#like you can drop someone in fry oil

[jesterkilljoy]

a concept: fuck marry kill for aroaces: kill kill kill, where you start off with three people but instead of choosing to marry one and sleep with another, they all die but you get to choose how. the challenge is to come up with increasingly fucked up ways to kill them.

[luveline]

hi hii jade! Was wondering if you could do something sweet and fluffy w poly!marauders where reader wakes up in a very cozy and giggly mood 🤭 just some warm domestic love hehe

thank you for requesting! fem, 1k

Someone is kissing his waist. Sirius squirms in his dozing, not expecting it as those kisses travel up his naked chest. Your laugh is breathy and soft as you kiss his shoulder, your weight strewn across his side and arm, your hand finding his cheek. 

Your fingers feel inhuman in the best way, like an angel. They spread across his face and neck as you hold him in place and kiss the skin where his neck meets his shoulder. “I love you…” you whisper, the ‘you’ turning long and slow like honey slipping down his front. “I wish you didn’t sleep so much.” 

You kiss him again, and with that you’re out of bed. Out of the room before Sirius has time to gather his wits, but he does gather them, because he needs more of whatever that was. 

What sort of sweetheart kisses somebody with such gentleness thinking they won’t remember? To press affection into him with want of nothing in return. He doesn’t even bother getting dressed, just scrubs at his sleep-swollen face and fishes the crusties from his eyes as he descends the stairs, numb-legged. 

James is grabbing you by the hips, helping you up onto the counter. His curls bounce at the back of his neck. “What’s gotten into you?” he asks. 

“Love, for sure.” 

“I can see that. Eggs? Omelette?” 

“Jamie, you can make anything. Actually, let me make you something–”

James pushes you further onto the top. “That’s okay, I’m cooking. I want to cook.” 

Sirius isn’t insecure, exactly. He feels he’s quite handsome when he attempts to be, and he knows you like him whether he’s trying or not, but he doesn’t know if you want to be interrupted, either of you, and it’s his private agony to wonder what to do. Then you spot him over James’ shoulder and your eyes practically sparkle. 

“Siri…” you sing-song, melodic as he crosses the kitchen linoleum to be with you and James. “Did I wake you? I’m sorry.” 

Sirius touches James’ elbow with love but swoops in on you. “Did you wake me?” he asks, kissing your cheek, his arms working behind you to hold you as his lips travel downward. He isn’t half as sweet as you were, too busy trying to squeeze your torso against his and mould you into a perfect fit against him and under his arm to really think about what he’s doing. 

“She did it to me, too.” 

Sirius pulls your face into his neck and turns to James with a grin. “And Remus?” 

“He was already awake. But she kissed him and did that thing where her eyes somehow look bigger and shiny and he had to go for a walk.” 

“He didn’t have to go for a walk,” you mumble from Sirius’ neck. “He always walks on Saturday mornings. He’s just getting some herbs from the greenhouse.” 

The back door opens on cue. Remus reappears with an aura about him much like yours, dropping the cut herbs on the cutting board, and stopping just shy of everyone to smile. “Did she do it to you, as well?” he asks. 

James squeezes Remus’ face in his hand, a quick thank you for the herbs that has the latter turning pink. 

“She waylaid me with kisses like a common whore.” 

“Sirius,” James says scornfully. 

“Me being the whore,” Sirius says. You laugh into his neck, seemingly with no inclination to leave the circle of his arms. “Will I ever see your face again?” he asks. 

“It’s cozy here. I wish we’d stayed in bed.” 

“We can go back.” 

“After breakfast,” James says, popping an egg on the edge of the frying pan, breaking the shell one handed as he gives the sizzling oil a shake. 

Remus not so subtly crosses the last of the space to slot himself between your right thigh and the counter. Sirius has the urge to cup his cheek as James had done —Remus has an extremely holdable face— but is distracted by your nose nuzzling the line of his throat. 

“I love you,” you say. 

Doesn’t matter who you’re talking to. All three boys melt. 

“I’d like to do some really weird things to you,” Sirius says. 

“Me too,” James agrees. “But we do need breakfast first.” 

“No one is doing anything weird to me, it’s the weekend.” You beam as Remus laughs, seemingly your intention. 

Sirius backs away to a polite but still close proximity. He isn’t selfish; being in a ‘strange’ relationship like this one is a lot of reading cues, and a lot of just plain old climbing into people's laps when you want them, because nobody can truly read minds. Yet Sirius can see that you’re in the sort of mood where everything you touch turns to gold and all the boys want a piece of you, and who is he to get in the way of that? 

Well, he’s your boyfriend. He takes a kiss before he delegates himself to being herb-chopper, stealing glances of you from the corner of his eye. 

You tease a strand of Remus’ hair behind his ear. 

“Weird stuff is for weekdays only,” you’re murmuring. “What I want today is the real romantic stuff.” 

“Then you can have it,” Remus murmurs back. 

Sirius will happily be doing very romantic things to both of you after his omelette. James, too, if he’s so inclined. 

[peppermintpinklemonade]

MITRI COOKING FLASHBACK FIC…… SPARE MITRI COOKING FLASHBACK FIC PLS………

Baby, bro, child, dude, you’ve seen most of it, you’re my fe3h guy of all time, however… ty so much for asking so I have smth to share so here are some of my favourite bits:

‘Felix is gonna be so happy.’ Dimitri thought cheerily as he grabbed the handle of their frying pan from the cabinet.

Dimitri pulled out the frying pan from under the rest of their cookware and everything in the cabinet clattered out onto the floor with a loud crash.

‘Oh goodness.’ Dimitri sighed as he went to restack the cookware. It was probably fine, Felix wasn’t a very heavy sleeper, but his room was far from the kitchen. He needed Felix to stay asleep so he could surprise him.

~~~~~~~~~more under the cut

‘Oh, shoot.’ Dimitri thought as he placed their carton of eggs and butter on the counter. He hadn’t done this by himself yet and he’d forgotten to pen down instructions the last time someone had fried an egg with him.

He picked up his phone and paused the old rock song he hadn’t heard before and opened his messaging app.

Ashe my friend, could you please remind me how long to fry an egg for?

Thank you,

Dimitri :)

Dimitri waited as Ashe typed, the three dots jumping in place of his message.

It’s Dedue, apologies. Ashe is asleep right now but I heard his phone go off while fetching something I left in his room. Please make sure the pan is at medium heat and has a small amount of either oil or butter melted in it. Crack the egg into a shallow bowl and then slide it into the pan so you can start over if the yolk breaks or pick out any pieces of shell. Once the egg is in the pan, watch the edges of the white for crisp browning. You want semi-soft yolk, solid white, and a crispy brown bottom. You can use a spatula to slightly lift the egg to check if you are unsure if it is ready. Good luck Dimitri.

~~~~~~~~~

Dimitri took an egg and lightly tapped it on the edge of the bowl like he’d seen. Perhaps not as lightly as he had intended as he pushed the egg into the edge of the bowl almost to his hand, crushing the shell in his palm, and sending yolk and egg white onto the counter and Dimitri’s apron.

Dimitri sighed, the bowl was a good idea.

He washed the bits of egg and shattered shell out of the bowl and off the counter and tried again.

This time he managed to get most of the egg in the bowl, but the yolk was absolutely decimated and full of bits of shell.

Third attempt. A broken yolk again, less shell though.

Dimitri looked remorsefully at the carton of eggs. This was wasteful.

“Oh!” Dimitri remarked. He took a serrated butter knife and sat the egg on its side on the counter. He began to carefully saw back and forth in a line down the middle of the egg. Dimitri smiled to himself as the knife broke through the shell in a neat line. He opened the egg the rest of the way and stared at his perfect cracked egg in the bowl. Felix was gonna be pretty impressed he’d thought of that, he’d make sure to tell him when he served him the food.

~~~~~~~~~

‘Oh.’ He should make some for Sylvain too. He would probably get home in an hour or two, and he would probably be hungover and maybe sad and would appreciate a full breakfast he didn’t have to cook. Dimitri brought the eggs back to the counter, he’d make more after he served Felix.

~~~~~~~~~ ok for these next ones idk how to do left text so I’m just gonna colour it

Oh, he also needed paper towel to line the plate. He quickly doubled back to grab a few strips. On his way his arm caught the handle of the frying pan. He turned around and, without thinking, caught the falling pan halfway to the ground, its tilt poured sizzling butter on the back of his hand and fingers as the hot metal seared the palm of his hand. Dimitri instinctively yelled, dropped the pan with a loud clang and clutched his hand, now bright red and radiating–

–heat, the throbbing pain getting worse and worse, the smell of his sizzling flesh, no, not just his, he was pretty sure. Oppressive warmth pushed into him from all sides, he could barely see through the grey smoke and orange flames whipping in the air. Someone called his father’s name, and then his, quiet against the ringing in his ears from the explosion and the screams of the people falling to their fiery deaths around him.

He was twelve, he had been in the audience watching his father and stepmother speak against the backdrop of their promising political agenda for the year projected on the wall. He was in the front row, waving to his best friend’s older brother Glenn, who smiled back covertly from his position on the side of the stage. Glenn stopped smiling at him and his face contorted with concern, he said something into his mouthpiece and took a step towards Dimitri’s parents, his hand on the gun hiding holstered at his waist.

~~~~~~~~~

“Dimitri!”

Dimitri looked around, he couldn’t make out anybody in this inferno, and the ringing in his ears deafened him too much to identify its owner.

“Dimitri!”

Felix walked into the kitchen frowning, rubbing his eyes. “If you’re gonna get up at ungodly hours on a Saturday at least keep it down.” He admonished harshly.

Felix continued, “What the hell are you–”

Felix rounded the corner and registered the scene in front of him. Dimitri, kneeling on the floor beside a frying pan spilling steaming eggs and butter onto the floor. He had pressed his hands into the ground and was staring at them blankly with his one good eye. His left hand was red and blistering. Tears were brimming in his eye and his breathing was quick and shallow.

“Shit.”

Felix’s expression of anger dropped like a heavy weight, wide eyed concern etching itself deep into his face, sadness softening the edges of his worried brow.

~~~~~~~~~ same thing w center text imma make it purple

Glenn let go of Lambert and knelt down in front of Dimitri. Holding his hand out.

“Dimitri, let’s go.”

“Dimitri,” Felix began, gingerly covering Dimitri’s burnt hand with the wet cloth.

“It’s okay,”

“I’ve got you,”

“take my hand.”

Upon getting no response, as expected, Felix gently lifted Dimitri’s hand and wrapped it in the towel, wiping off the butter still burning blisters into his hand. He watched Dimitri carefully, making sure to move slowly so as to not startle him.

~~~~~~~~~

Dimitri looked up at Glenn as he ran beside him, gripping his hand tightly. His raven hair was falling around his shoulders, whatever he’d tied his hair up with was long gone.

“What happened, what’s–”

“–going on, Glenn?” Dimitri mumbled, slowly stumbling to his feet. He tightened his grip on the warm hands wrapped around his. He looked up, no, down. Amber eyes stared back at him through loose raven hair that collected around narrow shoulders. Amber?

Glenn stared back at him, his piercing blue eyes serious and hard.

“We’re not sure, we think this is an attack.”

Felix sighed tightly and cupped Dimitri’s face softly, “I’m Felix, it’s 2023, you’re safe, and–”

“–we’re going to get out of here,” Glenn continued.

“it’s going to be okay.”

AUGH I feel like put way too much to be qualified as ‘snippets’ but, them,,,,

[blubushie]

Please give us your World Famous Omelet™ recipe Bluey 🙏

BLUEY??

That's a new one and it made me giggle so ok.

Ok the secret ingredient is:

Nothing. Seriously, it's nothing. My omelets come out delicious because I don't fucken add anything. At home people often add milk to their eggs to get more out of them but DON'T DO THAT YOU'RE JUST DILUTING THE EGG!!

Here's how I make them.

Chop some green onions. Do this first cuz you won't have time later. Set 'em aside.

Get a tin of roast beef hash. You can use corned beef hash but roast beef hash works best. Now fry that up in a skillet. Don't add anything—it'll cook in its own tallow. Let it sit so it gets a good sear on the bottom, then scrape and stir. Keep repeating this until it's cooked thoroughly—will take about 8 minutes. Set it aside in a bowl when you're done, and keep the skillet on heat.

Take two large eggs, crack them into a bowl, and stir viciously with a fork until homogenised (whites and yolks blended thoroughly).

Spray skillet with nonstick cooking spray—I use canola oil spray.

With fork, drop a drop of the egg into the skillet. It should immediately begin frying. When it does, pour in the rest. If it doesn't, your skillet isn't hot enough. Make that shit hotter.

With egg in the skillet, begin slowly rolling the skillet to evenly distribute the egg over the bottom of the skillet while keeping the skillet over heat. Keep rolling the skillet until most of the liquid egg has turned firm.

Place skillet back on heat and get shredded cheese. I just use the bagged sharp cheddar, I'm not Gordon Ramsay. Get a fistfull and sprinkle it evenly around the egg—y'know, like you're cheesing a pizza.

TURN OFF HEAT NOW OR YOUR SHIT'LL BURN!!

Take your hash and add half of it to the omelet ON ONE SIDE ONLY. (Yeah we're only using half—use the other half for someone else's omelet, or tomorrow.)

Sprinkle on your green onions to your specifications.

With a spatula—or a fork, you heathen—work it under the lip of the side of the omelet WITHOUT the hash and carefully fold it over onto the hashed side.

Bring skillet to plate and omelet should slide right out.

That's it. You can add anything to these but the biggest thing is just not seasoning the fucken eggs. The eggs have enough of their own flavour. 🤷‍♂️

[ackerlag]

for @nosebleedclub's january prompts no. 4 — thin light.

thin blue light washes you out. it makes your eyebags look as heavy as your limbs, exhausted and dragged down by the weight of the 12 hour shift you left behind.

the little table we have is barely a dining table — though you insist to call it so since we always eat on it anyway. today's meal includes stir-fry veggies with rice, since grains and greens are the only thing left in our pantry and in the fridge. the plates are wiped clean without a single cut leftover, only a smear of oil clinging to the surface. and still, my stomach groans, demanding, the pains of growing.

the humble milk tea made with our last drops of milk for the month cooled already. mine is empty, the pink mug with a crackkling line down its sides nestled patiently in my hands, but yours for sure hasn't been touched. your eyes still do not leave the screen, tracing over the words there.

the very words i painstakingly put together, bit by bit like a child's first try with wooden building blocks. one upon another, slotting into a huge mechanism that runs across the hills and propels itself into the blue sky. a reach towards higher, better things — an attempt to catch a world where your smile doesn't have to be tinged with regret. the screen blinks, the light flickering, as you turn the page and again and then again — and i can just tell that you're reaching the part where yoah finally pulled out the sword stuck within the crystals, a feat short of a miracle.

"yoah," your voice sounds raspy, wet around the edges. "yoah is my favorite character." featherlight, in a way that betrays your swirling heart. in the blink of an eye, the person in front of me isn't you, tired, bruised and blue by the endless pushing of the world's most selfish insistence, but you, a peaceful smile still as crescent moons on clear nights, the very person who loved telling me to read and read again, you, whose world expands when you flip a page, you, who used to smell like the fairytale tomes you read to me before bed.

and i can't help but smile back. the innate satisfaction of being seen and perceived by someone i hold dear, the guiding star of my darkest days, much as you tell me i am your brightest lighthouse that brings you home.

"i'm glad. yoah is my favorite too — i wrote them thinking of you."

the screen blinks again, shuttering as it locks — but your light gets brighter.

[itsnotreal]

'' what i'm about to ask you, might be a little... inappropriate. '' :))

Harry dipped a fry into ranch before popping it into his mouth. Fuck. Ranch was for sure the superior condiment. He'd just finished a three hour appointment for his car. Yes, three hours waiting at the car dealership for an oil change. Apparently they were understaffed. So, naturally, he was starving and decided to get a bite to eat from the local burger chain, and his favorite place, Blue Jay.

He grabbed the avocado bacon burger he'd ordered in his hands and took a decently sized bite, humming contently while he chewed though he almost choked when someone slid into the booth beside him, ramming into his side a harshly.

With a grunt of disapproval, he turned to see who it was and frowned at them as he swallowed.

"What I'm about to ask you, might be a little... inappropriate." Louis Tomlinson, the bane of his existence, said with a serious tone.

"How about instead of asking, you just- go away?" Harry deadpanned and reached out for another fry.

Louis swatted it out of his hand, "I'm serious, please? Just this once can you be nice?"

Harry's jaw dropped, head snapping back to the blue-eyed man. "Me? You just smacked my food out of my hand!"

Louis just gave him a bored look.

'What do you want, Lewis?"

"I love when you say my name like that." His voice dripped with mock-arousal. "Okay, look. I may have told one of the workers here that you were my boyfriend-."

"Excuse-?"

"-It's rude to interrupt someone."

Harry's mouth pinched together. As if Louis hadn't just interrupted his lunch. "I can't believe I'm saying this but- Go on." He sighed.

"Thank you." He rolled his eyes. "Anyway, the guy will not leave me alone, it's borderline harassment at this point and I really just want to have lunch in peace."

"You still haven't asked me a question."

"Oh, right." He ran a hand through his hair. "Can you just, like, pretend to be my boyfriend. We can be on a date or something?"

"Or we could just- be eating lunch."

Louis eyes widened, "So you're down?"

Harry opened his mouth to reply that no he was not down, but a different waiter than the one that had been previously helping him came up to the table with a plate of food.

"One mushroom Swiss burger, with fries and honey mustard." The man said, eyes boring into Harry's very angrily as he sat the plate in front of Louis.

"Great, thanks, Jessie." Louis said with a smile, scooting closer to Harry.

Jessie turned his attention on Louis, the angry gaze melting off his face and into something that resembled adoration. For Louis? Gross. "Anything for you, my love. Let me know if you need anything else."

Harry raised his hand, "I could actually use-."

"Not you." Jessie said with an eye roll and then he walked away.

Harry frowned, "Well, okay."

Louis snickered around a bite of French fry. "You look like a frog."

Harry sighed, "Just shut up and eat your nasty honey mustard."

[traaansfem]

A large sieve, or a colander with medium or small holes for water drainage that you line with a rough cheesecloth to prevent the rice just spilling out both work for this, and those same implements end up being very useful for cooking pasta and draining it if you have a sink in your kitchen (SUPER IMPORTANT. one of my highest priorities in a residence is good access to water in useful spots). This lets you clean rice much faster than swirling it in a bowl or something, particularly as you can run water over it for as long as it would take to fill a bowl of water and remove more aflatoxin or other detritus by simple dint of the mechanical motion of the water and the rice not settling to the bottom of a bowl to soak in dirty water. Moveable sink heads are your friend for this, but they are not strictly necessary- they are just a time saver.

Colanders also work for storing small pans and bowls, as long as you don't put anything narrow enough to fall through the holes in them. Store colanders and similar things in drawers and cupboards below head height if possible, and optimally in pull out drawers- this prevents you from pulling a pan off a shelf and accidentally dropping a pail full of knives on yourself because a visiting relative or new roommate doesn't know how you organize your kitchen and tried straightening.

Anyway, colander and a stainless steel saucepan with wide sides- good for a lot of starches, even rice if you don't have a rice cooker. There are thermal plates with weird alloys to allow you to cook rice on the stovetop but it will not beat a rice cooker. The stainless steel saucepan also works for sauces, some dessert recipes, frying (if you're moving out of a rental soon and you think your landlord could deal with the smell of fried fish, donuts, chicken, and assorted aerosolized oil bits, etc). Cast iron skillets are good for higher heat cooking, but you'll want some way to handle smoke for that, since it will produce some simply due to the temperature differences from stainless. A fan you can mount near your window or some way to ventilate a kitchen is important for some bigger recipes.

Anyway, my kitchen appliance necessities list is:

Rice cooker

Sieve that nests in a colander (or the inverse, colander that nests in a sieve- doesn't matter much- don't bother matching brands, sizes are fairly similar across them)

Stainless steel sauce pan with high sides (a good one will be inherited from your parents or someone 20-30 years older than you (age bracket stuff more than anything), after they bought it moving into their first rental in a new city, or something like that. and you can often find those same exact models of pans today- not going to shill anything, but you can often check embossed or engraved metal bits in the handles and track down more of a good type of pan with that.)

Cast iron pan (pick one you can fit in your oven if you have one, or comfortably one your stovetop if not. the smallest ones I see much use out of are 7-ish inches- as long as it fits on a stove, you can get use out of it. these are great for breakfast dishes where you heat eggs or starches, and often high fat proteins.)

Cutlery- Spoons, Knives, Forks, Serrated knives. DO NOT bother buying any that aren't marked dishwasher safe- even if you aren't using one, that is an implication of lower durability and resilience overall.

A fan you can use to clear smoke out of an area FAST (multipurpose for people without my allergies, from what I gather)

1 or 2 Chef knives- generally larger and sharper than cutlery meant for eating. (do not put these in a dishwasher, as the blade will deteriorate.)

Paring knife- a tiny chefs knife, usually has a different tip shape depending on its intended use. (meant for small, less starchy/tough vegetables and fungi by and large.)

2 Cheap cutting boards- you use these until they are marked and scratched enough that they're hard to clean, then you get new ones. mostly for food safety reasons.

A couple food safe prep bowls- glass, non-american pyrex, ceramic, metal, plastic, whatever you can get that will last. my preference is for simple metal, but I've known people who prefer plastic bowls with metal interiors and a rubber base for stability.

Optional but highly recommended

Whetstone or knife sharpener- Will extend the life of chef knives and paring knives significantly, at some point the blade will be back past the fuller- you'll need to get the fuller reground by an actual professional then, unless you've taken up metalworking.

Pressure cooker- Instant pots are actually as useful as the raving maddened hordes on SEO recipe sites say- also great for stock without boiling bones on the stove for six hours.

Cheese/vegetable grater- many are garbage, but sometimes you'll get one that lasts you for 30+ years with no discernible change in sharpness, even if it goes through a dishwasher.

Fish spatula- actually just a really long metal spatula with slots running down the metal section- basically just a stiff spatula but netter for most stovetop cooking, although they are not great for baking.

A little stainless steel chainmail square for cleaning pans- not strictly necessary, but it makes cleaning cast iron pans way faster, as well as cleaning particularly dirty stainless steel pans without nonstick coatings. This is a good tool for cleaning pans with caked on grime, burnt things, and similar stuff- dried or burnt caramel for instance. If something is very stubborn and would shred a sponge to clean, it would be wiser to sue one of these and then go over again with a sponge. I have one of these, and I put it in the dishwasher after use- it is an incredible tool for minimizing time spent scrubbing pans.

Things TO do for cleaning:

Clean the metal inserts of pressure cookers and rice cookers. Put them in a sink and fill partway with warm/hot water, a little dish soap and scrub them with a sponge. good practice in general, but these benefit from this a lot, as it prevents bacterial buildup a lot more effectively than just dishwashing with a mechanical dishwasher- although if the insert is rated for that, it can be good to put it in for a cycle in that afterwards, if the recipe you cooked had you worried about contamination.

Set out a towel or a drying mat for washed utensils and pots/pans, and dry them after you wash everything you can stand to wash at once. If you have chronic fatigue, prioritize the things you'll use the most or the easiest things to clean. This step can be exhausting, and the drying mat saves you some time, and prevents water from pooling on the objects as they rest, before you dry them.

Run water over things before adding soap and scrubbing when you clean them- this saves effort, as sometimes things you think will be a nightmare to clean have a section that is water soluble, and the problem ends up being much smaller than you feared.

Finally, advice on things to NOT do when cleaning these things:

NEVER put something with rivets in a dishwasher. There are quicker ways to crack the surrounding materials via thermal stress, but mostly only with liquid nitrogen. A lot of kitchen knife and stiff spatula attrition is down to this.

Do not put anything with wood in a dishwasher. This will damage the wood and make it dry, brittle, and prone to splintering.

Do NOT reuse a sponge for more than a few days and NEVER use a sponge for more than a week. There is very quickly a point in a sponge's use cycle where it spreads more bacteria than it removes grease, grime, and other forms of debris.

Don't dump things in a sink full of sudsy water. I have seen people slice off fingertips when there were knives in a sink of water that was obscured by soap bubbles, murkyness, or simple water based refraction- this is easily avoided, so please do avoid it.

This is by no means an exhaustive list, but it should have the basics, and it should serve as a good resource for the cleaning stage of cooking and baking. I hope this helps to anyone looking for more info on the original post or clarifications on the matters below.

Dear people living on your own for the first time:

Here’s some advice I wasn’t told from the myriad of posts before that I wish I’d been given before

Wash the OUTSIDE of your pots and pans as well as the cooking surface. I’ve had a few roommates now who have only cleaned the inside and I’ve had to replace a $150 set of cookware twice.

“its only one time, how bad could using metal on nonstick cookware really be?” very bad. don’t do this.

Buy a rice cooker. Buy the middle tier rice cooker. Cheap ones will burn your rice, high tier ones are too expensive. Rice is good and cheap and, really, you don’t actually have to wash it if you don’t care about making gourmet food.

Buy band-aids. You don’t think you need band-ads until you need a band-aid, and by then it’s too late. (if you don’t follow this advice, a paper towel and some tape is an acceptable solution while you go get real bandages and neosporin)

You are on tumblr, which means you probably spend most of your time in one spot on a computer or phone. if this spot doesn’t have a trash can in arm’s reach, put one there.

 I spent 4 years piling trash on my desk in increasingly precarious ways until I had a designated area to put it. Trash cans can and should go anywhere there is a frequent generation of trash, typical locations be damned.

If you live with one or two roommates, discuss placing empty boxes in the back of your fridge and freezer. You probably don’t need all the space that the standard 5-person-family fridge provides, and tupperware will be shoved back there and left to stink up the entire appliance.

Get a wall calendar, put it somewhere communal, and have everyone put their household-relevant schedules on it. Communication is by far the weakest link with roommates (even good ones!) and having something to reference for appointments is always good

[cheezitmuncher69]

Attempting to cook after forgetting to eat; we're making pizza pockets [rolls?] cause I'm fuckin lazy. and they're far too expensive for what you get; so we makin them the way that makes sense; and is probably cheaper. Now if you're making them from scratch, not including the dough because I don't have the energy for that. You're gonna need - eggroll/rangoon wrappers - Pizza sauce - cheese of your choice - and whatever else you want bro If you're using eggroll wrappers Start with 5 of the wrappers; cut em in fourths; put the filling on the left or right side; leaving about a pinky-nail length; or half an inch for the people needing more exact measurements, before folding it in on itself; get your finger wet and seal the ends. If you're using rangoon wrappers They're pre-cut, so forgo the cutting into the fourths; just get a wrapper; put a lil of whatever filling you make on a side; fold it over and seal with water; or roll it over itself; these are a bit harder to work with; but its roughly the same texture. [note; you can fold it over on itself if you're like me and are prone to dropping crap.. if you drop these they will go everywhere. and as someone with joint issues; its not fun to clean up.] But once they're sealed, preheat about 2 inches of oil to like.. 350. or if you're using an actual fryer that's basically glued to 400; that's fine too. just keep an eye on it. fry it for like.. 2-4 minutes on 400, or 3-5 on 350. pat off the oil, or dont. and there you go. season it if you want; or dont.

[puppy-coded]

Fry Bread{D.H.}

✰ 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: Established relationship, Dustin and reader are 18, food mentions!!! Like a lot

✰ 𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: Aged up!Dustin Henderson x native!reader

✰ 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 585 words

✰ 𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: You have a craving and a boyfriend with the palette of a five year old, you can fix both with one recipe.(moodboard by @mad-elia)

You, in your infinite wisdom and key having, decided to make your boyfriends life better. And also, cravings are a bitch and so is fry bread.

Extremely worth it food but it's hard to make, maybe due to incredible impatience on your end. It's a symbol of love when you make someone you love fry bread.

Especially if that "someone you love" is Dustin Henderson. He's so cute ans squishy and stressed from Hellfire.

All of that lead you to this moment.

Mixing your next batch of fry bread while your first batch was frying and singing in the kitchen.

Not your own kitchen mind you, Dustin's kitchen.

"Makin' up some fry bread for my boyfriend. Makin' up some fry bread for the Dungeon Master. Makin' up some fry bread for my boyfriend at Hellfire!" You sang, using your wooden spoon as a microphone.

"What are you doing?" Asked a familiar voice, causing you to turn quickly and almost dropping your bowl. Dustin had his hands on his hips and a very confused look on his face.

You gestured to everything going on in the kitchen with your wooden spoon. "Breaking into your house."

"I see that but why are you doing this in my house?" He asked, cleaning the counter a little.

You shrugged with a smile. "Fry bread because I feel like it."

"What?" He asked, coming up behind you and watching as you mixed your batter. He leaned on the counter and watched you intently.

"Have you never had fry bread?" You asked incredulously.

Dustin just put his hands up, clearly not knowing what you were talking about. "What's fry bread?"

You shook your head slightly and gave him a slightly confused look. "Dustin have you... never had food that isn't fries, chicken nuggets, and pancakes?"

Dustin glared at you for that one. "Oh quit. I've just... never had anything-"

"Not made by a white person?" You asked, putting a bit of batter into the oil.

"Yeah..."

You peeled off the paper towel from the top of a few donut-like puffs and put one on a plate for Dustin. "Lucky you I just made my first batch!"

"Is that oil that's cracklin' and poppin'?" He asked, looking over your shoulder.

You nodded, drizzling a bit of honey on top of the fry bread. "Yes it is. I'll clean your parents pan, don't worry."

"I wasn't but thank you." He smiled, taking the plate and planting a kiss to your forehead.

"Just... Try it. Shut up and eat it." You urged, placing your head in your hands, staring excitedly.

He took a bite and it was like watching him discover fireworks. "That's... good."

"I win!" You said excitedly, pumping your fists in the air.

Dustin quickly finished the dessert and leaned on the counter, struggling for something to say. "It was like... Jesus in food form."

"Right? I love fry bread!" You said happily, going back to the cast iron with oil in it.

Dustin took another from the first batch and put honey on it, standing incredibly close to you. "How much are you making?"

You shrugged and flipped them as they puffed slightly. "Enough to last me until my craving is quenched. And tomorrow, I'm making indian tacos," You told him. "So come over for dinner."

"You're making what?" He asked, his mouth full and his expression, once again, confused.

"Oh you're so sheltered." You mock-pouted.

[phantomrose96]

Joyrider

(Welcome to another warm-up writing piece. cw for mild body horror)

...

The mall food court doubled rather nicely as a battle-dome.

It fit the bill: a flat and circular arena, crowned two-stories up by a hemisphere of glass windows which lapsed iridescent in the maelstrom of ecto-fire.

Spectator chairs sat empty, hastily shoved back and knocked over by the Amity Park mall patrons who knew to leg it at the first sound of explosions and the first sign of the atmosphere tipping dark. Admittedly, the patron evacuation took longer than Danny anticipated, and he backed himself into a corner playing defense for the 50 some-odd people who, worn-out on the every-day mundanity of ghost alarms, took their time gathering belongings, or shutting off burners, or working in a few last bites of a burger.

So with the crowd gone and the stage their own, Danny found himself pressed back against a vat of french fry oil, hands braced against the handle of a broom he held out horizontally, which the ghost gripped with equal measure and shoved her full weight against.

“Oh, why not take a little dip, Ghost Boy? I hear the water’s nice.”

“No thanks,” Danny answered, shoving harder. “I never was much of a hot tub guy. You on the other hand—”

Danny set a foot forward and pivoted, body fueling the torque as he spun the broom, and tore the ghost with him, a pirouette to swap their spots and jam the ghost back-pressed to the fryer.

“—you seem like you’d like it hot.”

The ghost barked a laugh, jaw stretching lower and loose than Danny was comfortable with.

“Ha! You sure? Not very heroic of you to deep fry this girl I’m possessing.”

Danny faltered. His grip slipped. His blood chilled to ice as the information clicked in place – as he recognized the sensation of a ghost talking through someone. This wasn’t the ghost’s own form. This was some girl. How had he not felt—

A blast took him by the ribs. Danny doubled over, immediately kicked back. A foot found contact with his face, driving him down, until the girl’s wet and slippery fingers pinned him down by the wrists.

Danny strained. He could pivot his wrist a fraction of an inch left or right, but he could not break the hold.

“Get off me!”

And a voice answered from behind him.

“I can help with that.”

Danny craned his neck. Upside down, vantage point from the floor, he registered Sam’s combat boots slam into focus. She bent to one knee, a bazooka locked on the other. It charged, whined, and erupted with an explosion of green light.

The ghost shrieked. It took only an instant of resistance before the ghost tore cleanly from the girl possessed.

“Now if you don’t mind me—” Tucker, by the voice. Danny heard the whine of a Fenton Thermos heating up. “—I’d officially like to change my order from fries to soup.”

The beam burst forth, and the writhing, shrieking, yelping form of the exorcised ghost clawed and scratched in Danny’s direction before the thermos consumed her in full.

“Really? ‘Fries to soup’? Even Danny can do better than that.”

“Hey,” Danny answered.

“I was thinking on my feet, Sam. I didn’t hear any witty quips from you.”

The conversation fell away from Danny’s focus as the full human weight of the possessed girl dropped down on him. Gently, Danny gripped her by the shoulder, lifting her as he pushed himself into a sitting position.

“Your parents’ anti-possession gear is getting good. I don’t think I’ve seen an exorcism work that quickly.” Sam’s voice, now at his side. Danny glanced over, finding her kneeling beside him. “Is she hurt?”

Danny gave the girl a once-over. She was pale, cold, lips seeping blue. A mottled, blackish bruise spread across her temple, partially hidden beneath loose red bangs.

“I don’t… totally know. I didn’t land any hits on her, thankfully. But who knows what that ghost might have done. We should call an ambulance.”

“On it,” Tucker, from behind.

“Do you… do you think the bazooka might have hurt her?” Sam asked.

Danny shook his head. “Mom and Dad have blasted each other with that thing a hundred times. Dad got himself possessed by the box ghost for a trial run. It doesn’t hurt people. …Maybe she just needs a minute.”

“Lay her down, maybe?”

“Good idea.”

Danny eased forward, careful in his movements. Something about his grip slipped, sliding loose and rolling forward, and she fell unceremoniously from his arms, shoulder knocking ground as she lay there partially turned on her side.

“Danny!”

“Sorry! I didn’t—something slipped!”

“Well don’t leave her like—” Sam gripped a hand to the girl’s shoulder, weight behind her wrist to roll the girl fully onto her back. Sam’s hand froze, and then yanked away.

“What?” Danny asked.

“That didn’t feel right.” Sam only stared down, her hand hovering, twitching in increments. “Way too cold… and loose.”

“Loose?”

“Danny, look at her hands. What’s wrong with her hands?”

Danny looked. The skin stretched and wrapped the bones of her fingers as if rotated partway around. Her fingernails sat off-center, twisted around and bunched up like a glove. Sam’s hand came back into view, and she clamped it to the girl’s wrist.

“It’s like jelly. Danny it’s like jelly. Why is she this cold? Danny, I don’t think she’s—”

Something new caught Danny’s eye, a purple discoloration peeking out from the bottom ruffles of the girl’s shirt. His hands seemed to move on their own as he reached down, and pinched the bottom of her shirt, and pulled it back.

Black bruising consumed her torso, caving deep and bloating, pruning around the trails of heavy stitching that ran along the tracks of surgical cuts carving through her abdomen.

Danny yanked his hand away as if burned.

“Danny, she’s not breathing.”

The rest of Danny’s thoughts drowned in the swelling wail of the approaching ambulance siren.

…

Outside the Fenton Portal, green lighting doused the only part of Danny’s form not hidden in shadow, and danced with the fire of his glowing green eyes. Danny uncapped the thermos in his hand, and he trailed his thumb along the eject switch.

A new consuming green light belted forth, lasting only a moment until it vanished with a twin-braided ghost in its wake. The ghost blinked, smoothing over her hair and pulling the ends of her braids over her shoulders.

“Oh, it’s the Ghost Boy again. I thought you’d just throw me back in the Ghost Zone. Are you interested in a round 2?”

“No, not interested,” Danny answered, tone colder than ice.

“Yeesh, you’re quite sour. No more puns?”

“Why were you possessing that girl?”

“Hmm?”

“Why were you possessing her?”

The ghost blinked, green portal light mixing murkily with her purple eyes. “No particular reason. It was just a joyride.”

“A joyr—she was dead.”

Another blink. “Yeah I know. She was sitting in the morgue. She was in like a car crash or something and they already took all her organs. They didn’t need her. And I was gonna give her back, but you had to go and make it a whole thing.” The girl swooped forward, eyes wide and roving over Danny. “You seem mad. Wanna call a truce?” She stuck a hand forward. “I’m Melissa, by the way.”

Danny jolted, eyes flashing brighter. “No, you’re not. That girl was Melissa.”

“Oh for real?” Melissa let out a chuckle. “Crazy coincidence. I like don’t even know that many Melissas. Anyway truce?”

“No.” Danny ran his fingers through his hair. “You were possessing the body of a dead girl and you made me fight her! Don’t you see how that’s—that’s so—how fucked up—that you’d even—”

“Well I mean, I didn’t make you fight me. You made that happen. I was minding my business.”

“Doing what?”

“Shopping. Why else would I take a body for a joyride? I stole some cute clothes to wear. Stole some food to eat. Oh! That outfit I was wearing when we were fighting? Yeah I picked that out. She was in like a hospital gown when I found her. Super cute improvement right?”

An ectoblast sounded and connected with the wall behind Melissa, missing her a foot to the right. Danny’s hand glowed, and his eyes focused with a razor sharpness.

“Stop talking like that, okay? It’s pissing me off. I need you to tell me you know this was fucked up.”

Melissa put a finger to her chin. “I mean I guess stealing is kinda wrong. They were all like, big box corporate stores don’t worry.”

“The. Dead. Body.”

And Melissa fell silent a moment, violet eyes probing deep into Danny’s before widening. “Oh. Oh you’re like for-real mad about that. Like actually. I thought you were like, making an ironic joke.”

“Why the hell would I be joking about this??”

Melissa cocked her head to the side. “Well because you’re doing it too, duh. Like, duh.”

A huff of air cut against Danny’s teeth, an involuntary noise, incredulous, a guffaw he didn’t consciously make. The jelly sensation of decomposing flesh was back under his fingers. “I am not—would never—I’ve never even seen a dead body before this thing with you and I’d never in a million years even think for even a fucking second that I’d want to possess a dead body. What’s wrong with you?!”

Melissa bobbed a little in the air, ends of her braids trailing over the straps of her ephemeral sundress. “See this is why I really can’t tell if you’re joking or not. What are you talking about? You’re doing it right now.” She clasped her hands behind her back. “The black-haired boy whose corpse you’re possessing. Why are you allowed to do it?”

Danny froze. He laughed, heavy, with an uncomfortable force. “Myself, you mean? I’m not possessing myself. I am myself. I’m a half-ghost.”

Melissa met his laugh. “Oh what? No way like, that’s your own corpse? How’d you even get back to it in time? That’s crazy lucky like you must have died right near a portal or something.”

An involuntary shiver traced down Danny’s spine.

“…I’m not dead.” His eyes shifted around, and Danny dropped to the floor. He set a hand against the wall, throwing on the lights to the Fenton basement. Rings swept around his form, green iridescent eyes sweeping blue, white hair seeping black. “Look. Literally look at me. I’m not dead.”

And Melissa swooped closer. She set a finger to her bottom lip and hovered a foot in front of Danny, drinking him in. She swept to the side, like a swimmer in the water, sweeping around him in a full arc. She edged closer and pinched her fingers against the exposed skin on Danny’s arm. He flinched.

“Oh wow there’s like, not even any decay or anything. Your human brain even feels like it’s working it’s all like, electro-magnety. How long were you dead before you got back to your body?”

“I didn’t die.”

“Then what did happen?”

“I got shocked by the Fenton Portal, okay? It was just a lab accident and it gave me powers.”

“Oh. Oh.” Melissa’s eyes shot wide. “Oh you didn’t die near a portal… You died in a portal. You didn’t even have to get back to find your body at all. You must have appeared like practically on top of your own body. That’s crazy lucky. That’s so lucky. Your body was like, probably only dead a microsecond before you hopped back in. No wonder it’s so well-preserved.”

Danny swatted her away. “You’re not listening to me.”

“You’re not listening to me.” Melissa floated backwards. “What do you think is more likely? A bajillion ecto-volts somehow gave you superpowers that exactly mirror everything a regular dead ghost can do? …Or you died, and became a regular old ghost, and did what any regular old ghost can do, which is possess a freshly-dead dead body?”

“…I’m half-ghost,” Danny answered, human heart pounding in his chest. “I know what I am.”

Melissa bobbed back, feet pointed backwards until the soles of her feet skimmed the matrix of the portal. “I see you’ve made up your mind. That’s alright. But it was still pretty mean of you to accuse me like a big hypocrite like that.”

“I’ll destroy you if you ever try that again.”

“Oh I’ll try asking permission next time okay? Promise.” Melissa’s feet sank into the surface of the portal. “But, before I go, I’ve just got one more question to leave you with.”

“Go.”

“Why should a lethal accident do anything other than kill you?”

“Go.”

“Maybe you’ll have an answer for me next time I see you. Byeee!”

A spark of white erupted from the portal, consuming, absorbing, and fizzling out as Melissa’s form vanished into the ether beyond.

…

“Hey! Yo! Danny, come check this out!”

Danny rounded the stairs, unsocked feet creaking the floorboards with each step. Danny yawned, and blinked, and rubbed at his bruised eyes with the sleeve of his pajama top.

“Still asleep? That’s fine! You don’t have to do anything. Just come over here and look at what your old pop’s been up to.”

Danny entered the living room, where Jack sat hunched on the couch surrounded by an arsenal of power tools, rags, oil, soldering equipment, and scrap metal. From beside him he hefted a bazooka into view.

“This is the Fentonzooka 3.2.17. Amped up and equipped with all the latest in ghost-busting and human-saving technology.”

Danny blinked. “3.2.17?”

“Yep. This baby’s got 17 bug patches, tweaks, and internal improvements since the 3.2.0. The 3.2.0 was the advent of the snack compartment in the side. Look!” Jack spun a dial, revealing a chamber half-filled with pistachios.

Danny only stared.

Jack hefted the bazooka onto his shoulder. “Even better, Mads and I finally got rid of the last little sting humans feel when it’s fired. It’s now completely 100% harmless to humans. It feels like the breeze from a standing fan when it hits ya.” Jack turned, and he aimed the barrel at Danny. “Wanna try it out?”

Danny stood, and Danny stared, and Danny said nothing.

What might happen when it hit him?

Would it hit like the gentle breeze of a fan? Wash over him like air conditioning? Tingle cool and pleasant against his human fingers, human face, human skin?

Would it do something else?

Why should a lethal accident do anything other than kill you?

Jack eased the bazooka a bit off center, pulling his eyes away from the sight. He stared directly at Danny. “Danny?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you want to try it out?”

Danny stood.

Danny stared.

Danny wondered if he’d have an answer for Melissa the next time he saw her.

[kudapuppy]

I’m here to talk about how we prepared meat bc I want to. I’ll just be going over the main lunch menu meats, but you can ask beyond that if interested!

Typical hamburger patty: labeled as 10:1(read as ten-to-one, meaning it was 1/10 lbs), and also called “regular” at some stores. Comes frozen, stays in freezer by the grill. We have press grills in the back, the grill person lays out 8 of them in a 3:3:2 set up, the lets the grill go down as long as it’s on the right setting. Takes a couple minutes at most, then we load those 8 into a tray and put it in the hotspot. I don’t remember how long regular meat is good.

Quarter ponders: They are made-to-order, and are refrigerated. They put them into smaller containers that fit in a refrigerated drawer by the grill. They’re taken out when needed, u can fit 3 to one “grill”(the part that goes down idk wt it’s called). They have a separate setting for quarters compared to regular and it takes a little longer. If we happen to cook an extra patty, we may keep it in the hotspot for 5-10 minutes on the chance someone else orders a sandwich that can use it. If not, it gets wasted.

Now I have to talk friers for a second: the ones I worked at had a 6 fryer set up: 2 for fries, 3 for chicken products, and 1 for fish. This is to avoid cross-contamination via fryer oil. Now, we also had a freezer near the fryers that was almost like a cabinet so we could put bags of these meats there in advance so we aren’t running back and forth to the freezer during rushes. Fries had their own contraption that automatically dispensed fry baskets for us when prompted.

Nuggets: pour 1 bag of frozen nuggets into a basket. Our baskets had walls in it to make sure the nuggets didn’t just pile on the bottom and not cook, so you had to even them out. Then, just drop them in and press the button for nuggets. Always temp before deciding they’re done. Put into basket for hotspot. I don’t remember how long they were allowed to stay in the hotspot.

Crispy chicken: they came to us frozen as well. same type of basket, made in batches of 3. Had their own timer, and each patty is individually temped due to the range in sizes these patties come in. Also don’t remember the times in these.

Fish: another frozen one, but fish had its own basket. It was long and skinny, and the fish fryer is skinny too. Typically we made batches of 4, but put 2 in each holder for the hotspot. The basket also had a “cover” to hold the fish in the oil, so you’d have to move that, put the patties in, put it back in place, and toss them in. Because this fryer was only fish, it only had. 1 option for timers. Fish was also temped. I can’t remember how long it was allowed in the hotspot.

I kinda wanna infodump about McDonalds bc I didn’t work there for like 7 years total for nothing.

As me anything about how the food is made in-store and I can tell you. I can’t go any farther back in the supply chain, though. Just in store prep :)

[bobateastay]

9 + wooyoung pls!!!!! hope ur well :)

9: "you deserved better than you got, someone's got to say it sometime because it's true."

jung wooyoung x gender neutral!reader

cw - angst(?), post-break up, food/cooking

word count: 2.2k

a/n: thank you for requesting!! i didn't use the phrase from the prompt word for word but i hope you'll enjoy this anyway!! i hope you're having a great day!! <3

Two carrots.

One tomato.

Half an onion.

Half a leek.

Three potatoes.

Two chicken breasts.

Three servings of noodles.

Wooyoung’s only made the recipe once before and yet he remembers it like the back of his hand. It’s almost funny, considering he can barely remember the phone numbers of people he calls every other day, but it’s only almost funny. He feels like he’s watching somebody else go about their tasks as he peels the carrots and cuts them into slices. Hands that aren’t his scoop them into the currently empty pot where they’ll wait patiently for the other vegetables and boiling water for the next twenty minutes or so. The bright orange against the silver of the pot makes Wooyoung long for a place he isn’t sure he’ll ever be again.

He peels the potatoes, carefully cutting out any spots where dirt has dug itself beneath the skin before he cuts them up as well and dumps them into the pot, followed by the tomatoes which he cuts into small cubes. They sit idly beside the carrots and some childish part of Wooyoung feels glad that the carrots won’t be so lonely anymore. The leek is easy to peel and chop up and Wooyoung is left only with the onion, which he’ll fry separately once it’s been diced into small pieces.

He pours water over the carrots, potatoes, tomatoes and leeks and sets the stove to the second highest heat before turning his attention to the onion. It’s not a huge amount of onion but Wooyoung is worried about it making him cry all the same. He sucks on his bottom lip as he raises the knife with steady hands, willing himself not to cry. The last time he made this recipe he had been crying before he even got to the onion. Tears had rolled down his cheeks all the while as he had prepared the carrots and the potatoes and the leek, and by the time he got around to dicing the onion his vision was so blurred that it was inevitable that he would slice his finger open along with the onion.

He’d sworn louder than was reasonable and for that moment he’d been loud enough that he couldn’t hear the shower running, couldn’t hear you in his bathroom hiding from the events that had taken place just minutes ago. He had pretended at that moment that the only thing wrong in his life was his sliced open finger and the stinging scent of onion lingering in his nostrils.

But this time he doesn’t have to pretend that things are okay - he’s learned to be more honest with himself than that - so he pauses each time tears well up in his eyes, tilts his head backwards and breathes deeply until his vision is clear again. He manages to dice the onion without hurting himself, listening to the shower running as he does so.

He puts the onion in the frying pan sitting on the back burner and moves his attention to the chicken. This part is a little gross but he gets through it anyway, cutting the chicken into cubes and setting it aside to wash his hands. When he turns off the tap and goes to dry his hands, he notices that the shower isn’t running anymore. He takes a deep breath and focuses his attention on cooking again.

He finds that he’s almost out of olive oil and is thankful that he hasn’t run out. Last time he cooked this dish there’d been nothing more than a drop left in the bottle and he’d resorted to mixing the olive oil with sunflower oil. He isn’t sure that something like that would make as much of a difference as he had been scared of at the time. At the time, picking up the bottle of sunflower oil had felt like it was the same as admitting defeat. It was the same as admitting that you really were moving out of the apartment that he’d known to be yours for as long as he could remember - the same as admitting that he’d let you slip through his fingers without even noticing until you told him that you couldn’t stay anymore. Wooyoung inhales a shaky breath and reaches past the bottle of sunflower oil to pick up the stock cubes and chilli flakes and pepper grinder. He won’t have to admit defeat today.

He sets everything down on the counter aside from the olive oil, which he opens so that he can pour some of it into the frying pan. He adds a stock cube and turns on the heat, pushing the stock cube around the oil and onions until it comes apart in the oil. He uses a knife to add the chicken to the pan before he sets the chopping board in the sink. The water has started to boil in the pot and he checks the time on his phone and reminds himself to keep an eye on the pot.

He knows that from now on the recipe will move quicker than he expects, no matter how prepared he is. Even with everything set out beside him, it’ll feel like a scramble to grab everything and put it in the pan on time. It’ll be just like the end of your relationship with him, now that he thinks about it.

He had everything right in front of him - your apartment a ten minute walk from his, your bright smile to greet him every time the two of you met, extensive knowledge on the things you loved and opportunity after opportunity to remind you that he was glad he had you in his life. But it was at the end that he began scrambling for things, only to realise that it was too late. He was grabbing at missed anniversaries and constant cancellations and absent acknowledgements of everything you did for him, trying to throw them all in the pan at once in an attempt to convince himself that he could still make it work.

Things will be different now.

He uses a fork to push the chicken around the pan before adding the pepper and chilli flakes over it, pushing it around a little more and repeating the process to make sure he gets the pepper and chilli flakes all over it. He checks the time and sets the spices down in favour of unwrapping two stock cubes, adding them to the pot of boiling water. He still has to add olive oil and lemon juice, but he’ll leave those to the end. Last time he’d added them all at once and the taste hadn’t been exactly what it was supposed to be. Not that either of you had been able to tell, struggling to swallow the soup around the heavy words that had been said by both of you. In all honesty Wooyoung doesn’t remember much of what he said. He remembers what you said, though.

“You don’t even text me. Have you checked our chats? You haven’t thought to text me first for months now, Wooyoung.”

It hurt to hear that. It hurt more than it would have hurt if you had just insulted him. It hurt more than it would have done if you had thrown the food in his face and stormed off without so much as another word. But you hadn’t done that, because you’d always been good to him. You had told him you were moving out of your apartment to another part of the city and you had told him about all of the things he’d done - or, more accurately, about all of the things he hadn’t done - for the better part of a year now.

Wooyoung hadn’t known what to do. So he’d invited you to stay for dinner. You’d showered and he’d cooked and the two of you had eaten together. It all felt very grim. The term ‘the last supper’ had rang in Wooyoung’s mind a few times while he watched you chew on chicken and noodles with your eyes glossed over as though you weren’t really sitting at his dining table at all but stuck somewhere else.

This time won’t be like that. He’ll add the lemon juice at the end and the soup will taste right and your eyes will be clear and bright. Things will be different now, because Wooyoung is doing things right this time. He’s going to add the right ingredients at the right time. He won’t leave it until it’s too late.

He pushes the chicken around the pan once more, making sure all of the pieces flip over so that it gets cooked evenly. He’s so focused on making sure that he gets it all right that he doesn’t hear you come into the kitchen until you’re beside him, peering into the frying pan and pot of soup. He startles but he doesn’t cry out or swear. He has to earn privileges like that if he ever wants things to go back to how they used to be, so he bites his tongue and stays quiet.

“Hey,” you say, offering him a cautious smile. He smiles back, no doubt mirroring your own hesitant expression.

“Hey,” he replies. A silence settles between you both after that and not long after you move away from Wooyoung’s side and begin to gather things to set the table for both of you. Wooyoung adds the noodles to the soup and mixes it cautiously, watching as they soften and come apart in the liquid. “Thank you for coming over.”

There’s no answer for a little while and Wooyoung worries that maybe he’s overstepped, but then your voice fills his kitchen and the feeling that blooms in his chest is so warm that he worries he might melt on the spot.

“Thank you for inviting me,” you say. Your voice is soft. It’s careful, and beneath all of that care there’s also hurt. Wooyoung wonders if even after all these months the pain is still just as raw as it was on day one. He knows that it hasn’t gotten much better for him. “I couldn’t miss Jung Wooyoung’s famous cooking after all.”

Wooyoung smiles at the sound of the joke and turns off the heat for the chicken. He stares at the pan. Something is missing. He racks his brain to figure out what it is, narrowing his eyes at the pan when nothing comes to mind. He bites the inside of his cheek. No, it can’t be like this. He’s supposed to get everything right this time. He shouldn’t be reaching for things last minute. That’s not how things are supposed to go this time.

“Hey.”

Wooyoung turns his head to find you reaching into one of his cupboards. Your hand emerges and you hold out a jar to him, a small smile on your lips.

“Hoisin sauce,” you say simply. Wooyoung’s mouth drops open slightly in surprise but he doesn’t let that get in the way of the cooking. He takes the jar and opens it quickly, pouring a good amount of the sauce into the pan before he turns on the heat again.

“Thank you,” he says, embarrassed and grateful at the same time. You just nod and stand beside him as he turns off the heat for the soup, pushing the chicken around the sauce in the pan. Really the chicken is already done but Wooyoung wants to say something. He can’t tell exactly what it is so he lets it simmer in his chest while he works the words out in his head.

“I think it’s done,” you tell him. He nods, giving the chicken one last push before he turns off the heat. There’s nothing to do after that and Wooyoung can’t help but feel shocked that he managed to finish the recipe without anything going wrong. It’s true that he needed your help for one part of it but he supposes he’s always relied on you a little. He was just too selfish to notice it before.

“Hey, I uh-” he starts, hating the way the words get choked up in his throat. You’re watching him and your eyes are the pressure of an audience of thousands. He swallows dryly and pushes through. “You deserved better than what I gave you. I know other people have probably told you before but I wanted to tell you myself. You deserved way better.”

You don’t say anything and Wooyoung feels his stomach churn, worrying that he might have ruined this dinner with his raw words. He inhales deeply, feeling his hands shake as he moves to pick up the lemon juice and add it to the pot of soup, followed closely by olive oil. It’s only when he’s finished serving soup into two bowls that you finally speak up.

“I know,” you say. It’s a short statement and although it’s not particularly comforting a wave of relief washes over Wooyoung at the sound of you saying anything at all. “Maybe things can be better this time. Way better.”

Wooyoung nods.

“Yeah,” is all he replies, scared that saying anything more will jinx it.

In the end the soup tastes perfect, as does the chicken. Wooyoung isn’t sure how much of it has to do with the way he cooked it and how much of it is to do with your presence in his apartment after months of absence, but he’s not sure that it matters much either.

☆⌒

taglist: @lovely-ateez @sunsethw4 @seonghwanotes @xirenex @bcbataro @peanutpmingib @sannierio @ateezinmymind @demonmatz @fallinforwoo @tohokuu

[snackhobi]

pairing: taehyung x reader / word count: 13.3k / genre: fluff, friends to lovers, smut (NSFW, 18+)

summary: you’re used to being in love with taehyung. you’ve had a lot of time to get good at it, after all—by this point you’re the world’s expert at keeping your less-than-platonic feelings hidden from him, what with the amount of practice you’ve had.

but then he signs up for a massage therapy course, because apparently you can never catch a break.

or: the one where taehyung gives you a full body massage and then some.

warnings: sexually explicit content, massage with a happy ending (literally 🤧), cursing, edible massage oil/lube, fingering (f), unprotected sex (be safe when you have sex please), multiple orgasms (f), oral sex (m), cum swallowing, pet names, body worship?, brief mention of shower sex

a/n: I swear this was meant to be pwp. this was literally meant to just be pwp with some massage shenanigans. and then I blinked and it had become a soft 13k fic which honestly… kicked my ass quite a bit. but I hope you enjoy it!! thank you as always to @hobi-gif​ for beta reading this and encouraging me and putting up with me changing this multiple times, what would I do without your support miss hope?

--

Taehyung goes through a lot of different phases.

He just finds so many things interesting. Photography, art, art history, music, fashion, thrift shopping; heck, there was even the time he got weirdly into making tea and became some sort of connoisseur, going through the whole rigmarole of buying the loose leaves and weighing them out, checking the temperature of the water, brewing for a precisely measured amount of time.

You still remember the look on his face when you said it all tasted like hot leaf water to you.

Because, of course, as one of Taehyung’s best friends and his roommate, you’re inevitably swept up in everything he does. You’re used to the weirdly acrid smell of photo development fluid and how cold dark rooms can get. You use phrases like chiaroscuro and sfumato to describe the simplest things after listening to Taehyung do the same for so long. You’ve lost count of the amount of times you’ve tripped over his saxophone case when he leaves it lying around the apartment. You regularly wear the baggy t-shirt with the face that Taehyung had painted on it—even if you still refer to it as the Squidward-House-Shirt despite the fact you know he was inspired by Basquiet and Schiele and not the Easter Island themed stone head that Squidward lives in.

You don’t mind getting dragged along with whatever he does, honestly; you don’t have time to attend every class, but go with him when you can. It’s always good to expand your horizons. You also love watching Tae’s face whenever he learns something new, the various expressions that flit across his features—from wide eyed excitement and eyebrow raising astonishment to the more solemn side that appears whenever he’s taking something in and thinking deeply about it, turning it over in his mind, mulling on it.

(You love watching Tae’s face all the time, actually, but that’s a whole other can of worms you’d rather keep shut.)

However, the latest course he’s signed up for is not one you’d been expecting.

“Massage therapy?” Your face twists in equal parts confusion and surprise.

Taehyung’s dropped this latest nugget of information while you’re cooking, trying to fry some rice while also peering at the phone screen that’s been thrust into your face. You’re not bad at multitasking, per se, but Taehyung’s iPhone is drifting so close that you’re almost cross-eyed and it’s blocking you from seeing what’s going on in the pan. 

“I had a coupon,” he says, as if that explains everything. (It doesn’t.)

“Scooch,” you say, and he immediately moves so you can turn the gas off.

“Jiminie and Jungkookie say that my massages help with dance, and that's just from Youtube tutorials.” Taehyung continues to talk as you bustle around the tiny kitchen. He’s already set the table so now he’s free to watch you finish doing the rest of the work. “And Joon-hyung says I have the perfect hands for it.”

You fumble with the pan as you’re scooping the steaming rice into a large bowl, only just managing to save food from scattering everywhere. You’ve thought about Taehyung’s hands a lot, about how large and long fingered and beautiful they are, but he doesn’t need to know that.

“Really? Huh. That’s nice.” You stare at the pan, fixated on getting every grain of rice so you can avoid looking at Taehyung’s face. And hands. Which are still cupped around his phone. Which looks so small in his big, pretty grip.

Jesus Christ.

“It means I can give you massages if you ever start to get tense.” Taehyung sounds pleased, lovely grin on his face at the prospect of being able to rub his hands over you. As if that isn’t going to make every single one of your muscles lock up and turn you into some sort of coiled rope of a human being, which is the complete opposite of what a massage is supposed to achieve. 

“Great.” Despite your inner turmoil, your voice is level and steady as you meticulously scrape the last grain of rice into the bowl, chasing the tiny fleck of white around the huge pan. Scrape, scrape, scrape. “Sounds fabulous. Can’t wait.”

Of course Taehyung would sign up to learn something that he could use to help his friends. He’s so big-hearted and loving. Big-hearted and loving and kind and funny and affectionate and beautiful and deep-voiced and so entirely overwhelming in every single way imaginable. 

You do what you always do when confronted yet again with your all-consuming crush—you bottle that shit the fuck up until he’s not in the room.

And then you have a miniature breakdown at Pickles.

“I am going to die,” you whisper-scream. “He’s going to offer to massage me and he’s going to get a bottle of massage oil out and he’s going drizzle it onto his massive hands and I am going to fucking die.”

The bearded dragon cocks his head as he stares at you. Taehyung had come home with the reptile one day, tank and all, saying that someone on Facebook had been giving him away because they were moving house and could they just look after him for a little while, please, pretty please? Until they found a good home for him? Please?

That was over a year ago. (You’ve always been bad at saying no to Taehyung.)

“I hate my life,” you lament to the lizard, but then you hear the noisy flush of the toilet and know that Taehyung is going to emerge from the bathroom soon, so you have to wrap this miniature meltdown up pronto. “I wish I was a bearded dragon too, you know. All you do is get fed and sit under the heat bulb. Your life is so easy. You don’t even know what capitalism is.”

The silence you get from Pickles is far more support than you get from your human friends once you tell them. Yoongi just raises his eyebrows while Seokjin and Hoseok laugh outright in your face, just like they always do when you cry to them about Taehyung.

You need new friends. These ones are defective. (If only you’d kept the receipt so you could return them.)

“We learned how to do neck and shoulder massages today!” Taehyung says brightly after the first session.

You hum in response. You’re rewatching Pacific Rim together, cuddled up against Taehyung’s side, and you don’t have to turn your head to know what expression is on his face. There’ll be that little upturn to his lips, happiness at learning something new. That warmth in his eyes at being able to share it with you, even if you couldn't be there with him. Those little freckles on his face, under his eye, his nose, his lip; the one you’ve imagined kissing more times than you can count.

“My teacher says I have a natural talent with my hands,” he adds, and you’re so grateful that you can blame your sudden intake of breath on the scene that’s playing on the screen, as high stakes as it is. 

“That’s nice,” you say, and mentally pat yourself on the back at keeping the strain out of your voice. You've had a lot of practice at this. “I’m not surprised, though. You’ve always been good at doing things with them.”

That’s not a euphemism. Taehyung’s always so careful when he makes things; you’d learned how to fold different origami patterns together, matching crane for crane, lotus for lotus, and he’d always been so delicate with his fingers. He’s always so careful and considerate with you, too, fingers splayed wide across your shoulder as he squeezes you closer to his side, leaving you breathless.

“I wish you could come too.” Taehyung sounds disappointed. “We always have so much fun together.”

For the first time in your life you’re grateful that your manager at Olive Chicken is such a hardass and won’t let you swap shifts, so you’d had to miss signing up for the massage course with Taehyung—because you know there’s no way you’d be able to keep it together if there was some sort of tandem practice in class or whatever. Your crush on him is filled with equal parts of tenderness and lust and you’re well aware of that. You’d rest your hands on the soft skin of Taehyung’s shoulders and back, the lust would overwhelm you, and you’d immediately burst into flames like some sort of demon stepping over the threshold of a church. 

Why oh why did God have to make Kim Taehyung so hot?

Why oh why did God have to make you so… not?

You know Taehyung doesn’t see you in a romantic light at all. You’re grateful for this deep, platonic relationship you have, and you love him to pieces, but holy hell is it hard to walk around with Kim Taehyung looking the way he does and wanting to jump his bones while simultaneously being aware that it’s never going to happen. Whenever he smiles at you, or touches you, or holds you, it’s in exactly the same way as he treats any of his friends—and as happy as you are to be one of those friends, it also kind of kills you inside. 

(Because you know you don’t have a chance, have never had a chance, and will never have a chance.)

The idea of offering to massage Taehyung is one that makes you want to melt into a puddle of horny goo. But when he offers to massage you, it’s because you’re a convenient practice partner who he’s comfortable with. It’s no big deal. You could strip naked and slather yourself up in oil and stand in front of him with your bosoms heaving and say ‘Have at me, big boy’ and Taehyung would say: ‘Sweet! A chance to practice deep tissue massage! Gee, thanks for being such a great pal!’

The kind of deep tissue you want Taehyung to massage is very different to whatever he’s talking about.

… Anyway.

You manage to avoid Taehyung using his apparently magic fingers on you for a surprising amount of time, though you’re kept up to date with his progress, because he shares everything with you and tells you about everything and you always, always listen. Because, more than being your crush, he’s one of your best friends and you love him.

Which is why you try your best to be gentle, graciously refusing his offer of a shoulder massage after he sees you wincing, even if with anyone else you’d just tell them to back off with zero hesitation.

“It’s fine,” you say, flapping a hand at him. “I just slept on it funny.”

“A massage would help! It won’t take long, I promise. Five minutes? Please?” 

Taehyung’s looking at you with those big puppy eyes of his, pleading. You waver. You’re torn between being steadfast and avoiding a situation you’ve literally had nightmares about (Taehyung had offered to massage you, and you’d said yes, but then you’d fallen over as you were walking to him and suddenly a lasagne had appeared in your hands and you’d spilled it all down your shirt and he’d pointed and laughed and laughed and you’d felt so embarrassed that you’d woken up, cheeks burning), but then he pouts and you give in like the spineless and lovesick fool that you are.

“Five minutes,” you say, and Taehyung nods emphatically, looking pleased.

(You have the backbone of a chocolate éclair.)

You send quiet thanks to whatever God is listening when he doesn’t ask you to take your top off and doesn’t break out a bottle of scented oil. Instead he just asks for you to straddle a chair, clutching a plushie against your chest to cushion where it leans against the backrest, and tells you to get comfy.

“Just relax,” he says, as you desperately try to remember how your body works and coax it to relax like Taehyung wants you to. You fail miserably. You feel like a ball of rubber bands, each muscle a layer of tighter and tighter elastic that’s circled around you. “Lean forwards a little?”

At least Taehyung can’t see your face from this angle. You have no idea what sort of expression is twisting your features; consternation and horrified anticipation, probably. You're basically throttling your plushie, taking out your tension and frustration on the poor thing, Rilakkuma's placid face morphing into a twisted expression of sympathy under your grasping fingers.

“Perfect,” Taehyung says. The sound of praise in his deep voice has your insides turning into overheated syrup, hot and thick, dripping down and pooling between your legs. You hate yourself. Getting turned on by the most innocuous words from your best friend, really? Get it together.

The second you feel Taehyung's warm hands touch the back of your neck, your shoulders hunch up faster than a whiplash, a turtle sucking its head into its shell. Your friend laughs.

“This is the opposite of relaxing,” he says, voice warm with amusement. 

“You surprised me.” You dig your nails into Rilakkuma's soft brown fur. Taehyung just thinks you're not used to being massaged, not that you're being weird because it's him that's touching you. Because he touches you a lot. He’s just never done it like this. “Sorry.”

“It's fine,” he replies, unruffled and oblivious. “Let me try again?”

You bite your lip, desperately trying to quell the mix of arousal and tension that’s churning in your stomach, begging your muscles to unwind. You’ve kept your crush a secret from him for this long, you can keep that energy up. (You have to keep that energy up.) “Um. Okay.”

You’re still tense when Taehyung puts his hands on you again. The touch is warm through your clothes, firm but careful, digging into the sharp line of tension laid across your shoulders; despite the way your heart is threatening to launch itself out of your chest, you start to loosen up, because holy shit that feels nice, actually.

You melt against Rilakkuma and smother the bear's face in your chest. “Your teacher wasn’t kidding when they said that you’re good with your hands,” you mumble. 

You’ve never gotten a proper massage before but it feels so damn good that you can’t help but unwind, turning to jelly at the confident presses of Taehyung’s fingers and palms into the soft skin between your neck and shoulder. A little sigh spills past your lips when Taehyung starts to work at the part that’s been twinging after you lay crookedly on it, limbs akimbo in your sleep after a long night at work. “Oh, right there, Tae.”

Taehyung goes still for just a second before continuing, trailing his fingers over your shirt. “Here?”

Your eyes have drifted shut so you can focus on the sensation of that tension being pulled out of your body. “Yeah, right there,” you repeat, massaged into a state of lazy euphoria. The breath you let out is long and deep, catching in the back of your throat at a particularly firm rub of Taehyung’s hands; if you weren’t so blissed out you might be embarrassed at how much the noise you make is like a moan, but as it is, you don’t even notice. You just let out a little sound of discontent when Taehyung’s fingers stutter in their motions, displeased that he’s stopped even for a second.

By the time the massage is over, you’re so relaxed that you feel like you could melt into the floor, a wobbly puddle of unwound muscles and loose limbs. It’s official. You’re a massage convert.

“Holy shit.” Your eyes flutter open as you lean away from Rilakkuma so you can turn around. They’re the first coherent words you’ve spoken for a while; small sighs and sounds have been dripping from your lips and it’s only now that you’re able to regain your breath. “Tae, that was amazin—”

You’re met with the sight of Taehyung’s back as he power walks away, steps rapid, a little shaky, awkward. Before you can ask what’s wrong, he’s stepping into the bathroom. 

“I need to wash my hands,” he says without looking at you, before the door slams shut.

You don’t remember Tae telling you about how quickly you have to wash your hands after finishing a massage. But, thinking about it, you suppose it makes sense—you know, with massaging multiple clients or whatever—even if it’s surprising exactly how fast he’d hoofed it away from you. It sounds like he’s switched both taps on full blast as well, noisy even through the wooden door, and judging from how long he’s in there, he’s being very thorough. Hand washing must be a lot more important than you’d realised. 

Once Taehyung emerges, his face is a little flushed, cheeks a soft red. You wonder if the hot water tap is playing up again and filling your dinky bathroom with hot steam, and make a mental note to look into it. You smile at Taehyung from your perch on the sofa, Rilakkuma plopped on your lap, smile spread across your features; one that Taehyung returns, as pink-faced as he is.

“How’s your shoulder feeling?”

“So much better, honestly,” you admit. It’s incredible. He hasn’t even finished the course yet and he's already this good. He really does have magic hands.

“I’ll have to give you massages more often,” Taehyung says, though the end of the sentence trembles a little. He must be light-headed after all the steam in the bathroom.

The thought of more massages doesn’t fill you with as much mind-numbing trepidation as it might have earlier, utterly languid as you flop across the sofa, muscles uncoiled after the lovely touch of Taehyung’s even lovelier hands. No wonder people rave about spa days if they leave you feeling like this. Maybe if you’d been staring at Taehyung in the eye when he’d been touching you, then you’d feel a lot more awkward—as it is, it’s no worse than usual. Your crush is still all-encompassing but you also got a massage out of it, so.

“Sounds great.” This time you don’t even have to fake your excitement. “Now come sit your butt down so we can order some takeout and decide what to watch.”

When you bend down to speak to Pickles later, the bearded dragon is lolling on his favourite branch. “There’s still a high chance that I’m going to die,” you say in a low voice, before you flick the lights off so the lizard can sleep. “But he hasn’t broken out the oils yet, so I think I’ll be okay for now.”

--

Your luck doesn’t last.

“Strawberry and champagne, lychee martini, mint mojito, white chocolate, or tropical coconut?”

You look up from where you’re painting your toenails. “Huh?”

Taehyung bundles into the room and throws himself onto your bed, flopping on his belly and ignoring the way the mattress is jostled. You, of course, are used to his antics, which is why you’d swept your open bottle of nail polish up before he could spill it everywhere.

“What do you think sounds best?”

“Well, that depends,” you say, squinting at your toes and carefully sweeping the polish over the freshly buffed nails. “For candles, I think they sound pretty nice. For sauces to pour over a steak, I’d say I’d give them all a hard pass. What’s it for?”

“Massage oils,” Taehyung says blithely, too busy staring at his phone to see you muffle a curse when your hand slips and you paint your entire little toe blue. “I was wondering which you think sounds best.”

“Oh. Uh.” You fumble to clean your toe and salvage the now-terrible pedicure you’re trying to give yourself. It was only a matter of time before massage oils were going to become part of your life. Taehyung never goes into things half-hearted, so of course he’s going to invest in oils, too. God’s sake. You can never catch a break, can you? “Why these ones in particular?”

Taehyung pauses for a suspiciously long time, but it gives you the chance to furiously rub at your toe while he’s distracted. “We get a free bottle from the course,” he says eventually.

Huh. Okay. “That’s pretty neat. What was the last one? Coconut? Stick with the basics, can’t go wrong with that, right?”

“Coconut is always tasty,” Taehyung comments absently, and you glance up from your Smurf toe.

“Agreed, but it’s not like you’re about to eat massage oil, are you?”

Taehyung pauses, and then buries his face into his phone screen—suddenly very intent on rereading the list of ingredients in each bottle, it seems. “No, of course not, you’re right,” he mumbles.

He’s almost finished the course. He’s not going to be an accredited masseuse or anything, but you definitely think he could be, if he wanted to—you’ve never had less tension in your shoulders and neck in your life. Taehyung always eases his way into your personal space anyway, casual and effortless after years of friendship, but now you’re used to his fingers sliding over the back of your neck, a gliding touch, sending tense little goosebumps over your skin while simultaneously making you melt. 

“It’s pretty cool that you get free stuff, though.” Your toe is clean, thankfully, no longer blue. “And not just, like, a generic bottle of oil or something. They all sound really fancy. I didn’t realise that you could get massage oils that were scented like that?”

Taehyung makes a non-committal noise, which is uncharacteristic of him, but you’re too focused on repainting your final nail to pay it too much mind, letting out a loud huff of triumph when you’re done.

“Get me a bag of shrimp crackers, please?” You have a sudden craving but you don’t want to penguin waddle to the kitchen and risk getting anything on your wet nails. “Ya girl is hungry.”

“Got it.” Taehyung rolls off the bed without protest. You’re used to his antics, and he’s used to yours, indulging you whenever you feel lazy or want him to do something for you. “You need me to feed you?”

“I wasn’t going to use my toes to feed myself,” you laugh, but Taehyung ends up feeding them to you anyway.

When you recount the list to Seokjin later, his face crumples in a way that’s equal parts offended and disgusted. “They all sound terrible,” he says. “White chocolate should stay in chocolate form and not be turned into an oil. Why does massage oil even have to smell like anything?”

You’re both holed up in the tiny smoking nook behind Olive Chicken; neither of you smoke, but it’s a good excuse to go outside and get fresh air during longer shifts. 

“Hey, don’t ask me, I’m not the one who’s taking the course. I think lychee martini sounds interesting, though.”

“Agree to disagree.” Seokjin unwraps one of the complimentary chocolates the restaurant gives to diners with their bill, swallowing it whole. “Besides, we all know Taehyung could approach you with dirty, used fryer oil and you’d let him dip you in it.”

You slap the next chocolate out of his hand before it reaches his mouth. He’s unmoved and simply plucks another from his pocket, which is apparently bulging with them.

“Yoongichi,” Jin says, calling to the delivery boy, who’s just appeared from the dark like some tired-eyed spectre of fried chicken. “Tell me this. If I were to ask you what smell of massage oil you’d prefer, what—”

“I would say that I really could not care less.” Yoongi flops down on one of the rickety fold-out chairs before silently accepting a chocolate from Seokjin’s stash. “And then I’d ask why you’re asking me in the first place, seeing as you’re the one using it, not me. If Taehyung’s asking what massage oil you’d prefer, Y/n, it’s because he wants to rub it all over you specifically.” Yoongi munches on the chocolate, already filling in the blanks without needing to be told the context. You really are that transparent, huh. “Please, we’ve been over this.”

Jin pouts. “You ruined my set up. I had a whole speech prepared.”

“Oh no.” Yoongi remains blank-faced. “How terrible.”

“I hate both of you,” you say. “I’m going to tell Pickles how mean you are.”

“I bet if that lizard could talk, he’d tell you how tired he was of you two dancing around each other, just like the rest of us,” Yoongi says.

There’s no dancing around, though, no matter what your friends say. Well. Not on Taehyung’s end anyway. You’re out here doing the fandango, castanets and all, while Taehyung just stands stock still, oblivious.

You let out an incredibly long sigh. Seokjin hands you a sympathetic chocolate.

The massage oil doesn’t make an appearance in your life for a little while, though. The end of the course comes and goes, Taehyung proudly flapping the laminated certificate at you, wobble-wobble-wobble, filling the apartment with the sound of rippling plastic. But no coconut oil.

The scent of ‘tropical coconut’ has started to haunt your dreams, in a way that’s both good and bad; when you wake up in a sweat, heart pounding, it’s not because you’re having nightmares, let’s just put it like that. It’s like there’s an invisible countdown that you can’t trace and it’s only a matter of time before it ticks over and the shoulder massages (that you’ve gotten very comfortable with) edge into something different. Taehyung’s going to innocently offer to give you a backrub and uncap that bottle of scented oil and you’re going to explode into a mess of putty under his hands.

Well… then again… you had been worried about that with all the shoulder rubs. Now look at you. You weather those like a champ. Sure, your skin tingles and you run hot and you think about the sensation of Taehyung’s hands gliding over you whenever you’re alone, but you’re basically fine. Your friend who just so happens to also be the great love of your life remains none the wiser.

You bet a full back rub would feel great after a long week.

Which is why when Taehyung steps into the apartment with a look on his face that you immediately recognise as tiredness, you sort of wish you knew how to massage people, too.

He falls into your arms with little fanfare. It’s been one of those days, one of those ones that everyone gets, even Taehyung—he’s usually so Switched On and Exuberant and Alive, and people don’t seem to realise that even he feels exhausted, sometimes.

“You alright, bubs?” You can’t massage him but you can rub his back soothingly, let him snuffle against your neck. Sometimes you think about that little space between your chin and collarbones as Taehyung’s, a hollow that’s perfect for him to press his face into, hair tickling your chin as he curls up into you. His and his alone. “Did something happen?”

He just shakes his head.

“Okay,” you say.

(Close proximity and skin on skin with Taehyung doesn’t always have your pulse rising and your heart racing. Sometimes it’s just this: quiet and soft, your heart bright with fierce affection for this boy, the only thought in your mind that you want him to be happy, forever.)

The long silence is broken by the sound of Taehyung heaving in a breath before letting out a long, exhausted sigh. 

“Thank you.” His voice is quiet and low, far less energetic than his usual self.

“Nothing to thank me for, Tae,” you reply. “Always here for you. You know that, right?”

He doesn’t respond straight away. He just burrows closer, draped over you, until he murmurs, barely audible. “Why?”

Your face twists. “Why, what? Why am I always here for you?”

“Yeah.” Taehyung squeezes himself impossibly closer, skin warm against yours, forehead pressed to the skin of your neck. You can’t see his expression from this angle.

“Because you’re one of my best friends and I love you,” you answer, immediately. You don’t even have to think about it. “Because you’re important to me and if there’s anything I can do for you, I will. I’ll celebrate the good things in your life with you, and I’ll be at your side during the bad times, just like you are with me. Please don’t ever forget how much I love you, okay?”

There’s a pause, and then it feels like all the tension leaves Taehyung’s body, slumping his whole body weight against you. “Okay,” he murmurs. “I love you too. Thank you,” he says again. You just reply by squeezing his shoulders.

He’s a little quieter for a few days after that. You’re not sure why, because he’d perked up after a lazy evening of lying around and eating too many snacks, flopped against you like an oversized, clinging starfish—but you’re gentle with him nonetheless. 

(Well. You’re always gentle with him. It just takes you half a second to fold in the face of his whims, rather than a whole, full second.)

So when the dreaded bottle of oil finally appears, you’re far less ready to fight off Taehyung’s insistence on a full body massage, caught off guard after days of indulging him. Fuck. 

“You’ve had a long week!” Taehyung insists as you scrabble your way over the sofa’s backrest so you can hide behind it, clutching a cushion to your chest. “You need to relax!”

Without looking you fling the cushion over the sofa. Judging from the fact that Taehyung doesn’t make a sound, you’ve missed. “I was feeling perfectly relaxed until you started yelling at me about it! Why are you so obsessed with the idea of me being relaxed?”

Taehyung doesn’t respond. Oh, crap. Maybe you did hit him with the cushion?

You pop up from behind the sofa. Nope. It's an embarrassing distance away from Taehyung, who’s got that surprisingly large bottle of oil held loosely in his hands. There’s an expression on his face that you can’t decipher; a little crestfallen, a little unsure, but there’s something else there, too, something you can’t put a name to.

“Taehyung?”

“I just… wanted to help,” he says. “You’re always there for me when I’m not feeling great, and you calm me down, and I wanted to do the same for you.”

You immediately feel like the worst human being alive. Take the feeling you get whenever you accidentally step on an animal’s tail, multiply it by infinity, and that’s only just a drop in the ocean of awful, awful guilt that you’re drowning in. 

“Oh, Tae,” you say. Your voice comes out so much softer and sweeter than you mean it to, but you can't help it. “I’m sorry. I was just joking. It’s really nice of you to be so concerned. You just surprised me. You do help me relax and your massages are great.” (You tell him that often enough that he should know it, but it never hurts to repeat a compliment.)

His face lifts. It’s like the sun bursting forth from the clouds after heavy rain, and you have to resist the urge to shield your eyes, blinded by the brightness and beauty. Kim Taehyung is so unfairly gorgeous (but what else is new?). “So I can give you a massage?”

Despite the fact the prospect makes you want to fling yourself into space, when you’re faced with Taehyung’s dark eyes and wide smile and large, warm hands, you cave, because of course you do. If, way back when you’d first been frying up that kimchi rice and letting Taehyung thrust his phone into your face, you’d been told you’d end up in this position, you would have laughed outright. Haha, yeah, sure, like you’d be stupid enough to let yourself be wrangled into such a vulnerable state in front of Taehyung, nowhere to run, helpless under his fingers. Not.

But here you are. Whipped for Kim Taehyung, forever and always.

The pastel blue towels under your stomach and chest are soft as they shield you from the cold, hard floor. You’re incredibly aware of how chilly the apartment feels, air prickling against your bare skin; you shift to try and get comfortable, glancing over your shoulder to fiddle with the towel that’s draped over your hips and ass, making sure it’s covering everything. Taehyung insists on authenticity (as if you’re not lying on the floor of your apartment rather than on a massage table) and he says that it’s normal to be completely naked for a full-body massage, even underneath any towels that are covering you up.

Authenticity is also why he’s in the other room, warming up the massage oil, because that’s apparently a thing?

(You’re going to die.)

It doesn’t matter that Taehyung will only be able to see the back of your head, your shoulder blades, the small of your back, a slip of your thighs, your calves. None of these things are especially scandalous; all the parts of your body that someone might find more interesting are out of sight, pressed against the floor or hidden under a layer of Egyptian cotton microfibres. 

And yet you can’t help but be hyperaware of how you’re entirely unclothed. Even if it doesn’t bother Taehyung—what with, you know, the fact he’s not interested in you like that and doesn’t find you attractive at all (sigh)—embarrassment creeps hot and uncomfortable under your skin.

It just feels so crazy intimate to be laid out like this, even if people do this all the time, happily strip down to let professionals rub the tension out of their body. 

(Then again, most people aren’t best friends with their masseuses and haven’t harboured long, one-sided crushes on them, either.)

Just breathe. You can do this. You love the shoulder massages that Taehyung’s been giving you; just think of this as a shoulder massage. 

… A shoulder massage that involves warm oil, near-nakedness, and Taehyung’s hands sliding all over you.

… You are going to have a very long venting session with Pickles after all this.

You’re so distracted by your own self pity and distress that you don’t register the sound of Taehyung entering the room; the little pause when he steps over the threshold, feet stuttering, just for a moment. It’s only when he’s kneeling down that you notice his presence, body jolting from surprise before you let out a slip of high laughter.

“Jesus, Tae,” you say. In any other circumstance, you’d be clutching your chest. “You scared me.”

“Sorry.” He sounds genuinely apologetic.

Your cheek is pillowed on your arms. When you turn to look at your best friend you immediately regret it; he’s settled back on his ankles, knees spread wide, and you come eye-to-eye with his crotch.

In an effort to look away from his clothed dick, your gaze flies up to his face, which might be even worse. He has this intense look in his eyes, and wow, alright, you’ve never been able to see Taehyung’s face as he’s been massaging you, but you never realised exactly how seriously he seems to take it, judging from his expression.

(Do all massage therapists look like that when they work?)

“That’s alright.” You’re a little breathless, but you’re going to blame that on how your boobs are smooshed into the floor, and not on anything else, nuh uh. Shoulder massage. It’s a shoulder massage. It’s just like a full bodied shoulder massage. (Maybe if you repeat it to yourself often enough then you’ll actually start to believe it.) “Uh. Do you need me to… do anything? Or do I just lie here?”

Taehyung’s expression lightens a little at the uncertainty in your tone, smile curling up the corners of his mouth. “You’re perfect right where you are,” he says, and then he reaches for the bottle of oil.

You turn your head away again, cheeks burning. There’s no way you’ll be able to handle the visual of him slicking his fingers and palms up. “Cool,” you say, voice only a little strained. “Coolcoolcoolcool.”

(It’s not cool.)

You don’t have a visual, but you do get the auditory experience thanks to the relative silence in the apartment. Goosebumps ripple down the back of your neck and trail down your spine at the sound of Tae’s hands sliding against each other, thoroughly coated in the warmed oil, and you’re so glad that you can blame it on the chill in the air.

At first, it’s okay. Taehyung starts at the parts of your body that are used to receiving his attention, though it’s different without the barrier of clothing in the way, not to mention how easily his palms glide over you, the air full of the light scent of coconut. It’s different, but manageable, and you think you just might be okay; as always, his touches are firm but careful, and your body is used to this by now, relaxing.

But. The second you feel Taehyung’s touch between your shoulder blades, you stiffen with a shiver. The oil is the perfect temperature against your skin, but you’ve always had a sensitive back; you can’t help but clench your fists, digging your fingers into your palms. Relax. Just breathe. 

“You’ve got a lot of tension here.” Taehyung’s voice is low as he digs the heel of his palm into the dip of your spine.

It’s because you’re touching me there, you think to yourself, but just let out a non-committal hum of agreement instead. 

You feel Taehyung's hands, a repeated sliding motion between your shoulder blades; the tension starts to leak out of you again, but your breath hitches in your throat at how you're pressed downwards and into the cotton towels beneath you, nipples hardening against them.

Thank God you're on your front so Tae can't see what effect he's having on you.

“Better?”

Taehyung's voice is always deep, but you'd swear it was even deeper in this moment, pitched low. Maybe that’s because the sound of blood pumping is filling your ears so it’s hard to discern. At this point, who even knows? Not you, that’s for sure.

“Yep.” Why are you so breathless? You haven’t moved at all, but you sound like you’ve just run the 100m sprint, winded and weak. “So much better.”

You regret agreeing to this. You are so out of your depth and there’s no way you’re going to be able to hide exactly how much this is affecting you and you want to collapse in on yourself and shrivel up like a sundried tomato, tiny and wrinkly and underwhelming. 

Taehyung shifts to reach more of you and you squeeze your eyes shut so you don’t come face first with his crotch again, shielding yourself from the view of his loose linen trousers stretched almost taut with how wide his knees are. It’s both a blessing and a curse—a blessing because you’re saved from aforementioned view, but a curse because your sensation of touch is heightened, and all you’re aware of is his hands sliding down your sides. You’d swear those fingers were so long he could circle your waist with ease.

(Massages are meant to relax you and yet you’ve never felt so tense in your life.)

Taehyung clicks his tongue against the back of his teeth. “I can’t get a good angle like this,” he mutters.

Before you can think anything or say anything, you become aware of the sound of moving and shifting and—

Your eyes fly open. Taehyung’s straddling your thighs, heavy and warm, and you suck in a breath so sharp and fast you can feel your chest expand, brain full of the screaming clang of warning bells. There’s no way this is a normal masseuse thing. There’s no way. It’s intimate and entirely too physical and there’s absolutely no way that this is something Taehyung learned in class. 

(What is he doing?)

But then any coherent thought in your brain slips when his hands settle on you again.

They so, so lightly brush the hem of the towel that preserves your modesty, and you can’t help the full-body shiver that wracks through you. You suck your lips into your mouth, swallowing down the noise that threatens to bubble up in your throat. There’s the sensation of fingers trailing up the line of your spine, feather light, smoothed by the slide of oil, and you feel like molten lava, burning hot and bright.

“Taehyung.” Your voice is high and faint.

His fingers splay down your ribcage and run down your sides, confident and smooth, warm with that coconut-scented oil, and you’re dying, you’re living; you want to disappear, you never want this to end. 

“Taehyung,” you repeat. Your voice shakes.

He hums, low and indulgent. “Yes?”

“M-my thighs,” you stammer, unable to articulate yourself. Why are you on my thighs, oh God, you’re so warm and heavy on top of me, oh God oh God oh God.

Taehyung completely misunderstands you. “Oh? Of course.” He sounds nonchalant. “I’ll massage those next.”

You can feel the drag of his linen trousers against your skin as he moves down to rest on your calves, and hear the bottle open as Taehyung drizzles more oil over his hands, far more than he could possibly need. His palms feel so broad and warm against the smoothness of your thighs, touches firm and confident as he digs his fingers into the muscle, and, oh, fuck, this is, this is too much—

Your legs jump when Taehyung hitches the towel up, just a little, baring more of your body.

“Fuck.” You can't keep quiet any longer. “Tae, I’m fine, I’m feeling way less tense now.”

He’s still, for a moment, before his hands slide up the back of your thighs. “Are you sure? You want me to stop?”

It’s only then that you realise how deeply Taehyung is breathing, fast and low, voice rough and gravelled. His fingers rest in wait, warm and slick with oil; you’re so close to losing any modicum of modesty, only one motion away from that towel being rucked high enough that there’s nothing protecting you from Taehyung’s touch and eyes.

“I haven’t finished yet, though,” he continues, digging his thumbs into your skin as he pulls his hands down your thighs, mindlessly following the motions he’s been taught. “There’s still more to go.”

You could twist around to look at him but you’re almost afraid to look at his face, afraid of what you’d find there. He sounds as affected as you are, but there’s absolutely no way. There’s no way.

“You don’t need to do the whole massage if I’m feeling relaxed, right?” 

(Because you’re feeling so relaxed right now, of course, and not like you’re about to go supernova and burst into heat and light. Absolutely.)

(But.)

(But. Taehyung’s hands settle at the back of your knees, swiping the sensitive skin with his thumbs. You can’t see his face, but you can feel something in that touch, something more than skin deep, like it’s sinking into you, through skin and muscle and bone, in in in, settling inside you, a flicker of—of—)

“Want to do this perfectly for you,” he murmurs. You clench your hands at the husky note in his voice, nails digging so hard into your palms it hurts. “You deserve the best. I want you to feel good.”

He must be able to see your back rise and fall as you breathe in sharply.

“Taehyung.” Almost pleading. 

“Yes, love?”

You suck in another sharp breath. The pet name sounds so soft and sweet in his mouth, somehow, even with the heated edge to his voice. One that’s definitely there. You’re not imagining it. 

(You’re not.)

“Do you want me to make you feel good?” he continues.

Before you can think, you nod.

“Yes,” you whisper. “Please.”

You’re trembling. Taehyung’s still heavy and warm across the back of your calves, sliding one hand to the inside of a knee and up the soft skin of your inner thighs. You instinctively shift them apart, as far as you can with Taehyung trapping your legs, and, oh, his hand is going higher, oh—

His hand is so big, cupping your overheated sex. It’s hard to tell where the oil ends and your own arousal begins, flushed wet and hot; when he dips his middle finger between your lower lips, long and gentle and firm, you let out a noise you didn’t realise you were capable of. The angle is off, a little awkward, the motions of Taehyung’s fingers stifled by how you’re lying flush to the ground, but God, you’re so turned on it barely matters.

You’re hyperaware of everything. The soft touch of air on the cooling oil across your skin. The fall of the towel, bunched around your waist, slowly slipping to one side. Taehyung’s hand, his fingertips easing through the heat of you, sliding over your clit, over your entrance, slow and soft and amazing. 

“Again,” you plead. “Again, Tae, please.”

“Feels good?” He asks, and you squeeze your eyes shut as you nod, cheek still pillowed against your arm.

“So good,” you say. “But I want more, please, Tae.”

“Anything you want,” he murmurs.

Taehyung’s hand shifts between your legs again, so hot, so big, so reverent. The slide is smooth as his fingers press into your folds, practically gliding. You twist beneath him, letting out a noise of displeasure when he draws his hand away, but then he lifts off your calves. You let him thrust your legs apart before he resettles between them.

Just as you’re distracted with the towel being tugged away from your hips, baring you entirely, Taehyung slides a finger into your weeping cunt.

You whine. It's so long. Now that your calves aren’t trapped, there’s nothing to stop you from rutting back against his fingers. He splays his other hand over the soft flesh of your ass, encouraging the rolling motion of your hips, and you’re gasping, wanton in your noises of desire and pleasure. One finger becomes two, and then three, Taehyung’s voice a low undercurrent to your stuttered moans as he presses them as deep as he can.

“Just like that, angel,” he breathes. “Want you to feel good, keep making those pretty noises, let me know how good it is—”

“Taehyung,” you whine, dragging the syllables of his name out when he curls his fingers inside you, so amazing, hitting you in all the right places.

“Baby.” He sounds wrecked, words sliding together, and you haven’t even touched him yet. “You’re so hot n’ wet, fuck. So perfect. Just like that, keep moving like that.”

You can hear the slick sounds of his thrusts into you. He’s already learned what you like, twisting his fingers in a way that leaves you breathless; they’re so fucking long, sliding into your greedy cunt with ease, reaching so much deeper than your own can. His pretty lovely hands are on you, inside you, and you’re heady at the thought.

“There, Tae, don’t stop, please, p-please.” The coil twists tighter in between your legs, a taut thread that’s ready to snap. He listens, repeating the motion that’s pulling you closer to the edge, eyes wide, staring at the way you’re writhing underneath him; the way the oil on your back and legs shimmers in the light, the evidence of his touch all over you, shining. “Tae, oh, God, right there, yes, yes, yes—”

Your entire body goes tense and then you’re cumming around Taehyung’s fingers, clenching your thighs together, trapping him inside as you buck your hips. You grind back against his hand, a loud moan falling from your lips, drowning out the noise of awe that Taehyung makes when he feels your walls pulsate around him. You're warm and tight and wet, arousal flooding thick against his skin, and he lets out a stuttered groan, fingers buried knuckle deep inside you, feeling every wave of pleasure that rocks through your core.

You’re panting by the time you settle back down and barely make a sound when Taehyung drags his fingers out of you. When he leans down the oil on your skin feels tacky against his clothes, material sticking to you, chest to back, hips to ass. You can feel the hot curve of him through his trousers, his cock heavy, getting harder—and it feels sososo good.

Taehyung’s face is so close, now, chin hooked over your shoulder. Even though you can feel the hardness of his cock pressed against you, the smile on his face is so gentle. Your heart thrums in your chest.

“So cute n' pretty,” he says, and presses his nose to the soft curve of your cheek. Rather than coconut, all you can smell is his shampoo, familiar and homely and heady. “All over. God, I can’t believe you’d let me touch you like this. I’m so lucky. Was that good, baby?”

“Yes,” you say, and then, because you’re still floating in a light haze of disbelief: “I’m the lucky one.” 

Taehyung laughs, low and quiet. It’s a honeyed moment, dripping slow and sweet, even sweeter when he tilts his head forward. His lips are soft against your cheekbone, your jaw, and when you turn towards him, they’re even softer against your mouth. You can feel the shape of his smile, and it tastes so bright, small kisses that turn open mouthed, so perfect. Because you’re kissing Kim Taehyung, your Taehyung, something you’ve been dreaming about for so long, now—even if this entire situation is pretty unbelievable, honestly.

When you pull back, his eyes spark with unadulterated joy. He’s warm and heavy, pinning you down against the towels that are soft against your front; arching your spine, you lean back against the weight of Taehyung’s body, his cock fattening up through the layers of clothes that separate you. He lets out a breath of surprise before he grinds down, pressing that hard heat against you, and your cunt clenches.

“Can I finish the massage?” He asks, sounding almost eager, even with the rasp of lust in his voice. You can’t help but laugh, an affectionate giggle that has you knocking your foreheads together.

“Of course,” you say, and he catches your lips again, swallowing the last of your laughter, sweeping his tongue over your lips, inside your mouth, wet and hot and a little messy, but good. 

“You need to be on your back,” Taehyung continues, slow after the kiss is broken, and, oh, okay, that has you shivering. “If you want to?”

Of course you want to.

“Okay,” you whisper. “Let me move.”

He shifts to give you room, but not before pressing a kiss to the back of your neck, the bump of the top of your spine, lips sliding against the oil that he’d rubbed there earlier, goosebumps erupting over your skin.

“So good to me,” he whispers. You don’t think he even means for you to hear it. 

(It’s said without thought; not thoughtless, no, but a soft little thing that says so much. A thought that’s slipped across his mind and fallen from his lips, warm and tender. Like you’re always good to him, and he sees it, he knows it, he feels it, he thinks it, and he’s almost in disbelief about it, because you’re so good to him.)

You feel warm and languid after cumming, loose-limbed as you flop onto your back. There’s no going back now. There’s no going back from this moment, naked and vulnerable under Taehyung, nothing hidden away any more—the soft fall of your breasts, your stomach, the lines of your hips, your fingers tightening in the towels spread beneath you as Taehyung’s eyes drink you in, wide and overawed at the sight of your flushed cunt, ripe and slick and ready for him.

(There's no more hiding how much you want Taehyung to have you, body and heart alike.)

You can see the shape of your body silhouetted on his clothes, where the oil has seeped into the material from how close he’d been pressed against you. You can see just how affected he is, cock straining against the loose linen of his white trousers, and you bite your lip to try and stifle the sound you make.

“Look at you,” Taehyung breathes, kneeling between your legs. “You’re so perfect.”

Your cheeks burn. “Taehyung, please,” you say, embarrassed. You really aren’t, especially in comparison to model-gorgeous Kim Taehyung, eyes dark and full of heated lust, hair falling in his eyes, effortlessly beautiful, always.

“You are,” he insists. “You have no idea how perfect you are.”

Before he reaches for the massage oil, he sucks the taste of you off his fingers, sloppy and messy. Your pussy throbs at the sight. And—you were also right about the visual being too much to handle, breath catching in your throat as you watch it drip into his broad hands. His palms shine as he rubs them together, interlacing his fingers, so graceful in their motions. You’re so wet from your orgasm, only getting wetter as you stare back at Taehyung, whose gaze has been heavy on you the whole time.

He starts at your collarbones. It’s even slower than before, and you ease underneath him, revelling in the softness of his touch. He sweeps his hands over your shoulders, down your arms, circling his long fingers around your wrists before lifting one of your hands. Your eyelashes flutter as he presses a kiss to your palm, a motion so full of adoration and tenderness it steals your breath away, and you squirm, shy.

“Tae,” you whine. “You can’t just do that.”

Of course he doubles down, lifting your other hand and repeating the motion, letting his lips linger between your head line and your heart line. “I can,” he says, words warm in your cupped palm. 

“I hope you didn’t do this in class.” Your voice is too weak for it to come out as the joke you mean it to be. 

Taehyung just shakes his head, mouth brushing over the tips of your fingers. “Only for you,” he says. “Did the whole class for you. I wanted—wanted an excuse to touch you more,” he admits, and your heart feels like it’s going to launch itself out of your throat.

“Then touch me,” you say, trying to sound confident even if your cheeks burn.

And he does. He lets your hands drop, gliding his touch back up your arms, down your body, over your legs; he massages your thighs and calves, digs his thumbs into the arches of your feet, circling his fingers around your ankles, shackles you don’t want to escape from. You feel so relaxed and lax, somehow, even if every touch has you biting your lip, anticipation roiling  in your stomach for what’s to come, Taehyung laying your legs down softly before he shifts back up, hands held out towards you—

—then he cups your breasts in his big, big hands and your back arches, fingers sliding over your nipples, glistening with coconut oil, circling them with the pads of his thumbs. You let out an embarrassing whine.

“Oh, Tae,” you beg. “More, please.”

“Whatever you want, sweetheart.”

You smile at another soft, unexpected pet name, flustered, but then your eyes slide shut when Taehyung bends down to kiss your neck as he continues to run his hands over the swell of your breasts. He trails his lips over your oiled skin, shifts down, drawing a line from your neck to the valley of your chest, the hard line at the center of your ribcage.

“Tae,” you murmur, and then, feeling bold under the heat of Taehyung’s dark eyes— “Baby.”

He hums before laying another sloppy kiss against your sensitive skin. You can feel the curve of his smile in the kiss. “Yes, love?”

“Is it really okay for you to… you know… get that oil in your mouth? I don’t want you to get sick,” you say, concerned, even through the haze of your arousal. His lips shine with it, at how he’s been trailing his mouth over all the parts of your body that he’s touched.

There’s a short beat, and then Taehyung buries his head against your neck—in that little hollow that’s his, in a motion he’s done dozens of times. Except this time you’re naked and he still has fingers splayed across the soft skin of your chest, nipples dragging underneath his palms.

“You’re always so considerate.” His words are muffled against your skin. “It’s fine. It’s edible.”

“You got edible massage oil from your course?”

Taehyung hesitates. “No,” he admits. “I bought it. It’s edible and, uh. Safe for intimate use.”

You’re silent, just for a moment, and then you can’t help it. You start to laugh. 

“Kim Taehyung,” you say, body shaking with amusement. “Did you buy edible massage oil that you can also use as lube?”

Taehyung pulls his face away from your neck and glances up. You’re giggling at him, and he feels so full of love and affection; he can’t help but join in, both laughing at him, loud and carefree.

“It’s why I asked which one you liked,” he confesses, once he can catch his breath.

“I can’t believe you lied to me,” you say, but you don’t mind, really, and he knows it. You lift a hand to push hair out of his face, running your fingers down his scalp. He leans into your touch with a smile, bright and lovely, before he abruptly shifts one of his hands down so he can lick a hot, wet stripe across the skin of your breast.

That stops your laughter pretty fast, surprised hiccup shifting into a broken moan when he engulfs your nipple in the heat of his mouth. “O-oh,” you gasp. “Oh, Taehyung—”

“Been thinking about this for so long.” Taehyung’s eyes are lidded and dark as he leans back, watching the way you react to his touch, arching up towards him. “Wanted to touch you like this so much.”

“Wanted it too,” you breathe. “Wanted—oh, God, Tae, fuck—”

It’s overwhelming. Not just the way Taehyung is flicking his tongue over each of your nipples, pressing his lips against your skin, no—but the idea that he’s been hoping for this, too. Each wet motion of his tongue over your pebbled skin drags pulls out of you; Taehyung’s cock twitches at a loud keen that’s drawn from your lips, a wet patch of precum seeping through his boxers and trousers, darkening the fabric, even though you haven’t touched him yet.

When you reach out to grasp him through his clothes, his hips jolt forward and he bites off a surprised gasp, cutting through the sound with his teeth. He feels long and heavy as you stroke him, thumbing over the wet patch at his tip, hot, even through all those layers between your skin and his.

“I want to feel you, Tae,” you say, staring at him. “Inside me. Please.”

His breath hitches when you tighten your fingers around his shaft and drag your hand upwards, slow and intent. 

“The oil isn’t condom friendly,” he admits, abashed. 

“Then you can cum in my mouth,” you reply. No hesitation.

Taehyung’s eyes are so wide, but then he smiles, eyes squeezing into crescents, mouth turning up into that lovely, broad grin of his. He looks so sweet and sincere, and you feel like you could explode, stuffed overfull with love for him.

“You really are perfect,” he says.

“Only for you,” you reply, your smile just as bright.

He lays one final kiss to your chest, above your beating heart, before he starts to strip. The oil has obviously soaked through his shirt and onto his skin because it sticks when he peels it off and carelessly throws it aside. 

Just like his heart, Taehyung’s body is soft and lovely. You sit up so you can touch him properly, catching him off guard when you pull him in for a kiss—one he eagerly leans into, and without the shirt in the way you can feel the way your skin slides against his, softened with oil. 

There really is no one as beautiful as Kim Taehyung. You drag your hands over him, so warm and wonderful under your palms; his chest, his cute tummy, his waist, his hips, the soft skin above his red, neglected cock. He’s radiant in his nakedness, every easing line of his body so perfect as he kneels in front of you, the flush of his skin, the heavy weight of his arousal, head shining with precum, so wet it’s practically dripping.

You lean in to kiss his neck and nip at his Adam's apple as his hands slide over your shoulder blades and down your back, the parts that make you shudder.

“Want you, Tae.” You whisper into his mouth, a soft secret that isn’t really a secret at all, not any more. “All of you.”

“Going to give you everything you want.” The words flow out of him with ease. “Everything you want.”

His chest and stomach shine with the massage oil that’s rubbed off from your own skin. You run your hands across him, and when you finally grasp his cock without the barrier of cloth in the way, he’s almost burning under your grasp, thick, his entire body shuddering when you pump his length. So sensitive to your touch.

“I’m goin’ to make you cum again,” he promises, and you love it, the way he talks when he’s losing himself. “Bet you’ll feel so good around my cock, so perfect.”

A shiver skates through your body. Taehyung’s fingers dig into your skin when he feels you trembling under his hands, and all you can think about is how you want him in you.

“Please,” you say. “Please, wanna make you feel good too—”

“Hands and knees, angel,” he rasps, and, God, yes, those words cut straight through you, sharp and electric.

Maybe you should feel embarrassed at how quickly you obey. The towels underneath you, so carefully placed at the start, perfectly flat, become rumpled as you shift into position; you arch your back, wanting to look as good as possible, and glance over your shoulder to see if it works.

Judging from the look on Taehyung’s face, it does. He looks like he’s never seen anything more awe-inspiring, eyes wide and mouth a little slack, dumbstruck. But then his jaw snaps shut and he splays his hands over the soft skin of your hips, your waist, your ass, shuffling closer to you; you feel the curve of his cock slide against your skin and you bite back a noise of need.

“Fuck, so beautiful.” He ruts forward, and you can feel the wetness of his precum slicking against you, a beaded line drawn across the sheen of massage oil. “My beautiful, perfect girl.”

“Tae,” you plead, already overwhelmed with need, heart squeezing at his words.

“Just one more thing, angel, I promise.”

It’s a good thing that the bottle of massage oil is so big, considering how liberal Taehyung is with it. You gasp when he uses one hand to spread your ass and before you can react there’s a drizzle of oil falling onto your skin, down-down-down, over your cunt, dripping over your inner thighs; Taehyung catches the excess with his palms before he slicks himself up, spreading that sweet coconut over his throbbing cock.

(You wonder what it’ll taste like when you lick it off him.)

When you feel the blunt head of his cock nudging at your pussy, your entire body lights up in anticipation, nerve endings on fire, every inch of your body singing under Taehyung’s touch—and when he finally sinks in, it’s almost effortless. He’s thick and long but everything slides so easy; you gasp and he moans, both lost in how your body opens up for him, hot and wet. By the time he’s bottomed out you're a quivering mess, collapsed onto your elbows. You’re so full. You feel split open in all the best ways, wanting to draw him in impossibly deeper even so.

Taehyung is gripping your sides, hands unmoving even with the slick oil underneath them, fingers digging into your skin. He’s breathing so loud, and when you experimentally shift your hips, he bites back a noise that cuts through that breath.

“How’s it feel, love?” His words slur together in arousal, but the hand that strokes your back is slow, thoughtful. “Feel good?”

“Fuck me, Tae, baby, please,” you beg. It’s so, so so much, so good, amazing, hotter and bigger and harder than anything you’d let yourself imagine, your entire body taking Taehyung and holding him in, in, in. “Please, I need it, it feels good but I want more, please.”

When he pulls away it’s slow and torturous and he goes so far he almost slips out, cock nearly sliding out of your folds. You whine, a little shameless, mostly needy, but then—

The snap of his hips drives you forwards, towels shifting underneath as you scrabble for a hold on something. Each sharp motion of Taehyung’s body has you choking for air and letting out whimpers and gasps, drowned out by the slap of skin on skin; his hipbones meet the soft flesh of your ass, again and again, but all you can focus on is the thick heat of his cock inside you, in-out-in-out, the press of his balls against your clit, everything so wet and smooth and slick.

You can feel how you’re losing yourself to that heady place that’s golden bright with feeling, lust and sex, the rest of the world gone, unimportant. There’s nothing but this—Taehyung touching you, filling your body so well, so perfect, helping you chase that high that’s growing faster and faster, that precipice of pleasure that he’s going to throw you over again, intent on it.

One of his hands trails up your back, between that sensitive dip of your shoulder blades and into your hair, locks tangling with coconut oil before he urges you up. He doesn’t yank or pull but his hold is firm and you end up back on your hands, arms trembling as you try to keep your balance, back bowed, overwhelmed. 

“Baby,” he rasps. “Oh, you’re so tight n’ hot, so pretty, fuck. You feel so good, do you feel good?”

Your answer is almost a wail, so overcome with pleasure, sensation, the glide of his hands over your shining skin, the mix of oil and arousal that drips out of you, only getting wetter with each thrust of his hips into you. “So good, o-oh God, Tae, baby, fuck, oh, theretherethere—”

“Here?”

He punctuates this with a roll of his hips, using the hand still on your hip to pull you back onto his cock as he fills you up once more, throbbing heat. He bends over you, and this time, there’s nothing stopping the skin on skin contact, the slide of his chest against your back as he kisses the soft skin behind your ear, nipping at your lobe, and that’s it, you’re gone. Your eyes slide shut and your mouth falls open as another orgasm crashes through you, legs shaking as you cum around Taehyung’s cock, grinding back against him to drag out that pleasure; the only thing holding you up is the hand still in your hair, the lips trailing up the side of your bared neck, the hard cock inside you, keeping you against him, so many points of connection with Taehyung.

(His chest pressed against your back, heart beating so hard you can feel it, your own heart moving in tandem, matching him.)

He’s been whispering filth to you, heated praise and love, how good you feel, how beautiful you are, what it’s like to see you like this, touch you like this, have you like this. Lovely, pretty, perfect, gorgeous, hot n’ wet n’ tight, fuck, love, oh.

You’re still shivering, the final pulses of your orgasm curling through you with each unintentional shift of Taehyung’s hips, the drag of his length inside your inner walls. You can feel something dripping out of you; oil, cum, you don't know, but fuck, it feels so so good.

“Oh, God,” you say. Breathless. “Oh, Taehyung, oh.”

“Pretty darling,” he murmurs. He swivels his hips, grinding against you, and your entire body jolts with oversensitivity, clit swollen where his balls press against it. You tighten around him and groan at how hot and big he still feels inside, even as you still shiver from the come down of your second orgasm. “Gonna roll you over so I can see that perfect face.”

And when you’re on your back again, fucked out and mussed and wrecked, he just stares at you. You’ve watched his face for so long, seen so many expressions flit across his features, but never something like this—it’s a mix of amazement and awe and tenderness and lust and love, a lift to his brows and a spark in his eyes and a set to his lips.

And when he leans down to kiss you, that look doesn’t leave. It melts and softens around the edges as you catch each other's mouths, as you kiss and kiss, small tender things interspersed with longer, deeper touches, lips and teeth and tongue—his eyes darken and his mouth flushes darker pink, kiss swollen and so beautiful, but that expression stays. It stays for you. 

Kim Taehyung is beautiful and lovely and unique. Kim Taehyung is so far out of your reach it’s kind of stunning, actually. And yet, here you are, existence of his touch over every part of you, in every part of you, lust driven, love full; the carefully balanced weight of his body splayed over you, pinning you down, keeping you close.

“I wanna see you cum, Tae,” you say. “Please?”

And just like he always does, Taehyung indulges you, just like you indulge him. He presses back inside you, cunt opening up for him so easy, so smooth, like his touch has already been etched into the memory of your body, perfect for him. He stays pressed close, face so near as he rolls into each thrust, sweat and coconut oil painted across your skin as your bodies shift together.

He’s been covering you in his words, both heated and sweet, and now you return the favour. You tell him how good he feels, how beautiful he is, so good, so perfect, so considerate, how much you’ve wanted this. So good, so long and thick, oh, Tae, feels so good, ah-ah-ah, baby, you’re unreal, fuck.

You can see the exact moment he starts to reach his high, the way he sucks in air, the way he lifts his chin, starts to thrust a little harder, a little faster, chasing that thread of pleasure that’s spiralling through him, and you urge him on. You lift your hips and clench so tight it has him gasping, hips stuttering, and you press your nose against his jaw, saying give it to me give it to me give it to me, wanting him to feel the same pleasure he’s given you. 

When he pulls out, you’re too busy moving to pay attention to how empty you feel, settling between his legs and swallowing down his shining cock almost desperately. There’s no coconut. You can only taste yourself and when you lave your tongue across his slit it’s all Taehyung-Taehyung-Taehyung, hot and salt and bitter; he gasps and his hips jump and you take it all, lowering your head as far as you can, the head of his cock at the back of your throat before you pull up, dragging your tongue over the pulsing vein at the underside, messy and wet. You drink down the wetness of his cock, your own arousal, mixed with his, the precum that beads at his head, staring up at him, your hands sliding over the sheen of his stomach, his thighs, cupping his balls, everything slick with oil and sweat.

“Oh, God.” Taehyung’s eyes are blown and his hair is a mess and his mouth is wide open as he pants for air, watching. “Baby, baby, I’m gonna cum, I’m gonna cum.”

You suck hard, dragging your lips up from the base of the cock to the rounded tip, swirling your tongue, bobbing your head faster—

“Oh, fuck—”

—and you swallow down each wave of cum, swallow down the way his cock twitches as he spills the evidence of pleasure into your mouth, swallow down the lovely noises that shudder out of him, watching him the whole time, never wanting to look away.

When you take your mouth off his softening cock, you draw a line of kisses with your mouth, up the soft skin of his body, stomach to chest to neck to mouth. He licks the taste of coconut oil off your lips, the taste of himself off your tongue; you curl up in his lap, settled against him, the apartment’s cool air even sharper against your skin, magnified by the oil that still lingers.

(Even without the oil painted across him, Taehyung would still shine, even under the weak light from the cheap lightbulb that hangs above you.)

You feel soft and warm and small in the circle of Taehyung’s arms, pulled close, and you can hear the words in his chest as he speaks, a resonance that touches against your skin.

“‘M sorry,” he murmurs. 

You pause.

“Baby, love, darling.” The endearments are sugar sweet in your mouth, soft against his skin before you pull back to look at him, confused, concerned. “Sorry for what?”

“I really—I really was just planning to do a massage, but you’re so…” 

You let out a slip of laughter. The room smells of coconut and sex, but when you lay your head against Taehyung’s collarbone all you can smell is the light tinge of his sweat. You breathe in, deep, like you can hold onto that ephemeral part of him. “Oh, Tae. I’m so what?”

“You’re so good,” he says. “So good and kind and lovely and—and so beautiful. I was going to do the massage to make you happy and then… tell you. About how happy you make me.”

You burrow your head into the hollow of his neck, the way he does to you, shy. “I’m not as beautiful as you,” you reply. “Tae, you are literally the most beautiful person alive, and—God, I’ve. I’ve been. So head over heels for you.”

There’s a pause. “Really?”

When you pull back to fix Taehyung with all the surprise in your gaze, you can see that he’s surprised, too. His hair hangs into his eyes, and he looks a little unsure, like he believes you, but finds it impossible to fathom.

You leave massage oil on his cheeks when you cup his face in your hands, staring at him with wide eyes. “Kim Taehyung, I have had daily breakdowns about the intensity of my love for you to Pickles ever since we got him. You’re the first person I think about each morning—usually because we wake each other up—and the last thing I think about at night—well, usually because you end up climbing into my bed more often than not, but, it still counts,” you say. You’re both tangled together in so many ways already. “You’ve had my heart for a long time, you know. I just never thought I had a chance?”

When Taehyung kisses you, it’s brief, a hard press of his lips before he rests his forehead against yours. “You really, really have no idea how perfect you are,” he murmurs. “I’ve wanted—I want to do everything for you to show you how grateful I am for everything you do for me.”

“You don’t have to,” you protest, but he just smiles.

“I don’t have to, but I want to,” he says. “Like you don’t have to look after me, but you do.”

“That’s because I love you,” you say. “Like, capital L love you.”

You’ve been so afraid of confessing, so convinced that it was an unattainable dream; that Kim Taehyung would never, could never, has never seen you as more than a friend. But the way he’s looking at you now, the way he’s touched you, the way your body still echoes with the feeling of him inside you: you’re not scared, any more. You don’t need to be.

Taehyung’s eyes are so dark and warm when he replies, easy and effortless. “I love you, too.”

Your relationship has always been a give and take, is the thing. When you climb in the shower together, he washes the oil from your back while you massage shampoo into his scalp, laughing when he makes devil horns in his hair. He catches you by surprise when he presses you against the tiles, swallowing your moans when he coaxes one final orgasm from your tired body, rubbing tight circles over your clit as you buck against his hand and water cascades over you both. His cock hardens in your hands, sliding between your legs when you press them together, tight-tight-tight, his length rubbing against your cunt as he fucks your thighs until he’s moaning and shaking and cumming again.

(The water’s cold by the time you finally climb out, but that’s okay. You giggle and kiss as you dry yourselves, each other, excuses to keep touching and feeling, driven by affection, not lust.)

When you’re both clean, and dry, Taehyung’s leg thrown over your hip as he tugs you in, flush with his body under the covers, you press your lips against the line of his jaw.

“Taehyung?”

“Yes, angel?”

You smile and hunch up even closer to him, scrunching yourself up as small as you can to plaster yourself against his side. “Thank you for the wonderful massage. Definitely the best massage I’ve ever been given, ten out of ten, would do again.”

Taehyung laughs, pressing his rectangular smile into the kiss he lays against your lips, and you think that nothing tastes better than the happiness curling his mouth.

“Love you,” he murmurs. Always romantic. “I love you love you love you.”

“Tae-honey-hyung.” And it feels so nice to not have to filter your words, to bite back that second layer of meaning, to try and keep things platonic and chaste when you speak. “I love you.”

And it feels so nice to have your Taehyung beside you, your body still aching with the press of him inside you, a good ache, a nice ache. A physical ache from good love, rather than a heartache from a love you didn’t think was reciprocated. But it is, somehow, each of you so bowled over by each other.

--

(“Hey, Pickles.”

The bearded dragon looks up at you, placid as he lounges in his tank.

“Well, you’ll be happy to hear that you won’t have to put up with me ranting at you any more,” you say. “Taehyung did break out the massage oil but it’s all good. I didn’t spontaneously combust or anything, like I thought I would.”

Pickles’ tongue flicks out as he shifts, and you smile.

“Okay, that’s it, I’m done,” you finish. “Thanks, Pickles. You’re a real pal.”

Taehyung nuzzles into your neck. His arms are a tight circle around your waist, chin resting on your shoulder as he looks down at the reptile, too. He’s warm and solid against your back, and you lean into him, happiness tingling through you.

“I wonder how much longer we would have taken if you didn’t get that coupon for a massage therapy course,” you muse, and Taehyung chuckles, warm and lovely.

“We would have gotten there eventually. And we would have had each other until we did, anyway. Right, angel?”

Pickles stays quiet as you both kiss, but you can tell he approves.)

--

taglist: @beyoncesdragon​

[xjoonchildx]

greedy | myg x reader | epilogue: bases loaded

summary: being a loner has never bothered yoongi until now.  until you.

pairing: yoongi x reader

genre: mafia AU, pining, eventual smut

rating: 18+

word count: 1.3K

notes:  thank you endlessly for reading, reviewing and sharing this story. i’m so in love with this tough-but-secretly vulnerable yoongi and you’ll never know how happy it makes me that you guys love him, too. i hope you enjoy how the story ends. either way, i’d love to hear from you! please send me an ask here and tell me what you think.

Chapter 01 | 02 | 03 | 04 | 05 | 06 | EPILOGUE

*******************

Fuck, it’s hot.

The forecaster called for a high of 91° today, but he must have missed that mark by at least a hundred degrees.  There is no breeze and absolutely no respite from the unforgiving sun here in the cheap seats.

The Lions batter connects with the ball -- finally -- and Yoongi winces as he watches it sail right over the foul line.

Beneath his sling his arm feels sticky, itchy. 

He’d love nothing more than to rip that sling off and go to town on his arm with his fingernails, but any moment now you’ll be back from the concession stand.  You’ll probably hold his hot dog hostage if you catch him.

So Yoongi tries to focus on the game, not the itch.  But the game sucks and Yoongi curses under his breath when the next Lions batter flies out on the first pitch.

Nine weeks ago, Yoongi never would have guessed that surgery would be the easy part. 

Going to sleep for a few hours and letting doctors cut into his skin and bone turned out to be a breeze compared to everything that’s come after.  The physical therapy has been grueling and painful.  Simple tasks like dressing and showering, even pouring a bowl of cereal have become a complete pain in the ass.  

He’s not sure he could have gotten through any of it were it not for you.

By now, he’s lost count of the ways you’ve taken care of him.  Lost count of the meals you’ve cooked for him, the loads of laundry you’ve done for him, the very, very creative ways you’ve come up with to make love to him.  He’s probably due for a new couch at this point. The damned thing started creaking last week.

So he’ll buy a new couch. 

He’ll buy a hundred new couches if it means you come home to him at night.

The days of arduous physical therapy are long forgotten when you shower and slip into bed beside him.  When you warm those forever-frigid feet against his under the covers and curl into his side.  When you wake up in the morning and make coffee and tell him wild stories about strange objects you’ve pulled from someone’s strange orifice the night before.

That’s how most nights go.  But not every night.

So it’s not enough.

It’s not enough because no matter how much Yoongi gets of you, it’s never enough.  He still wants more.

He walked to the drugstore before the drive to Daegu today.  He bought you a brand new toothbrush, one of those fancy electric ones with all the bells and whistles.  And he’s been waiting for the right time to tell you all afternoon, appreciating your pretty eyes and sunburnt cheeks.  

Waiting for the right time to tell you that he really wants you to stay.

***************************

“Wow, that line was brutal,” you mutter, and Yoongi looks up from beneath the rim of his snapback to find you balancing two hot dogs and a basket of fries in your hands.  You drop carefully into the seat beside him, grinning.  “I thought I was going to have to fight this kid for the last ketchup packets.”

Yoongi can’t help but grin back.  

The game sucks and the heat sucks and his arm sucks -- but you?  You definitely don’t suck. 

“Can’t get arrested for fighting kids at the concession stand, Doc,” he teases.  “The lockup here in Daegu is not exactly swanky and I can tell you that from experience.”

He reaches over with his one good arm to steal a french fry but you wrinkle your nose, pulling the basket away childishly.

“The hot dog is yours.  These are mine.”

“Wow,” Yoongi huffs.  “You’re gonna deny a one-armed man french fries?  That’s dirty.”

 “I’ve seen your bloodwork, Min,” you shrug.  “It’s time to back off the cholesterol.”

Yoongi chuckles, shaking his head.

“So how’s it going?

“Bears are still up by five,” he sighs.  “Can’t believe I waited my whole life to watch them play this shitty in person.”

“Poor thing,” you tease, cutting your dark, sparkling eyes at him.  You begrudgingly hold a french fry out to him; a greasy consolation prize.  “Okay, fine.  I’ll give you one.”

Yoongi leans into you, pretending to go for the fry but stealing a kiss instead.  

“Sneaky,” you breathe, lips soft against his.  “But I’ll allow it.”

“Nothing to allow,” Yoongi smirks, grabbing the fry out of your hand.  “I already got it.”

You smile, turning away to look out onto the field.  

The stadium is nearly empty by now, most of the hometown fans leaving after the 7th inning when it was clear this game was headed straight into the toilet.  A Bears batter hits a line drive that whizzes right past the Lions shortstop’s glove and Yoongi claps a hand over his face.

“Swear to God, they haven’t had a season this bad since I was nine years old.”

You tut and hand him another fry.

“Namjoon offered me a job,” you announce, eyes still on the field.

Yoongi freezes, mid-bite.  

He knew this was coming, of course.  Namjoon had taken him aside one afternoon and spelled out his plan to extend the offer.  Yoongi knowing all too well that the Gajog has never been in need of a full-time doctor.  The offer is a gift, an extension of family protection.

“Oh, yeah?”

“Don’t pretend you didn’t know,” you grumble, rolling your eyes.  “You’re a terrible liar.”

“Okay, fine,” Yoongi grins.  “What did he say?”

“He said he’d set me up with a clinic space,” you murmur, watching another Bears lineman crack a base hit.  “Unlimited supplies.  Nurses, if I need them.  And he said he’d pay me more every year than I think I’ve made altogether since leaving medical school.”

“So are you gonna take it?” Yoongi asks carefully.

You’re quiet for a moment, dark eyes serious before turning to him.

“No.”

He knew that was coming, too.  

“I’ve worked really hard for this,” you say softly.  “And I want what I’ve earned the right way.  This isn’t judgement on you or them, but it’s not for me.  You understand, right?”

“Of course,” Yoongi says and he means it. You press your lips to his cheek before resting your head on his shoulder.

Secretly, he breathes a little sigh of relief.

He likes that you’re his piece of peace separate and apart from family business.  He likes that you’re his oasis away from the ugliness and bullshit that come far too often in this line of work.  He likes that you’re not some hand-me-down from a mothballed church widow or an act of charity from Kim Namjoon.  

He’s earned this thing with you all on his own.

“Doc,” he whispers, planting a kiss in your hair.  “I need to tell you something.”

“Go for it,” you whisper back.

“I bought you a new toothbrush.  It’s super fancy.”

You pull away from him, feigning shock.  “How fancy are we talking here?”

“Like, two hundred settings.  Video calls.  Takes bitcoin.”

“Ooh, that does sound fancy,” you breathe, smiling.  “What’s the occasion?”

Yoongi takes your hand into his, laces his fingers into yours.  

“I want you to move in with me,” he murmurs.  “If that’s what you want.”

You go quiet on him again.  Only this time, your mouth quirks into a soft smile before you lean in to press it to his.  You kiss him slow and unhurried, lips tasting like peanut oil and salt, and in that moment Yoongi decides it’s his favorite flavor of you.

“So is that a yes?” Yoongi asks, grinning when you pull away.

“Yeah.  That’s a yes.”

You both turn your heads when what’s left of the crowd starts to boo.  The Bears have just loaded the bases, top of the ninth inning, no outs. 

“This game is terrible and it’s blazing hot,” Yoongi groans.  “We should go somewhere to cool off.  And celebrate.”

“Hmm,” you sigh happily.  “What do you have in mind?”

“If you’re up for a walk, I know a place nearby,” he murmurs, planting a kiss behind your ear.  “Great milkshakes.”

You smile.  

***********************

THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING YOU GUYS ARE THE BEST 💕💕💕

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[pinkpastels113]

Fluff 14, please 😊

@mamapitch i'm pretty sure that you requested for this as well. as for everyone else, i am SO sorry that it's taking so long! aaaaahhh.

14. “Am I your lockscreen?” “You weren’t supposed to see that.”

also on ao3

One of the reasons why Beca loves the new iPhone feature of her fingerprint being the only thing to unlock her phone is the fact that her lockscreen is only a two second blip, a foregone background as she pinches her thumb over the white reader every time she needed to go to an application. It was convenient, and safe, and had been a major factor of why she had been confident enough to set the wallpaper that she had, brazen by the thought that nobody would really see it anyway, besides her, since she always kept her devices close, and that even if they did manage to sneak a peek Beca would be given plenty the opportunity to convince away their worries and/or change the screen in no time.

Of course, the one time that someone did manage to sneak a peek, Beca wasn’t there to snatch it away, and the one time that someone did manage to discover that no, their eyes really aren’t deceiving themselves, it is the one person that that lockscreen is of, the one person that Beca is supposedly most cautious about in not finding out.

Fuck, how is this her life?

Beca is still in shock, her jaw slack as she just stares at Chloe. The oil coating the spatula in her hand is slowly dripping onto the countertop, leisurely in a way that her heart is not, which is currently trying to map a way out of her chest to most sufficiency drop a clamor onto the floor. Her blood rushes to her face, roaring in her ears, and it is like Beca is seven again in elementary, getting told off by her teacher for stealing that one kid’s toy, the one that played music whenever you squeezed their tummy, because she liked it and she was caught in trying to get away with something that she wanted.

Granted, she (still) wasn’t able to get what she wanted and there isn’t really a thing that she is now caught doing, but the feeling of flustered embarrassment and momentary shame is still there, hot and instant and all consuming.

Though this time, it is more about the feeling of self hatred of leaving her phone unattended while she stood over the stove and less about becoming a thief and doing a bad thing.

Chloe repeats the question that they both already know the answer to.

“Am I your lockscreen?”

Beca heaves a breath. Lets it out. Closes her eyes and sets the spatula down next to the eggs frying in the pan. “You weren’t supposed to see that.”

Beca can feel Chloe shifting closer, stopping just inches away. She is afraid to open her eyes to see the expression on her face, but was given no choice when Chloe reaches past her to turn off the stove and lay a hand on her arm.

“Beca.”

Beca’s face is on fire the second that she allows herself to feel it, past the initial panic that her lockscreen is seen, her vulnerability exposed. What is Chloe going to think of her now? Nobody wants to be friends with a creep.

(Bursting into a stranger’s shower is one thing, taking a screenshot of your best friend’s instagram story and setting it as your passcode background without said best friend’s knowledge is another. For one thing, you really couldn’t just put on your clothes and walk away whilst muttering that you had a lapse of judgment, or that there was no need to call the campus police because you hadn’t really “paid attention” to anything and that you aren't gonna see them again anyway.)

(For the record Chloe had seen her again and Beca is pretty sure Chloe had her memorized, but that is besides the point.)

The hand on Beca’s arm moves away, but the presence is still there even as Chloe looks at her with her eyebrows furrowed in concern. Beca’s heart has now tunneled into her throat, making it even harder to breathe as Beca tries not to stare too hard at the sparkling blue of Chloe’s gaze. She knows that she is in for it, that this is the make or break of the future of their friendship, and Beca really isn’t as observant or as empathetic as the next person over on the reading of one’s facial expression, but she could tell that Chloe is aware of this too.

The next words that come out of Beca’s mouth could very possibly be the most important words that she could ever say in her life.

Beca licks her lips. Chloe’s eyes shift like it usually does and Beca tells herself to not contemplate on it.

“Yeah. Yeah, Chlo, you are.” Beca’s fingers grip onto the oven handle pressing into her back as if for balance. She couldn’t believe that she is actually the person confessing all that she is right in that moment. She never thought that she would get there. “I know that it is really weird and borderline creepy and that I should have probably asked you first, but like, I dunno. You just looked so pretty standing there in that dress and I wanted to save the photo somehow, since instagram deletes your story after like twenty four hours, and I just really liked you and wanted to see it again basically every time I look at my phone or check the time, and-”

Chloe kisses her. And Beca still hasn't gotten the chance to take a breather after that too much too fast rant and she still believes that what they are suddenly doing- kissing as a cutoff to talking- is the most clichest of moves in all of romance history, but she kisses her back. Beca’s hand slides into Chloe’s hair and stays there, keeping her close, and Chloe’s body is warm as it leaves an impression onto the front of her own. Chloe’s lips are as soft as she imagined and her enthusiasm is as heady as she hoped for, her leg moving against Beca’s thigh while her arm wraps around her waist. It ends as quickly and surprisingly as it had started, and Beca is left blinking with a tingling sensation on her lips as Chloe smiles, gently, down at her.

“You’re an idiot,” she says, affectionately, and Beca has never been so happy to be labeled as such. She giggles as Beca awkwardly rubs at the heat at the back of her neck, and it isn’t until Beca looks up from the kitchen tiles once again that Beca notices her phone raised in the air.

“Um, what did you do? Did you just snap a picture of that?”

Chloe’s laughter is answer enough, but the device is still pushed into her chest for confirmation. Just as Beca had suspected, there it is, the snapshot of the two of them kissing in the middle of their kitchen, the light filtering in from the lone window bouncing off Chloe’s curls and catching on Beca’s necklace, and Beca doesn’t even need to make sure to know that Chloe is appreciating it as well. Beca’s gasp is one of wonder now, repeated when Chloe kisses her again, stuttered as she mumbles against her mouth,

“Now you can have a new lockscreen, and one that I hope is gonna be identical to mine. Send it to me, Bec, and I will change it as well.”

---

fin.

[pedros-mustache]

convenience

summary: he was within arm’s reach. that’s all.

warnings: suggestions of harassment, alcohol consumption, language, innuendo

a/n: no thoughts, frankie morales and his broad shoulders only. poorly edited so forgive any mistakes you find. i’ll go back and fix soon.

you rarely come to the bar alone. tonight is an anomaly.

grabbing drinks after a long work week is more enjoyable with friends by your side, and you frequent this particular watering hole what feels like every friday but can’t be more than twice a month. life is busy for you and what friends remain from your college days. babies and partners and jobs—it keeps everyone running to and fro like chickens with their heads cut off. (for you, of course, it’s just the job that’s got you strung out. no husband, no babies. that shouldn’t matter, but sometimes it does.) still, despite hectic schedules, there’s a standing date a few times a month: friday, eight o’clock, the booth with the cracked-plastic seat coverings in the far right corner.

you like the noisy atmosphere of this place, and it’s easy to lose a few hours while gossiping over cheap margaritas, a whitney houston song thumping over the tinny loudspeakers. the air smells like cigarette smoke—that’s your only qualm—but the drinks are cheap, the food is passable, and it’s a chance to let loose and really enjoy yourself after a five days of business boredom. 

of course, that’s what “the hot bird” is like most of the time. today is different. today is tuesday, it’s six-thirty, and you really shouldn’t be here alone.

you twirl the thin plastic straw around your drink and risk a glance over your shoulder. there’s a guy in your regular booth—red-faced with alcohol, tie loosened, dress shirt two sizes too big. you know he’s staring at you because you can feel his eyes on your back, your hips, your ass; he’s anything but discreet. his stare hurts like a healing sunburn: itchy, uncomfortable, hard to ignore. even from across the bar, his focus is unyielding, and you doubt he’s one to be easily dissuaded, not with the rabble-rousing friends at his booth, jostling drinks and shoulders alike. you imagine he’s biding his time, waiting for you to feel comfortable so he can strike. which is exactly what you need after being passed up for promotion (again): a drunk asshole bent on making your shitty day worse just for the hell of it.

the bartender—josh—says your name and sets a cocktail down on the counter in front of you. “here,” he says. he jerks his chin forward, indicating the back of the room. “it’s from the guy in the back.”

“oh god.” you resist the urge to look over your shoulder again. the muscles in your neck twitch, scream at you to turn and appraise the self-satisfied smirk on this guy’s face, but you hold still. you are nothing if not resolute in your determination to mind your on business, wallow in self pity, and get home without much of a fuss. “what the fuck is this thing?”

josh cringes. “it’s a b-52, our least popular drink.”

“it looks like spilled motor oil and congealed grease had a baby.”

to your right, in the barstool two over from yours, there’s a snort of amusement. your eyes snap to the side, but don’t register the other patron before josh is tapping your wrist. you hold your breath, stomach clenching at the conciliatory look on his face.

“don’t look now. i think he’s coming over.”

“of course he is,” you mutter, dropping your forehead to your palm. fuck, you really do not want to cry right now, but tears prick the corners of your eyes anyway. traitorous bastards. it’s been a long day, and you aren’t sure you have the mental fortitude to tactfully tell some guy to piss off without causing a scene or bursting into a blubbering mess.

“i can tell him—”

a smooth, unflustered voice cuts josh off mid-sentence. “no, let me.” 

a half-filled pint of beer and a plastic basket of fries slide across the counter, and then a man, shoulders broad and trucker cap pulled low, drops to the stool beside you. you gape at him, jaw hanging. the guy from two stools over—eavesdropper.

“unless,” he continues. “you want to tell him to fuck off yourself. i’m sure you can—you look like a capable woman—but i know men and sometimes...” he trails off, but you catch his drift well enough. you know men too, and the men who frequent this bar are often of the seedier variety.

except maybe not this guy... he seems nice enough, willing to lend a hand, and after the day you’ve had, you’ll take any help you can get. plus he’s easy on the eye, and it’s been awhile since anyone with such a handsome face paid you any mind.

you twist slightly in your stool, turning your body to face him. you open your mouth to offer your name, but he beats you to it, sliding his hand over the low, curved back of your stool. his presence—so masculine yet so gentle—crowds you, and you fight the urge to suck in a sharp breath. mouth hovering over your ear, he lowers his voice, and his opposite hand, long fingers splayed outwards, settles on the counter. you’re boxed in, an arm on either side of your body, but, strangely, it feels... good, safe even.

“i’m frankie,” he says. “just follow my lead, and we’ll both be out of your hair in no time.”

you turn your face to meet frankie’s eyes. he’s so near you can feel his breath on your cheeks, could kiss his plush lips if you dared. his smile, small but encouraging, eases the clench in your stomach. your gaze drifts from his warm, brown eyes to the thumb-sized spot on his chin absent the fine layer of scruff otherwise covering his jaw. god, he’s handsome.

“uh—excuse me? i couldn’t help but notice you ignored the drink i sent over.” the man from the back of the room leans against the counter, his gaze tight on your face, elbows poised casually on the bar. his voice belies none of the uncertainty he should probably feel when confronted with your obvious disinterest and frankie’s breadth. “picked my favorite for a sweet thing like you.”

gritting your teeth, you turn your head. “thanks, but i don’t think—” your resolve wavers when the man’s fat lips spread into a grin. shit, he likes this doesn’t he—how uncomfortable you are? he reminds you of richard, the guy who got the promotion you deserve: smarmy and entirely too good at weaseling. your stomach sours.

“you can’t turn me down until you at least take a sip of the thing.” reaching over his chest, the man picks up the cocktail. the three distinct layers jostle in the small shot glass.

perhaps he sees the fine sheen of tears that rush to your eyes or perhaps it’s just to make a point, but frankie’s hand drops to your thigh. the warmth of his palm filters through the mesh of your tights. without thinking, you twine your fingers through his and squeeze. 

“she said no, man.” 

for the first time, your would-be-suitor’s stare slides to focus on frankie. he arches a thin eyebrow. there’s no mistaking the way his chest inflates as frankie straightens his spine. “yeah? and who are you?”

frankie speaks without hesitation. “her boyfriend.” 

the man huffs, incredulous. “well, you didn’t claim her before now so i’m just taking my shot. free pick, ya know? first come first serve.”

frankie slides from the stool to standing. he’s near the same height as the other man, but there’s something about the clench in his jaw and the way his fingers tighten around yours and the way he moves to grip your shoulder than has you leaning into him despite the anger rolling off him in sharp waves. your shoulder pushes against the soft cotton of his t-shirt, and you hold your breath.

“say that again and i’ll crack your skull open on the counter.”

the man blinks, stunned, then laughs. it’s a harsh, nervous bark. his eyes flit to the back of the room then return to frankie. “you’ve gotta be fucking kidding me. what are you? some macho man?” 

“no—retired special forces. i can and i will make your life a living hell if you don’t crawl back into the hole you came from. leave my lady alone.”

“shit.” the man shakes his head before tossing the rejected cocktail down his throat with a cringe. “ain’t fucking worth it anyway.” he slams the glass down on the counter and, heeding frankie’s advice, returns to sulk in the back booth, tail tucked between his legs.

frankie waits until the asshole is sat snug in his booth before returning to his stool. he pops a now-cold fry in his mouth then tags a long swig of his beer. you watch him and decide you’ve never wanted to kiss someone so badly in your entire life. 

“thank you,” you breathe. “i—fuck, i didn’t realize you’d be so... intimidating.” 

frankie shrugs, eats another fry. he avoids your eye. “hate to see you treated like that. least i can do.” 

you hum in approval, tracing the curve of his nose with your gaze. “i got passed up for a promotion today,” you offer. “put me in a real tailspin. i don’t normally go out in the middle of the week.”

fry dangling between his pointer finger and thumb, frankie finally returns his eyes to yours. “i’m sorry to hear that. if it makes you feel any better, i got stood up. i don’t normally go out in the middle of the week either.”

“guess we’re just a couple of losers then.” when frankie’s eyebrow lifts, you visibly cringe. you grab his forearm and squeeze your eyes shut. “no, wait—that’s not what i meant. i meant that... in the grand scheme of things, we aren’t... i mean...” squinting, you risk a peek at him. “shit, i’m sorry.”

after a moment, frankie smiles—and your heart leaps to your throat. he motions to josh at the other end of the bar. “what drink do you like?” he asks. “we can make it a real date, if you want? you know, to keep up appearances.” 

“a real date?”

he nods. “yeah. i’m not big on fate and shit like that, but... well, maybe i’m big on fate tonight.” his eyes roam your face, and you wonder if he’s drinking you in, memorizing your features. unlike before, his stare is kind, appreciative, reverent. your cheeks heat under his gaze, but you don’t look away.

the corner of your mouth pulls into a grin. “okay.” you smile at josh when he appears. “i like mojitos.” 

“really?” at your nod, frankie’s smile widens. “me too.” 

you reach for a fry in his basket. “must be fate then,” you say with a shrug.

“yeah.” his hand falls to your thigh again, squeezing the flesh around your knee. you look from his hand to his face, and anything you once thought shitty about the day turns rosy with possibility. “must be fate.”

.

.

.

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