#this is messing up my queue all your interesting questions

[bethanydelleman]

I've noticed that the gentry tends to look down on lawyers. In P&P there's a whole paragraph where Caroline talks about how Lizzy has an uncle who's a lawyer and how fitting that makes her for Darcy since his uncle was a high ranking judge. And in Downton Abby the news that the new heir Matthew Crawley works as a lawyer is almost scandalous to them. Why is that?

Okay, short answer: There are two types of lawyers and Mr. Philips and Matthew Crawley (I'm assuming, it's been a minute since I watched DA) are the wrong type. Only one type was considered gentry.

Long Answer: There were actually SIX TYPES OF LAWYERS because there were three systems of law and two types of lawyers for each system. The basic difference was this, "middle class" lawyers did research and prepared for court cases, did wills etc. Today in England they would be called a solicitor. But at this time they were also called attorneys and proctors.

The gentry class lawyers, today called barristers, are the ones who actually argued in court and could become judges. They were also called serjeants and advocates. I think we can safely assume that John Knightley (Emma) is a barrister, or upper class lawyer. The other barrister is probably Mr. William Elliot from Persuasion.

Mr. Shepherd (Persuasion), Wickham's father and Mr. Philips (Pride & Prejudice) are all probably solicitors of some variety.

So why and what is the difference? The biggest difference is that solicitors did an apprenticeship and were paid directly by their clients. Barristers were paid a commission "gift" by a solicitor, which made their profession FANCY and HIGH CLASS. They also went to university and had to join the very exclusive barrister club (there were only about 600 of them in England at this time). The wife of a barrister could also be presented at court, but not a solicitor.

And of course, in keeping with this distinction, barristers made a lot more money. On average around £4000 a year, but up to £15,000!

The three systems of law were common, canon (church), and equity. Common law covered almost everything. Equity law a secondary system where someone who believed their common law verdict was too strict could seek relief, it also handled guardianship and things like trusts. Canon law dealt with divorce and wills, as well as special permission to do things in the church, like holding multiple livings.

By the way, divorce by criminal conversation (cheating) went through the common law court, canon court, and then went to parliament. It was not cheap or easy!

Common - Serjeants, attorneys

Equity - Barristers, solicitors

Canon - Advocates, proctors

Primary Source

Secondary (and free) Source

[icepoptroll]

So I've been heavy into RTC in recent months. As well I work as a nurse. So naturally this idea came to me:

Everyone Lives AU where the choir kids survive the Cyclone accident, wake up in the hospital, and come to find out their nurse is a guy named. . . Yep. Karnak

Ricky wrote him a lengthy note between hourly rounds about how they all had died and they were in limbo and he was there too, and while he was there he was a magical mechanical fortune teller with prognostication and resurrection abilities, and how he's not sure how he's there with them now because a rat had killed him by chewing through his power cable. Karnak reads it and responds with a chuckle and "ah yes, your parents DID mention that you have a very active imagination, Richard." *Queue gobsmacked Ricky face*

Ocean is more scared and freaked out and still not past her initial stress response, all "How are we all still alive? How are YOU alive? You just DIED back there. And I thought you could only bring back one of us! That WHOLE TIME you were just testing us??? What kind of messed up game are we playing now?"

"I'm sorry. I'm afraid I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Oooooh yes you do! You were some kind of. . . Ominous novelty machine just before all this!"

"Ah. Curious, one of your friends accused me of the same thing. Quite an interesting phenomenon, how multiple people are on occasion found to somehow suffer the same exact nightmare. This is likely a result of your shared trauma--- I assure you I am just a med-surg nurse. I am not now, nor have I ever been, an 'ominous novelty machine.'"

"So it's just some wacky coincidence that we all remember someone JUST LIKE YOU from the afterlife and now all of a sudden we're all assigned to you? You had no part in that?"

"If I had my way, Miss Rosenberg, I would be assigned to only three of you. Unfortunately, though, safe nurse/patient ratios have really fallen to the wayside in recent years. Now. . . Before I continue my rounding, do you have any questions about your medication?"

The kids convene and question whether maybe he IS just a dude with the same name but COME ON his voice and mannerisms are all the same and he even kinda looks like him and the timing is just too perfect to be coincidental and the way he cracks a smile when someone calls him "Mr. Whatever" like it's him it's gotta be him

Definitely gonna think of more and most likely gonna end up drawing/writing stuff for this lol I just can't resist letting my work influence my hobbies haha

[888-fr]

What are some of your favorite skins you've made?

I thought about the answer to this question for a very long time. I want to tell you a story about a skin that broke the site.

(I think this has been fixed now, which is the only reason I'm posting about it.)

Up until around March of this year, skin names weren't sanitized. I wasn't aware of this and continued to be unaware of this until the day I asked for my Valentine's pearlcatcher skins (named <3 and </3 respectively) to be renamed. Special characters often break when you submit them through the queue, so you have to go and ask the mods in the skroblems thread to fix apostophes for you so they display properly. I went and asked them to fix my pearlcatcher skin's names for me, since they weren't displaying correctly either. This lead, by accident, to the most interesting way I've gotten the site to break in a while.

My friend noticed first when they got a subscribed notification to my skin shop thread. They realized there were two pages that were completely gone.

Then they realized that the front page didn't look right either. My catalogue posts had completely vanished. Only to find... when you hovered over the thumbnail of the </3 skin's icon, my posts had hopped into the item description.

We experimented a little more before realizing this thing was... very, very powerful! You could put the skin into a den tab description, and it would put every single dragon in that tab into the space of the description box. You could break your userpage for ANYBODY on site. Your entire dragon could get swallowed up if you put it into their bio. And because the skin deleted the edit button, you couldn't get it back out.

Little did I know, the </ part of the skin name - when posted using [skin=skinid] or [item=skin: </3] - would act as an HTML tag anywhere it was posted, and completely mess up how the site displayed! I compiled everything I found and sent it into the bug forums and the contact team box for review. The thread got deleted almost immediately, confirming what I suspected: skin names aren't sanitized, and this could very easily be exploited with malicious intentions or SQL injects.

Luckily, they fixed it pretty quickly! I hope the way the site handles skin names has been updated now too. This sort of thing wouldn't have happened even if I had named the skin </3 or, god forbid, dropTable(); in the first place. I do think it was because I had the mods go in and edit the skin name that allowed the unclosed </ to display in the skin's item icon and then break the site.

So that's the story of one of my favorite skins I've made! <3 and </3 are now LOVE and LOVE(LESS) respectively. The designs themselves didn't sell too well, but for a glorious 16 hours, they contained all the power of little nuclear bombs detonating on various HTML-dependent sitepages.

[just-some-random-blogger]

Found the inbox, i think😅 could you please make a shortstory with aegon/tom the actor? Where yn is a co actress playing a servant/love interest for aegon, and they are supposed to kinda film a feisty makeout scene (on aegons bed🙄) . Anyway it’s kinda awkward so ofc Tom is gonna be a crackhead and try make yn laugh as well as being fliirtyyy (and dirtyminded). That’s it that’s all I’ve got. If this made some sense at all and you would be so kind to use your time and talent on this, I will be blushing and screaming for a week!!

A Total Babe

Tom Glynn-Carney x Actress!Reader

Summary: Aegon is yucky but Tom is baby (confirmed.)

Word Count: >800

Warnings: fem!reader, tom being super cutie and annoying T_T, set shenanigans, i have never actually been on set so im making stuff up as I go, fluff, typos, etc.

A/N: hello lovie im giving you an express pass (even though its not as express but trust me it's express lololol) because youre new here and im sure youre super panicked that i havent replied yet lol i btw combined your req with another one (i actually thought you were the anon that sent that) because they're quite similar. btw nonnie, i didn;t want to redo the matt smith fic, so i changed it up a bit <3 i hope you both like it <3 Tagging: @pinksirensong @deniixlovezelda

"Cut!" the director calls.

Tom, who was hovering atop me from the bed we were laid upon, pulls back, pressings his lips into a line, and rolls off, landing on his back.

I, who had been making out him for about 30 minutes, prop myself up on my elbows and eventually sit up. I suck in a breath, willing the haze that comes in the aftermath of kissing. I catch sight of the incoming stylists, ready to retouch our makeup and readjust our wardrobe.

I straighten up as the makeup artist redoes my foundation with her brush. I turn to the artist that goes up to Tom and I point a bit worriedly, "I think I accidentally messed with his wig."

Tom, who's stylist immediately check on his platinum hairpiece, turns to me, chuckle, "her fingers were two inches away from snatching it off."

They all laugh at his sentiment. I, in particular, snort and frown playfully, "fake news. You're such a drama enticer."

"What?" Tom chuckles, "I'm not kink shaming," he raises his hands, "but you can't just snatch my wig, baby."

I scoff, rolling my eyes, holding back my grin. I turn to the the stylists, absolutely humored and enamored by Tom's English drawl and smooth talking, "he's such a dweeb."

Tom pulls his upper lip up in faux annoyance, "I'm offended you think so little of me."

Once our makeup was retouched and ready, Tom and I go back to our spots on the other side of the set. He extends a hand out to help me up, although I didn't need it, and I take his hand, allowing him to lead us back to our marks. Totally normal. Totally no butterflies in my stomach.

Tom and I face each other, waiting for our queue. We absentmindedly look around the set. There are distant voices of crew members conversing behind the camera.

It turn to Tom when he pushes back hair behind my ear.

I give him a look and he gives me a narrow eyed smirk, as if nonverbally saying he did that just to mess with me. I ignore him and the tightening of my chest.

The next moment, the intimacy coordinator walks up to us with the director, the latter of the two says, "great shot guys, but I'm thinking wilder."

"Are we ok with that?" the intimacy coordinator asks, looking between us as she raises a thumb up with her questioning gaze.

Tom and I turn to each other, nodding softly as we purse our lips and mutter agreements.

"Ok," the director points, motioning over to the bed, "I think in this part, where you push up her skirt, you have to make sure the camera can see your hand on her thigh, Aegon."

Aegon's actor nods as we walk over to bed.

"Should we practice it?" I apprehensively offer.

"We can," Tom says, turning between the three of us, raising his hand out to me. I grab his hand and place it on my hip, hiking my skirt, placing up the bunched up fabric in Tom's hand. Much like a while ago, I place my hands on Tom's shoulders, leaning back a bit. His hand goes to my waist, and I huff, ignoring the washing machine turns in my stomach.

"Are we good?" the intimacy coordinator asks again, coming near us, placing a hand on our shoulders. Both Tom and I turn to her and agree. She smiles and nods, stepping back, "okie dokie.

The director steps forward, adjusting our form, turning over her shoulder, "how are we looking?"

One of the assistants calls, "looking hot!"

"Nice," the director grins, turning back to us. She turns to me, "you're good with whining out his name?"

"Tom?" I catch myself, "I- I mean-" but it's too late.

Tom, the director, the intimacy coordinator, and everyone else who catches my questioning tone, breaks into a giggle.

I bare my teeth in a tight grin, straightening myself up, pulling my hands away from Tom, "I meant Aegon," I weakly say.

Tom chortles, loosening his grip on me as he looks off to the camera, "for the record, she did not."

The director chuckles, slapping Tom's shoulder playfully as she turns to me, correcting, "Aegon!"

"Aegon," I nod my head.

"Aegon," Tom grins, as he says my character's name sequentially.

I roll my eyes at him, "yes but Aegon keeps forgetting her name."

"Fine," Tom says, continuing with my name as he throws a lopsided smile.

"Enough," our director, chastised lightly tapping Tom's nose, "if you two screw this up I'm making you do 600 push ups."

Tom gasps, pulling his hands away from me altogether, to hover his them by either side of his cheeks, "not corporal punishment."

I cross my arms, scoffing in amusement, turning to the director, "please actually make him do 600 pushups if he messes up."

Tom laughs loudly, "aha," he tilts his head, "and what should I do to you for calling out my name on," he raises his two fingers and wiggles them " 'accident', sweetheart?"

"Quit being annoying," I raise my brows at him, pursing my lips.

"That means you find me distracting," he retorts victoriously, wiggling his eyebrows next.

"Alright," the director raises her hands in front of both our faces, "that's enough flirting. On your marks."

[divorcingjimmatthews]

Second Chances - Part II (Jade Herrera x Reader)

Summary: Jade does his best to help you settle in the town, in his own way.

My Jade brainrot is too strong 🥴

After a brief tour of the house, your proxy had left you to unpack your belongings in the small room that you were set to share. Clara's bright and hopeful nature almost made you feel like things were normal—if the state of the building and her own eye injury did not serve as reminders of the horrors that you'd seen in this place you found yourself in, you could have even said that it was nice.

Trying to focus on what you had in front of you, you sat on the floor by your open suitcase, many of your belongings already scattered across the floor. Your clothes, your towels... did it even make sense to put it all away in the closet? It's not like you were going to actually stay here, right...?

"—Hey." Jade greeted you before lightly knocking on your open door, startling you enough to nearly make you drop what you were holding. "Bad moment?"

"N-No. What is it?" You replied, rushedly unfolding a towel just to fold it again, more neatly. "I'm just trying to get this mess out of the way before Clara comes back."

"Mess?" Jade asked, looking at all that you had laid on the floor. "I thought this is what this place always looked like."

You shot him an unamused look and sighed, then grabbed a t-shirt and threw it for him to catch. "Why don't you help me instead of being mean?"

Jade chuckled, clearly finding his own joke funny, and your reaction even more so. "Sorry. In that closet?"

"Yes." You replied, catching yourself lightly chuckling as well. It was contagious. "You still didn't tell me why you're here, though."

Jade folded the t-shirt rather aptly and placed it on one of the closet's empty shelves, then shrugged.

"You know. I just thought you'd appreciate seeing a bit more of my... familiar face."

You stopped what you were doing. You had not forgotten how sweet he could be, in his own way, but you had the faint hope that you weren't so weak for it now as you were three years ago.

"I do. Thanks. I... I appreciate that."

He flashed a warm smile in your direction and sat down opposite you to "help" you sort the rest of your stuff, in the same way that a cat might "help" you work on a sewing project.

He went over all the electronics you were carrying, not caring where he put each device down after he inspected it. He then found a comic book and he started flipping through the pages with interest, which kept him busy for a while. Eventually, the sight caught your eye and you couldn't hold back a small laugh.

"Jade." You told him, clearly endeared. "You're not helping."

He closed the book and threw his hands up in the air in protest. "Of course I'm helping! Where does this go?"

You took a quick look around the room and located a small bookshelf on the wall, with some space still in it. "Hmm... over there."

Obediently, Jade stood up to put the book where it belonged, and you turned back to your suitcase. As you reached for the next piece of clothing in the queue, you had a sudden realization—and you regretted every single choice you'd made while packing for this trip.

You hoped that Jade was too busy with the books to have seen what you saw, but one look in his direction was enough to let you know that you had been caught red-handed. He walked back to his spot and knelt down on one knee, reaching into the suitcase and producing from it a white shirt that had once belonged to him.

He gave you the most puzzled look. "You kept this?" 

"It's Dolce & Gabanna." You defended youself, flustered. "I wasn't going to throw it away."

There was silence.

"Okay." He finally said, sparing you the question of why you'd bring it on your trip with it.

The answer was easy, of course. Not over a month ago, you had seen it on the news that he was presumed dead. It had not been easy to keep the messy feelings that resurfaced in check.

"Okay?" You asked, surprised that he'd let you off the hook that easy.

He nodded. "Mh-hm. Where do I put it?"

"Oh—it's yours." You rushed to say. "You... you can have it back."

Jade recalled the day that he gave it to you in the first place. It was the first out of the grand total of two weeks that you had spent "together", if you could call it that. After he'd stayed at your apartment for a few days, you didn't want him to go. You said you'd miss him that night, and so, in came the shirt.

He also recalled how seeing you in nothing but that shirt easily convinced him to reschedule an important business trip just so he could stay with you for one more day and one more night.

"It's fine." He said, standing back up to hang it on your closet. "There's no keeping white clean in this place anyway."

You smiled a little.

"Are you going to be okay here?" He asked.

A small beat before your answer betrayed your certainty. "Yeah. Donna seems to know what she's doing. I trust her."

"Good. Just do what she says." He told you, taking a step towards the door. "I'll see you around?"

You nodded. "Sure. See... see you around."

You looked down for a moment, lost in thought, and when you looked back up, he was gone. You tried to tell yourself that you parted ways for a reason.

Over and over through the day.

At dinner.

While you brushed your teeth.

And as you reached into your closet for his shirt that very same night.

[spockandawe]

Hello,I absolutely adore your work! I have been binding books for a few years now (mostly scanlated manga that hasn't been licensed,and some pdf books that are too expensive for me to afford or too rare to buy). I came across your work a few months ago,and absolutely relish your posts. I was wondering if I could ask for some advice?

Do you print your books at home,or use a printing service? Because they're such massive amounts of pages if I want to do a full series...once I printed a 24 volume series and my printer reached its page limit,and I had to get it serviced to reset it😭(I know a code can be bought and used,if it happens again I intend to do that but I'd like to avoid if possible). If you use a service can you recommend any,or any general advice for finding one?

And if you print them at home, could you give some advice on how to print Quattro or snaller books? I just use Acrobat (older versions) to print in booklet setting to get a half page sized book,I would really appreciate some knowledge on how to go smaller (and save some paper)

It's okay if you would rather not answer though,or if you want to take a while,I completely understand if that's the case!

Oh my gosh, you can absolutely ask anything you want, this is my favorite hobby to enable people for! (I LOVE that you're doing this for scanlations, also! My manga hyperfixation is mostly dormant right now, but once my brain locked on to archival work for fan translations of cnovels, I immediately started anxiously circling this idea like a dog whining because it can't fit all the toys in its mouth at once, so I'm delighted to hear someone has this interest!)

I print my books at home. I've considered using a printing service for some special cases, like large paper my machine can't handle, but it was ultimately expensive enough, and my personal needs were off enough (I do high-volume, fast-turnaround work) that I've never actually followed through. I'm fortunate that a few years before I picked up this hobby, I got a color laser duplex printer (canon mf cdw644, iirc) as a gift, and it's filled all my needs beautifully, so I never had to look for another way to tackle the issue.

It is still very expensive to make as many books as I do, I've spent unconscionable amounts of money just on toner, but the math shakes out pretty clearly in my favor. Now, an issue that has occurred to me for more graphic prints would be that if a comic page has a lot of hard blacks, I'm not sure how much it would take before it was cost-effective to go elsewhere. I'm not sure if a point like that does exist, but it's a question I'd be interested in knowing an answer to!

(Laser printers tend to be more expensive up front, but cheaper to use in the long term. I do know one person who owns an ink TANK printer and sings its praises, but those can be harder to find for home usage)

One thing that I'm not sure would apply to your printer is that for big jobs, I *think* my computer and printer run out of memory and it messes up not just the current print job, but future ones I queue up after it, and switching the printer off only makes it worse. My pages start looping back to the beginning of the print job and starting over and the only fix is to reset my print spooler in my system services directory and ruthlessly cancel jobs until my print queue stays empty. I can get around that by printing smaller sets of pages at a time (1-50, then 51-100, etc), so something like that might also help coax your printer into cooperating!

And ahhhh, yes, small books! I'm a HUGE fan, I rarely print anything larger than quarto these days. I use a free tool developed by other fan binders, which I'll link right here

https://momijizukamori.github.io/bookbinder-js/

It has a lot of settings that I haven't explored in too much depth, but I use it to impose almost everything I make. There are layouts for the straightforward divide-in-half imposition (half-letter, quarto, octavo, etc), but towards the bottom there are wacky layouts, like six sheets per side of paper. There might be resources somewhere in renegadepublishing that go into more depth, but like I said, my experimentation has been relatively bland XD In general, I recommend double checking the files you get from it for whether you want to flip on the long or the short edge, but other than that, I've found the tool very intuitive and easy to use!

I hope that helps!!! I'm always delighted to help people out with any of this stuff :D

[jet-bradley]

going to share here what's probably my most controversial theme park opinion and by that i mean "i've been blocked by people over this before" but. thoosies need to stop using GP as an insult not just because that's inane, but because there is no meaningful difference between a coaster enthusiast and another theme park guest. you're both members of the general public.

like, the interests of a theme park guest who isn't a ride enthusiast are not actually that fundamentally different than the interests of guests who are. ride enthusiasts like to frame themselves like because they know a lot about theme parks, ride systems, etc, and maybe they prefer more thrilling rides, that they're fundamentally a different type of guest than every other guest in a theme park. but that's just... incorrect for a lot of reasons?

like if your argument is that a coaster enthusiast is going to prioritize thrill coasters over other rides at the park, that's fine and it makes sense for some things, like, famously, the defunctland queue line video's analysis of wait times. but i don't think the venn diagram between "people who will prioritize thrilling rides over doing anything else in the park" and "coaster enthusiast" is as circular as ride enthusiasts think it is. growing up i definitely didn't consider myself a thrill ride enthusiast but i still prioritized thrill coasters visiting theme parks. working at thrill rides i'd say most of the guests i meet there fall into this category. they don't really identify as ride enthusiasts but they wait in line for big rides because other rides aren't fun for them at all.

there also are plenty of coaster enthusiasts who can't really handle high G forces like you'd expect, and have to take dramamine/etc just to ride anything, but they're still enthusiasts because they like the design. the fact that there are people who call themselves ride enthusiasts while refusing to ride anything at a non-disney park should be evidence enough that coaster enthusiasts aren't the monolith people think they are.

but i think the real root of this belief is--and this is the worrying part for me as an ex-op, and an engineering student with connections working in the A&A industry--that these people genuinely believe that the act of trying to learn a lot about rides makes you on a level similar to an industry insider. which is absolutely batshit to me. and this manifests itself in a lot of ways. even the regulars at my theme park that i liked working with the most, ended up crossing a lot of work-life barriers with ride operators that made ops uncomfortable. sometimes they would expect us to tell them insider knowledge about the parks that we couldn't tell anyone, just because they were regulars.

a more concerning facet of this is how many regulars will go out of their way to like, FOLLOW RIDE OPS ON SOCIAL MEDIA. some RO's love this and love the clout they get from working at a theme park, but when you work at a minor-to-medium size park, guests finding and following you on your socials can be terrifying. one of my friends had a regular message him about something random on his story that the guest took as an innocent question, but the answer to that question had identifying information that a customer just shouldn't know about an employee at a place they happen to visit a lot.

(side note: instagram in particular is really annoying about this! ops follow each other, so a guest who only follows the ops whose pages are About Being Ride Ops, will ultimately be recommended pages by ops who aren't open about it on their profiles. the app will recommend you to follow friends of friends and if you go to the park enough, you can definitely pick out ops just from their profile photos... it's super freaky! especially since my park employs minors in rides!)

and honestly? it also applies to the mess that happened at iaapa expo last year, where specific ride enthusiasts/channels that cater to them started harassing AMUSEMENT RIDE CONTRACTORS. because these people dont understand exactly how removed the average theme park guest is from any decision being made at the DESIGN LEVEL of amusement rides. im gonna level with you, that's a problem - it's how you get NEW COASTERS that aren't accomodating for larger guests (hi velocicoaster!) but like, fundamentally, paying money to attend a HUGE conference for industry insiders and trying to argue with people on camera isn't "putting pressure on them" in the way that you think it is. these companies are completely divorced from the reality of the people they build rides for. i'm a huge fan of b&m coasters, but like, they haven't even built a single ride in their own country. if you knew jack shit about the industry you'd know it's gonna take more than like, yelling at some sales reps about the problem to fix anything.

and even then, they weren't even mad about anything that's current inside the industry, or even real problems like the ones i mentioned above! they were just upset because they didnt like some companies' coasters very much. what's the fucking point?

tl;dr the only effective difference between a coaster/ride enthusiast and the rest of the GP is what exactly they were more likely to verbally abuse me for back when i worked as a ride op. the ONLY other difference i can think of is general entitlement, but plenty of other subsets of guests are entitled (such as first-time parents of small children).

also if you've never worked anywhere in the industry and you're insulted by the idea of being GP, dont try to argue with me lol.

[hell-ama-official]

Once, I said measuring something makes it less remarkable.

Understanding the world makes it safer, makes you feel smart, but it also makes it less wondrous. I don't think it's inherently wrong to search for understanding and meaning and knowledge, but there is a sense of surprise and child-like discovery to learning something without knowing its internal mechanics.

Today I almost went on a long discussion of something I had previously hand-waved multiple times before, and I was correct in doing so. I've taken the post down from the queue, because I feel like they demystify something that shouldn't be demystified. Pulling away the veil can be fascinating and liberating, but once you know the trick, the repeat performance will not capture your attention as much as one did previously. Like the magic(less) tricks. The blade folds. The table below the hat has a hole in it. The cards are attached to a string.

I won't spread misinformation on purpose, but I might withhold information that makes Hell sound boring, intstead of capturing your imagination. My job is to answer questions about Hell in a way that gets people thinking, "Huh, Christianity's not all it's cracked up to be, and Hell's actually kind of an interesting place with its own share of problems", as well as to be "entertaining enough you don't notice it when the Devil gets ya", and turning into a textbook runs counter to that goal.

That being said, I will not be publicly answering questions on the precise mechanics of tilt weather of Hell, because I cannot in my ability make it sound captivating. Learning how, exactly, it works may make the nature of Hell less confusing, but it is emptying. It is existentially horrifying, in some ways. It's not information that matters to anyone other than physicists and experts on magical metal-making should care about. Dredging up the topic makes me feel rather like putting a kitten in a vacuum chamber and slowly pumping out the air.

You can refer to this post for any questions about tilt weather.

The layers of Hell aren't stacked in the same three spacial dimensions and are constantly shifting through a separate dimension, colliding with and separating from each other like plumes of smoke. It contributes to why Hell is so confusing, and why items get lost all the time, but it's not the main main reason for why Hell is such a mess, physically and metaphysically. Hell makes no sense. Hell is horrible. I regret ever starting this blog every time I have to say anything about the metaphysical nature of Hell.

Citizens of Hell use "kata" and "ana" to signify these directions. It's easy to imagine Hell dimensions being tipped over and falling katawards, clipping through each other. The schoolyard joke "the kata tilt ate my homework" is a pun not worth consideration on literary merits alone, but it is somewhat accurate, as sometimes objects will, in fact, randomly disappear due to an invisible planar movement.

Kata and ana, as should be clear to anyone who has access to a search engine, any search engine, are loan words from four-dimensional physics, and it has to be that way because before the standardization of the direction names reached Hell from the upper realms, ana had also been called Avici, Abi, Ardenti Lotos, or "ah shit, perpendicular zoomies", and kata was considered the default state. All of these terms are currently considered culturally inappropriate and are no longer used. Although it could be debated that these words came from Hell and were culturally appropriated by humans, I'm not about to get into specifics of that particular ant colony.

The tool to measure tilt is called kataclinometer, which is horrendously uninspired, and whoever named it should be legally enforced to have their name changed to "Entity #6666661313". Kataklinometers are both rare and dangerous, as a side effect of measuring precise tilt creates either an ion or an electron bombardment field inside of a protective barrier, depending on the tilt. I've never been near one, and I don't ever want to.

I think I went through all of the questions the original message asked, except for "how are any of you alive?" The answer, as usual, is barely.

[afterwardsblogs]

how to google ?

i hate that I have so many things going on in my brain all at once; so many ideas and inspiration and drive to do something with. I know I have so much potential, but sometimes I wonder where I went wrong, or others went wrong to not teach me. I have no clue where I can start, or how to start. what I can do and how to do those things. and I have no idea how to start to look them up and learn. its like when you go into google to look something up; you know exactly what you're looking for and exactly what type of answer you need and want to get. you think you're asking just the right questions. but then you go to type them into the search engine, and all you get in return is gibberish, some answer you didn't even ask the question for. sure, it might still be interesting and the further you go down you might still find what you're looking for, but it's a struggle to get there, and when you do get there, it's barely the answer you were looking for. I don't have a different way to explain this. it's like everything I was ever taught is somehow wrong all of a sudden. like I missed a queue to change everything I ever knew was right, but everyone else got it. I ask my question in a proper manner. I write it out in a complete sentence- punctuation, question mark, the whole deal. I make sure my grammar is on point, precise, but not too fancy, so everyone can understand what I'm asking and won't get confused. I double check to make sure I wrote the question in the right language, tailored to the person I'm talking to. did they not understand me? am I talking too quietly again? I don't know what I'm doing wrong. this is how I was taught to ask questions- not to mention that everyone always used to say 'there's no such thing as a stupid question, only stupid answers.' so-is everyone else stupid? I'm sure I had to miss something. one time could be a mistake, twice maybe a coincidence. but to have that happen to you every time you ask a question, not even that but just a clarification, that cannot be excused anymore. I wish someone would explain it to me already. it's probably fun for everyone else. seeing me struggle in this new world, like I was some alien baby social project. 'how long can we make her believe she's one of us? can we fool her forever? how interesting, she actually things she's one of us! I wonder how long we can keep this ruse up and how good the reveal's gonna be!' I don't feel like a real person sometimes. I know I'm not fully fleshed out yet; my frontal lobe should still be developing and will only be done in about 2 1/2 years, at most. but I know I'm not a complete idiot. I know I'm somewhat smart and I have some common sense in me. so what is wrong with me? - again, I don't know how to type that into google. you should keep your questions short. actually, don't make them questions per se. put it into keywords, pseudo sentences. like you're writing down notes to string together a sentence later. just enough key points to hit just enough characters to get an okay to use password. the worse it sounds, the better the answer's gonna be. it goes beyond anything I've ever learned, and somehow everyone else seems to know that. it just gives me room to wonder, what else is there that everyone just seems to know how to do correctly. while I'm over here doing it 'properly' and looking like a complete fool. no one's going to say anything either. they'll all just silently laugh at you, talking about it when you're finally gone, and make it a funny anecdote to tell to others later on. I'm not completely sure what I'm trying to say, it's all a jumbled together mess of words. not as bad as a good google search though. I still have some integrity. I guess I'll just look it up at the library. that's where they'll still appreciate my fully formed sentences-at least I can still hope.

[takethejourney]

mobile friendly guidelines

hi there! my name is sunny, i’m 32 years old, i use she/they pronouns, and i live in the central time zone. i appreciate you taking the time to follow my blog and read through these guidelines. i’ll try to keep them short.

this blog is 18+ only. minors, do not follow me. i will block you on the spot if i find out you’re underage. followers that don’t display their age somewhere on their blog will also be blocked. i’m not going to take that risk.

nsfw is welcome here. that said, all nsfw interactions will be put under a read more and tagged with ‘nsfw tw’

personals, do not reblog my interactions. you can follow me, like my posts if you enjoy what you’ve read, and even send in asks and/or interact with me in instant messages if you want to ask my muse questions or chat, but if you reblog my threads, i’m blocking you without further warning. it messes with my notifications and might make me miss replies.

please don’t spam-like my posts either. again, it floods my notifications and might make me miss something. i’ll ask you to stop if i see this happening. if it doesn’t, i’ll be blocking you.

if possible, please reblog art and askbox games from the source. this isn’t always able to be done since blogs or original posts get deleted, but if you can, please do it to help keep my notifications focused mainly on roleplay.

i am mutuals only. this is purely for my own peace of mind. if your rp blog is a sideblog, i expect that information to be somewhere easily visible on your blog, or for you to tell me outright in my ask box or instant messages.

if you are a mutual that no longer wishes to be mutuals, please hard block my blog. this will force me to unfollow you, and hard blocking means i won’t get confused, think the unfollow was a glitch in the system, and refollow.

i am multiverse & multiship. this means all romantic interactions will be separate from each other and do not mingle.

i love romantic relationships between muses. they make me happy. if you’re interested in shipping with my muse, chances are i’ll be interested too. that said, i ship with chemistry; a relationship needs to be built up through interactions. i usually can’t do anything pre-established, though there have been exceptions.

i tend to take a while to respond to threads and asks. if i haven’t replied to our thread in about a week, feel free to ask me about it. i can tell you if it’s in my drafts or queue. on that same note, i am trying to put most of my replies on a queue system. there are exceptions, but expect this to be the norm.

my only trigger is visuals of animal abuse/needless death. this is especially true for cats. i also have squicks, but they aren’t nearly as important to tag as the trigger. my squicks are: real world politics, rpc drama, anon hate, constant negativity, and visuals of eye or neck gore. 

i think that’s it! if i think of anything else, i’ll add it in here. thanks for reading! <3

[its-weeping]

hello! i wanna request a scenario with miguel :))

i think this been done before but i hosently wanna see how u write it 🙏

reader doesn't know shit abt spanish and they cant understand miguel whenever he speaks it. so miguel calls them cute nicknames in spanish but since reader doesn't know spanish they think he's insulting them but in reality he's calling them "my love" 🥹💛

i'm gonna clear some requests that's been sitting in my inbox so stay tuned! (each request will probably take around 2 weeks or more though...)

also a tribute to atsv finally being able to be streamed digitally!

— 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐩𝐨𝐤𝐞𝐧 𝐚𝐟𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐞𝐬. | miguel o'hara

synopsis. ࿔𐦍 what is miguel really saying?

warning. cursing, pet names (baby doll, precious, sweetness)

notes. woah, another miguel fic?? crazy. i don't know spanish i'm using google translate!

often would you catch miguel calling you names—in spanish.

were they insults? you didn't know. were they pet names? you didn't know either, although that would be highly unlikely. all you knew was that miguel would hiss these names whenever you'd do something wrong.

mess up on a mission, "muñeca, ¡¿en qué diablos estabas pensando?! " baby doll, what the fuck were you thinking?!

you get injured, "mierda, dulzura, ¡tienes que tener más cuidado! " shit, sweetness, you need to be more careful!

or even accidentally switching your coffees, "este no es mi café, preciosa." this isn't my coffee, precious.

it had never been peaceful with the man.

you initially thought he hated your guts until one day lyla came along and clued you up on something dangerously interesting about miguel.

"hey, (name)!"

"yeah, what is it, lyla?"

"i know it's none of my business..."

the ai trails off, a mischievous smirk on her holographic face. you raise a brow at the demeanor and demand lyla tell you whatever information she was keeping. the brunette takes a breath, looking to be holding back a wider smile.

"okay, okay. i overheard some conversations you've had with miguel, and– did you know he's been calling you nicknames?"

a scoff makes its way to lyla's ears, "well, no shit! he's been spitting those fucking names since he practically met me."

"sure, but how do you know they're insulting?"

the question stuns you for a moment, whereas lyla begins laughing. the ai pulls out her phone as well and snaps a photo of your reaction.

"i just know." you ultimately say in reply, shrugging your shoulders to hide your still obvious confusion.

"pfft– what if i tell you those 'insulting' nicknames he was spitting were actually pet names." silence engulfs the room for a few moments. the noise of lyla taking photos is the first thing miguel hears as he enters your office.

"¿preciosa? " precious?

as if on queue, there is the booming sound of lyla's laughter. you send the bot a glare and turn toward the large man, eyes gleaming in angered confusion.

"miguel, i have a question."

"spill."

"those names you keep calling me, are they pet names?"

he makes a face, though it quickly disappears.

"don't you try and lie to me, asshole, tell me the truth."

miguel blinks, unmoving from his spot since he came in the room. the man eventually comes to a conclusion and nods.

"you're kidding..."

product of its-weeping ;༊ | do not plagiarize or translate.

[gaddaboutgriffon]

hmm @mallowvivid had an interesting idea that would explain why Clockwork said "already done." to the request of messing with the test results, because If Danny was a half clone of Superman and Batman that the Fentons made to, oh let's say get funding, then it really already was done. I know I have seen other promts in the past like that. anyway back to the fun.

****

Dan was enjoying watching the Bat kids fight. He casually leans to the side to avoid a knife Damian had thrown at Tim while cutting another bite of stake. With his enhanced hearing he could catch snippets of the conversation Batman was having with Superman outside when the blue blunder had showed up uninvited. the butler was also out there with him expressing his own displeasure. While listening to mister mighty red undies get chewed out was interesting, watching the interaction of the bat kids was more entertaining.

Dick was trying to break up the fight between Tim and Damain that had started after the younger mentioned something about a caffeine addiction and the other screeched "So it was you!" and launched himself out of his chair. The eldest brother was struggling to hold back the one with eyebags almost as big as Danny's from reaching some sort of collapsible metal staff that had been hidden on the fireplace mantle, while also trying to keep the youngest from stabbing the coffee addict. "Come one Guys! We have a new brother in the house! you couldn't have given him a week before you to started going at it! Cass! a little back up here, please!"

The quiet Asian girl that Dan had forgot was there gracefully rose from her seat to help. Then the Blond girl that she had been sitting next to spoke to Dan. "So you seem to be taking this well. No questions about our standard family interactions?" Dan shrugged "Nah. Back home someone would have accidentally set off the security system by now and I'd be dodging lasers while eating. This is just entertaining."

Now the last person at the table perked up, Dan thinks he was called Duke or something like that but hadn't paid enough attention to remember. "Is that the lab you were made at or are you living with someone?"

everyone else in the family of detectives must have sensed there was potential new information as even the two youngest paused in their fight to listen. Dan thought for a moment trying to figure out an answer that would mess with them but not reveal too much or mention Danny or Ellie. He swears they are like Beetlejuice you mention their name and suddenly they will appear.

"My creators don't really get along. So, I mostly stay with one but anytime they are together they shoot at each other." Dan that would be vague enough of a description of Vlad and Danny. It got some rather funny if distressed expressions from the bat kids, so he accomplished one of his goals.

Then he heard a ghostly bark and his sense of satisfaction disappeared. He heard a shout from the men outside before a giant glowing green dog and a 10-year-old looking girl riding on it came barreling into the dining room. Dan Groaned.

"There you are! I've been looking all over for you. Had to get Cujo to track you down." She said as she floated down to pat the glowing dog that has now shrunk to puppy size. "Jazz said you missed your session with her, and you didn't show up for dinner, and Danny couldn't find you and who are all these people?"

By the end of her questions, she was still floating in the middle of the room slowly spinning to look at everyone. before her eyes landed on superman Bruce and Alfred in the doorway. Bruce took that as his queue.

"I am Bruce Wayne and those are my children. We had invited Dan over for dinner. Dan would you please introduce this young lady."

"Ugh, Fine Ellie, meet superman and the other guy who thinks I am a mixed clone of them. Jerk face and Bruce this is Ellie short for Danielle, another clone."

Ellie giggled and easily caught the messages of "play along" and "mischief" Dan was silently sending form his core. and desided to mess with Dan. "oh and why didn't you tell them about me or Danny Little brother? By the way I was made first, but out creator didn't care enough about me to age me up like him. "Gasp' Cujo go fetch danny! he is going to love all of this!"

Dan slupped in his chair and placed a hand over his face groaning, "Can't I have fun on my own just once?" ****

well that is all I have for the night. Have fun adding on to it.

Seen a few posts where Superman thinks Danny is his clone.

But what if it was Dan instead of Danny?

Dan doesn't look exactly like Superman so the JL think that Batman and Supes DNA got mixed, the proof is in the matching scowl.

And Dan's like "Well, I've got nothing better to do, so why not? Lets mess with this guy."

The second Dan learns about Connor (and Supe's treatment of him.) it becomes personal.

Goes out of his way to ruin Superman's Day.

Looking awesome while saving the day? Nope, his cape gets wrapped around his head and then that picture gets into papers and every social media platform.

About to hand over thug? Mysterious farting noises.

and so, on so forth.

JL: So we just need some blood for a DNA test.

Dan:...Sure.

Later

Dan: Hey Clockwork you mind messing with some test results for me?

Clockwork: Already done.

Meanwhile Batmans out there trying to be a good dad to his clone son and trying to introduce him to the family while also hoping that Clark doesn't screw anything up.

[watermelonsugacry]

OMG PLZ WRITE PT 2 TO DONUTS PLEASE!!!!🙏🏻🙏🏻🙏🏻

Venice Film Festival

A/N: the people have spoken!

SUMMARY: YN is Harry's date to the premiere of Don't Worry Darling. (3k)

GENRE: 1dbandmember!yn

(Part 1 Here!) Donuts // SINCE 2010 masterlist

Harry is good under pressure, he’s been trained for almost every situation for every problem his line of work throws his way since he was 16 years old. He can flash a dimpled smile in front of a camera and gracefully swerve his way out of an inappropriate question. 

Movie premieres were supposed to be an exciting event. It’s the time when directors get to display their newest project, actors get to see mingle and have a good time, and where everyone can see their hard work come to fruition. It’s supposed to be a lively, joyful experience.

Key words: supposed to be. 

With all of the drama that’s surrounding the director, the actors and some of the content in the film, this was going to be an interesting event for not only the people involved but for everyone watching.

So yeah, Harry’s good under pressure but the only person who can see through the cracks in his mask is YN. When she’s around, the world and its troubles seem to fade into the background, her light breaking through even in the darkest places. She grounds him in the toughest storms. She encourages and humbles him in ways like no one else can. YN was truly made for him and it’s a fact that Harry still has trouble wrapping his head around.

Add in the fact that their relationship has been a public piece of information shared almost two years ago, there was no questioning the fact that she’s was going to be Harry’s official date to the Venice Film Festival.

“Ready, baby?” YN gives her love an encouraging smile. The couple just pulled up into the queue line up of cars, slowly inching their way for their drop off at the red carpet.

“As ready as I’ll ever be.” Harry sighs out, giving her a small smile in return. His hand leaves its resting place on her exposed thigh and intertwines it with hers. “Thank you for being here with me. S’so much better with you by my side.”

“Eh, had nothing better to do on a Monday night anyways.” YN teases, hoping to ease some of his nerves. She’s relieved when he lets out a chuckle. “But seriously. M’always here for yeh, always.”

Harry can’t find the words to express his gratitude for the woman next to him. Going against her make-up artist's playful warning of no smooching in fear of messing up his work, Harry gently cups her jaw and leans over to place his lips on hers. She giggles against his lips but turns her head to deepen the kiss, placing her hands on his chest.

“Sorry,” He smiles once he reluctantly pulled away, now only one car away from having to exit the vehicle. “Just wasn’t gonna be able to do that for a while.”

“Well, I certainly wasn’t complaining. Plus m’looking fabulous right now so, how can blame yeh?” YN pinches at his lips, trying to wipe off some of the gloss that transferred over from their kiss. He just furrows his eyes at her in disbelief, like it’s hitting him yet again that she’s his. That she agreed to marry him.

“How did I manage to snag you, huh?”

“Beats me. I’m just in it for your money. Just letting you know that now.”

Harry lovingly presses his lips to her hand by his mouth, “I love you so much, baby.”

“I love you more.”

“Not possible.”

The knock on Harry’s car window startles them both, he almost forgot he had to go to this event altogether by YN’s distractions. It hits him know that she succeeded because his nerves have been shot down to a zero. With one final kiss to her knuckles, he slides his Gucci sunglasses onto the bridge of his nose gives the escort outside the ‘go’ signal. 

Harry ducks out from the sleek car and YN can already hear the fans and paparazzi outside begin to yell and scream at the sight of him. But the noise only grows further when Harry extends his hand out to his fiancé. She grips his hand before gracefully sliding out of the vehicle next to him. 

There's a tiny part of him that breaks inside at the fact that she's not wearing her enagagement ring, but they both knew that all eyes were going to be hyper-focused on them today and their fans surely would have discovered that one of her everyday rings looks more wedding like than others.

But it's certainly made up for when she gives him that golden smile that never fails to make him weak in the knees. As they pose outside the car for their initial pictures for the night, Olivia is posing for her own pictures on the red carpet only a couple of feet away. When she looks over at them, the cameramen capture her smile faltering at the happy couple, clearly not expecting Harry to have brought his significant other to ‘her’ premiere. 

No one can deny the fact that they truly are the power couple of the century. They both look absolutely fabulous as Harry leads them onto the red carpet, her hand securely tucked into the crook of his arm while the holds the length of her custom Gucci dress. They naturally move with one another as they begin to stand and pose for photos, Harry snaking his arm around her waist for his hand to rest on her hip.

When he feels her hand on the bottom of his back, he's reminded of when he was 19 years old, posing with the rest of the band on some red carpet in front of flashing camera. He wished and longed for the day that she could be his. That one day he didn't have to feel guilty for the butterflies swirling around his tummy. That he didn't have to feel bad for blushing at her smiling at him, for being in love with his band mate.

Now with a smirk on his face, he gladly pulls her in closer and relishes in the way she looks up at him and gives him a knowing smile. They barely notice the way the camera flashes intensify when he brings his lips to her temple for a quick kiss, capturing the physical affection the couple like to keep private. 

Since things have drastically changed since being in the band and now being solo artists, posing for pictures has partially become a separate activity for the two. He reluctantly has to let go of her hand as they both have to take some pictures by themselves.

But he can't help himself from glancing over at his love who’s only an arm’s length away from him. She's gracefully shifting her head at the various photographers. She holds onto the top part of the slit of her dress by her hips, working with the fabric of her outfit to best present herself. How can he not look at her while she has her thigh is deliciously out on display for everyone to see? 

He doesn’t care if he gets told off later by his or her managers because, after barely one around of photos, Harry can’t take it much longer. He walks the short distance between them and snakes his arm back around her waist once again. It surprises her and it makes her scrunch up her nose as she laughs at her clingy fiancé. Not to mention that the couple pays no mind to the director a bit away from them. Too caught up in each other to realize that she makes her picture rounds short and walks further down the red carpet quicker than originally intended.

YN puts a hand to his chest, leaning up to say in his ear, “Just couldn’t keep away, huh?”

“Dunno what you’re talking about,” Harry says in her ear with a smirk. He is gifted with one of her infamous eye rolls and turns her attention back to the photographers. She poses up close to her fiancé, her back angled to the cameras as she looks at them over her shoulders. She’s a natural.

“Now I know you’re not hogging this beautiful woman from the rest of us.” The couple chuckles when they turn their heads when they hear Gemma Chan’s teasing tone. 

“Smile for the camera!” Chris Pine says excitedly, holding up a disposable camera to his face. The couple humors him, turning to pose for him and giving their best smiles. He captures one where Harry holds up his infamous peace sign while YN flips the camera off with a scrunch of her nose.

The small group laughs and goes about greeting one another in rounds of hugs and compliments.

“Any word to the boss lady?” Gemma discreetly nods over to Olivia and she smiles when YN scoffs.

“Don’t plan on it. This is supposed to be a fun night. Just going to enjoy ourselves the best we can for right now.”

“Yeah don’t worry about it.” The beautiful actress reassures YN. “I’ll make sure to stand with H for the group pictures later.”

Some of the stress is instantly lifted for Harry’s sake. She’s so grateful to have know Gemma for as long as she has. They first when the band first formed as she’s always been a loyal and caring friend to both her and Harry. 

“Harry and I appreciate that.” YN lets out a relieved chuckle and gives the actress a careful hug to not mess up their wardrobe. “Thank you.”

“Hey, what about me?” YN giggles at Chris’s playful frown.

“How can I forget?” She’s quick to give him a hug as well. “Well don’t you look dashing?”

“This old thing?” He comically wiggles the end of his bow tie. He’s always been a fun character, always in the mood for a laugh and lifting up the mood with a joke or two. “Just plucked it out from the back of my closet. And you, beautiful as always madame.”

“You’re too sweet. And a smart thing you are for bringing that.” YN taps at the disposable camera in his hand. “How fun.”

“Do you want one? I have another one here.” Chris says while reaching into his pocket to relieve another camera and it brings out a laugh from YN.

“Are yeh sure?”

“Go ahead. Got plenty to spare.” And it only makes her laugh harder when she thinks about him bringing a whole bag filled with disposable cameras on the way to Venice. “Oh! Being called over but I’ll see you around, YN.” He gives her a final hug before hurrying over to who she assumes is his manager. 

When she sees Gemma also ending her conversation with Harry, YN slides her thumb across the small wheel on the side of her camera and brings it to her eye. When he turns to her, she’s able to capture his smile with one click of a button.

“Is that Chris’s?” He chuckles, gently taking the camera from her hands.

“He gave me one.” She giggles back and puts her hands to her cheeks with her eyes closed when he lifts the camera to take a picture of her. “Now we can capture some of our time here in Venice.”

“And they’re hard copies, too.” Harry teasingly raises his eyebrows at her and she quickly catches his thinking. “Need to update a few pictures, hum?”

“Down boy.” She snatches the camera right back to tuck it into one of the inner pockets of his coat. “We can discuss that back at the hotel.” She winks before being escorted to their next designated section. 

The time consists of taking more photos with some of the cast members. YN even sneaks her way over to some of the fans waiting excitingly by the barricade, talking to them in Italian and taking some pictures.

As the couple talks amongst themselves, they turn their heads when there is an eruptive roar from the crowds. And rightfully so as they see the one and only Florence Pugh make her way onto the red carpet. Flo texted her earlier in the day telling her all about her feelings for the festival. It came as to surprise for everyone but YN that she finally made her way to the premiere, making her fashionably late appearance for the movie she was staring in. 

YN wastes no time reaching into the inner pockets of Harry’s blazer, pulling out her disposable camera. Harry chuckles as he sees his fiancé hurriedly shove her way to the side of the group of photographers, leaning sideways in front of Flo to get a good angle for a picture. 

“Over here, Flo!” YN waves her hand above her head. “Yes, work it! You’re gorgeous, babe!”

Florence laughs at her friend’s antics and poses as if YN were an actual photographer. After that, she wastes no time quickly walking into the actress’s open arms.

“You look so hot!” YN yells above all the commotion.

“So do you! I’m so happy you’re here.”

“I’m so happy you’re here. I was waiting for my date to show up.” YN teases before giving into another tight hug. Florence makes her way around to hug her other cast members, Harry giving his co-star a quick kiss on the cheek before they wrap their arms around one another. After the stars of the movie and YN and Flo took some pictures together on the red carpet, it was time for the event everyone was dreading.

“Harry, we need you for the group photos.” One of the red carpet escorts comes up to the couple with a smile. 

“Do I have to?” Harry mutters quietly to her, keeping the smile on his face to not let anyone see his dread for the pictures.

“It’ll only be for a bit.” YN straightens out his dramatic collar but leans up to plant a quick kiss on his cheek. He smiles at her touch as her thumb gently wipes off any of the gloss she left behind on his dimple. “Smile real big for me, yeah?”

“Only for you, my love.” Olivia has been eyeing the couple all night and it sting only intensifies in her chest when Harry brings YN’s hand to his lips, kissing her knuckles before having to plaster on a smile for the photos with her.

YN truly felt for the cast and crew in those group photos. The tension was so awkward and heavy that you can cut it with a knife. Her first movie premiere was so different from this one. The Little Women cast was lively and cracking jokes. They all held hands, spoke with one another the whole night, and happily worked with the director. 

There wasn’t any drama or butting heads among the people working together—it was an enjoyable experience.

All she can do is watch the cast and director of Don't Worry Darling shift uncomfortably with one another and have the reminder that this mess is almost over.

...

When the screen turns black and the end credits slowly start to appear, the whole theater politely stands on their feet to give the movie a standing ovation. 

YN had loads of opinions about the movie, some good but the majority of it not so good with both the knowledge of what happened during the making of the film and by just watching what was presented. She knows that she can for certain that Florence and Harry are magnificent actors and did their jobs to the best of their abilities. She can’t blame the cast, they were just doing what they were told and got sucked into the mess that is Olivia Wilde. 

And she certainly can’t blame Florence for leaving the theater during the standing ovation. If she were in her position, she might have walked out during the film so she commends the actress for her strength in lasting as long as she did.

YN squeezes her fiancé’s shoulders from her seat directly behind him. She gives him a smile in congratulations and Harry can practically feel the annoyance radiating off of her when Olivia taps his arm. When he leans behind Chris to hear her tell him that he did a good job, he just gives her a polite nod. However, when he faces forward again, YN can see the tension back in his shoulders. 

That’s the last straw for her. She’s ready to tell Olivia off, having so much information to tell her since she’s been holding it off for so long. Right as she’s about to open her mouth to say something, YN’s caught off guard when Harry spins himself around, tightly grips the sides of her face, and smashes his lips to hers.

They’re both well aware of the fact that aside from the video that exposed their relationship almost two years ago, there has only been a few times where pictures or videos of them have captured them kissing. They’re also aware of the amount of flashing cameras directed toward them, the sound of whistles ringing through the large theater. And they’re both well aware that either one of them can give a flying fuck at any of that when YN kisses him back with her hands on his cheeks. 

The kiss doesn’t last very long but it was surely enough to diminish whatever hatred she had inside her. She’s reminded once again that nobody else matters; it’s them against the world. That he is hers and no one else.

So when Harry turns back around to face forward, he can practically feel Olivia burning holes in the side of his head. 

But does he truly care when the smirk on his lips is covered in his fiancé’s lip gloss?

Taglist:

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[kassandras-one-braincell]

Sevika x Fem!Reader - Like Fine Wine

Contains: explicit content and a recurring theme of Sevika being an older woman (love me a childless milf amirite).

Word count: 1949

AO3 link here. Minors DNI.

She’s a menace. Arrogant, unapproachable, yet inexplicably inviting. And she’s mean, too. So fucking mean, but she butters you up with cocktails and pet names that sound like molasses in that deep, gruff voice of hers. A little too old for you, and you both know it. Neither of you care. It’s hot.

One humid, smoggy night was when it all began. You had plans with a woman, who said all the right things to you the day before, to go to the Drop for a couple of drinks and a good time. Wear something pretty, she said. Pretty as those pretty red lips of yours – that left you swooning. So you waded through the blinding kaleidoscope of neon lights, all dolled up for her, struggling not to cough on the smoke from a hundred cigarillos, only to find said woman grinding against a girl in an even skimpier dress, probably telling her the same old shit.

It affected you more than you cared to admit. Maybe that’s what drew Sevika’s gaze to you. A sweet thing in a shimmery little dress, nothing new. But one with a quivering lip, looking sorry at the bar in the middle of a chaotic mess, staring in dismay at two shadows on the dancefloor… Who wouldn’t take pity?

You couldn’t fight the hammering in your chest when she approached you, towering, suave and unbothered by the ruckus of the club. Dressed in a mulberry shirt, tailored to accommodate her daunting mechanical arm, half the buttons undone, giving you a tantalising view of the swell of her cleavage and a peek at a rock hard abdomen. If she wasn’t Silco’s right hand, your eyes would have drifted lower and honed in on the tightness of her trousers.

Her offer to buy you something fruity to take the sting off things didn’t register immediately. You were too captivated by her stern, sculpted face, those steel eyes and powerful nose and frown lines that looked so soft. There were so many little scars, some harsher than others, like the mesmerising web of aquamarine cutting into her beautiful dark sepia skin.

She chuckled at the distracted glaze coating your bleary eyes, gently repeating her offer, snuffing out her smoke on the bar countertop. It wasn’t tobacco; it didn’t smell like utter shit, instead fragrant with the aroma of spices you couldn’t quite place. Something fancy, imported. You could get used to breathing it in.

Your drink took priority over the long queue of patrons, courtesy of her status. Hell, you were still blinking back your surprise at such a woman’s sudden interest in you by the time she was guiding you towards a secluded alcove, sheltered from the thumping of rave music.

Alone in the cushioned nook, you chatted about everything and nothing, sipping on an electric blue beverage that made the tips of your fingers tingle. You were interrupted once, and only once, when Sevika held up her hand, signalling for the bar staff to fetch her a drink. At some point, your legs found their way onto her lap, with her huge calloused hand languidly stroking your exposed skin. Intoxicated by her scent, her attention, the way she shamelessly eyed you up and whatever that boozy syrup in your cocktail was, you couldn’t help but bite your lip when she asked you one simple question:

“You ever been with a woman my age, doll?”

No, was the answer you gave, slightly shaky at the subliminal suggestion woven into her words. She smirked.

Widening her legs, she welcomed you forward onto her lap until you comfortably straddled a bulky thigh, the leathery fabric of her trousers pressing into you snugly. Soft, warm lips that tasted of piquant smoke and ambrosial drink ensnared yours. You expected her kiss to be bruising. Not sensual and hasteless, dizzying, wholly dichotomous to the brute beneath you.

Nursing her whiskey glass in her claw, Sevika cupped your behind with her organic hand, inviting you to grind your heat against her leg as two fingers snaked downwards. They stroked your slit through your underwear, pushing in ever so slightly until the patch of fabric covering your modesty was all slicked through. She didn’t need to ask what made you twitch in wanting – her experience made her near telepathic. Breathy little sighs poured freely from your lips, swallowed by hers.

Her teasing – foreplay – grew unbearable very quickly. You started to push back against her fingers, hoping she’d sense your desperation and indulge you by…fuck, you’d really let her debase you in public, wouldn’t you?

Oh, she knew what filthy thoughts circulated your foggy little mind. She made a promise through smirking lips: you be nice and patient while she finishes her drink, and she’ll take you home, eat your pussy so damn good until you’re sobbing and you’ve forgotten all about the bitch you came here for.

Fuck, did she fulfil that promise. Tenfold. Her tongue had your back arching off the bed, and when your oversensitive squirming got in the way of things, she flipped you onto your front, and had you kneeling face-down so she could continue enjoying her meal while you drooled, moaned, cried into the pillows until your legs gave out.

As she wiped you down gently that night, she contemplated. It had been a long while since she’d fucked someone who wasn’t one of Babette’s whores. Knowing you fell into her bed of your own volition, no gold attached, did something for her psychologically. There was no obligation in spite of her status. Just raw attraction. Desire.

She could get used to that.

Thus began your little relationship, although there’s hesitation in the term. Emotions are hard for Sevika. But, while she never addresses them aloud, you know she cares for you. Otherwise, she wouldn’t hide her metal arm under a pillow at night so you can rest on her without hurting yourself. She wouldn’t keep a box of your favourite tea in her home for when you spent the night. Nor keep that alcove in the Drop where it all began vacant every night, giving you somewhere clean and quiet to relax in during your visits, away from the obnoxious music. She certainly wouldn’t be paying your rent to give you more time to focus on your passions.

While your attraction certainly extends beyond sex, that’s the foundation of things. That’s what she’s most comfortable with. She oozes confidence and dominion between the sheets. Before her, you thought the expression “seeing stars” was purely metaphorical, until she made you come so hard that white spots danced about your eyes.

No two nights are the same with Sevika. There’s always a new pattern, a new position, a new location. Some nights are slower, full of titillation and passion. Others are downright pornographic, but with boundaries in place and your comfort the top priority. It’s exhilarating.

Ruination is almost always her objective. The sex may last the night, the soreness the morning after, but the flashbacks…those last until the next time she fucks you, and then some.

You can still feel the phantom sensation of her from last night.

Wrists cuffed to the bedframe – the inside of the metal was padded with something soft, she isn’t a monster – you lay face-down in the pillows, knelt obediently, presenting your glistening wetness to her. An indent of her teeth sunk into the skin of your thigh from when she feasted upon you against the bedroom wall, insisting she couldn’t make it to the bed without a little taste. Her organic thumb ghosted over the mark as she hummed, your nectar still fresh on her tongue.

“Ain’t that a sight,” she purred, deliciously husky, her metal hand carefully gripping the flesh of your rear, spreading you for a better look. You heard her chuckle darkly from her stance behind you before letting go.

“You know, one of the goons I gambled against tonight had this topsider bimbo on his arm.” Two warm, rough fingers find their way onto your clit, pressing a circle into the nerves. “Helped me bleed his pockets dry even faster, but man, was she gripping that arm tight.” The tips of her claws raked feather-light up your back, sending a shiver down your spine. You felt her breath on your shoulder as she wove the augmented hand through your hair, expertly making a fist that didn’t leave you in any pain, only gasping in delight. “Made me miss how tight that little pussy feels around my fingers,” Sevika smirked.

In one swift, concupiscent motion, the devil of a woman tugged on your hair and sheathed two fingers in your drenched heat to the knuckle. The cuffs rattled as you gripped the bedframe tight, panting at the sudden fullness brought by her long, thick fingers. She adjusted her wrist, curling the fingers down, hooking them and giving a slow, rough thrust, ripping a moan from your lips. There was no need for exploration, no trial and error – she knew exactly where to press them against to have you thoroughly wrecked.

Lewd squelching resonated through the room as she began to drill her fingers into you, impossibly deep, at a steady pace. The position only did a favour for the brute’s stamina; she’d keep you there as long as she pleased. Her claw in your hair forced your back into an arch, letting her hammer your sweet spot freely, and stopping you from muffling your mewls of bliss in the bedding.

“Oh, fu-ck,” you whimpered, legs shaking under the force of her thrusts. Your sensitivity from her earlier ministrations only added to her onslaught. You felt so good, stretched around her relentlessly pounding digits. Pleasure welled up in your core alarmingly fast, a heavenly pressure forming on the verge of bursting, fire consuming your veins. Sevika never altered her tempo, never pulled them out far enough to give you a moment’s reprieve.

Wanton sounds spilled freely from your parted lips as you spiralled towards your precipice. “’Vika, fuck,” you gasped, knuckles turning pale from your clenched grasp on the bedframe. “Please, ‘Vika, please don’t st-op—”

“I know, baby, I know,” she grunted. “We’re not stopping until you’re dripping down my arm, princess.”

Someone had called you “princess” in the past, and you hated it. There was condescendence in the name. The underlying implication that you were spoiled, ungrateful and haughty.

But when she calls you “princess” – usually while she’s buried inside of you, or about to be, or you’re begging for her to be – it’s different. Sure, there are times where she uses the name to be condescending, cooing it when you’re trembling and split open on the thick onyx strap she loves so dearly, but there’s always respect to the title. A sweet undertone that you’re treasured, no matter often you succumb to debauchery in her grasp. Even if she spoils you with pleasure, keeping you dumb and cumming in the bedroom, you’re still important and valued.

And you love it. Whyever would you want to be with someone spritely with commitment issues and financial instability, when instead, you can have the affection of this tall glass of fine wine?

It might not be the healthiest disposition by societal standards, but you couldn’t give a shit. Society doesn’t see the way Sevika holds you at night. Doesn’t hear the way she laughs out a “dumbass” in the morning when you attempt to flip a pancake, only for it to end up decorating the kitchen floor, with an enamoured smile on her face. Doesn’t feel the delicate press of her lips to your temple when she has to leave.

She’s a menace, absolutely. But never to you.

[snackhobi]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Being a barista isn’t all bad.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s Tuesday,” he states solemnly.

“I know?”

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

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

“I did.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Actually, on the note of cute regulars—

“Your 2:15 appointment is here.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’ve barely spoken to him.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hi,” he says, and… that’s it. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Witchcraft,” he says, and you laugh.

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

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

“Was that the weekly special?”

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

“Would you recommend it?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Record scratch. Freeze frame.  

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

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

Oh, God.

A couple.

You’ve been crushing on a taken man.

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

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

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

You are the worst.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Why, oh why, oh why.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He’s dyed his hair.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So you say: “You dyed your hair.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(“Good lord,” Taehyung says faintly.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Huh?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hi,” Yoongi says.

“Oh! Hi,” Taehyung says.

“Hyung! Look!” Jungkook says.

“Jungkook, wait—” you say.

“Whirr,” the lidless blender says.

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

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

And then Yoongi laughs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Your heart aches.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Duly noted.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then he spots you standing there.

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

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

Yoongi stares at you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, you think. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Still want to take me on a date?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No, I won’t,” you say. 

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

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

taglist: @beyoncesdragon​ @vensulove

[wifeysaremylifey]

Red was pretty content with making note of Robin's preferences as well, which felt unusually natural. Even at times where she had wanted to keep similar tabs on persons of interest (often other wifey candidates), it took time to commit details to memory. But it all felt so smooth with Robin. So exciting. So right.

And down to the physical too. Her conflicting feelings about the handholding spiked when she saw that Robin reacted visibly. Tension took over, and Red was robbed of her own breath. It was released after the positive words, and the maker was quick on trying to reciprocate, but not quick enough to miss Robin calling her name.

"Yours is nice and soft! And.... Robin...?"

She felt like she botched something. Her tone was very quizzical, seasoned with worry. It betrayed the fact that she didn't want to hear a negative. But this had gone so well so far. Somewhere in her mind, it was too well. And yet, hearing her own name, in that voice that made her tremble and tingle,... If she could live in that moment of ecstasy, she might just do so without a second thought.

But it was their turn on the queue. It didn't cut the tension so much as it smashed it. It was still there, roughly in the same shape, put aside but ready to weigh her down at a moment's notice. But perhaps the drink would do her good. When had she started to feel like she was sweating? The Golden Hour wasn't even warm.

"Thank you kindly~!" She'd say once to the vendor and then in a more endeared tone towards Robin once she passed her drink over. She took this moment of distraction to examine the clear bottle, yellow liquid, the branding logo and the feel of the glass. Very marketable, but not in the same way as things in Gamindustri. This felt more well-presented and vintage, while her home put more emphasis on portability and variety.

Robin's attempt to mask her own emotions worked well with Red, since she now felt that only her was really being that much of a mess internally. She was still curious about the question from before, but it felt dangerous to ask immediately. Instead, she nodded at Robin's suggestion to try the other drink after. Then, she brought the cap to her mouth, snapped it open with her teeth, and flicked the cap up after the sizzle, before taking a swig.

It felt so sickeningly sweet and syrupy, with an aftertaste that she couldn't quite discern what to think of. It eased some of her worry and converted it into a sugary cheer.

"Wowzers! This is way better than I thought it was going to be! No wonder it's popular!"

Her gluttony made her take another swig soon after, like a kid that couldn't help herself from getting more sweets than she really ought to eat in a sitting. But she did have something to occupy her from downing the entire bottle. Robin's impromptu question.

The Halovian had made Red plenty more happy than the drink already, but perhaps because the drink was flowing through her system now, Red felt it couldn't hurt to speak plainly.

"Of course you are! You've been nothing but sweet to me, you look drop-dead gorgeous, we share traveling experience and interests in it, and we even have a date set up already!! I can just hear all the sparks going BZZZT all around the screen! It's like we're star-crossed lovers, fated to meet but set apart by the galaxy, until fate tied together the absolute cutest bow for us to meet in it!"

She might have gotten lost in the metaphor, but she was no less eager about the whole situation.

"And me and my wifeys do plenty together! Mostly adventuring together, but we've also done these big cooking get-togethers, slumber parties with plenty of games, massive holiday gatherings- and we always have each other's backs! Gamindustri's pretty chaotic, and it's been threatened by these big bad entities often, so we also get together to kick 'em to the curb! It's fun, but I hope you people here don't have to deal with that kind of stress often!"

She'd wait a bit for Robin to savor her own drink- and when they try to exchange, she'll offer some of the SoulGlad as well. She had no doubt in her mind it was a trivial drink to Robin, being a local and all. But there was something about sharing that feeling of euphoria with someone.

As time passed, Robin noticed the way her heart seemed to feel so full from the encounter, feeling almost heavy from the sensation of affections running through her veins. Was it normal to feel so excitable and giddy over a person you met on a whim? Not that she would consider RED a whim. On the contrary, there was a sparkling hope that their friendship would remain for the long-term, with a small hope that it would turn into something more than the label she had placed on it.

If you don’t get your hopes up, you won’t be disappointed. But what is life without the rollercoaster of emotions? That depth seeping into your heart, drawing out those innermost desires, presenting the truest form of oneself. It only forces a person, mortal or not, to take a look in the mirror and decide if the actions they have taken are truly worthwhile.

That cute smile was back, an expression of enlightenment slowly making its way onto her face. Chocolate chip cookie dough. It would be noted diligently, no intent to forget such a crucial detail in the long run. What if the opportunity to give the wonderful woman a mixture of her most favourite things came up? The Halovian would need to make sure that everything was documented in her diary, neatly written and formatted properly, just as an insurance policy!

“My favourite flavour has to be strawberry — wait, no — vanilla.” Deciding between the two flavours had been a difficulty, and although they were simple in the way they tasted, she wasn’t one to dismiss or undermine the simpler things in life. After all, she had been fortunate enough not to have lost her life when she got shot, there would be no expense wasted this time around. It wouldn’t take her very long to want to drag RED to a private room, just to taste how refined she is, an adventure just between the two of them, with mountains worth of discoveries to be found and brought to life by gentle hands.

The surprise she felt when the other’s grip tightened was shown in her face. Such an expression of honesty, vulnerability… it was ethereal to witness. Particularly when her face reddens, a shyness to that gaze only encouraged Robin to become more bold with her showcase of appreciation. There would be no missed beat at the attempt of an intertwine of fingers, and she would be all too prepared to clasp her fingers in tightly, her hand squeezing softly for a brief moment, an attempt to exercise promising reassurance through physical touch.

“Your hands feel so warm.”

A caressing whisper, released from her mouth before she can help herself. If the singer were to ask the aeons, would time stop so she could savour this moment just a moment longer? To allow her this moment to make those searing feelings be known?

“Red…”

Thump after thump, her heart’s tempo seemed to increase, the back of her throat drying up as the words barely begin to formulate in her mind, that message on the verge of being translated, put out there in the open, when —

It was their time to get their drinks from the vendor. Countless more opportunities could arise, but what if they didn’t? A thudding anxiety seemed to swim through her body, somehow encouraging her heart to beat against her chest much harder than before. “C—can I get… ah, a Classic SoulGlad and a Pika White?” She couldn’t even bring herself to look at her companion just yet, her eyes fixating on fishing through her purse for the right amount to pay.

As a means of distraction, to cut the throat of the overbearing emotions that seemed to have clogged in her system, she passes RED’s drink over to her once they had been acquired, taking a small stroll over to a quieter corner of the Golden Hour as a means to enjoy this taste-test, a masquerade seemingly enough to keep her from faltering so easily. “Once you’ve tried some of the SoulGlad, why don’t you try some of mine? That way, you can see which you prefer.” A sweet, truly relaxed smile had been reserved for the beauty before her!

“Over forty candidates?” A small giggle leaves her, despite the way it was laced with an assorted range of feelings, it seemed to ease her heart. Before she has that chance to respond verbally, her mind is struck, forcing a momentary brain-freeze to overtake.

“Am I one of your candidates? Say… what do you do with your wifeys?”