bitterness on your tongue. he laughed out loud. “it is said to be curing heartbreaks.” he told. “i mean it is indeed bitter, might as well be the solution for stress too, isn’t it?” you mumbled in a melancolic tone. he put his hand out for you to shake. “i’m mingyu by the way.” he grinned. you couldn’t surpress the smile that made its way onto your face, and shook his hand firmly. “y/n. nice to meet you, mingyu.”

“i can’t believe you don’t want to tell me his name, after all the times i heard you dreaming about him in front of me! you know how sappy you can be when daydreaming?” fast forward to three years later you guys were sitting in your bedroom, and mingyu was listening to your rambles about your long time crush, jeon wonwoo. he didn’t know it was him though, of course he didn’t know; wonwoo was initially a friend of his, but after stepping foot into mingyu’s inner circle years ago you got to know him yourself, and fell for him. hard. mingyu didn’t know how hard it was to not let him in on this, you truly wished you could have his support, but you had no choice. he was your best friend; you really appreciated mingyu with a full heart, but you just couldn’t tell him your biggest secret, not after failing in love so many times, after all the occasions he had to pick up and glue back together the broken pieces of your heart, you wanted to spare him from having to deal with your bullshit for another time, even so having the possibility of choosing between his friend and you if things didn’t end well.

”y/n, we have been over this so many times, you should ask him out already! i cannot go another week, no, another minute with you whining about it!” he teased you, resulting in you blushing. he loved seeing you blush; you were really pretty with a dust of pink on your face, especially if he knew he was the reason why you got shy. “mingyu, stop! i already told you i am not about to get my heart broken another time!” when you said this sentence he became more serious. he was there for you after you two had met at the bar and you suffered the consequences of a rejection from the first guy you loved in your life. and he had been there for all the heartbreaks ever since, building your confidence up again and again, from nothing. he knew how much that hurt you and on second thought he never wished to see you in that state ever again. “you know what, i might as well take that back.” he agreed, to which you looked at your knees, fingers fidgeting with the hem of your shirt. he understood well what played out in your head; he knew you like the back of his hand. he forced you to look into his eyes, a firm look on his face. “look, i don’t want you to get that sad you were when we met. you are my best friend.” he paused for a moment. “all i want is to see you happy. however, for once, you need your happy ending, and that takes many tries sometimes.” you gave him a sad smile. “i know you do, mingyu, i know. and thank you for being here and supporting me. one day i will tell you about him. be patient. please?” you pleaded, and he gave you a determined nod, getting on with your conversation, putting this heavy topic aside for your sake.

“i am so sorry y/n, but i am afraid that i can’t reciprocate your feelings.” wonwoo said, but you didn’t hear it. all you could focus on was holding your tears back, so you didn’t seem any more patethic than you already were, pouring out your heart to him, getting it shattered into millions of pieces. you asked him to meet you at the park for a walk, thinking your next move through after your conversation with mingyu and deciding that you had enough of the waiting and you needed to confess. well, it was definitely a stupid idea. you honestly didn’t know what you had expected; you saw the way he looked at that one girl from the coffee shop he worked at part time, they worked together most of the time, being almost the only ones who ran the place besides the owner. he obviously liked her, not you, but you confessed anyways, what a waste of time and energy.

“it is totally fine wonwoo, it’s okay, no worries! let’s just forget this ever happened, okay?” it was not fine. you were not fine, but still managed to put a forced smile on your face, as big as it could get. “but i should really go now, i forgot about something!” you turned on your heels, choking back the tears you had been holding. “but y/n wait-“ he said but you cut him off. “see you later, bye!” you managed to get out while already running away. you didn’t know where your legs were taking you, but one thing was sure; anywhere just to be away from wonwoo. while hurrying to go to a quieter place to let your emotions out you bumped into someone. “sorry.” you stuttered; when you looked up above the wide shoulders in your vision you saw mingyu’s face with confusion written all over it. his eyes widened “what are you doing here-“ he tried to question, but you pushed him away and started running down the street. “what is going on?” he shouted after you, but didn’t follow; he knew you and how you liked to have your space when getting upset over something, so he never forced you to talk about the issues with him. he would always just text you right after hearing the news and eventually you would come to him yourself; you always did.

but not this time.

he waited for days.

weeks.

months.

you never spoke about what happened that day and what upset you, or about the thing that made you distance yourself from your friends, including him. after that particular day he rarely saw you, and when he did it was only on occasions when just the two of you hung out; that was all he could get you to do, very rarely. when the other guys organised group gatherings you usually cancelled them with some lame excuse last minute; he never believed them, but he stayed silent.

after another few weeks of the situation not getting better he wanted to take action to find out what was wrong, so he made a plan to invite you for a drink at your favourite place.

“mingyu i am very busy and you know that.” you said over the phone when he called you in the afternoon. there was a moment of silence on the other end of the line. “please, we haven’t hung out in like, forever. i miss you, y/n. i really do.” your heart jumped in fear; you had been avoiding all your friends on purpose, but not mingyu, no, you would never want to do that to him. you felt guilt creeping up on you as you could imagine his big puppy dog eyes looking at you, pleading for you to soften and give in to him, which you of couse did. you sighed. “you may be right, i did neglect our friendship. i am sorry mingyu. so, where are we going?” he shouted in excitement. “yes! i knew you would give in to me y/n, you cannot resist me.” he joked to which even if he couldn’t see it, you raised an eyebrow and rolled your eyes. “in your dreams, silly.” you answered. “we are going to your favourite bar! just like old times, remember?” he giggled; that place held so many memories to both of you, laughing or crying, didn’t matter, you loved being there with him. “so just the usual, got it. see you there, text me the exact date. bye mingyu.” you hung up, worry already being heavy on your shoulders; you knew you had to come clean about what happened months ago. although mingyu knew you very well, you did too, so you didn’t doubt that eventually he would ask about the reason of your social distancing, looking like that time had come.

mingyu greeted you at the usual seats in the corner of one of the private rooms; they were basically reserved for you guys, considering how many times you had been sitting in them, talking about this and that, in this case your love life being on the menu of the chit-chat. “so y/n, let’s get to the point.” he started, and you already knew the continuation. “i think you understand why i called you here without me needing to explain in detail. it has been months since that incident. so, tell me. what’s up? are you okay?” he pouted. mingyu was an emotional guy, he really cared for the well-being of his closest friends and he always made it his mission to help them, you frequently being one of his top priorities. if he wanted to be honest he cared for you ten times more than his other friends, they could solve their problems on their own; however, you relied on him a lot, which he didn’t mind; he got used to it pretty quickly, enjoying being trusted by the person whom he adored so much in this world. you looked at him with a heavy heart, tension being so nerve-wrecking while you contemplated whether you would make the right choice by speaking about wonwoo. “sorry ‘gyu, i just couldn’t bring myself to tell you, but i guess now i cannot run away, i know you would figure it out yourself anyways” you turned to him, talking slowly. he listened attentively, encouraging you to go on. “…so here i am, telling you the secret you have been so eager to know. i should start at the very beginning, right?”

“then he rejected me.” you cried into his chest, his arms wrapping around your form protectively. “he fucking rejected me! after all the years i have spent loving him from a distance i succesfully mustered up the courage to tell him, and this is what i get mingyu!” your cries continued steadily, and mingyu was quick to stroke your hair, patting it repeatedly. “why does nobody i love loves me back? do i not deserve happiness in life? am i unloveable, ‘gyu?” you looked into his eyes, tears pricking your own; he could see the pain you had been through in the past few months. he knew how hard it was for you to get over even a crush, not talking about real love. he could see it on you; that you really loved wonwoo, sincerely. it was easy to tell, really; if you didn’t, you wouldn’t have been so upset for this long. and this is exactly why he was really mad at his friend for breaking your heart. “of course you are loveable y/n. gosh, you are the most loveable person i have ever known, so stop with the nonsense. he doesn’t deserve you. he doesn’t deserve the love you have in you, the jokes you make that make everyone want to laugh immediately, the look you give to people you adore and respect, the way your eyes light up when you see a cute dog, or the way you cannot resist those delicious cookies they sell at the bakery next to your apartment and buy them every time they have them freshly out from the oven. he wouldn’t appreciate the meals you cook by yourself and decide to share with your friends, the kind words you have towards everyone, every day, or the help you offer to others without hesitation, even if it puts you at a disadvantage.” he finished his monologue, taking your hands into his. “you deserve the most happiness there is on this planet.” he whispered, almost looking like he was afraid if he said it any louder you would disappear into thin air. “do you really think so?” you mumbled, voice hoarse from crying so much in the span of an hour. “i know so.” he said gently, hugging you softly. “so, is this the reason why you have been avoiding the group meetings? you didn’t want to look into his eyes after the confession?” he gave you a knowing look, having caught on pretty quickly, not to your surprise though; mingyu was a smart guy, he connected the dots easily. you just nodded silently, too embarrassed to say anything about it. it wasn’t the first time you had gotten emotional with mingyu, but this felt different; you weren’t that young anymore, it wasn’t a silly little crush, or a minor inconvenience. regardless, it felt great to have him back and involved with your life again, after these painfully long weeks you admittedly missed his presence an awful lot. you grew more tired with time and closed your eyes when you heard him whisper. ”everything will be okay y/n.” he promised, and you started to believe him.

“so, it was you all along. i should’ve known.” mingyu laughed bitterly while walking up to wonwoo; they were in the practice room, tension already high thanks to new choreography, however the pair had been holding back as much as they could, until the day mingyu found out about you and wonwoo. he squeezed wonwoo’s shoulder, maybe a bit harder than comfortable or necessary. “gosh, i don’t understand. what’s so special about you?” he wondered out loud regarding the rethorical question, gritting his teeth, clearly for the other to hear it. “what is your problem mingyu? what the hell are you even talking about?” the shorter one quizzed, not getting the point of mingyu’s words. “you literally broke y/n’s heart. never took you for the type to hurt others.” mingyu spat out, disgusted by the words rolling off his tongue. realisation hit wonwoo, and he frowned upon remembering the memory. “i wasn’t trying to hurt her feelings.” wonwoo calmly replied. “damn brother, you really outdid yourself with that one there.” mingyu commented again while not even paying attention to his friend, walking away. after this wonwoo couldn’t stay silent; he grabbed mingyu and made him look into his black eyes, dangerously shining. “what the fuck ‘gyu? yes, i didn’t reciprocate y/n’s feelings, so what? im sorry, but should i just ignore what my heart says just to save her from heartbreak? look, she will get over it. this doesn’t work like that, but you seem to be having no idea of what love is like-“ “shut the fuck up! you think i don’t know that? that what the heart wants the heart wants? i love her! i love her and she loves you out of all people!” mingyu screamed at him in frustration. “you should’ve made her happy. happier. she deserves happiness with the person she loves the most, even if it’s not me, even it is you, asshole.” mingyu sighed, disappointed. wonwoo’s eyes widened and he covered his mouth with his hands. “so this is what this was all about, your crush on y/n. how couldn’t i notice it earlier?” he wondered in a surprised tone, to which mingyu kicked him in the shin. “of course, yell it out to the whole world, would you?” he mocked wonwoo who kicked him back in the process. “ouch!” the taller one yelped. “this was for yelling at me,” wonwoo stated, “…and this one is for being this big of a coward to tell her how you feel and blaming it on me.” and with that he slapped mingyu’s arm, the man groaning in pain from the impact.

“love really took the remaining braincells in your head didn’t it? stand up for yourself for god’s sake!” wonwoo lectured, wanting mingyu to cut him some slack because he rarely had anything to do with his anger. “you are the one she loves, not me, i will forever stay the best friend in her eyes. my hands are tied here, brother. can’t you give her a chance? just a few dates? maybe you could get to know her a bit more and fall in love.” mingyu suggested in a low tone, not very fond of the idea, but rather desperate to make your dreams come true; he just wanted you to be truly content with your life, even though if it meant getting you together with his friend, he swore on bringing the moon and the stars to you just to see your happiness, even if it broke him into pieces. “seriously? you know that me talking to her will cause more damage, right? and how shitty of a person you think i am to date someone my best friend loves?” wonwoo sighed, scolding mingyu for not thinking more rationally. “i can get over her, but whatever, forget about it.” mingyu said and then stormed out of the practice room. wonwoo followed him and grabbed his arm. “fine, if this is what you want i will do it. then tell her to text me, because i don’t think she even wants to talk to me. she didn’t even wait for me to finish! i didn’t want to sound so harsh, but i didn’t even have the chance to say anything because she stormed off just like you did now!” wonwoo was grumpy, mad even; he liked you, you were a great friend, he just couldn’t see you in a different light, he had never intended to hurt your feelings. “good, i will. i know she hasn’t gotten over you.” mingyu smiled a bit, wonwoo letting his arm go.

mingyu hadn’t heard from you in a few days and you hadn’t been replying to his messages so he decided to surprise you by going to your workplace after your day ended to pick you up and go out to eat something delicious together, but when he arrived at the building and went inside unexpected news greeted him. “what do you mean she hasn’t been to work?” he asked the recetionist at the ground floor after hearig that you weren’t working. “like i said; she has been on sick leave for a few days already.” he was at a loss of words; why didn’t you tell him that you were sick? you knew he could cook you some soup and help if you felt that bad. regardless, he got into his car after thanking the lady for the help and drove to your apartment. after arriving at your doorstep he knocked on the door, but no answer came from you. “y/n? are you there? i heard that you were sick.” again, silence. “i know where you keep your spare key, so if you don’t open the door i will come in myself, don’t do this to me y/n.” he pleaded, trying to keep his cool and not think about how you could be passed out on the floor and seriously hurt, that being the reason why you never replied to him in the first place. he took the key from underneath the mat in front of the door and stepped inside. there was darkness everywhere around the house, only a small source of light coming out from under your bedroom door which was closed. he hurried through the hall where he could clearly make out your crying through the walls. “y/n? are you in here?” following his question the wailing stopped and he heard a gasp, then the door opened, revealing a very tired you; messy hair, dark circles under your eyes, which were by the way red from crying. “aww what’s wrong?” mingyu asked, pulling you into a hug. “at your office they said you were sick. are you?” he asked, not even waiting for an answer, already putting his hand on your forehead. you pushed it away. “no, i’m not. i lied to them. i lied because i am not okay, ‘gyu.” you sobbed, feeling pathetic that you couldn’t get over the heartbreak of wonwoo rejecting you, even though it had been a long time since the incident. “look, i know it hurts, but life goes on y/n. you can’t hide from everyone forever just because someone hurt you. you know how much i love you and how much pain i am in seeing you suffer, but you need to get it together.” you looked up at him, admitting that you indeed had to sort your feelings out. “and also, i might have a solution for you. what if i said that wonwoo wants to hang out with you?” he grinned, looking kind of crazy from your perspective. “mingyu this is not funny!” you pouted, not believing that he would joke about this; this was really out of line from him. “i am being serious y/n, you would know if you read my messages! i sent like a dozen of them that i had important news. he said he wanted to talk to you, maybe go to the park or something? like on a walk? whatever, you two can figure that out yourselves, point is that i delivered his message. now go text him.” he urged you to take action, and being the good girl you are you put your fear aside, accepted his help and texted wonwoo.

it had been months after the first text message regarding the ‘getting to know each other’ agreement between wonwoo and you, and things seemed to be working out pretty well for the two of you, feeling closer and closer to each other day by day. you had to admit, he was an exceptional person with values similar to yours, you had never ever imagined to be clicking with him so quickly; you hoped he felt the same.

“i heard that you and wonwoo get along really well y/n.” mingyu mentioned while walking along the line of the pavement in front of you when the two of you went for grocery shopping for a party the friends of mingyu had been planning for several weeks. you tilted your head and turned it in his direction; you had been talking to and meeting up with wonwoo after sorting things out about the confession, but didn’t expect him to tell mingyu how it had been going.

“did wonwoo talk about me? wow that’s impressive, it really means we are going in a good direction i suppose.” you wondered; you were not sure about where you pre-dating stage was going to lead you as you had not been in contact with wonwoo as much because all of you guys had busy schedules. “yeah, i think he is starting to fall for you. good job!” mingyu patted the crown of your head, just like when the teacher praises the elementary school students for getting an answer right on a test. you had been brighter in the last months, even considering how nothing was guaranteed with wonwoo, taking it slow, you most certainly did look happier, him assuming it must be already enough for your confidence and joy levels to rise to be able to do something with wonwoo, even as friends for the time being. however, mingyu’s heart had been slowly shattering into more pieces by the day; his feelings for you became stronger with time, after you searching for comfort in him on that night at the bar he just couldn’t stop himself from falling for you harder, even with knowing you wouldn’t return those feelings. he had been working on trying to accept the situation, trying to accept his place and role in your life as your best friend; it was not easy.

you chuckled at his action, winking at him in return. “what can i say? it looks like i am irresistable after all, don’t you think?” his face changed very quickly, though it was barely noticeable; for a moment his eyes grew sadder but he regained his composure in just a second and put on a big smile for you. “yeah, i told you so. now let’s get that grocery shopping done.”

when you arrived at the party after going home following the shopping trip to get ready many people had been there already; it was hard to find anyone you knew. you spotted mingyu in the crowd and he locked eyes with you, waving. “y/n! come here!” he shouted through the noise of the music and you pushed yourself through the wave of people in the living room. “hi.“ you greeted the others shyly; it had been many weeks since you participated in a group activity, since the incident with wonwoo. you came because you missed the boys; you didn’t treat them well and they didn;t deserve it, they had always took care of you like you were their family. “hi y/n, nice to have you here.” wonwoo, who just arrived with a few drinks added, giving you a smile.

“can i have this dance?” wonwoo questioned when taking the empty place next to your right side; you were dancing with mingyu to one of your favourite songs, bodies moving to the rhythm in sync. you took a peak at mingyu’s face, looking for a sign that he heard the question too. he gave you a quick nod and let go of your hand, wonwoo taking it instead and leading you further into the crowd of friends. mingyu watched as the two pair of you and wonwoo laughed and talked while moving on the makeshift dancefloor in the room, then disappearing from sight. he stared into the distance with a sad smile on his face, every nerve in his body concentrating on not lettng him be bitter about it and trying to encourage himself to be happy for you; afterall it was what you wanted, wonwoo’s love.

as mingyu turned around the corner of the hallway he caught a glimpse of wonwoo leaning in and slowly kissing you by the kitchen counter, your hands moving to link behind his neck, him pulling you closer, flush against his body. you were lost in the moment so you didn’t hear mingyu’s footsteps come into the room. “oh.” this was all he could manage to get out, words light as a feathery whisper, freezing in place for several seconds, watching the scene unfold in front of him. after seemingly regaining his composure he turned around his heels, planning on going back to the party in the living room. his steps were long, slow even, dragging his limbs like he didn’t have the energy to move forward in any sense possible; he entered the bathroom instead of the space where everybody had been enjoying their night, standing in front of the mirror, watching himself in it closely. he watched as the teardrop he knew he had been holding in slid down his cheek and dropped to the sink below, as the smile he put on for the entire night disappeared, more tears starting to fall with it.

mingyu was a strong person, there was no doubt in that; but even the strongest fighters and warriors get wounded. he let go of the white surface, slowly opening the door as quietly as he could, taking his coat from the hanger it had been placed on before. upon stepping outside into the night he sent a text to his friend informing him about him leaving so they wouldn’t get too worried. he got into the car, driving down the road, arriving at a familiar place; the bar. he bought a drink, then made his way into the usual room, sitting down in the chair which used to be yours, where the two of you would chat for hours about random topics, where he realised that he was falling for you; where it all started. he closed his watery eyes and held his breath, silence and stillness surrounding the place, not the slightest trace of anyone’s presence there, not even his, like he wanted to believe he could vanish if he tried hard enough.

he exhaled; staring at the ceiling, tears continuously coming from those sad chocolate brown orbs, every beat of his heart, the heart that had been beating for you all this time, tearing it a bit further apart. eventually the tears stopped, only a shaky sigh being left behind, mouth open, words forming, but not yet ready to come out. mingyu’s hand reached his cheeks, brushing away the evidence of his walls crumbling down, lifting the drink to his mouth, taking a sip from it.

“goodbye my love.” he whispered to himself while the sip of tequila entered his taste buds; it had never been this bitter.

[thevegandarkelf]

Finding Myself, Finding You: Chapter Twenty-One

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Let me know if you want to be added to the taglist <3 (18+ only, MDNI)

We get a little Vulnerable!Daryl in this one & it makes me emotional I’m not gonna lie

Story is 18+ for mature content/themes, minors do not interact please

TW/CWs for this story--implied/referenced past rape, canonical violence, non-canonical violence, blood, gore, referenced past suicide, swearing, surgery, excessive drinking, nightmares, panic attacks, mention of scars, vomiting, amputation, medical procedures, non-con medical procedures, referenced past medical torture, referenced past drugging, attempted sexual assault, panic attacks, mental health struggles, referenced sibling death, referenced parent death, PTSD

Each chapter will have its own TW/CWs listed

This story, Lydia Vector, her family & bestie (c) me, TheVeganDarkElf

TWD & its characters (c) AMC & Robert Kirkman, the writer of the comic series

Legolas & Lord of the Rings (c) J.R.R. Tolkien, Sleeping Beauty (c) Disney

TW/CWs for this chapter--swearing, allusion to child abuse (Daryl’s history), discussion of sibling death (Merle), mention/discussion of scars, discussion of an alcoholic parent, smoking

Word count: 3.3k

"What's this last one?" he asked, flipping it over. It was a picture of me wearing a blue off-the-shoulder ballgown with flowers around the neckline and crystals adorning the cinched waist. There were tulle sleeves and a slit up one leg. My hair was cascading around me in loose curls, and I was leaning back against a tree, hands holding the edges of my dress out as if I was about to start twirling in circles.

"Oh, that's from a renaissance festival I went to. Kathryn took that picture. I wanted to do my own version of the Sleeping Beauty dress," I explained, "so in the movie, there's a dress that the fairies make for her, and there are two that keep arguing over whether the dress should be pink or blue. They go back and forth, changing the color when the other isn't looking, and--"

"She chose blue," Daryl said, his voice so soft he was almost whispering. He was fixated on the picture of me, running his fingers over the edges, and I questioned if he meant to say that out loud or if his mouth got the best of him. Was he talking about me?

"Hmm?" I hummed, pretending not to hear what he said in case he didn't mean to say his thoughts out loud, "oh no, it goes all the way to the end of the movie. Like they're still changing it when the screen fades out."

"This's a real good picture o’ ya. Ya look real pretty," Daryl said.

"You're sweet," I thanked, "I went to a lot of ren fests growing up. I loved to dress up and go all out. This one was by far my favorite." He flipped the pictures back in order to give them back to me, but they spilled out onto the floor, scattering themselves around.

"Shit, sorry."

"It's ok, really," I assured, "shit happens." I leaned over and grabbed the photos closest to me, and Daryl grabbed the rest, handing them to me.

"Thanks for showin' me. Was nice to see the people ya always talkin' so much 'bout," he said. I opened the back of my notebook and placed the photos back, pulling the notes out of my pocket and putting those in as well. "Ya really tied to that thing, aren'tcha?"

"My notebook?" I asked, flipping it around in my hands, "yeah, I guess you could say I am. It's like a security blanket. It's comforting to have it on me, even when I'm not doing anything with it."

He was hesitant before he asked his next question. "Could I...maybe read somethin' of yours sometime?"

I'll admit, I was a little surprised, as he'd never expressed an interest before in reading any of my work. Sure, he'd asked me about it here and there, but he never asked to see it. Part of me, though, was grateful for that. I wrote a lot about Daryl, and he didn't need to know that. Not yet at least.

"Tell you what. If I ever decide that anything in here is quality enough to show to someone else, you'll be the first to know."

"Ya think ya stuff's bad?"

"No, not bad," I said, "just...personal is all. A bit intense at times. It's...it's like a catalog of everything I've gone through since the world went to shit. I'm hoping one day, I can look back on it and be proud of myself for surviving all the stuff in here."

"Should be proud already," Daryl advised, "ya's by yourself out there. Couldn'ta been easy."

You don't even know the half of it, I thought.

There was silence between us for a while as we stared off beyond the walls. It was a comfortable silence, as they had come to be with Daryl. I remembered our first run, the first time we really spent time together, and thought about how far we'd come since then. Just a month and a half ago, I never thought we'd be here. I never thought we'd be up in the watchtower together, spending the night keeping the community safe, nor did I think Daryl and I would have come as far in our relationship as we had. We were essentially a couple, minus the confession of our feelings to one another and more intimate physical contact.

"Hey Daryl? Can I ask you a question? If you don't wanna answer, that's more than ok."

"Sure," he said, a hint of hesitation in his voice, "shoot."

"Do you know where Merle is?"

I held my breath while I waited for his response. I'd been wanting to ask more about Merle for some time now. What I did know was that he was the older one, he was in the military at some point, and he was the ringleader when it came to the drug escapades he and Daryl got into. And that he was a bit of a creep and kind of an asshole. But Daryl never talked about where he was now or if something happened to him. I was worried that maybe it was too fresh of a wound, or perhaps it was simply too painful. It'd been quite a while, though, since I last asked about Merle, and with how close we'd become since then, I was hopeful that maybe, even if he didn't answer, it would open the door for him to share in the future.

"If you don't want to answer, I promise it's ok," I reiterated. He was staring out the window, crossbow popped up on the frame, resting his arm on it. I bit the inside of my lip and waited with bated breath for him to say something, anything.

"He's in Georgia," he finally said. Seeing as it'd taken some time for him to answer with that, I didn't dare ask the follow-up question that came to mind—why didn't he come to Alexandria with Daryl? However, I didn't have to wonder for long. "Dead."

He kept his gaze out the window as he told me everything. He talked about the prison, Woodbury, the man called The Governor, what happened with Merle and the Governor, and how Daryl found him...after he had already turned. And he told me something that I don't think he'd shared with the others before—that the only reason they ever went to Rick's original camp in the first place was because they planned to rob them. But things changed, and Daryl found a family in Rick, Glenn, Maggie, and the others, and chose to stay with them.

My heart was shattering as Daryl filled me in on everything. Having had to kill one of my brothers after he turned, I understood the pain—the pain of wondering if they're ok, then finding them and realizing they're far from it, the farthest in fact. But the gut-wrenching pain of Merle having been killed at the hands of someone else before turning...I wasn't going to pretend to understand that hurt. Daryl was such a good person, and to see such a good person lose so much was heartbreaking.

Daryl was quiet when he finished talking. I wasn't sure whether he was waiting for me to respond or was attempting to find more words of his own. I approached the window and leaned against the wall next to it, looking up at Daryl with the softest, most empathetic expression. I said the only thing I could.

"I...I'm so sorry. You didn't deserve that."

He didn't say anything, didn't move or turn his head to look at me. He kept that same stoic expression, looking off at something far in the distance outside the walls. I swallowed hard, feeling bad for asking the question in the first place. "You know that I know how it feels. To have to do that to a sibling. It's awful. I wouldn't wish it on anyone. I'm sorry you had to experience that pain too." I reached a hand out and stroked his forearm, drawing small circles with my fingers. "And I'm sorry I brought it up. I'd been avoiding asking because I was worried it'd be too painful. I don't know what came over me." I felt Daryl's muscles relax under my fingers as I worked slowly from his elbow to his wrist, continuing to draw tiny circles.

"Don't gotta 'pologize. I ain't mad at ya," he said, his voice soft. He still didn't look at me. "It's 'cause ya care. I know that."

I tilted my head slightly to try to get him to look at me. "You of all people didn't deserve to experience pain like that. I'm sorry, about everything that happened. But I'm glad you're here now. And I'm glad I am too."

He fidgeted a little before he continued. "Was worried tellin' ya 'bout the robbin' the camp story might..." His voice trailed off before he finished his sentence, though I had a feeling I knew where it was going.

"Might what?" I asked, "make me view you differently?"

"Maybe."

I gave him a soft smile. "Well, you have nothing to worry about there. We've all got a past, Daryl. That's not who you are now. That's all that matters." I was cautious to follow up with what I wanted to say, but my mouth was betraying me before I could do anything to stop it. Maybe it would help him feel less alone. "Hell, there are things you still don't know about me that I feel the same about. That they might make you view me differently."

"You?" He sounded amused when he said it, like he thought I was bluffing. “Dunno what someone like you could do to make me see ya differently." I crossed my arms over my chest.

""Someone like me?" What do you mean by that?" I asked, looking at him quizzically. Being someone who didn't have much of a way with words, I thought he might ignore my question and start talking about something else, or there'd be a long period of silence before he finally gave a response. Neither was the case here. It was like he already had his answer queued up, knowing I was going to ask.

"Someone perfect," he said. My shoulders relaxed as I let out a gentle sigh. I stepped closer to him and wrapped my arms around his torso, careful to avoid the bandaged wound on his back, and gave him a gentle squeeze. I rested my head on his chest.

"Oh Daryl, you're very sweet, but I am far from perfect." He snaked his free arm around me and placed his hand on my back, just above my waist.

"Well, ya ever wanna share those things I don't know 'bout ya, I'm all ears," Daryl assured.

"Thanks."

"Since ya asked a question that's been on ya mind a while, can I ask one?" he wondered.

"Sure," I replied, biting gently at the inside of my cheek to quell my anxiety, wondering what he was about to ask. I waited with bated breath for him to speak, my mind spiraling in all the different directions he could've been going, but I had a hunch about where we'd end up.

"Do...do ya scars got anythin' to do with what you dream 'bout every night?"

I clicked my tongue and let you a shallow, shaky breath. "Yeah...yeah they do. Figured that's what you might ask."

"How ya figure that?"

"I've caught you staring at them before. You're not very subtle with it," I chuckled, "it doesn't bother me though. Not you looking at least. I know they're kinda hard to ignore." I lifted my arm in front of us, shifting the sleeve of his jacket down and exposing my hand and wrist. I was writhing a little inside. I hated looking at my scars. "I have a fantasy that one day, tattooing will be a reality again, and I'll be able to get them covered up. I think vines with flowers on them would look cool."

I rotated my hand, inspecting both sides of my wrist as if I was looking at my scars for the first time. They were thick bands of scar tissue that adorned both of my wrists like bracelets. They didn't hurt, but there were some sparse patches here and there that were numb. I didn't like them being touched, and despite me never sharing that, Daryl seemed to know. In all the times he'd touched my arms or my hands, he never touched my scars, not even grazing them on accident. There was an unspoken understanding between us about that. I shimmied the sleeve of his jacket back down my arm, covering my scars again.

"Can I ask you something else that's been on my mind for a while? You don't have to answer if it's too much," I said.

"Might'as well," Daryl replied, fidgeting with his crossbow in anticipation.

"You said that I haven't really mentioned my dad much," I said, my words shaky as I tried to control my voice, "you haven't mentioned yours either."

His body tensed under my arms, and his hand on my back curled a bit. I was sure he would've accidentally scratched me if I wasn't wearing his jacket. His answer was short, to the point, but told me everything I needed to know.

"Where ya think my scars came from?"

I didn't want to believe what I was hearing. This wonderful human being, suffering at the hands of one of his parents? My stomach ached. My heart was breaking, shattering, and exploding all at the same time. Tears tried to form and escape my eyes, but I wouldn't allow it. I needed to be strong for Daryl in this moment. No wonder he had the best survival skills I'd ever seen—he didn't have a choice.

How could someone do something so awful to someone so good?

"Daryl..." My voice trailed off, and the only thing I could think to do was wrap my arms around him tighter and give him another squeeze.

"Merle got it first. 'ts why he ran off to the army," he continued. I tilted my head up to look at him. He hadn't once taken his eyes off whatever random object he'd fixated on out in the distance. I'd never seen Daryl cry before, not even come close to, but I could've sworn I saw a tear welling up in his eye. Just one, the moonlight catching it and making it glimmer.

"Daryl, you don't have to—"

"Old man was a drunk," he said. He rested his bow on the windowsill and reached into his pocket, pulling out his box of cigarettes and lighter. He hadn't smoked once in front of me since the first time he did. He knew I didn't like it, but I wasn't going to say anything now. We all had our vices, and I was going to let him have his.

Daryl pulled a cigarette out of the box with his mouth, still keeping his other arm wrapped around me. He had tightened his embrace and brought me closer, like he thought I might slip out and walk away if I had the space to do so. He shoved the box of smokes back into his pocket and lit the one in his mouth, turning his head to puff in the opposite direction of me.

I knew I was privileged to have such a close, loving family, I was never ignorant of that. Being a trauma surgeon, I knew some of the horrors that people experienced at the hands of family, at the hands of people who claimed to love them. I knew not everyone was as lucky as I was. But sometimes, there would be that person who landed on my operating table, and their story would hurt just a little bit more than others.

This one, though...this one hurt the most.

Sweet Daryl, the man I'd become so close to, the man whose shell I'd cracked wide open, the man I'd gotten to open up...the man I'd fallen in love with. To know someone so kind, so protective, so empathetic, had suffered at the hands of his father...and at such a young age...

For his father's sake, I hoped he and I would never cross paths.

I wanted to kiss every single scar on his body and remind him of how appreciated he is, how loved he is. Not just by me, but Carol, Rick, Glenn, Aaron...I wanted to hold him and whisper all the sweet little things I wrote about him in my notebook. I wanted his pain to stop. Such a tender soul shouldn't have to know pain like that. My little Georgia peach shouldn't have to know pain like that.

"You didn't deserve that," I whispered, my gaze still transfixed on his face. He took another puff of his smoke and finally tore his eyes away from the outside world, looking down to meet me. Our noses were barely touching, and I would've certainly taken that opportunity to plant one on his lips if the situation was more appropriate. I did, though, take the opportunity to kiss his cheek. His skin was softer than I was expecting. He flinched just a little, then quickly melted and relaxed under my lips.

"You're so loved Daryl. Don't think for one second that you aren't." I brought my head back to his chest and nuzzled in closer. "I may not have experienced it firsthand, but I know what that kind of thing can do to someone. What it can do to their self-worth, their confidence. Just remember that you're important, and you're deeply loved and appreciated. I'm so sorry you had to go through that."

"Ya really know how to make a guy feel good," he told me, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"Only guy I care about making feel good is you," I said. I was almost immediately kicking myself for what I said. My supposed-to-be flirting was more of a sexual innuendo than anything. I quickly took it back to the subject at hand in an attempt to gloss over it. "I'm glad I could do that for you. Thank you for being vulnerable with me, Daryl. It means a lot that you're so open with me."

He took another puff of his cigarette. "Ya make it easy." His hand on my back slid off for just a moment before coming right back, this time slipping underneath his jacket and resting on the bare skin of my side. "This alright?"

"Sure is," I hummed before nuzzling my head further into his chest and closing my eyes. His calloused hand against my soft skin felt heavenly, and it tickled just a little, but not enough to elicit a reaction from me.

Daryl flicked the ashes off his smoke and stomped on them once they landed on the ground. "Thanks for always listenin' to me. Bein' there for me. Dunno what I did to deserve ya."

My heart swelled in my ribcage, the warming sensation that accompanied it seeming to radiate off my body. "Being you. That's what you did."

We spent the rest of the night like that, hooked onto each other like our lives depended on it, like we were afraid the other person would slip away if we loosened our grips too much. We talked for hours, and despite standing the whole time, I almost fell asleep. The rise and fall of Daryl's chest against my head nearly lulled me into dreamland. At one point, his nose nuzzled into my hair, and he kissed the top of my head. His sweet Southern accent whispered something into my hair that I didn't catch. I was in some half-awake, half-asleep state, eyelids heavy and struggling to stay open. A delirious smile spread across my face. What I was feeling was nothing short of absolute magic.

I would be forever grateful that Daryl asked me to keep him company in the watchtower that night.

Taglist: @raddydaddydude

Divider found on Google via searching for stock images

[lolathestoryteller]

Hey again! Thanks for doing that AU where Harry wakes from the coma. If up for a follow up/continuation , here’s a angsty prompt(with Harry still recalling bad memories from it):

It was just a bad dream?, part 2:

*two weeks later*

“Harry honey, it’s 3 am. Shouldn’t you get some sleep?”

“A and wake up again somewhere under the stairs or somewhere else?? Or maybe never wake up. I don’t want to lose what I have regained.. again. It’s too painful”

Hi again! Uh, alright — you know what I have actually had my fun writing that first prompt last time so…of course I had to do this :)

I altered the sentences slightly once again, just they’d fit in nicely.

I hope you’ll like it! Here goes part II; two weeks later…

Am I only dreaming?

„Let me out! Please!“ he pleads, pressing all his weight desperately against the small door in the foolish hope it‘d open if only he tried hard enough. „I’ll be good, I promise!“

His eyes sting, but after crying for what felt like hours, his tears seemed to have finally dried up — if only because there’s not enough water left in his body.

He has been stuck in here for at least an entire day now.

„Silent boy!“ comes his uncle‘s harsh voice, before Harry flinches back when a fist collides loudly with the door. „Next time, you might have a think before doing your freakish tricks at school.“

Harry can just barely see his uncle‘s pouchy face through the tiny gaps in the door — they’ve been installed, rather reluctantly, to let at least some fresh air sicker into the stuffy cupboard.

„I didn’t do anything.“ he replies genuinely. „I don’t know how I ended up on the roof. I swear!“

Vernon simply glowers back at him. „A lying little freak, you are. You’ll stay in there until you admit it. You hear me?“

Harry shakes his head, his throat dry from thirst and his tummy aching with hunger as he watches his uncle walk away. „No, please! Uncle Vernon! Let me out! Please, let me—“

„—out!“ Harry gasps, his eyes snapping open at once, to be met with a blurry darkness.

He blinks rapidly to adjust his vision, quickly reaching out, on instinct, to grab his glasses — and that’s when he suddenly realizes where he is. In his bed…in his bedroom.

His own, real bedroom.

It was just a dream…again.

He sits up against the headboard, breathing slowly in order to try and calm himself, though his mind is still racing with the fading pictures of that dream.

Why do I keep on dreaming this stuff?

He startles slightly when, only a moment later, his bedroom door creaks open to reveal his Mother standing in its frame, still wearing the same clothes as earlier — that means she must’ve still been awake, probably grading papers.

„Harry…“ she sighs as she enters, navigating her steps through his messy room to sit down on the edge of his bed. „Honey, it’s 3 am…shouldn’t you be asleep?“

Harry’s stomach twists anxiously at the mere thought of going back to sleep right now. „And wake up again, locked up in a cupboard?“ he whispers hoarsely. „Or maybe to never wake up at all…I don’t want to lose what I have here…again.“ he shakes his head, not meeting her eyes. „It’s just…painful.“

I probably sound stupid.

His Mother doesn’t say anything for a moment, though she reaches a tentative hand out to touch his shin.

„Harry…I’m so sorry,“ she mutters at last, before he feels the mattress shift as she scoots up to sit against the headboard next to him. „I really wish I could make those dreams go away…“

Harry knows she does. Both his parents. They’ve been sitting with him almost every night the first week after he‘d awoken from the coma…assuring him that this world is reality, and the other one‘s not…

He knows that, of course — but sometimes, right after awaking from one of those dreams, where it all just feels so real…he‘d forget it actually isn’t, just for a moment.

„Yeah, I know, Mum.“ he replies quietly, letting her wrap an arm around his shoulders…feeling how the warmth of her hug gradually eases his residual trepidation.

They sit in silence for a while, until Harry‘s sleep deprived mind finally wins, his heavy eyelids fluttering closed. „Mum?“ he mumbles, fighting sleep with his last resources.

„Shh…it’s alright, Harry,“ she whispers gently. „Close your eyes, I’ll stay with you.“

She will, he knows. And somehow, with her or his Dad there, his dreams suddenly aren’t about cupboards or evil maniac wizards anymore…but instead, they’d be about a grand castle…about his friends all being there, together…about flying on broomsticks…

Then, his dreams become truly magical.

[sleekervae]

So Good [0.6]

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pairing: KNJ x rockstar!oc

A/N: Hi everyone, sorry I've been away for a while. School is bogging me down and life had been wild, in both good and bad ways. I want to continue writing and despite my chronic writers' block, I ain't giving up too easily. Thank you all for your patience and trust that I will be updating more stories as I go!

word count: 2016

Purple text is Korean

Kimberly jumped when her phone suddenly rang beside her, disturbing the small nap she was trying to squeeze in her bunk. She grumbled as she turned over in the small enclosure, feeling around in the sheet while being rocked over and over in the tour bus.

"Kimberly! Your phone's ringing!" Maria suddenly shouted.

Kimberly rolled her eyes, "Gee! Thanks Maria!" finally she was able to fish it out, her heart leapt when Namjoon's name flashed across her screen. It would've been close to midnight in Seoul, and he hardly ever called her this late.

Pulling her bunk curtain tighter to its hook, she answered the call, "Hello?"

A voice cleared from the other end, unfamiliar to her, "H-Hey, Kimberly! How are you?" the voice was slurred, too light to be Namjoon but the twinge of his accent was slightly eerie.

"Um... who is this?" she asked, a pit of anxiousness bubbling in her gut. From what Chloe had told her, Korean idols had their contacts guarded mercilessly, and if Namjoon got in trouble for talking to her...

"Eh? It's Namjoon, what're you talking about?" the voice tittered, a faint song playing in the background. She relaxed only a little, her curiosity growing.

"Really?"

"Yeah!"

"... what tattoo do I have on my left forearm?" she asked.

The voice paused momentarily, grumbling to himself for a quick answer when she suddenly heard a more familiar exclamation.

" -- Dangsin-eun mwo haeyo? Nae jeonhwagileul jwo!"

The voice on the speaker suddenly changed in pitch, half-laughing-half-crying as he shouted, "Joesonghabnida! Joesonghabnida! Dowajuseyo!" and a scuffle ensued.

Kimberly was partly amused, partly concerned, waiting curiously until she heard Namjoon panting into the speaker, "I saekkiya! -- Kimberly? Kim?"

"H-Hi! Namjoon?"

"Hi," he panted, giving a short sigh, "I am so sorry about that,"

"No, no, that's okay," she chuckled, "Are you okay?"

"I'm good, I'm good. My friend's being an idiot," he replied. Kimberly could still hear laughter in the background, she found his startle quite endearing.

"It's okay, I promise," she replied, "Who was that, anyway?"

"Jackson. He's a friend of mine -- if not more of a shit disturber," he replied.

"It's nice to meet you, Kimberly!" he called out. Namjoon grumbled back in Korean, a cuss word she figured.

She laughed merrily, "Aw, tell him I say 'hi',"

"And boost his ego even more? Nah," he simpered back, "I hope we didn't disrupt anything,"

"You're all good," she assured him, "We're on our way to Krakow right now so we have an off day,"

"Oh, fantastic. Are you resting up?"

"As much as I can in a moving casket," her attention diverted to a furious hissing from the common area.

"Shit! I need help!" Chloe suddenly shouted, followed by the pattering of socked feet.

"Fucking shit, Chlo! We agreed not to heat up Alfredo sauce in the microwave!" Charlotte scolded.

Namjoon laughed, hearing the commotion from the end of his speaker, "Everything okay over there?" he asked.

Kimberly sighed heavily, shaking her head, "Oh, everything's fine. If I'm quiet enough they may believe I've gone back to sleep and won't bother me," she chuckled quietly.

Maria called from outside the bunk, "You know we can hear you, Kim!" she scolded, "... Hi Namjoon!"

"Hi Namjoon!" Charlotte echoed a moment later.

"Hi RM!" shouted Chloe.

Kimberly tittered, "The girls say 'hi',"

"Tell 'em I say 'hi' back -- what?" his voice drifted off, "Of course she is! Yeogiseo naga!" and there was another short scuffle over the speaker.

"What is going on over there?" Kimberly asked, her curiosity peeking, just imagining what bafoonery was taking place in Seoul.

Namjoon sighed, clearly dejected as muffled sniggers slipped out beside him, "Jackson wants to know if you're pretty. I'm so sorry,"

Kimberly had to press her lips to keep herself from laughing, her cheeks burning with the red smile curling across her face. She choked back a giggle as she answered, "I mean -- I think I am," she shrugged bashfully.

"Then what the hell are you doing with a guy like Namjoon?" Jackson suddenly called, laughing then as Kimberly could imagine the glare Namjoon was throwing his way.

"Ib damul-eo," Namjoon grumbled.

"Dangsin-eun nae sangsaga aniya," Jackson scolded back.

Meanwhile out in the common area, Charlotte and Chloe couldn't help but overhear Kimberly's conversation, all the while Charlotte was mopping up sauce on the counter and Chloe was cleaning sauce off of the floor.

"I think she talks to him more than talks to any of us," Chloe noted.

Charlotte simpered, "They talk maybe once or twice a week, Chloe,"

"Over voice, at least," Chloe replied, "... You think Darius knows that they talk that much?"

"I'm not even gonna go there," Charlotte replied, hoping that Kimberly couldn't hear them, "I told her to be careful from the get,"

Chloe shrugged back, "I'm just saying -- if Luke was away and you found out he was talking to a super famous pop star a few times a week, wouldn't you be worried?"

Charlotte held pause, staring down at the greasy countertop as Chloe's words sent a shiver through her. She knew exactly how she would feel if she was in a similar situation. Nevertheless, she turned back to Chloe, mustering as much confidence as she could.

"As far as I know, Kim's not doing anything wrong -- so I'm not gonna' lambast her for what we think could be happening,"

Chloe knew Charlotte didn't like confrontation, she never had and was extremely uncomfortable if she had to confront one of their friends. But Chloe wasn't stupid either; she was fearful that Kimberly was falling down a hole she nor the girls couldn't dig her out from.

Kimberly meanwhile was none the wiser to her friends' conversation, "What're you guys doing?"

"We're just sitting around, having a couple beers," he replied.

"With the other guys?" she asked.

"Nah, they're out doing their own thing tonight. Believe it or not, we don't always spend all our time together," he chuckled, hoping on the off chance he didn't sound condescending.

"Fair. Spend too much time with someone, some heads are gonna roll," Kimberly replied, then she brought her voice to a whisper, "Hence I'm hiding in my bunk so I don't have to deal with the Alfredo sauce from hell,"

Chloe suddenly hollered out, "I heard that Kimberly! Stop flirting with Namjoon and come help me!"

Kimberly rolled her eyes, pulling back the curtain and sticking her head out of her bunk, "We're not flirting!" she called back.

Charlotte sighed after, crouched down over a messy spill on the floor. A zesty, garlicky smell was beginning to fill the bus, "We just need a mop," she muttered, "Maria! Open the window in the back!"

"Already on it!" and Maria hopped out of her bunk.

Kimberly huffed, though Namjoon chuckled from the other end, "I take it you gotta go?" he asked.

"Yeah, I'm so sorry," she replied.

"Don't be sorry. It's Jackson's fault, anyway," she could hear Jackson snap something back in Korean, much to her amusement.

"It's always a pleasure talking to you, don't be silly," she simpered, "I'll talk to you later, go have fun!"

Namjoon said his goodbyes and hung up the phone, his eyes lingering at his lock screen a moment more. Jackson meanwhile continued to sit and smirk up at his friend, much to Namjoon's annoyance.

"What are you smirking at?" he asked as he sat down, "And how did you know my passcode?"

"Don't be mad because I know your mom's birthday," he replied, "How long have you been talking to Kimberly?"

"A few months. She's nice," Namjoon muttered quickly.

Jackson scoffed, "So was Lim Ju-eun, she seemed very nice in your old posters,"

"Oh, leave me alone," Namjoon elbowed him softly, "She's my friend, nothing more,"

"I believe you," Jackson nodded, "I also believe that if you had the opportunity to date, you would snap her up in a minute,"

"She has a boyfriend, anyway," Namjoon pointed out.

Jackson sighed, "But none of that's not stopping her from rattling around in your brain all the time,"

Namjoon rolled his eyes, deciding to reach for another beer off the table, "Jackson, whatever you're about to say, just leave it alone,"

"I'm not trying to tease you, Joon," he said, his demeanour shifting to a serious undertone, "I'm worried for you,"

"Why are you worried for me?"

"Because you're falling for somebody you clearly can't have, and if that affects your performance --"

"It's not going to affect my performance, or my duties," Namjoon assured, "I told Jin and the others; Kimberly is my friend and any affection I have for her -- or for anyone -- isn't a priority. You would do the same if it was you,"

Jackson shrugged back, his gaze averting off, "I used to think that way..." he muttered.

Namjoon cocked a brow, staring long and hard at Jackson, "Hold on -- did you meet somebody?" he asked curiously.

Jackson nodded slowly, "You can't tell the other guys,"

"I won't," Namjoon assured him.

"Haneul -- or Hannah, I guess. I met her last year, she's a student at Yonsei, and we both went to the same restaurant for lunch," he explained.

"-- Have you spoken to her?" Namjoon asked.

"A couple of times. She's a little mean at first, she absolutely hates k-pop music" he chuckled, "But the more I got to know her, the more I really came to like her. And I think she came to like me, too," the way he spoke was so wistful, words grasping for the moment as though it had just happened. Namjoon had never seen Jackson so sentimental before, he hardly ever discussed his personal life like. They were both a lot alike in that rhetoric.

"So, what happened?" Namjoon asked, feeling the 'but' of his story creeping like a stark chill.

Jackson shrugged listlessly, "I had to let her go. I knew I couldn't have her, and it wasn't fair to make her wait for God knows how long until I could renegotiate my contract," he replied, "She said she understood, but I think I fuelled her hatred of this industry even more. She hasn't replied when I tried to check in with her, I know she probably needs so space to heal but... it sucks,"

Namjoon nodded slowly, "But you still think about her?"

"More than I would like," Jackson admitted, "I had a lapse in judgement; and I know I did the right thing in the long term, but I can't help but feel I wasted her time. I never should've gotten involved with her in the first place," he turned back to Namjoon, "My point is that I don't want you to make the same mistakes I did. As much as it paints me to admit, BTS is quickly becoming a global sensation and you can't afford to have your heart broken over someone you know you can't have. Don't get attached, you have to keep your focus,"

"I am focused," Namjoon assured him, "Kimberly is just my friend, and I am gonna make sure we do what we need to do to keep us all on track," he then placed his hand on Jackson's shoulder, giving him a small squeeze, "... That doesn't mean I can't feel for your situation,"

Jackson simpered, popping the beer can open and taking a swig, "It's better this way for us. Maybe one day it'll be different, but for now..." he shook his head, "We're stuck with each other,"

Namjoon took his own can and clinked with Jackson's, "I'll cheers to that," and he took a swig. His gaze shifted again to his forearm, remembering the pressure of the pen, the swift and sharp markings when Kimberly scribbled her number on his skin. He wasn't sure why he was so full of hope back then, blinded momentarily for what could have been though he knew fully well he could never have her. Jackson was right, he had to detach himself before she consumed him, or worse he consumed her and broke her heart.

After all, April was right around the corner...

[meruz]

im gonna reply to some asks but not that many bc the last time i tried to type up one of these posts i accidentally closed the tab and lost like several paragraphs so now im scared

lots of heavypaint questions

@porch-gremlin

its the fan tool on heavypaint!! which is a free drawing app that i love a lot. and the fan tool is my fave its kind of a crutch actually im trying to use other tools gkfdhgsdg but its so fun i can do a whole painting using it exclusively. heres a video of it in action while i mess w the configuration options. u can slide the noise jitter up and down so its more or less streaky hehe ^^

thank you!!! heavypaint ROCKS!!!!! I love it... its like the only art program ill be a shameless shill for lol

also im flattered you think of my art while playing splat...i should draw more splat i feel like i havent done enough.

my phone!! I have a samsung galaxy note 20 that I am still not done paying off LMAO.... but I've been a galaxy note user for years. combined with heavypaint its a shockingly good mobile sketchbook.

I'm sorry it's crashing on your tablet... I don't have a tablet so I don't really have an advice. Unfortunately because HP is a small dev app it can be kind of finicky... especially in between updates. I think if you reached out to vaughn ling/heavypoly he'd probably respond though! he seems to keep up with the community pretty well.

@hellisrealsign nice nice.. I'm glad our tastes match up a little! hopefully that means you don't mind my frequent fandom jumping LOL. I promise to always be true to my homestuck-loving infinity-train-loving self.

LMAOOOOOO I HOPE YOU HAD A GOOD TIME? (covered in blood)

idk is it worth it to read any shounen manga for female side characters?????? (??) HEAVILY DEBATABLE. on one hand the casual observer would say no but on the other hand femslash shippers are the strongest people on god's green earth and will endure great tortures for paltry table scraps.

I think mha is a good manga but it's still a shounen, some of the tropes they squeeze the girls into kind of suck. I can kind of put my annoyance aside because regardless im still a big fan of cool fight scenes and the power of friendship but I think your mileage will vary depending on how much tolerance you have for that kind of story...? There's an awful lot of chapters afterall. I will say this: though toga and ochako aren't the main characters they're not in the background either. the path of their relationship spans multiple arcs across the entire manga and is both plot relevant and relevant to the greater themes/thesis of the story. it's pretty clear that the mangaka and editorial team are dedicated to giving these characters the time and page space to play out. it's not perfect but thats better than a decent amount of big shounen femslash in my opinion? shrugs

Thank you! for both the compliments and the concern. but I want to assure you that... to be perfectly honest I don't think I'll ever stop posting my art regardless of AI. I don't want to make this into a hot take like this is an entirely personal opinion and I don't expect any other artists to share my position but: Everything about my art that I consider valuable is inherently impossible for AI to replicate and everything about my art that is replicable and monetizable is not something I'm interested in owning or protecting. (this is also why at the end of the day i dont really care that much about art theft, tracing etc. and i think 90% of the time style theft is just silly)

I believe art should be freely shared and to restrict that is to make art into a product which is morally despicable and moreover uninteresting... to me. lol. I DO RECOGNIZE HOWEVER I'm very lucky to have both more of an online audience than I even want + a fulltime job that takes the pressure off any of my other art to make money. it's totally valid for other artists to have differing opinions on this especially depending on personal circumstances. AND also I make art that is primarily a product above all else for work everyday so im a hypocrite but. yeah thats my two cents.

I love posting art online LOL. I do it because its fun for me.

HAPPY NEAR YEAR!!!!!!!!!11111111

[bysaber]

HIYAAA, this is me, IM SO HAPPY YOU WANT TO BE MOOTS WITH ME AS WELL, so far ive finsihed most of my assignments I just a few that take a little more longer and so much more effort but after that im so taking a big break.

so true though, ive been a ghost user since I joined and that was like 2020 I totally saw the rise and the fandom of the superwholock era but I never really joined in on it as I haven't watched those shows so Tumblr was like an app that was there but I wasn't using it every hour of the day as I am now, it has now become my favourite escape from reality other than sleeping (and even that could use some improvement like lucid dreaming or maybe even shifting) >_< so ive just been a consumer on here until I see like blogs that drop posts within a minute and the next day it has more than like 10,000 notes (WHICH they soo deserve bc damn they write so majestically) and I was like man I would die if even one person liked my posts and liked what I wrote, I cant even imagine how I would react to 100 let alone 10,000. like I think I would sob. and the way blogs write their posts, you can tell they put their whole mind and soul and everything into it, its so beautiful. so this community really ignited my previously dead passion for writing and I love it for that.

I have no experience in working but I think I might have to start soon since my situation sort of demands it so I have no idea what its like but I can only imagine changing 100% of a campaign is more than stressful, I hope it goes well for you and you get more free time to yourself.

also I noticed you said mother language, i'm actually curious, what's your mother language?

also side note: I was rereading your sukuna body and soul fic (for like the nth time bc I cant get enough of it) and I was so shocked bc like I LOATHE sukuna after like everything he did ARGH I cant express how much I hate him but omg that fic, mmmh, it hit different because my hatred for him, boom, somehow became nonexistent and im daydreaming about being the reincarnated lover of this epitome of evil man. im literally catching feelings that's how good it was.

i really enjoyed your reply and I appreciate you taking the time to talk to me, its honestly the first time im having interactions other than likes on here. and im so glad that I get to be mutuals with you.

hope you're doing well, >>>>3333

euorian.

I'm so happy to finally meet you, boo! <3

I hope you can finish your assignments asap and enjoy the New Year's and also a good break!!

I actually watched 2/3 of superwholock so it was... an experience!! I also get so happy when I see authors with that many notes because I know how they put their hearts into their writing and they totally deserve it. and they're doing it FOR FREE, it's kinda insane especially when we read some shakespearian level kinda thing.

and I can tell you even one interaction makes a big difference, people like you -- taking a bit of your time to write a little something -- supporting us mean the world. so, thank you again. and I assure you I'll be there to support you as well with your writing ^_^

and AHHHHHHHHH I'm so glad you liked my sukuna!!! I'm gonna tell ya I'm NOT a sukuna girlie lol. gojo is my fav jjk character (toji and megumi fight for 2nd place). BUT I think sukuna is a great villain, he's hot af and I mean-- I WOULD. and the idea of that big bad monster, the king of curses, being obsessed with a woman? A SIMP? IM DOWN.

definitely gonna write more about him.

my mother language is portuguese !!!

you can always talk to me, send me DMs, whatever u want! again, its nice to meet you, euorian. <3

[maybe-itsforthebest]

Hey beautiful person, i read your sleeping with teddy bear... post and it in a way resonated with me. I remember going through something similar for very very long time. So long that at point it felt that it would never end. But it did.

I am happy you are starting therapy and hope you find peace and happiness.

And not intending to be a saviour or something, and acknowledging that i am not professioal, but here's a thought i, while trying to fight my battles, stumbled upon. Its from my digital diary which i started keeping not long ago.

I am sharing it as it is, and if it doesn't resonate with you, please don't expend too much of thought into it, i don't wish to add to your agony.

7/1/23 1:14

the problem is we think life is going to be easy. life is not supposed to be easy. life will be tough and unfair. even if you become the best version of yourself. even if you try to be nice to people and do wrong to none. even if you try to be morally upright in every situation.

you do good and still bad will come to you.not because you deserve it but because thats how life is. it isn't supposed to be a cakewalk. it isn't supposed to be easy.

i believe in karma.. if you do bad bad comes to you.and i thought if i'd do good only good will come to me. but turns out, it isn't meant to be that way. if you do good it doesn't assure you an easy path. its still going to be tough.

and the point is to still keep being good, doing good and believing in good. to keep going on.

always keep going forward. at times you may go slow, it may hurt to move. but keep going.

some days you may need to sleep a little more to bear with life. some days a little less to catch up with it. take it a day at a time. but it's always worth it. and you are tough enough to get through it.

i took a slight break from tumblr so sorry it took me a while to answer this :') but i deeply appreciate you reaching out with this and i'm touched that that post resonated with you.

your entry there is remarkably similar to a lot of my thought processes lately. even though i'm very much in the thick of it and probably will be for a hot minute i'm definitely coming to terms with what life is supposed to feel like and how i can cope with that.

also hard agree on karma and doing good as a rule. i think karma and lifting other people up and doing good deeds are the only things i really do believe in lmao. again thank you thank you thank you for the ask 🥹

[ruiningsalads]

Thank you @anders95theses for the prompt! I know it's not Friday anymore, but I had too many good ones to do in one night.

This one feels like it'll be a multipart series, but I don't want to do too much at once. :)

"My dear Inquisitor! I'm so glad you could make it. You look absolutely ravishing." Though most of Dorian's face was obscured by a mask, she could still see his broad grin as he approached her, arms open in welcome.

Lavellan smiled weakly in return. "I can't believe I let you talk me into this."

"Of course you can; I'm very charming." He helped secure her mask, then gestured towards the open bathroom with a theatrical bow. "Now remember: the theme of tonight is mystery. Don't introduce yourself by your name. You can use a title, a moniker, whatever you'd like."

"I think they'll figure out who I am anyway." She glanced pointedly at her missing arm.

"Do you truly think you're the only one-armed woman I know? How very egotistical of you."

She laughed despite herself. "I missed you, Dorian."

His smile was softer. "And I, you. But enough chatter! Go, have fun, drink. I paid out the nose for the band, so you'd better enjoy it."

When he left to greet another new arrival, the Inquisitor moved deeper into the ballroom and surveyed the other attendees. Her gown was the most extravagant thing she'd bought in years, with its delicate skills and elaborate embroidery, yet she was glad to have it. The other women were all dressed just as extravagantly, some even more so.

Movement out of the corner of her eye made her turn. A woman dressed in a crimson gown approached, leading a man dressed in all black. They both had short hair, hers black and his white, and the way she tugged him forward made it clear that he was here only to humor her.

"Inquisitor! I'm very glad to see you again under much less dire circumstances."

Memories of Adamant, of the Fade, came back in a rush. Of Stroud valiantly charging ahead so that they could escape.

Her reverie was broken when the woman continued. "You can call me Champion here, since our mutual friend doesn't want us using names. And this is--"

"Wraith." The man, also an elf, gave her an assessing look, as if determining how much of a threat she posed to either of them.

"It's nice to meet you at last," the Inquisitor said with a nod.

"Likewise." She could see how tense he was in the set of his shoulders and his jaw. Still, he remained by the Champion's side, as if unwilling to let her face the ball alone.

"Oh good, you two are together. That will save me some time." Dorian approached, leading a new arrival. The woman wore dark colors accented with purple, and her mask gave little away of her face. "I have a feeling you would all benefit from knowing each other. This is...Guardian, did you say? How dramatic."

The woman sighed. "It was the best I could come up with, since you wouldn't let me use Ro--"

"Nuh-uh! That's as good as a name with you, and you know it."

"You could say that about us, too," the Champion observed, her tone dripping with amusement.

"Yes, well, the newbie gets picked on a bit. Now, do play nice." He swept away.

The Guardian shifted uncomfortably. "So...hi."

The Champion grinned. "Nervous to be around such distinguished mystery figures?"

"I've read about all three of you," the Guardian admitted. "This feels...surreal."

"Half of the things you read are embellished for dramatic effect," the Inquisitor assured her.

"Not mine," the Champion cut in. "All of it is true, even the bit about arm wrestling the Arishok to get him to leave Kirkwall."

The Inquisitor suppressed a snort, while the Guardian grinned. She opened her mouth as if to speak, but they were interrupted by a loud crash as one of the exterior walls was smashed inwards. Immediately, panic set in. Most of the guests screamed and stampeded for the exit, but the Inquisitor, the Champion, the Guardian, and the Wraith stood fast, shielding their faces from dust and debris.

An earth-shattering roar shook the building to its foundation.

"Shit," the Champion bit out. "Fenris, help protect the people. We're going in."

"Hawke--"

"My love, please. You can argue with me later, after we've made sure everyone is safe."

He gritted his teeth, but took up a defensive position all the same, guarding the swarms of panicked civilians.

"What do we do with no weapons?" The Guardian looked around wildly, searching for an errant mage's staff that might conveniently have been left sitting out in the middle of a ball.

"Get out of my way! Move, I said!"

The three women wheeled around to see Dorian shoving his way through the crowd, their weapons in his arms. "I have to make sure everyone escapes," he panted as the women readied their staves. "This is my party, so if anyone dies, it'll be on my head. Just...be careful, all of you. I'll never forgive you if you die at my party."

Without waiting for a response, he was backing towards the crowd, his magic rippling through the air to create a barrier between the crowd and the monster outside. Fenris took up position beside him, his greatsword at the ready.

"Well," Hawke began brightly, looking at the other two women. "Shall we greet the party crasher?"

[phantom-z0ne]

This might come off a bit weird but I just read your fic "Phosphophyllite and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Week". I literally love it. I would usually just bookmark a fic like this and pray it updates before I die.

But I saw u had a Tumblr account and decided to just ask if it's ever getting an update.

This is not to pester you into updating it, writing because you want vs someone telling to are 2 very different experiences.

Thanks, Anon. : )

Im happy to know that you like my work enough to reach out!! I know how difficult it is to do so and Im glad you did! It didnt come off as demanding or weird so rest assured. In fact, Im even more motivated to write!

"Phosphophyllite and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Week" has a special place in my heart due to it being one of my first ever works. Its not something that I would ever abandon but I understand why you(and probably many others) would think that. I am still working on it but it's slow going because of how busy life became. Im not the fastest writer either so progress is slow, but hopefully the rewrite will be out in the next month or two.

Again, thanks for reaching out! Its nice to hear from readers from time to time :))

[fangedjustice]

"Well, there, my friend. I hope that this party hasn't been too much for you? I'm pleased you've come, recluse though you are," Sigurd teased, holding out the platter of meat for Lloyd to select from. The platter is displayed with a variety of finely roasted poultry meats, cooked in a traditional Chalphy style of one-within-the-other. The skin of the turkey is crispy, and the fats from the duck have marinated both the chicken within and the turkey without. There are cloves and lemon slices studding the plate, combining to form a melange of rich flavors. The choice of which piece to take is up to the feaster – there is plenty to go around!

He had been truly surprised to see his friend's name on the guest list, knowing his penchant and preference for staying more on the fringes. That was how they had met, after all, with he dragging the other into the center of attention - and it was the same at the ball so many months past, seeing his friend recovering from what seemed to be a bout of rather too much interaction.

But, in its turn, he could not have been more pleased that Lloyd had allowed himself out into the open for this. The smile curled at Sigurd lips, part tease, all affection.

"I must thank you, my friend. No, don't protest - you know it must happen, so I think you'd better simply become accustomed. I was quite weak when we first met - a surprise, I'm sure," he added with a laugh before continuing; "But it is the spirit of our competition which has, at least in part, helped me regain my footing. I am more myself than I have been in quite some time, and I have you to thank for that. I hope that whatever I can offer to you - my thanks, my friendship, my trust - can repay all that you have meant to me."

"Even I can be coaxed out of my den every now and then, by a good friend," Lloyd responds, an amused quirk at the corner of his mouth as he regards Sigurd.

He couldn't have said that he thought friendship would come from that call all those months ago in the training yard, but he was never so pleased to have been wrong. Sigurd said he had been weak when first they met, but he'd not been the only one. They were both trying to get back on their feet, and in that competition of swordsmanship that was new to them both, it had reignited a fire.

"No, it...truly, it's been nice. Everyone seems to be enjoying themselves, some in spite of themselves, and I think that is a feat that only someone like you and your sister could have accomplished," Lloyd says, gaze running over the spread of food being offered before selecting a small portion for himself. He'd not indulged too much throughout the evening, and this would be more than enough.

"Well...it's been mutually beneficial, I assure you. I fear I've gotten quite a deal more out of our friendship than you have, however. You got me out here to this party, after all." His smile grows a little, eyes and expression warming with fondness. "I am unused to your unabashed comradery, Sigurd, but...I endeavor to return the fierce friendship and companionable rivalry you've given me. It keeps me grounded, on my toes, looking forward to the next day..."

"Much like this night you have created, I didn't realize how much I needed it until you offered it to me."

[tender-rosiey]

How would gojo act when his mother loving son DOES grow up, or even better if gojo over here’s his teenaged son telling his mom that he doesn’t think Toni’s good enough for her💀(in a wholesome platonic way obviously)

old man — gojo satoru x f!reader

ᴀ/ɴ: it’s either writer’s block or i am just too busy; I hate it here

gojo doesn’t know whether to be thankful his son turned out this way or whether to despise it.

on one hand, he is now sure there will be someone to protect you when he isn’t around, even if he knows that you are capable and most badass and hot woman his eyes have seen, but who can stop a man from worrying about his wife?

plus it’s amazing to play pranks on everybody with your son.

but, on the other hand, he lives in constant competition with his son for your attention. not a moment can pass without his son trying to butt in.

gojo just came back from a mission and wants a welcome back kiss? no, his son wants to cuddle with his mom right now.

gojo would like to go on a date with you, his beautiful wife, and spend sometime alone? too bad, your son is tagging along. what a nice family outing it has become.

the moments the both of you shared alone were rare, but you enjoyed them to the fullest nonetheless. your son’s clinginess has been more tamed as he grew but he no doubt adores you and he makes sure you know that.

today was yet another where gojo was on a mission overseas, and you had your precious and lovely son to keep you company until he came home.

although he was quite the cheeky and sassy kid, but he had an undeniable soft spot for you and he loved being in your presence, better yet having his hair stroked by you.

something his father also enjoys.

“mom.”

you hum, “yes, honey?”

“why is dad such a loser?” he asks and your hand stops its movement.

noticing that you’re still caught in your initial shock he continues, “he is an old man with white hair and even his students are embarrassed by him; why are you with him?”

“you know your father is just 37, right?”

your son shrugs, “that’s old by my standards.”

“so I am old?” you ask and he shakes his head instantly.

“no, you look younger than him and are a million times prettier than him,” he assures and you smile teasingly.

“picking favorites, aren’t you?”

“I love him too, but it’s just that I am obviously better anyways so that leaves him to be in last place,” but he continues before speak up, “first place being you then second place being me.”

a laugh leaves your lips while your son closes his eyes in concentration for a moment before announcing something, “dad, i know you are there.”

you hear a grunt of pain before someone falls on the ground and you assume it’s your husband, “satoru, is that you?!”

happily, you make your way to him and give him a hug which he gladly returns despite his pain from the box your son threw at him using his energy, “hey honey,” he softly says with his face buried in your shoulder.

your son watches from the couch with a pout but lets you guys greet each other nonetheless.

“I missed you so much,” satoru says before pressing a big kiss to your cheek and you giggle in return and pat his head which makes him grin.

“me too, ‘toru,” you smile, “but how long have you been here?”

his grin immediately turns into a pout at that and you can see his eyebrows furrow, “long enough to hear the words of my ruthless son,” he half-heartedly glares at him.

the boy rolls his eyes before walking to his dad and looking up at him, “hey old man.”

“I am not old, you sassy teenager!” your husband argues and your son smirks but it drops as soon as he sees his dad smirk as well, who puts a hand on his son’s head to ruffle his hair, “speaking of which, I don’t think you want your mom to know about—“

“ALRIGHT!” the boy covers satoru’s mouth and looks at him with a nervous smile, “D-DAD YOU MUST BE TIRED; GO CHANGE!”

“what did you not want me to know about?” you ask and your son looks horrified.

satoru pats his son’s head one last time before going upstairs but not without giving you a kiss on the lips.

“N-NOTHING!” he hears his son scream and satoru smirks, the evil one has fallen.

taglist: @magenta-cat-drawingss @pompompurin1028 @scul-pted @dazaisdeathwish @requiem626k @nameless-shrimp @shinys-bsd-world-1 @sonder-paradise @ravenina14 @jessbeinme15s-notebook @todorokichills @missrown @shrynkk @simplyxsinned @beautiful-is-boring @bakugossanity @izukus-gf @irethepotato @thekaylahub @luciferspen @aeanya @sweetcloudsimp @moon-catto @fiona782 @ginneko @kisakitwister @iamjustasimpxd @psychopotatomeme

copyright © tender-rosiey

do not copy or plagiarize or you will be reported

[mymainwastoocluttered]

The Butler Types (Jade/MC/Barbatos)

Jade has no fears. What is it? There's a demon butler visiting NRC? Jade has one fear.

NOTE: I only write for female reader but everyone is welcome to read it!

I'm bitter because it's my birthday and Halloween Jade refuses to come, so I'll celebrate it with the better butler boy. *glares at Jade*

— (`⌒*)O-(`⌒´Q)

Jade is not one for fear.

Sure, he has his fair share of them. One simply does not grow up in Coral Sea without developing some. But one also simply does not grow in Coral Sea without losing some.

So Jade isn't one for fear.

But why does it have to be a butler type?

Jade can only watch, eye twitching in a nervous tic he got from Azul, as his crush ogles at the demon butler in front of her, hanging at his every word and blushing under his gaze.

His name is Barbatos, he is the loyal butler of Lord Diavolo, the Crown Prince of Devildom and the Headmaster of the Royal Academy of Diavolo, one of the few schools that might be older than NRC and even Crowley himself.

And he's exactly (Y/N)'s type.

A good looking, devilish butler with a gentle appearance and behavior who hides something darker and dangerous behind his tea brewing skills and overall otherworldly excellence? Big hell yes from her.

Why does Jade know that? Jade knows everything he possibly can about his crush, including the knowledge that he is exactly her type.

Or, at least, he's the closest anyone at NRC can get to her type.

He understandably did not account for possible visits from the Devildom, a Kingdom that has kept to itself for most, if not all, of its existence, and now he's paying the price. Floyd, the menace, is having a field day, watching from the bench they share as his other half gets more and more agitated while the demon charms Shrimpy.

"Oh, I'm sorry, am I holding you up? You must be busy with Lord Diavolo– I mean, with helping Lord Diavolo," Jade feels like eating glass at the enamoured look (Y/N) sends the demon, clearly not wanting to part but also not wanting to be rude.

"No need to worry, my lady, the Young Lord has given me some free time while he speaks with Lord Crowley," Barbatos gives her a smile the eel just knows is making her legs weak. "And I'm enjoying your company very much."

Barbatos is particularly hateful because he's actually being nice. His niceness is inherent, not trained like Jade's. And the eel can tell the Prefect can tell, she's good at judging one's character. It's one of the reasons why they get along so well, she can tell when Jade is being genuine or not, a skill very few have.

If only that skill wasn't helping the green haired demon get closer to her.

"O–oh, I see..." The girl places her hands on her burning cheeks, and Jade feels another bitter sting. That is his face, that's the face only he can get from her when he compliments her. "Thank you for your kind words."

"All of them true, I assure you."

"Oh, stop it, I'm already blushing."

"It was not my intention to make you uncomfortable, my lady, but... I must admit you look very lovable," Barbatos offers a hand to her, one she shyly takes, only to then squeak when he places a soft kiss on the back of her hand. "Please, allow me to be selfish and keep you by my side for a few more moments."

Enough.

Jade walks so fast, it almost feels like he's swimming through the air. Floyd's loud laugh follows him like a predator, together with a playful "go get'em, tiger shark". As soon as he reaches the duo, he takes a silent deep breath, making sure his usual smile is on his face as he takes (Y/N)'s other hand, a privilege he earned, and brings it to his chest, right on his beating heart

"There you are, Prefect. I've been looking for you."

"J–Jade!" The eel is more than please to see her eyes completely leave the other to focus solely on him, the blush on her pretty face now all his.

When he looks up, mismatched eyes meet green eyes, and he can tell Barbatos has been fully aware of his presence from the very beginning. A sharp—quite literally—smile forms on his face at the annoyance in the other's eyes.

Ah, the greed of a servant who finally found something they want to be selfish about.

Would be entertaining if what the demon wanted wasn't Jade's already.

[daisysolovely]

Aemma Targaryen 3

A ruby eye

Hiiii, first of all, thank you for all the support you had shown to the last two parts. it gave me a lot of motivation to continue writing ;)). Secondly, this part happened shortly after Losing an eye and it will feature more of Aemond. I am not very happy with it, ngl as I've had a lot of things going on right now so I might not be in my best condition to write. But I simply feel the need to write this down. Anyway, I hope you will enjoy this XD and have a nice day

Summary: A surprise gift from the eldest prince, Aegon II.

The Aemma's series: Losing an eye, Aemma's dragon, A Pawn, A Proposal

P/s: I am not a native English speaker so pls forgive me if there are any linguistic mistakes. Secondly, I am an inexperienced writer so I'll very much appreciate it if you could leave your feedback in the comment section ( your thoughts, opinions,...) You can also send your feedback via the ask me section if you wish to remain anonymous. Thank you, XD But you also don't have to... if you don't want, I mean. Another p/s: I'm sorry in advance that I am now unable to reply to your comments as my account has some kind of a glitch :( I'll reply to all of your comments as soon as I could, I've already contacted Tumblr so finger-crossed.

The event of Aemma losing her eye stirred a sensation in the court. Everyone seemed to make it their business, whispering to each other the unsavoury thing about the cursed princess. But when Aemond decided to take his eye out, everyone was scandalised. 

Strangely enough, all fingers were pointed toward the princess rather than the prince. Aemma couldn’t forget the mumblings she would hear whenever she passed by someone. The maids were seemingly afraid to be in her presence. 

The cursed princess was now a monster in the court’s eyes. 

Aemma could hardly recall a peaceful day in her life after her loss. She was constantly on guard, always wary to be in someone’s presence. And she felt as if she could only rely on her family. While she had that feeling before, the princess never truly felt so lonely in her life. 

But there was also a few good thing came out of that event. The king had appointed a new knight for her, Ser Andarien Musgood. Bless him, as the man was a gentle soul, only assisted when needed and the princess almost didn’t notice him most of the time. Unlike her previous knight, Ser Andarien treated her like she was normal without any impairment and allowed her the freedom she wished. So, you can often find the princess walking on her own, a knight at a respectful distance. In addition, Aemma had made friends with a new maid who got transferred to serve her after the other maids showed their reluctance around the cursed princess. 

Patiently embroidering a handkerchief, Aemma listened to the maid while slowly following her instruction. So far, according to the maid, Aemma had finished one-third of the handkerchief, a big accomplishment for the young princess, especially considering she had never embroidered before and couldn’t see. The princess wasn’t sure if it was decent and could only place her confidence in her maid who assured Aemma that her handkerchief was beautiful. 

“Do you think my brother will like it?” Asked Aemma as she felt the stitch of the embroidery, trying to imagine it in her mind. She had asked her maid to pick out a black handkerchief and then decided to embroider their family’s sigil on it. The sigil was a challenge, even for those who could see. But Aemma had proven that she was as stubborn as her family, determined to finish it all by herself. 

Before the maid could answer, another voice interrupted her. “Like what, sister?” Questioned Aegon as he made his presence noticed, his voice had its usual slur from all the wine he had consumed that day. Yet, his posture was oddly steady as he paced toward his sister who sat near the fireplace. “I haven’t seen you for days, dear sister.” He stated. 

Chuckling, Aemma set her work aside, handing it to her maid who put it away before leaving the room for the two. Only when the cursed princess sensed the privacy that she begin to respond to her brother’s question. “I think, we are both aware of who’s the absence one.” She said softly, perfectly dodging his first question. 

“If you must know, I have a matter to attend to.” The prince announced, but they knew he couldn’t fool Aemma. She might be blind, but she wasn’t stupid. “But in all seriousness, sister, you haven’t been out of your chamber recently.” Concern laced in his voice as the boy sat down on the ground, his head resting on Aemma’s lap as the princess let out a sigh, her hand automatically playing with his silver lock. 

Aemma contemplated telling her brother the truth as she averted her focus on the texture of his long curls. Aegon’s hair was different from Aemond's and her uncle Daemond's and even more compared to her two sisters. His had a curlier end and seemed wilder, untameable like its owner. Aemma loved its texture, however, and could play with Aegon’s hair for hours as it felt funny on her fingertips. Additionally, the second princess had taken notice of how at ease Aegon’s body seemed to be whenever she caressed his hair. The princess took it as a sign that her brother perhaps enjoyed this as much as she. 

“I want to be alone for a while, Aegon. It’s nothing.” 

“Even away from me?” The prince questioned in disbelief. Ever since they were little, Aemma had been unseparated from Aegon as the prince was practically her tail. Honestly, she was grateful for him, but with the recent event and the court’s reaction, Aemma needed time for herself. “You wish not to see me?” 

“Of course not, an impertinent accusation you’re making, Aegon.” Scolded Aemma lightly as her lips pressed into a thin line. “I just need time to digest my new… appearance, that’s all.” 

“Did someone say something?” Aegon looked up from Aemma’s lap, pausing the princess’s movement. 

“People talk, naturally. That’s how life at Red Keep is, they talk, and you ignore them” She muttered. 

“I’ll take their tongue out.” The prince snarled. His eyes went red as the thought of a low life dared to insult his sweet sister. And for what? She was perfect!

The princess huffed, annoyed by his cruel remark. “Then you would have quite a busy day ahead of you, brother.” For a moment, she let her bitterness slip past her usual calmness. “That would include your grandsire as well, I’m afraid.” 

Aegon’s eyes widened before he frowned. His sharp jaws clenched tightly. Otto was a touchy subject for him and the prince could understand his sister’s intolerance for that man. But he wished not to include the man in his conversation with Aemma, the only thing Otto hadn’t had any control over. 

Therefore, the conversation was left unspoken as Aegon silently reached for his sister’s hand. The prince squeezed her hand, sending a silent assurance toward his sister. 

The princess was glad he left the topic where it was as she was growing rather uncomfortable. Pressing her lips into a thin line, she squeezed his hand back, sending the same message back to her brother. 

The two sat in complete silence for what felt like hours, enjoying the rare moment of calmness as there was only the sound of the fireplace and soft wind from the window. However, Aemma’s instinct pulled her away from the peace as she cleared her throat. The princess squeezed her brother’s hand again, catching his attention. Once the cursed princess was certain his focus was now back on her, she said “I’m not a fool, Aegon. I know where you ‘attend your matter’ and that your drinking has got significantly worse.”

Aegon frowned, how on the seven hells did his sister know what a pleasure house was? “I might not understand your desire to visit such a place, it concerned me if I must admit.” She admitted wholeheartedly. Aemma didn’t know what activities occurred in that place, but she had a feeling that it wasn’t any good. Yet, Aegon seemed to frequent the place a lot. 

“I won’t visit that place anymore if that’s what you wish, mandia.” sister. Said Aegon sincerely. Whores, lust and wines could never compare to his sister who provided him with the ultimate pleasure without knowing every day. He would quit everything in an instant if that was what it took to please Aemma. It would be worth it as nothing but Aemma mattered to the prince. 

That doesn’t mean that it wouldn’t be a challenge for Aegon to stop his playboy life.

“Just promise me you’ll be safe.” 

“I will.” Said Aegon and that was probably the only promise the prince kept for the rest of his life. 

—----------

Aemond listened attentively as Aemma told him about her latest trip to the garden with Heleana and all the bugs Heleana had described. The young prince bathed in the peaceful comfort she somehow managed to provide him despite all the events in their life. He stared at her face, trying to shake away the dizziness he would feel from time to time due to his lost eye. The prince had still adjusted to the lack of vision in his right eye. 

His gaze fell under the nasty scar that occurred on Aemma’s right eye, the swell wasn’t as intense as the first few days but it was a frightened look on a lady’s face. The corner of his lips turned downward the longer his eye rested on the scar. He wondered how Aemma managed to appear so lively as he still struggled to accept his appearance and he was the one who commited the act. Meanwhile, Aemma had lost her eye against her will and still had the same positive attitude. Aemond had lost count of the number of mirrors he destroyed every time he caught a glimpse of himself. 

She was truly an angel, the boy admired. 

Aemma stopped her tale upon the silence of her company dawned on her. Smiling, she asked gently. “A penny for your thought, lēkia” brother

Aemond bit his bottom lip lightly as his heart raced quickly. He wasn’t the type to share his feeling even as a child for every time he did, he was made fun of by his brother and nephews. But Aemma would never do that to him, the prince reassured himself, she wasn’t like them. She would never and could never do anything wrong. 

Since the moment Aemma pushed him, the cursed princess had become a goddess in his heart and evidently, his goddess could never hurt him. Thus, he swallowed hard and gathered his courage. “Don’t you feel frustrated?” Asked the prince and surprised the princess. 

Aemma flipped her head to Aemond’s side, and her silver hair swayed under the sunlight. “For what, darling?” 

“You lost an eye unwillingly and now you are surrounded by these horrendous rumours.” 

“Ah, that.” Aemma cleared her throat as she shifted her posture lightly. “Father had solved it already though.” The king had, indeed, taken matters into his hand, threatening those who dare speak ill of his beloved daughter will face the sharp blade of the Dark sister. The rumours had since died down. “And I think a normal person would unlikely want to lose their eye under a normal circumstance.” She laughed softly. 

“But admittedly, yes, I am frustrated. But before you blame yourself, I am not frustrated by my lost eye, I could hardly feel the loss and the struggle of it.” Aemma’s hand reached out habitually and a hand was placed in hers. With a smile, she squeezed it gently. “I am furious that I am too weak to defend myself and at the court. Never you, Aemond for you do not fault this matter.” 

“I claimed Vhagar, thus causing this.” Said the boy. 

“You did, but that’s a bit complicated, isn’t it? I used to be like you before, you know until uncle Daemon flew me to Dragonstone and I met Vermithor.” The princess smiled at the fonded memory she had with the Rogue prince. “I couldn’t blame you as I understand the oppression this family had for those who have yet to claim a dragon. Not all of us were blessed with a dragon since birth.” She squeezed his hand one more. “So no, I am not mad at you.” 

“Are you worried, Aemond?” Aemma tilted her head slightly. 

Aemond nodded, then answered her question. “I look hideous.” The boy went to put his palm over his mouth once the realisation of his words dawned on him. Yet, Aemma only shook it off, taking no offence to his words. She couldn’t see but she was certain if she could, she would have the same feeling. Besides, he was young and feeling insecure was a natural thing at that age, thought the princess as she could recall all the shame and insecurity she faced every day. 

“Well, take this with a pinch of salt. But appearance doesn’t matter. It never will be, brother. Your action will be the thing that determines your success and how others treat you.” Aemma would know that well. At a fairly young age, she had learned to read people through their actions only as appearance wasn't something she could judge. And the cursed princess supposed it was a great lesson as you should never judge a book by its cover. 

Like her family and its glory… who knew it was so rotten underneath?

Hearing the silence from Aemond, Aemma sighed as she continued. “Trust me, I of all people would know this best. And besides, you could always make the ladies swoon with your swordsmanship. I have heard promise thing from Ser Criston.” 

A blush appeared on Aemond’s cheeks as the boy shyly traced a line on Aemma’s fingers. “You think so?” 

“Yes, I believe so, keep on practising. Maybe one day, you will be the next Rogue prince.” Jested the princess as a sweet laugh escaped her pouty lips. But Aemma knew that would be unlikely for her shy Aemond could never be ruthless like her uncle. Little did she know, Aemond took the jest very seriously. 

But the conversation was cut short as Aegon, like the drama prince he was, made his presence known. Upon seeing his brother, Aemond immediately pull his hand away from Aemma, knowing how displeased Aegon could get when someone touched their sister. And he used to be interrupted whenever he stay alone with Aemma, but the one-eye prince barely reacted. 

“You’re causing a scene again, aren’t you?” Aemma giggled softly, knowing who the intruder was the moment she heard the loud noise of pacing and clearing his throat. 

Aegon laughed and Aemond found his brother oddly smiley today. The boy changed his posture, getting his guard on. 

“I’m just happy to see my brother and sister bonding so well.” Said the eldest prince as he emphasised the word bonding while giving his brother a sneer. 

“You should join us then, I was talking about a new bug Heleana had shown me this morning. It was such a tiny creature, Aegon.” The princess didn’t see the exchange between the two brothers as she gushed over the creature Heleana had given to her. Sadly, Aemma couldn’t recall its name and had mentally noted to ask her sister for it later on. She wished Heleana could join her as well now that her two brothers were here. She was sure her sister would be thrilled to have more than the cursed princess’s boring company. 

“I would love to join you, sister. But I have something I wish you to have.” Aegon said as he practically shoved himself in between Aemond and Aemma, causing the one-eye prince to fall from the bench. But the eldest prince didn’t even flinch, finding his brother rather pathetic. Claiming the biggest dragon couldn’t even help you stronger, apparently…. 

Hearing the loud thud stirred Aemma as she flinched, gripping the hand of the person next to her, Aegon who smiled from ear to ear. “Aegon? Where is Aemond?” Confusion dawned on the cursed princess’s face. 

“Oh, he just fell over.” 

Aemma frowned and scooped over to the middle of the bench as she pat the empty spot on her left. “Come, Aemond, sit here.” She had a feeling that Aemond didn’t just fall as the boy wasn’t clumsy by nature. 

“Aemma.” Whined Aegon once he realised his sister’s focus was lying solely on Aemond who was cooed by the said princess as she checked for any injury on his body. 

“I’m sorry, what is it, love?” The princess turned her head to Aegon’s side, using the endearing term she knew he always loved. For some reason, Aegon had always been fonded of endearing terms that were often associated with lovers. Aemma never questioned it, however, as she found no problem in using the term. 

A content smile blossomed on Aegon’s face as he gave his brother a smirk over Aemma’s shoulder. Quickly, he took a round object from the bag he had on him previously and proudly presented it to Aemma. The prince gently placed the object on his sister’s hand and watched with pride as she tried to figure out its identity. 

Aemma was stunned by how cold the object felt and its roundness as well. She thought it was a toy at first due to its shape but the texture didn’t feel right on her hand. As her fingers traced the shape of the object, it was oddly smooth. Curious and impatient, Aemma finally pestered Aegon to tell her what it was and the prince was enjoying the attention he got a bit too much. 

“It’s a ruby.” Said Aegon. “My mother gave it to me when I was younger and… with the recent event, I thought perhaps you would need some replacement for your eye.” Explained the prince. “And ruby seems worthy enough to be that replacement.” As you’re as precious as it is, those were words he left unsaid. 

“Oh, you don’t have to…” Aemma was speechless. In reality, she had never thought about using gemstone to replace her eye for she never really need one. But the idea didn’t seem bad, she contemplated. Aemma disliked eyepatch as she struggled to put it on herself and sevens hells knew she had tried a lot. So perhaps a shiny little stone would help distract people from her scar. She had to applaud Aegon for the genius idea and for the precious gift. Now her handkerchief was paled in compairision… 

“It was no trouble at all.” The eldest prince waved off, your happiness is what matter. “So, would you consider the idea at least? I choose red so you can match our house’ colour.” 

Orginally, Aegon wished to pick an Emerald stone for her. But the idea disturbed him for he didn’t not want his sister to be involved with the Hightower and end up miserable like he was. So the prince decided to avoid the colour he wore daily the most and choose red instead. Beside, it was fitting for her, a Targaryen and the rider of one of the largest dragons - Vermithor. Red suited her best, he always found so. 

Smiling, Aemma pulled Aegon into a bear hug as no words could show the appreciation of her for the efforts he pulled into this. Aegon wasn’t the most affection person and certainly wasn’t someone with a heart of gold. So she was thankful he would do this for her even though the idea of replacing her lost eye with a gemstone was a touch extravagant. 

Aegon buried his nose on the hook of Aemma’s shoulder, enjoying the embrace. Closing his eyes, the prince hoped this moment would never past by. Truthfully, he loved the feeling of getting praised or be appreciated by the cursed princess. It fueled his pride knowing only him capable enough to fulfil her happiness. And he was proud of himself as well, he had solved her problem, didn’t he? Now she need not to care about those stupid sheeps’s opinion and could focus her energy on him instead. 

Sitting beside Aemma, the one-eye prince clenched his fist tightly as he gazed sharply at his brother who was in the arm of Aemma at the moment. All he saw was green and as he swallowed, all he tasted was bitterness. It was always about him, that thunder stealer. Aemond was glad they shared something in common, her and him. But Aegon had to ruin everything. Sure, he would never stand at the same level as Aemma for she was a goddess and he was simply an unworthy follower. Yet, Aemma’s confession showed his hope that perhaps, he could touch her. Now,... as he watched the maester put the ruby in Aemma’s eyesocket, she was so close yet so far… like how he always saw her… untouchable. 

@yor72

[waka-chan-out]

Ok concept/request, you're riding Iwaizumi in the Aoba Johsai locker room and Oikawa walks in on you two and you feel like everything is about to get really awkward, but then Iwaizumi asks if he could join in?

(I ❤❤❤❤❤❤❤ your stuff so much btw!!!!!!!)

Cool Down

i am OBSESSED with this idea. y’all know how much i like writing multiple characters, huh? 👀 sorry for taking so long on this but thank you for sending in a request! i’m flattered you like my content baby i hope you’re doing well

i exclusively write post-timeskip characters so i’m going to change this to argentina national team oikawa and athletic trainer iwaizumi if that’s alright :) but the concept shall remain the same.

word count: 2k

content warnings: she/her afab reader, established relationship, threesome, oral (m. receiving), double penetration, “sir,” “good girl,” LOTS of pet names, ass play, very low risk public sex, light teasing, light dacryphilia, creampie

You could still hear players shuffling out of the arena from the locker room. Tooru had told his team not to wait up, that he was going to stay and catch up with old friends. Instead, he had pulled you into his team’s deserted locker room and pushed you against the cool concrete wall, too hyped up from his game to even manage a shower.

Somehow that made it even hotter as you tangled your fingers in his lovely blue jersey, holding on as tight as you could as you shifted up and down in his lap.

His breath rushed heavy into your ear, face screwed up in pleasure and pressed into the crook of your neck. Both of you were so wrapped up in each other that the ability to speak was stripped away entirely, leaving behind pants and groans and the occasional high pitched moan.

Your brains and bodies were occupied, and that made it impossible to hear the locker room door clunk open and the heavy footsteps approach the back row of lockers.

“Oikawa.”

The voice fell like a bucket of cold water. You couldn’t run, so you clapped your hands over your face and buried into Tooru’s shoulder. Shit. Shit. Shit.

Tooru turned around, an exhausted smile on his face.

“Iwa-chan.” He let out a cough, unable to catch his breath. “Thought you would’ve gone home by now.”

“I figured you’d pull something like this.”

“But you won’t tell, will you? Because you’re our good little Iwa-chan.”

Iwaizumi’s face screwed up in disgust.

“I wasn’t going to tell as long as you were in a generous mood.”

You perked up.

“What?” you asked. Iwaizumi crossed his arms.

“Shitty-kawa needs to learn how to share if he’s going to make a mess in our locker rooms.”

Your eyes grew wide and Tooru laughed.

“I don’t know whether to take you seriously or not, Iwa-chan.”

“I could just report you.”

“I didn’t say no, but I’m not the one you have to ask.”

They both turned to face you and your mouth grew dry.

Scanning Iwaizumi’s body, you couldn’t say you’d never thought about it. The few times you had met Tooru’s Iwa-chan in person he had such a presence around him. No matter how out of control Tooru got, Iwaizumi held the reigns, able to shut situations down in only a few words. Not only that, he was almost infuriatingly good looking. His uniform polo looked uncomfortably tight around his chest and biceps, and that’s not even mentioning the way his legs fit into his dress pants.

You wanted his arms around you. Immediately.

“Does the door lock?” you asked. Tooru grinned.

“I knew you were fun,” he said, pressing kisses to your neck. Iwaizumi’s lips curled into a smile and he disappeared for a moment. You heard an echoey click and he returned, already pulling his belt out of its loops. Tooru laughed again.

“Cocky, Iwa-chan. At least get them warmed up first.”

Iwaizumi approached you, continuing to undo his slacks.

“I think you’ve already taken care of that,” he muttered, pushing down on Oikawa’s shoulder so he would laid down on the bench. Iwaizumi leaned down and pressed a gentle but warm kiss on your lips.

“You’ll be good for me, right?” he whispered as he pulled down the front of his briefs. You grinned and tugged him closer by the belt loop.

“Yes.” You punctuated the word by wrapping your lips around him. He was slightly shorter than Oikawa but significantly thicker. You looked up at him and took him as far into your mouth as you could.

“Shit,” he breathed, cupping your chin and running a thumb over your cheek. “What did you do to bag this one?”

Oikawa laughed and laced his fingers behind his head.

“I’m very charming, Iwa-chan. You should know that by now.”

You smiled as much as you could with Iwaizumi’s weight still in your mouth. He looked down at you and combed your hair out of your face.

“Wanna make him shut up for me?” he asked. You became keenly aware of the fact that Tooru was still inside of you and circled your hips. He hissed and tipped his head back against the bench.

“Mean, Iwa-chan,” he gasped. You continued a steady rock in his lap and he let out small, sharp breaths, trying to remain composed as he watched your eyes focus on Iwaizumi’s. “Don’t push her head,” he warned. “She doesn’t like that.”

“Yeah?” Iwaizumi said. His hand cupped your face, gently following your movement as your head dipped and pulled back. “You don’t like when he shows you what to do, huh? What if I show you what to do? Will you let me?”

He pulled you off of him, gently swiping at your lip to clean your face. He pushed his index and middle past into your lips, dragging them over your tongue. You closed your eyes at the feeling and you heard him let out a content laugh.

“That’s my girl. Why don’t you bend over for me?”

You quickly leaned forward so you were laying on Tooru’s chest.

“You really are an obedient little thing, aren’t you?” he said, running a hand through your hair. “Why don’t you behave this way with me, hm?”

“Because you don’t command any respect,” Iwaizumi grumbled. He ran his hands over your ass then down, circling your entrance. You gasped and held Tooru tighter.

“Don’t act so shy,” he said through a laugh. “You’ve done that before and you know you like it.”

“Oh? Is that true?” Iwaizumi asked. You nodded, but he ran his hand over the back of your neck and tugged your hair lightly. “Words, darling.”

“Yes,” you stammered. He chuckled and unceremoniously pushed a finger inside of you. You let out a choked moan and pressed your face further against Tooru’s chest.

“Aw, Iwa-chan, be nice.”

“I am being nice. Feels good, doesn’t it doll?”

“Y—” You paused as Tooru leaned up to your ear.

“Call him sir. He’ll lose it.”

Iwaizumi landed a quick smack on your ass and pushed in another finger.

“What did I say about your words? Does it feel good?”

“Yes, sir.” The words were rushed, nervous. You were sure Iwaizumi could hear the hesitation in your voice, but the low groan that left him was assurance enough.

“Oh, fuck. What a good girl.” You could hear him readjusting his pants and gasped when he pressed up against you from behind. “You gonna be good and take all of me? I know you can do it.” You hummed as he started pushing forward.

“Yes, sir.”

He laughed aloud and continued to slowly sheath himself inside of you. He was going agonizingly slow, and though you knew you needed time to adjust, all you wanted was more.

“That’s right, baby. Take him like you take me,” Tooru said, running his hands over your waist. “I’m still better, though. Right?” Iwaizumi finally bottomed out inside of you and you let out a short, strangled sound, pressing your forehead against Tooru’s. “See? You’ve sent her right back into my arms.”

“We’ll see about that.” Iwaizumi pulled back slowly, dragging a shocked gasp from your throat. “You can’t fill her up like this. Right, sweetheart? Tell me how full you are.”

“So full,” you groaned. As his hips pushed forward again you mumbled, “please.” His laugh was even louder this time.

“Please what? Come on.”

“Please fuck me, Iwa.”

“I think that’s what I’m doing right now. You asking for more?” He moved his hips quickly once and you moaned.

“Yes,” you breathed.

“Yes what?”

“Yes, sir.” You leaned up and looked Tooru in the eye. “Yes, Hajime. Please fuck me harder.” His eyebrow raised and a smirk pulled at his lips.

“Oh, fuck.” Iwaizumi’s voice rumbled in his chest as he gripped your hips, snapping them against you hard and fast.

“Look at you, doll.” Tooru purred. “Taking his cock when I’m still inside of you. You that desperate? You want me to fuck you too?”

You nodded, face screwed up in a wince as Iwaizumi found a perfect angle inside of you.

“No sir for me? Greedy little thing. I guess you can have my cock. Next time you’ll have to beg.” He joined Iwaizumi in holding your hips, lifting them slightly off of him so he could gain leverage. Then he began slowly moving, cock dragging inside of you and, oh fuck, did it feel good to have both of them pushing inside of you. Tooru quickly build up his pace to match Iwaizumi’s, each of them thrusting into you at the same time. The feeling was overwhelming and quickly brought a sob to your lips.

“Aw, baby don’t cry. You were so ready for us. What happened?”

“Don’t be mean, Oikawa. She’s taking it well.”

“Sure, Iwa-chan, but she doesn’t seem very grateful, does she?” He grabbed your chin and brought your face up to look at him. “Say thank you.”

You choked on a moan as Tooru halted mid-thrust, pushing right up against where you wanted him most.

“Thank you,” you murmured. Tooru laughed.

“Come on, princess, Iwa-chan couldn’t hear you. Say it so he can hear it.”

“Thank you, Hajime.”

Iwaizumi let out a strained laugh but said nothing, too focused on the rock of his hips.

“Now me,” Tooru purred. There was a delicious glint in his eye. You couldn’t decide whether it was frightening or devastatingly sexy. “Say thank you, Tooru. Thank you for fucking you so well and letting my Iwa-chan have his way with you.”

“Thank you, Tooru,” you gasped. “For everything. Please.” You leaned forward and captured his lips. His eyes widened before settling into a smug expression.

“Fuck I’m gonna cum soon,” Iwaizumi said. Tooru broke your kiss.

“Not inside,” he warned. Iwaizumi scoffed.

Tooru seemed to realize that he was close as well, face screwing up and hips moving more erratically.

“Are you going to cum with us, princess? Make a mess all over our cocks?” You whimpered and buried your face into his neck. “I think that’s a yes, Iwa-chan. Just wait. She’s so pretty when she cums.”

“Tooru, please,” you begged, but you didn’t know what for. You were climbing fast, body giving in completely to the feeling of the two men inside of you. You felt so good and so full you almost couldn’t stand it.

“Be nice, Oikawa. Let her cum first.” Iwaizumi’s voice was strained.

“Won’t be too long, Iwa-chan. Just look at her.”

You were so close. You could almost taste the orgasm about to rack your body, more overwhelming than ever due to the second man buried inside of you.

“Please,” you begged, but you didn’t know who you were begging to. “Please, let me cum.”

“Let go, baby. We’ve got you,” Tooru said, staring past you at Iwaizumi. Your body locked up and you let out a small sobbing noise, tightening your grip on Tooru’s jersey. Your body shook and the men seemed to follow soon after you. Tooru mumbled a small flurry of “that’s it”s before holding your hips tight and spilling inside of you. Iwaizumi let out a long groan, continuing a slow slide in and out of you. Despite Tooru’s warning, Iwaizumi’s hips remained flush against your ass as he groaned through his orgasm, making you feel lightheaded but forcing a scowl onto Tooru’s face.

You all lay there panting for a moment, unsure of how and when to move. Your entire body was buzzing. The slightest movement forced a gasp, and a long hiss left your lips as Iwaizumi withdrew.

“Iwa-chan, what did I tell you?” Tooru said, but there was no fight in his voice. He sounded exhausted. Iwaizumi didn’t respond. He tucked himself back into his pants and leaned down, pressing a kiss to the top of your head and rubbing your arm. He stared at you for a moment longer before smirking.

“Make sure you stretch before you leave, Oikawa. You missed the cool down at the end of the game.”

Then he turned on his heels and left the locker room, leaving you and Oikawa alone with the echoes of what you had just done.

———————————————————————

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tag list: @ohno-otome @antiqueremains @stationery-store @tanzaniiite @imbearlythere @kitastowel @vminelove @yougivemeglobalwarming @averyaviary @blackstaw @april-avenue

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want to be added? shoot me an ask!

[snackhobi]

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.)

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