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angelseraphines · 5 months ago

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ೃ⁀➷ cherry ˗ˏˋ꒰ 🦢 ꒱

╰┈➤ berlin x hostage!reader imagine

a/n: i would like to give a special thank you to @lumillsie for the layout of this post and for the filter used on the header! there is a part one to this imagine, scarface!

˚ ༘♡ four trillion won.

˚ ༘♡ that was the amount they intended to steal, an unimaginable fortune. the audacity of their plan stunned you, even as you sat there in silence. you couldn’t understand why they hadn’t already taken the money and disappeared into the night. why target the korean mint, one of the most heavily secured institutions in the country, knowing full well that the highest figures in government and law enforcement would throw the full extent of their resources against them? it was only after you pressed your ear against the locked door of the conference room you were being held in that you learned the truth. two of the masked criminals spoke in hushed tones outside, unaware of your eavesdropping. they weren’t stealing money, they were printing it. trillions of won, created right there in the heart of the mint. they had turned the hostages into laborers for their grand design.

˚ ༘♡ the sheer boldness of their plan was breathtaking. how could they possibly believe they would escape unscathed with such a colossal operation? the more you thought about it, the more impossible it seemed, yet there you were, locked away in this quiet chamber while chaos reigned elsewhere in the building. the government had to be handling this delicately, you thought. surely, they were devising a plan to save you and the others. but doubt crept in. could even the most experienced strategists outmaneuver criminals who had taken control of the mint and were orchestrating a crime of this magnitude?

˚ ༘♡ time felt meaningless in the isolation of the room. the only sign that a day had passed was the clock mounted on the wall, its rhythmic ticking drilling into your ears. you hadn’t seen anyone since being brought here, hadn’t exchanged a word with a single soul. the only sounds were muffled voices from the floors below and the occasional shuffle of footsteps beyond the door.

˚ ༘♡ you sat on a velvet couch, its soft fabric a sinister comfort in this nightmare, staring blankly at the far wall. thoughts of your coworkers plagued your mind. you pictured their faces, their fear, their desperation. you knew they were suffering far worse than you, trapped in the thick of it while you were left here in this eerie silence. guilt gnawed at you, but so did dread. you wanted to believe the government would send in a rescue team, that the nightmare would end in a blaze of heroics. but you knew better. any such attempt could end in bloodshed, a massacre for everyone trapped inside the mint.

˚ ༘♡ the sharp metallic click of the door unlocking shattered the suffocating silence of the room, sending a jolt through your body. instinctively, you scrambled to your feet, adrenaline surging through your veins, but the moment your eyes landed on the figure stepping through the doorway, your legs nearly gave out beneath you. it was berlin.

˚ ༘♡ in spite of the hahoe mask obscuring most of his face, there was no mistaking him. you’d heard his voice, his threatening commands, his venomous tone bleeding through the walls. he wasn’t just another cog in this terrifying machine, he was at the heart of it, the one pulling strings inside the mint while another, someone they called the professor, directed the chaos from elsewhere. berlin wasn’t the kind of man you could reason with, his presence was a cold, oppressive force that turned your stomach to stone.

˚ ༘♡ he removed the mask slowly, revealing a face carved from ice. his expression was devoid of warmth, his eyes glinting with something darker than malice, a kind of calculated cruelty that made you feel like prey cornered by a predator. your breath caught in your throat as he slammed the door shut behind him, the sound reverberating like a death knell in the confined space.

˚ ༘♡ “did you miss me?” his voice was low, mocking, the corners of his mouth twitching upward in a smirk that didn’t reach his eyes.

˚ ༘♡ you couldn’t find your voice. your knees buckled, and you collapsed back onto the velvet sofa as he strode toward you with slow, measured steps, each one harsher, each one amplifying the dread pooling in your chest. his hand rested on the rifle slung over his shoulder.

˚ ༘♡ he stopped mere inches from you, so close that his legs brushed against your knees. the air between you felt suffocating, stagnant with peril. his shadow loomed over you and you couldn’t even bring yourself to look up at him.

˚ ༘♡ “get up,” he ordered, his tone cutting like a blade. ��we’ve got work to do.”

˚ ༘♡ your body refused to move. whether it was fear or disbelief, you weren’t sure, but the hesitation sealed your fate. his hand shot out, clamping around your wrist with a grip that felt like iron. before you could even register the pain, he yanked you to your feet with such force that you stumbled into him, your heart pounding wildly as his dark eyes bore into yours. there was no mercy in that gaze, no humanity, only control.

˚ ༘♡ “what do you need me to do?” you asked, the words tumbling out in a whisper, trembling as if your voice alone might provoke him further.

˚ ༘♡ his response wasn’t immediate. instead, his lips curled into a cruel grin, one that made your blood run cold. he tilted his head slightly, studying you like a wolf savoring its next move. then, without warning, his hand shot up, his fingers wrapping around your neck.

˚ ༘♡ he didn’t choke you, not fully, but his grip was aggresive, sending a clear message that any resistance would be futile. his thumb pressed against your pulse, a mocking acknowledgment of the fear coursing through you.

˚ ༘♡ “what i need,” he said, his voice a dangerous growl, “is for you to listen.”

˚ ༘♡ before you could respond, he pulled his pistol from its holster, the cold steel brushing against your forehead. your breath became erratic, and tears blurred your vision as terror consumed you. the gun pressed harder against your head, his finger resting lightly on the trigger. he didn’t speak, didn’t move, he simply held you there.

˚ ༘♡ the silence stretched into eternity, every second an excruciating reminder of how close you were to the edge of oblivion. then, as abruptly as he’d grabbed you, he released his hold.

˚ ༘♡ you stumbled back, crashing into the edge of the desk, the sharp corner digging into your spine. tears streaked down your cheeks, your breath coming in ragged gasps as you stared at him, your voice shaking with anger and desperation. “what kind of psycho are you?” you spat through the tears. “i’ve done everything you’ve asked. I haven’t disobeyed a single order!”

˚ ༘♡ his laugh was cold, abrupt, and vacant of humor. he holstered the pistol with a conscious indifference, his eyes never leaving yours. “i know,” he said, his voice ridden with disdain.

˚ ༘♡ he picked up the assault rifle with a practically casual motion, his cold gaze never departing you. the barrel of the gun rose slowly, aiming directly at your head. the air in the room thickened, suffocating, and the only sound was the pounding of your heartbeat in your ears. your legs quivered beneath you as though the terror of his presence alone had crushed you. sliding to the floor, you tried to speak, to plead for mercy, but your lips trembled, and no sound came. the words dissolved into the air, swallowed by the apprehension that left you paralyzed.

˚ ༘♡ he placed his finger on the trigger, his expression unreadable, detached, like this was just another mundane task in a long list of crimes. you stared down the cold, unyielding barrel of the rifle, waiting for the inevitable. and then, gunfire. a deafening roar. your eyes slammed shut, and you flinched, the sound of bullets tearing into the wall behind you ricocheting in your skull. debris rained down, and your breath came in shallow, gasping bursts. when you opened your eyes, he was lowering the gun, his actions unhurried, as if he had all the time in the world to terrify you.

˚ ༘♡ “rio, get in here,” he barked, his voice sharp and commanding, shattering the tense silence.

˚ ༘♡ you barely registered the door opening as your chest heaved, struggling to catch your breath. a younger man entered, casually carrying a camera setup as if he were walking into a studio rather than a hostage situation. rio, you guessed, from the name berlin had called. his demeanor was unnervingly lighthearted, a jarring contrast to the man who had just fired bullets inches from your head.

˚ ༘♡ berlin turned his attention back to you, his cold eyes piercing through you as he slowly stalked toward where you were curled up on the floor. his boots echoed against the hard surface, each step jarring. then, unexpectedly, he crouched down in front of you. he reached out, his gloved hand brushing against your trembling fingers before wiping away the tears streaking your face. the gesture was gentle, but it felt like he was taunting you.

˚ ༘♡ he tucked a stray lock of your disheveled hair behind your ear, tilting your chin up so you were forced to look at him. “i’m sorry,” he said softly, his tone laced with condescension and faint amusement. “but you looked far too proper. too polished. not the image of a convincing hostage.” his words sank into you like poison, cold and sharp, leaving you speechless.

˚ ༘♡ before you could respond, rio’s voice cut through the tension, cheerful and jarring. “don’t listen to him. berlin just likes torturing people.” his grin was wide, almost playful, but it didn’t reach his eyes. the casual cadence in his tone made you shudder.

˚ ༘♡ berlin shot rio a hard, withering glare that silenced him instantly. the mood in the room darkened, the tension coiling tighter as both men pulled on their hahoe masks. rio stepped forward, adjusting the camera, and handed you a crumpled piece of paper. your hands shook as you took it, the paper feeling heavier than it should have, as though the weight of whatever was written on it could crush you.

˚ ༘♡ “what is this?” you managed to whisper, your voice hoarse and shaking. your hair hung in messy strands around your face, your clothes rumpled and stained from where you’d slid to the floor, every inch of you a reflection of the chaos unraveling around you.

�� ༘♡ rio positioned the camera with precision, angling it to focus solely on you. “when i say go,” he said with an unsettling lightness, “read it. and look at the camera. don’t mess it up.”

˚ ༘♡ you unfolded the paper with trembling hands, your tears smudging the ink as you tried to make sense of the scrawled words. your pulse thundered in your ears as you glanced between the two masked figures, their faces unreadable, their stillness oppressive.

˚ ༘♡ the camera’s red light blinked on. rio stepped back, folding his arms as berlin stood in the background, his rifle now resting at his side. “go,” rio said, his tone commanding despite the casualness of his earlier demeanor.

˚ ༘♡ the cold steel of berlin’s pistol pressed against your temple, leading you to freeze you in place. every nerve in your body screamed to move, to fight, but you couldn’t. his presence mounted over you, magnified by the hahoe mask concealing his expression. you could hear your own heartbeat pounding in your ears, threatening to drown out the words you were about to speak.

˚ ༘♡ your lips parted and you forced yourself to read from the crumpled paper in your hand. “this is a message to the korean defense ministry,” you began, your voice thin and uneven. your hands shook, the paper rustling audibly in the tense silence. “the criminals have taken me, the daughter of the defense minister, hostage.” you paused, struggling to steady your breathing. the weight of berlin’s pistol and the red, unblinking eye of the camera intensified the unbearable dread coursing through you.

˚ ༘♡ “they order that no action should be taken in aiding local enforcement in the matter of the crisis in the mint.” your voice wavered, breaking slightly as you swallowed the lump in your throat. the next line felt like poison, each word lodging itself in your chest. “as if any mandate is given… the defense minister will never see his precious daughter again.”

˚ ༘♡ an agonizing silence followed, the tension in the air so thick it felt like it might crush you. rio, standing behind the camera, finally broke it with an unsettling grin. “i think that’s good,” he said, pulling off his mask, his tone disturbingly mirthful, as though you’d just finished rehearsing a scene for a school play.

˚ ༘♡ berlin followed suit, removing his mask with slow consideration. his face was as composed as ever, his expression unreadable, yet his eyes betrayed a faint trace of satisfaction. he slid the pistol back into its holster, the click of metal echoing in the small, intolerable space.

˚ ༘♡ “you did well,” berlin said, his voice calm but dripping with mockery. “almost brought a tear to my eye.” he paused. “when your father sees this video, I have no doubt he’ll abandon any foolish notions of sending reinforcements. wouldn’t want him making a mistake he’d regret for the rest of his life.”

˚ ༘♡ you couldn’t speak. the words wouldn’t come even if you tried. your body felt limp, burdened by the fear coursing through you. your eyes fixed on the floor, unable to meet his gaze, the humiliation and terror blending into a numbing haze.

˚ ༘♡ berlin exhaled sharply, clearly unimpressed by your lack of answer. “fine, don’t say anything,” he muttered. rio had already begun disassembling the camera, his relaxed efficiency grating against the gravity of what had just transpired. berlin turned to leave, but not before throwing one last barb your way.

˚ ༘♡ “i’ll send someone to bring you food later,” he said, his tone tranquil, as though he were discussing a room service order. “and stop acting so disturbed. i’ve already told you, you won’t get hurt unless your father does something idiotic.”

˚ ༘♡ his words hung in the air as he followed rio out of the room. the heavy door slammed shut behind them, and the sound of the lock sliding into place echoed ominously in the silence.

˚ ༘♡ you remained where you were, collapsed on the cold floor, your body trembling uncontrollably. your breath came in shallow gasps, each inhale feeling like it might rip your chest apart. the slip of paper dropped from your fingers, landing on the floor akin to a ghost of the words you’d spoken.

˚ ༘♡ your gaze drifted to the wall, where the faint outline of bullet holes from berlin’s earlier demonstration still lingered. it was a cruel reminder of how precarious your situation was, how fragile your life had become. you tried to gather your thoughts, to steady yourself, but the crushing reality of what you’d just done, what they’d made you do, settled over you akin to an inescapable gloom.

˚ ༘♡ the room was quiet now, but the cruelty of their threats, their presence, still lingered, suffocating and relentless. you were alone again, yet you could feel their eyes on you, even from beyond the locked door. the words you’d spoken would soon reach your father. whether they would save you or sentence you to death, you had no way of knowing. all you could do was wait and wonder how much further they’d push you before you shattered completely.

˚ ༘♡ another day dragged by, wretched with misery and isolation. the meal left for you was delivered not by berlin but by a masked woman, who you identified as nairobi. you only knew her name because the guard outside your door addressed her so casually, as if this nightmare was their mundane routine. the food sat untouched. the idea of eating felt almost laughable. hunger clawed at your stomach, but your appetite had long since been smothered by fear and despair.

˚ ༘♡ you couldn’t sleep. even when you closed your eyes, the silence of the room became deafening, amplifying every creak, every muffled voice, every thought. it left you no escape, only an endless loop of dread. the hours blurred together, and though you tried to find some shred of humanity in fixing your tangled hair and wiping away the remnants of smeared makeup, it was futile. the mirror reflected not a person but a ghost of one.

˚ ༘♡ you thought, bitterly, that the solitude would break you long before anyone had the chance to pull a trigger. this room had become a prison in every sense, its walls closing in, your own mind a tormentor. it felt like time itself was disparaging you, dragging endlessly on.

˚ ༘♡ on what must have been the third day, something shattered the monotonous rhythm. the muffled voices on the floor below you grew louder, more agitated, their tones sharper and more frantic. you pressed your ear to the door, your pulse quickening as you tried to make out the words. and then, suddenly, a gunshot.

˚ ༘♡ the sound was deafening and raucous. you flinched violently, stumbling back from the door, your heart hammering so hard it felt as though it might burst. the echo of the shot reverberated through the building, and then, silence. ominous, oppressive silence.

˚ ༘♡ your mind raced. had someone been killed? one of the hostages? one of the criminals? your breath quickened, each inhale feeling more shallow than the last. you strained to hear anything beyond the stillness, but nothing came.

˚ ༘♡ minutes ticked by like hours before the sound of approaching footsteps outside your door made you freeze. the lock clicked, and the door creaked open. berlin stepped in, and the sight of him sent a surge of fear crashing over you.

˚ ༘♡ he looked different. the composed, almost smug demeanor he had worn like armor before was gone. sweat clung to his sun-tanned skin, and his dark hair was damp, strands clinging to his forehead. his movements were sharp, erratic, like a man barely keeping control of something volatile within himself.

˚ ༘♡ “don’t move,” he rasped, his voice rough, the edge of it sharper than you’d ever heard before.

˚ ༘♡ you stood motionless, your body locked in place as he strode toward you with purpose. without warning, his hand slid along your midriff and waist, his touch invasive and deliberate.

˚ ༘♡ “what are you doing?” you managed to ask, your voice trembling as his fingers moved down to your hips. the sensation made your skin crawl, a mixture of fear and indignation boiling inside you.

˚ ༘♡ “making sure you’re not carrying something you shouldn’t be,” he replied coldly, his eyes narrowing as they bored into yours. his gaze was darker than before, something dangerous simmering just beneath the surface. “one of your co-workers decided to do something moronic,” he continued, his tone flat yet menacing. “and that will be the first and last time anything of that sort happens under my watch.”

˚ ༘♡ you swallowed hard, your throat dry as his words sank in. he stepped back slightly, but the tension in the air remained suffocating.

˚ ༘♡ “rules exist for a reason,” he said, his voice strained with warning. “and when they’re broken, there are consequences. severe ones.”

˚ ༘♡ his words dripped with malice, each syllable a remnant of the power he held. you didn’t need to ask what had happened downstairs, the gunshot told you everything. berlin’s words weren’t merely a warning, they were a promise.

˚ ༘♡ you stood there, trembling, your thoughts plagued with what might have led to the shot, who might have paid the price. you didn’t dare ask, he would not tell you. berlin’s gaze lingered on you for a second longer before he turned, his steps swift and purposeful.

˚ ༘♡ “wait,” you called out, your voice hushed but adequate enough to be heard through the quiet.

˚ ༘♡ berlin stopped in his tracks, his body tense, the sharp turn of his head exuding equal parts vexation and interest. his piercing eyes locked onto yours, and for a minute, he said nothing, letting the weight of his stare bear down on you. “what?” he demanded, his tone jeering, eyebrows raised in irritation.

˚ ༘♡ your gaze flicked down to the pistol strapped to his holster, then back up to his face. the thought that had formed in your mind was reckless, desperate, but it burned too fiercely to ignore. perhaps it was the days of isolation gnawing at your sanity, the endless hours of silence breaking you down. perhaps it was the suffocating fear that someone you knew might have just been killed, their life burnt out like a candle while you sat helplessly. or perhaps it was simply madness. whatever the reason, you made your choice.

˚ ༘♡ your legs moved before your mind could catch up. closing the distance between you, your breath unstable as you stood mere inches from him. berlin’s expression flashed with surprise, his body stiffening at your sudden proximity. you leaned in, your trembling lips brushing against his, and kissed him.

˚ ༘♡ for a heartbeat, everything stopped. the air seemed to crackle with tension, your pulse roaring in your ears. you had half-expected him to shove you away, to respond with mockery or fury, but he didn’t. instead, berlin leaned into you, his lips pressing firmly against yours. his hands, strong and willful, slid into your hair, his fingers tangling in the strands as he deepened the kiss. his touch was practiced, commanding, and for a vanishing instant, you felt yourself lose control, immersed in the sudden intimacy.

˚ ༘♡ but the pistol. your mind screamed at you, yanking you back to reality. your hand moved instinctively, reaching for the cold grip of his weapon, but your fingers hesitated, trembling just inches away. the weight of what you were attempting began to sink in. even if you managed to grab it, even if you were fast enough, berlin still had his rifle slung over his shoulder. he was trained, dangerous, and ruthless. you would be dead before you even had a chance to fire. the consequences of your impulsive plan became glaringly clear, and your resolve vanished.

˚ ༘♡ finally, you broke the kiss, your breath uneven as you stepped back, your lips tingling from the lingering heat of his. berlin didn’t move for a short while, his hand still resting in your hair, his expression indistinct. slowly, he straightened, wiping the corner of his mouth with a measured motion. your crimson lipstick had left a faint stain on his lips, a warm mark against his otherwise cold exterior.

˚ ༘♡ he glanced down at his fingers, then back at you, a faint smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. “you’re a lovely girl,” he said, his tone soft but laced with condescension, “but don’t you think you’re a little young for me?”

˚ ༘♡ his words stung, slashing through the haze of your reckless attempt. he reached for his pistol, not in alarm, but almost as if reminding you of its presence, and adjusted it in the holster, his gaze glistening with quiet amusement.

˚ ༘♡ “nice try,” he added, his voice low, his smirk widening slightly. “but let me give you some advice, don’t start something you can’t finish.”

˚ ༘♡ the door creaked open again, breaking the heated tension, and this time, it was nairobi and tokyo who stepped inside, their presence an abrupt shift in the air. their eyes immediately fell on you and berlin, and their expressions morphed into those of stunned bewilderment. nairobi’s brows shot up, her gaze drifting between berlin’s crimson-stained lips and your disheveled appearance. your hair was still messy, your lipstick smeared, and your clothes rumpled from the chaos of the last few moments. tokyo’s expression, however, was sharper, her eyes narrowing as she took in the scene with a mix of suspicion and barely concealed fury.

˚ ༘♡ “i think our hostage has developed stockholm syndrome,” nairobi said with a laugh, her voice breaking through the awkward atmosphere. her tone was playful, almost teasing, as if she were enjoying the absurdity of the situation.

˚ ༘♡ you flushed with embarrassment, heat rising to your cheeks. being seen like this, vulnerable, exposed, was humiliating, and nairobi’s comment only deepened the shame aching in your chest. you glanced away, trying to avoid their gazes, but it was futile. they had already seen enough.

˚ ༘♡ “berlin!” tokyo snapped, her voice sharp and accusatory. “what the hell do you think you’re doing?”

˚ ༘♡ the shift in berlin’s demeanor was immediate and unmistakable. his jaw clenched, and his eyes darkened, his irritation rising to the surface. it was clear from the way he glared at tokyo that he despised her, there was no mistaking the loathing in his face.

˚ ༘♡ “what do you want?” berlin demanded, his tone malicious and impatient. “this better be important.”

˚ ༘♡ tokyo crossed her arms, rolling her eyes at his deflection. “the professor wants to speak to the defense minister’s daughter.”

˚ ༘♡ the mention of the professor sent a chill down your spine. berlin’s presence was terrifying enough, but the professor, this unseen mastermind pulling the strings, was a obscure figure who appeared even more dangerous in his absence.

a/n: let me know your thoughts and if you have anymore requests for money heist!!! 🤍

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mysterycitrus · 2 years ago

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my headcanon for jason todd is this - he can't stand the smell of smoke. the first time he tried to light up after his ascent from the grave, crouched in the hallway of a motel behind an ice machine, he is returned to the warehouse and the fumes are suffocating. he chokes and gags and snuffs the cigarette beneath his shoe, but the taste in his mouth does not fade for hours. his helmet has a filter, so even amidst gunfire the smell is masked from him enough that he can continue to breathe. anything over a stove is out, fire itself can be difficult, the phantom feel of burning heat makes him think of his body, his first body, back when he was whole. back when he was someone worth loving.

my other headcanon is that he has tinnitus.

#jason todd #batfam #dc comics #red hood #i dont care about him but also i want to look at him under a microscope #like a bug #y'know?#spokes

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icemachineclearance · 3 months ago

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#3M FF18G Ice Machine Filter #Ice Machine Filter #ice machine rentals #used ice cream machines

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niiwa-angel · 7 months ago

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Hazbin Hotel Incorrect Quotes

Vaggie, going over more ground rules for the hotel: Alright! We will be having weekly team dinners! Everybody will be taking a turn cooking!

Vaggie: Except Alastor, after the roast incident of April.

Alastor: You all said you wanted a shoulder roast.

Angel Dust: Pork shoulder, not Paul shoulder!

~~~

Alastor, calling a meeting: Listen up, you little shits.

Alastor: Not you Nifty, you're an angel and I'm happy you're here.

~~~

Valentino and Velvette, after losing Vox at the aquarium.

Val: He probably went to the shark tank. He likes sharks.

Vel: You're right.

Vel, laughing: He's probably in the shark tank, he likes sharks so much.

Val: Ha!

Both of them start running.

~~~

Husk: Hello, people who do not live here.

Cherri: Sup?

Husk: I gave you the key to my room for emergencies.

Frank the Egg Boi: We were out of molotov cocktails.

~~~

Charlie: What happens at Overlord meetings?

Alastor: Oh, you know. Boring discussions really. Lots of bureaucracy.

cut to the Overlord meeting

Vox, jumping up on the table: If you don't stop smacking me with your tail, I will end your entire family!

Zeezi: Bitch, try it!

Carmilla: Everyone sit down!

Velvette, recording: Can it old lady! This is gonna break the internet!

Clara smacks Velvette in the face with the handle of her spear: Don't talk to my mother like that!

Valentino: Don't smack my costume designer! She's getting blood all over her clothes!

Rosie, sampling: Tasty blood!

Alastor, also taking a taste: Indeed! Have you considered becoming a soup?

Zestial, fed the fuck up, slamming his hands on the table, effectively shutting everyone up.

Zestial: Sit. Down. Now.

Everyone sits down.

~~~

Lucifer: If you make your hot chocolate with water, you're out of the fucking hotel!

Lucifer: If you're lactose intolerant, you can stay but you're on thin ice!

Angel Dust: I just snort the powder because Vagina took my stash.

Lucifer: ...

Lucifer: What the fuck?

~~~

Velvette, kicking through the door to the Overlord meeting: Hello losers!

Carmilla, not looking up from her tea: Hello, problem attendant.

~~~

Valentino, watching Vox freak out because of something Alastor did.

Val: Is it a chocolate pudding at three am type of night?

Vel: Does the day end with 'Y'?

~~~

Charlie: Can you guys get along for five minutes?

Lucifer and Alastor: No!

~~~

Vox and Valentino, aggressively making out in the kitchen.

Velvette: Can I get a waffle?

Valentino, rips his underwear off

Velvette: Can I please get a waffle?!

~~~

Carmilla: I am this close to losing it.

Zestial: Mine dear, there is no room between thine fingers?

Carmilla, watching Vox and Alastor argue viciously while Velvette, Valentino, and Rosie egg them on.

Carmilla: Yep.

~~~

Velvette: Selfie with the fossil!

Velvette, drags Zestial in for a selfie.

Zestial, noticing the filter: What witchcraft is this?

~~~

Vaggie: Okay people! If you're going to have weird food in the fridge, it needs to be labeled as such!

Vaggie: Alastor, that means labeling your demon meat! Angel, that means labeling your edibles!

Nifty, raising her hand: Are my roaches okay?

Vaggie: We're actually going to get you a mini fridge for your room, because your roaches are creeping people out.

~~~

Charlie: I love you.

Vaggie: I love you too.

Pentious, from the wall: AWWWW!

~~~

Carmilla: Acceptable snacks to bring to the Overlords meeting; brownies, candy boards, cheese plates, and veggie trays.

Carmilla: Unacceptable snacks to bring to the Overlords meeting; anything made with demons, magic mushroom cereal bars, and penis shaped gummies.

Zestial, a spider: I am also not a fan of the mint tea.

~~~

Charlie: Okay! I know its funny that Alastor and I can't walk on ice, but that doesn't mean it's okay to freeze the hallway to watch us slip!

~~~

Husk: I have very high standards.

Angel Dust, pulling out a machine gun and opening fire.

Husk: Oh no! He's meeting all my standards!

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reinersbigmilkers · 1 month ago

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☕️ How the aot cast takes their caffeine ☕️

Includes: Eren, Mikasa, Armin, Jean, Connie, Sasha, Reiner, Annie, Bertolt, Marco, Historia, Ymir, Levi, Hange, Erwin, Pieck, Porco, Zeke

Eren: Pre-time skip, he does not fuck with the bitterness of coffee. Some tea is fine, so long as there's ample milk and sugar. He does discover that he's a fan of frappes when Armin decides to get one on a whim. And he'd definitely be weird about ordering a 'girly' drink, begging Mikasa to get it for him while trying not to make a scene. It's major "he asked for no pickles" energy between the two of them. (She'd still give him a hard time about it, regardless.) Post-time skip though, he doesn't gaf about ordering a frappe. He also doesn't really care where he gets his caffeine from. A 7/11 machine that probably hasn't been cleaned in three years? That's fine. Better yet, give him a Red Bull or a Monster since he's built such an insane tolerance. (He also has a preference for cold drinks)

Mikasa: Partial to tea, but she orders according to the weather: a London fog for a wintry day and a Vietnamese iced coffee during the summer. Oh, everyone wants to grab boba instead? A red bean matcha at 50% sweetness, no dairy, please. Mikasa also orders an affogato on occasion.

Armin: King of herbal teas, he sticks to decaffeinated drinks since he's caffeine sensitive. (He has soo many sleepy time tea boxes in his cabinet to help his insomnia.) He gets the jitters easily and doesn't care for how it can make his heart race. When he does crave caffeine, though, I could see him using a French press in order to steep it to his liking. Probably sweetens it with honey and adds a flew splashes of milk.

Jean: He's the snob of the group, but admittedly has good taste when it comes to espresso. Wdym you're getting a latte from that drive-thru barista stand?? Can't you tell that it's burnt and pulled all wrong? He'll walk out of a café if he hears the steam wand screaming: he's that particular. A cappuccino is his go-to from his favorite café and he uses a Moka pot at home.

Connie: I'm pretty sure with the last name 'Springer' he's ethnically Irish. But still, he looks soo much like a silver-toothed kid I can't view him as anything else lolol. So naturally he'd have an ice-cold Coke on deck, maybe some Jarritos in the fridge too. Connie doesn't drink coffee, and prefers sodas as a pick-me-up, especially Red Bull Italian sodas flavored with watermelon syrup.

Sasha: She's also not a coffee drinker and would rather sip on fruit teas. If they're lightly caffeinated with green or white tea leaves, she's fine with that, but doesn't like how black tea makes her lightheaded.

Reiner: He and Jean constantly butt heads on how coffee should be ordered, respectively lying on either end of the spectrum from the other. For Reiner, it's simple: add a few spoonfuls of grounds to the filter and brew. If he's feeling fancy, a plain latte will suffice. He doesn't understand how Jean can claim one shop's espresso is worse than any other's when it all tastes the same. Jean just loves to over-complicate everything, according to Reiner.

Bertolt: Finally, a based tea and coffee fan. He never gets weird about one form of caffeine being better than the other, and happily alternates between loose-leaf Earl Gray and his favorite medium roast. He just enjoys all the subtle aromas in coffee and tea, sipping his beverage as he watches Reiner and Jean debate about their drinks for the millionth time. He'll also order from the seasonal menu.

Annie: No frills no fuss, just black with a splash of half-and-half. She might whisk in some collagen powder if she's in a rush that day, just to help get some extra protein in.

Marco: Another frappe enjoyer, he's a Starbucks person lmfao. (he would NOT survive the sbx boycott) He's got the app on his phone and regularly orders a caramel frappuccino.

Historia: She's a big fan of matcha, like Mikasa, and also enjoys anything lavender flavored.

Ymir: Okay she's not quite the nonbinary barista in the black apron. But, she is the tatted-up and pierced lesbian behind the counter. Do not put her ass on the register because she will get into a yelling match with a customer over how impossible (and stupid) their drink is to make. During her fifteen she's out back, smoking and sipping on her iced oat milk latte, scrolling through twitter. (We know what you are, Ymir)

Levi: Surprisingly doesn't drink caffeine. He says he feels more 'even' without it, and has other vices like the occasional drink after a long day. He did have a phase with cold brew though.

Hange: Their go-to order is a simple chai latte, with the addition of a shot of espresso if they have a long night ahead of them. Hange's developed quite the discerning palate when it comes to their beloved chai and can tell when a joint is using pre-made syrup versus mulling the spices in-house. They're also lactose-intolerant and sticks with oat or coconut milk.

Erwin: Good god someone get this man a new coffee-maker. That thing is like old enough to vote, all the buttons are illegible, and it hasn't been descaled once in its miserable life. The poor thing's on 24/7, duct-taped to life support, and brewing up some of the strongest coffee known to man; the cracked carafe pouring its black sludge into Erwin's seasoned coffee mug. Yeah, he's that kind of person. He's been gifted plenty of new mugs, but always finds himself reaching for his unwashed tumbler that used to say "World's #1 Boss" fifty years ago.

Pieck: She prefers hot beverages year-round and loves rose flavored drinks. Pieck also enjoys a good loose-leaf English breakfast or orange-spiced black tea. She has a collection of fun animal-shaped tea infusers and prizes her Animal Crossing to-go mug.

Porco: Another no frills no fuss kind of guy, Porco keeps instant coffee stocked in his pantry and microwaves the water/milk he stirs it in.

Zeke: He's worse than a snob. He's picky. When Zeke pops into his local café, it's like the air shifts and everything suddenly goes quiet. Yeah, he'll have that shaken, not stirred, pulled as a double ristretto, blonde roast, frothed, never steamed, with room and double-sleeved. He recites his order so fucking fast too, the poor teenager at the counter helplessly stands there like they just got flashbanged. Oh, there's a rush going on? He hadn't noticed. But if he's on the go, he'll just grab a kombucha from his fridge.

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liviawildrose · 25 days ago

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𝐥𝐲𝐦𝐩𝐡𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐜 𝐝𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐠𝐞 𝟏𝟎𝟏

WHAT IS THE LYMPHATIC SYSTEM?

think of the lymphatic system as your body’s emotional janitor and drainage crew. it’s part of your immune system, and it does the following:

• filters waste, toxins, and pathogens

• moves lymph (a clear fluid) through your body

• helps circulate white blood cells

• absorbs fats from your digestive system

• balances fluids in your tissues

it’s made up of:

• lymph (fluid)

• lymph nodes (filter stations)

• lymphatic vessels (the pipelines)

• spleen, thymus, tonsils, bone marrow (support squad)

your heart pumps blood, but your lymph has no pump. it moves through muscle movement, breath, and manual stimulation. no movement = no drainage = sluggish, bloated, toxic vibes

WHAT IS LYMPHATIC DRAINAGE?

lymphatic drainage is the process of stimulating lymph flow to help it do its job faster and more efficiently. this can be done manually with massage or with tools/devices. it’s like giving your internal plumbing system a nudge.

benefits?

• reduced swelling/inflammation

• glowing skin

• decreased bloating

• boosted immunity

• improved healing post-surgery

• less brain fog

• reduced cellulite appearance

• de-puffing (hello, snatched face + jawline)

WHY YOUR LYMPH SYSTEM LOWKEY RUNS YOUR LIFE

when your lymph is stagnant, it doesn’t just affect your body it affects your mood, energy, skin, digestion, even spiritual flow. (yes, your energy field has drainage, too.)

poor lymph flow can lead to:

• chronic fatigue/ laziness/ procrastination

• frequent colds/infections

• puffy face or limbs

• brain fog

• digestive issues

• poor healing

• acne + skin flare-ups

• fibromyalgia or pain syndromes

this is your sign to stop ignoring your lymph.

SIGNS YOUR LYMPHATIC SYSTEM MIGHT BE CONGESTED

• you wake up puffy AF

• you get sick a lot

• your skin looks dull or acne-prone

• you always feel bloated or heavy

• your eyes feel heavy/tired

• you have sinus issues

• your underarms or groin feel tender (lymph node overload)

• water retention that won’t go away

TYPES OF LYMPHATIC DRAINAGE

A. MANUAL LYMPHATIC DRAINAGE (MLD)

• slow, rhythmic, skin-stretching strokes

• developed by Dr. Emil Vodder

• done by trained therapists or at home

• moves lymph from extremities toward nodes

B. MECHANICAL DRAINAGE

• compression suits (like Normatec)

• vacuum suction (like LPG Endermologie)

• electric rollers + vibration plates

C. INTERNAL (NATURAL)

• breathwork

• rebounding (trampoline bouncing)

• dry brushing

• sauna/sweating

• hydration

• movement & inversion yoga

HOW TO DO MANUAL LYMPHATIC DRAINAGE AT HOME

PREP:

• be well-hydrated

• be relaxed (stimulating lymph in stress = nah)

• use a dry brush or clean hands

FACE:

1. start at collarbone, gently massage down and out

2. jawline → ears → down neck

3. under eyes → temples → down sides of face

4. forehead → temples → behind ears → down neck

5. always drain downwards toward collarbone

BODY:

1. start at armpits

2. stroke down from arms to armpits

3. belly massage in clockwise circular motions

4. groin lymph massage with gentle circular movement

5. legs: ankles upward to thighs, ending at groin

tip: Always go from distal to proximal, meaning far-to-close to the heart. And be gentle lymph is superficial, you don’t need deep pressure.

DEVICES THAT CAN HELP

for the face:

• gua sha (natural, ancient, sculpting goddess magic) (i use this)

• jade rollers (cooling and de-puffing)

• Foreo Bear or NuFace (microcurrent tools)

• ice globes (i use this)

• vibrating massagers (i use this)

for the body:

• dry brushes (firm bristle brush for exfoliation + flow) (i use this)

• lymphatic paddle boards (i use this)

• compression boots (used by athletes + lymphatic clinics)

• vibration plates (you stand and it shakes your lymph awake)

• infrared sauna blankets

• LPG Endermologie machines

LYMPH-FRIENDLY LIFESTYLE HACKS

FOODS:

• raw fruits (pineapple, berries, citrus)

• leafy greens

• ginger + turmeric

• dandelion root

• seaweed

• chlorella + spirulina

• omega-3 rich foods

HERBS:

• red clover

• cleavers

• echinacea

• astragalus

HABITS:

• drink water (especially warm lemon water)

• move daily (walk, yoga, stretch)

• alternate hot + cold showers

• dry brush before shower

• rebound on mini-trampoline

• sleep well (drainage is boosted in deep sleep)

LYMPH + BEAUTY

• lymphatic drainage de-puffs the face like magic

• stimulates collagen production

• clears breakouts by boosting detox

• reduces dark circles

• tightens jawline and cheekbones

• boosts skincare absorption

SPIRITUAL + ENERGETIC LAYER

in many healing traditions (like Ayurveda, TCM), lymph = life fluid. congestion = blocked emotional energy

blocked lymph = blocked creativity, blocked intuition, blocked glow.

draining the lymph = restoring your internal flow, your connection to Self, Source, and spirit.

you wanna shine? clear your waters.

HOW OFTEN SHOULD YOU DO LYMPHATIC DRAINAGE?

• face: daily or every other day

• body: 3x a week minimum

• post-op: depends on doctor’s advice

• vibration plates/compression boots: 15–30 mins a few times a week

CONTRAINDICATIONS + SAFETY

don’t do lymphatic drainage if:

• you have active cancer

• you have infections or fever

• you have blood clots or deep vein thrombosis

• you are pregnant (only do under supervision)

• you’ve had heart or kidney issues (speak to a doc first)

always listen to your body. gentle is good. pain is not.

FINAL WORD

your lymphatic system is like your inner spa therapist, immune defense squad, and emotional sponge rolled into one. don’t sleep on it.

if you want:

• snatched cheekbones

• less puffiness

• glowing, radiant skin

• fewer colds

• balanced moods

• deep detox

• emotional flow

then lymphatic drainage isn’t optional. it’s essential. give your body the love, movement, and flow it deserves.

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colormepurplex2 · 1 year ago

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Falling In Love At A Coffee Shop | MYG

▻ Falling In Love At A Coffee Shop ↳ ArtProfessor!Yoongi x Artist/CoffeeShopOwner!f.Reader ⤜ Strangers to Lovers, Cozy Romance ⤜ Coffee Shop/Art AU | fluff, smut ⤜ Rating: MA ⤜ WC: 8,028 ⤜ Summary: It’s like clockwork; you receive the same online order every weekday morning at eight o’clock: large decaf iced Americano, picked up promptly shortly after. His face has become familiar, as a part of your routine as the hiss of the espresso machine. Until, one day, that routine takes an unexpected turn, and you find yourself getting familiar with more than just his face. ⚠️ Very mild language, panic over student/teacher potential date (reader is a student, but she's the same age as Yoongi, just taking classes later in life than most), oral m receiving, fingering, kissing, mild dirty talk, cum swallowing, confessions of the heart

A/N: This is part of my 'Heartbeat Melodies' mini-series, where I write fics that are inspired by songs. If you'd like to hear the song that inspired this, you can find it here! A special thank you to @downbad4yoongi & @moonleeai for their amazing beta services!

Can also be found on: Ao3 | Wattpad

“Large decaf iced Americano,” you call out, barely glancing up from behind the counter.

A deep, familiar drawl pulls your attention, “That would be mine.” It’s only familiar for the fact you’ve heard that voice nearly every day for the last six months.

Your eyes snap up from the tablet, where the next online order has come through, to meet warm brown ones. “I should have known,” you reply before you can think better to bite your tongue. Heat suffuses your cheeks. You pull your lips between your teeth to stifle the groan of embarrassment that begs to be released.

The man chuckles, absently using a knuckle to push up the hornrimmed glasses sitting on the bridge of his nose. “I don’t know if I should be offended or honored by that comment. But, I guess I do come here a lot.”

Nearly every day for the last six months, at least. That’s how often he comes here—to your coffee shop. It’s tiny, barely big enough for a handful of small tables and chairs. But it’s yours, and you’re proud of it.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean for that to seem…” you trail off. Not sure how to finish that thought because you’re not entirely sure how you meant it or why you said it other than the fact you’re a bit frazzled this morning and apparently forgot your mouth filter at home. It was a late night last night for you. It's not an excuse, but still.

He waves a large hand in the air, dismissing your apology. “Please, it’s quite alright. I’ll take it as flattery; could use a little boost to my confidence anyhow.”

That almost makes you sputter in disbelief. There’s absolutely no way this man needs any flattery. Surely, he comes by it in droves. Because, well, he’s honestly so gorgeous it should be criminal.

His hair is fluffy, somewhere between charcoal grey and black, though the warm lighting of your cafe gives it a golden honey halo effect. The eyes behind his black-rimmed glasses are dark swirls of espresso that match his coffee order—a straight nose sitting above soft, pink lips that have a light glossy sheen to them.

As usual, he’s wearing a pressed slack and jacket combo, a cream-colored collared shirt underneath with a bold print tie. His choice of ties is what drew you to him in the first place, and made you pay a little closer attention to the mysterious man behind the large decaf iced Americano.

You clear your throat, daring to be bold, while it seems you’ve no filter to stop you. “Well, if you ever need further flattery, you know where to find me.” It’s clear that you give him an assessing once over, his eyes locked onto yours as you do so.

“Do you paint?”

The question throws you off, nearly making you drop the tablet in your hands. Your fingers flex against the case, your thumb brushing along the glass screen. Busying yourself with reviewing the next order on the screen, you turn, giving him your back as you decide how to answer his random question. You’ve never actually had a conversation with him; this man that you feel like you know yet is a complete stranger.

“Why do you ask?” you deflect as you go through the motions of scooping grinds and swapping out the portafilter for a freshly filled one. However, you know it’s not always polite to answer a question with a question; you’re just not sure how to decipher his curiosity or where it came from to begin with.

The bell above the door rings, and you wince as the espresso machine gurgles and hisses loudly as you mechanically pop a cup in the machine and hit the brew button. The noise fills the quiet space of the coffee shop. It’s not until the cup is filled, you’ve added two lumps of sugar, and you’re grabbing a lid that the man responds.

“There’s paint under your fingernails. Or, at least, what I would guess is paint.”

Glancing down at the cup in your hand, you take in the colorful myriad of flecks coating your skin. The colors fill the grooves of your knuckles and hug around the bed of your nails.

“Double espresso with two sugars,” you announce, ripping your gaze from your hand to the interior space of your cafe. A woman steps around the man, giving you a hurried smile as she holds out her hand to receive the cup. You hand it off. “Have a good day.”

Giving the cafe's inside a quick glance, you ensure all the customers within are taken care of. A college student is busy pounding away at their laptop keyboard in the corner, utilizing your free wifi. A half-empty cup of hot cocoa sits cold and abandoned beside them. A trio of friends sit at your only table big enough to seat more than two people, laughing softly and sipping hot lattes and teas. No one seems to need your attention; except the man still standing there, large decaf iced Americano in hand.

You lick your lips, a nervous habit you picked up after endless stressful nights pouring your heart, soul, blood, sweat, and tears into opening the small cafe. Most believed it would flop; others rallied to your side and helped your dream come true.

“Look, sorry if I’ve overstepped somehow,” he begins, but you shake your head, letting him know he’s not.

Gesturing at the wall behind the man, you finally answer, “In my spare time.”

He glances over his shoulder, eyes zigzagging across the giant unfinished mural covering the windowless back wall of the cafe.

“That?” he asks. “You’re painting that?”

It’s hard to decipher if that’s disbelief or awe coloring his voice.

“I am,” you answer a bit hesitantly.

“Wow!” he exclaims, a giant grin spreading across his face, crinkling his eyes at the corners. “I’ve been meaning to ask after the artist every time I come in and see something new added, I just uh,” he brings his free hand up and rubs it across the back of his neck, eyes dropping to the floor under his feet, “well, could never bring myself to.” It’s pretty, the way his cheeks take on a flush of color as his eyes cut to you from over the frame of his glasses. “It’s wonderful work.”

“Thank you.” You can’t help your own flush of shyness at his praise.

“So, uh,” he lifts his cup and gives it a swirl, the ice sloshing around inside, before taking a small sip through the straw, “I know you probably see it on the order, but for the sake of propriety, my name’s Yoongi.”

Min Yoongi, to be more precise, you know. It’s a name you’ve read so many times it’s ingrained in your mind. However, it’s still nice for him to offer it to you. Willingly establishing your connection one step further than his coffee order.

You feel so silly tapping the name tag on the front of your apron, but you do it before you can think better of it, mumbling your name as if he can’t read it for himself after you brought direct attention to it. “Sorry, I’m not normally so weird,” you give a shaky laugh, willing yourself to shut up before you chase him off from how awkward you’re being.

Something changes in his demeanor, his eyes taking on a light twinkle that sits somewhere between mischief and wonder. “I like weird,” he offers casually as if that doesn’t make your stomach swoop and your heart beat a little harder. “Maybe we can talk more about your art sometime. Maybe over dinner? Or lunch if dinner is too forward.”

If you were a cartoon, you’re confident your tongue would actually be tied into a jumbled knot right now with you frantically trying to talk around it, a comical scene for sure. Yet, there is no knot, just a thick feeling that you have to swallow past. “Um, yeah, sure. That would be great. Dinner…or uh, lunch. Both. Either one. Though, dinner might be better considering my hours.”

Yoongi glances at the vinyl hours printed on the front window by the door. They’re backward from his vantage point, but you assume he has no issue reading them, considering he turns back to you and asks, “How does seven work for you?”

“Tonight?” The beating of your heart lurches again, and you can barely hear him over the rushing in your ears.

“Yeah, if that’s not too soon. Perhaps next week, if that’s better? I don’t want to come on too strong. Or well, rather, what I mean to say is, don’t feel pressured.” You can tell he’s feeling hesitant now, trying to backtrack and offer you a way to politely decline his offer for dinner tonight. You didn’t mean to come off sounding so put out. You just weren’t expecting his request to be for tonight.

Mentally, you dig through your schedule. You’re not closing today. Marvin comes in at noon to help with the lunch rush, and then you leave at four to make it to your five o’clock class. It would be today of all days that your new art class starts. It’s the beginning of the fall semester at the local university, and you just so happened to decide to take a few art classes they were offering, the first of which starts tonight.

The class should only be around an hour long, with plenty of time to get home and change before the date. Is it a date? Or just strangers getting together to talk about art? Isn’t that what a date is anyway, though?

“Seven. Tonight. That would be great.”

“Okay, perfect. Can I pick you up? Or we can meet here if that works better.”

It’s endearing he’d offer, both picking you up and meeting in a familiar place. Considering you live above the coffee shop, though, it makes no difference. Though, he doesn’t necessarily know that.

“Here is fine.”

“Wonderful. Have you tried that steak house on the corner yet?”

“The new one that opened last week?” He nods. “I haven’t, no.”

“Perfect.” Yoongi smiles. “Here, at seven. Consider it a date.” His smile falters, and his brows pinch, forming a line between them. “Not that I…well, it’s not that…it doesn’t have to be…if you don’t want this to be a date, that’s—”

“It’s a date,” you confirm, giving him what you hope to be a warm smile to ease his mild panic. “I’ll see you then, Yoongi.”

“See you then,” he responds, tacking your name on at the end in his deep drawl. The way it sounds coming from his mouth should be added to one of those spicy erotica audiobooks you may or may not have downloaded on your phone.

Just as Yoongi is leaving, it’s like the world finally takes a breath, and the exhalation that follows brings with it a rush of early morning commuters seeking their morning fix. The everyday bustle and hubbub of the day filter back in, and you’re soon lost to the sway of the shop, coffee, tea, and cocoa. It all comes alive beneath your nimble fingers, much reminiscent of the way holding a brush makes you feel: a thrill of the soul with each pour.

☕☕☕

Yoongi

In all Yoongi’s years of teaching, he’s never been late to a class, especially on the first day of the semester. Yet, he’s nearly fifteen minutes late getting into his classroom this morning. Students are already filled in and scattered around the theatre-style seating. No one says anything. It’s far too early in the morning for smart mouths and snarky remarks about his tardiness. Not that he would expect that from any of the students anyway.

“Good morning, welcome to Art 320. I’m Professor Min.” He drops his bag and coffee off on his podium at the front of the classroom. Turning to the large chalkboard behind it, he scrawls his name to the side and then begins to write directions. “We will begin with Chapter 1, ‘Mediums and Forms’, in your textbook. Please read quietly, and I’ll be with you all in a moment.”

The day goes on, class after class, and the familiar monotony of it brings Yoongi a sense of peace. This is familiar territory; he’s in his element, not like this morning in the coffee shop. He felt totally out of control and swept up in the swirl of uncertainties and possibilities.

To say he’s relieved you agreed to go to dinner with him would be an understatement. From the moment he decided to change up his routine to check out the cafe Namjoon wouldn’t shut up about, he’s been hooked not only on the impeccable decaf iced Americano, nor the beautifully decorated and painted interior but on the smiling face behind the counter.

Yoongi feels a bit self-conscious thinking about how much he thinks about you. He’s always been too intimidated by the idea of speaking more than a few passing words to you. It’s like every time he gathered up the courage, it would abandon him at the last moment. Namjoon calls it a crush, Yoongi calls it frustrating.

The whole conversation this morning is a bit of a blur to him. Yoongi swears once he opened his mouth it was nearly impossible to stop the word vomit from gushing out…and the next thing he knew, you were agreeing to a date with him tonight.

The day's last class rolls around, and Yoongi feels much lighter as he steps out of his adjoining office and into the classroom to welcome the new students. A few offer him quiet hello’s, some he’s seen from other art classes he’s monitored across the entire department and fine arts program.

Turning his back as the last few students filter in, he makes the same spiel he has at the beginning of every class. “Good morning, welcome to Art 320. I’m Professor Min…”

And so it begins, the beautiful dance of teaching and introducing fresh minds to the concept of forms and mediums. Yoongi is sure he could recite the entirety of Chapter 1 from memory now, with as many times as he’s gone over it today.

“What if you decide you don’t like your form or medium halfway through the project?” a student from the front row asks after Yoongi explains the medium and forms requisite for the final project for this class.

“We’re going to spend plenty of time during the first part of the semester testing out different mediums to know which best suits each of your individual tastes and needs. Regarding the form, I recommend choosing something you most likely won’t tire of. Something that means something to you but also isn’t so complex that you frustrate yourself and burn out before you can complete the project. You’re welcome to, at any time, bring me an idea of the form you’re considering, and we can talk about the intricacies and any potential issues that might arise with using it.”

Another question comes from somewhere in the middle, “Can we choose people, too?”

“A form can be anything that inspires you. If that happens to be a person, then of course. However, note that portraiture isn’t covered until Art 322, but I’ll do my best to help if that’s what you choose.” Yoongi glances at the clock, noticing there are only a few minutes left of class. “Let’s take the last few minutes to wind down, pack your things. If you have any further questions concerning your final project forms and mediums, please don’t hesitate to email me. Also, my office hours are open Tuesdays and Thursdays from two to six.”

As Yoongi turns to begin putting his things away from his podium, his eyes slide across the faces of his last class students, trying to cram them into his mind for the sake of remembering. He always likes to be as personable and approachable to his students as possible; knowing names and faces is always a good place to start.

He has to do a double take as his eyes flick over the very top row. The shock is felt throughout his entire body. It’s not that he’s surprised to see a face he already knows. It’s just that he wasn’t expecting it…wasn’t expecting to see you. Mild panic makes him jerk around, hands gripping at the papers on his podium, shuffling them mechanically.

The first thought that crosses his mind is he can’t possibly be going on a date with one of his students. Surely you’re just here to…to what? He turns over one of the papers, quickly scanning his roster that he hadn’t bothered to check yet. It doesn’t take long for his eyes to snag on your name.

Unease settles across his shoulders. He hates to cancel the date, as he was really looking forward to it, but it’s just…not right, right? There’s a line he shouldn’t cross with his students, even one who he is sure is his age and not the typical college freshman. Yoongi knows this because maybe, perhaps, he might have spent his lunch hour googling you and the cafe. You’re in your early thirties, given the birth year that was viewable on one of your social media pages, and own the coffee shop, have for several years now…a full-ass grown adult—the perfect person to date.

Except now you’re his student. There’s some moral code there somewhere, something about the skewed power dynamic. The thought of going on this date should have red flags flashing in his mind. Yet…yet, no matter how much he tells himself to cancel, he honestly doesn’t want to. Surely, it wouldn’t hurt that much, right? A harmless date.

That’s what he’s still telling himself as he dismisses the class a few minutes later. He intentionally avoided looking in your direction, unsure if you’d be comfortable with him acknowledging you as one of his students or not.

Much to his surprise, as the bubble of sound dissipates, a soft voice reaches his ears from a few feet behind him, “Fancy meeting you here.”

Yoongi has been so consumed with his own feelings about going on a date with a student that he hasn’t even thought about how you might feel. Are you about to cancel on him? Does he try to convince you not to?

He slowly turns, the stack of papers clutched in his hands, glasses slipping down his nose, yet he doesn’t want to pry his fingers from the bundle to fix them. “Look, I understand if you’d rather not—”

“I’m fine as long as you are.”

He’s relieved for your interruption, for keeping him from saying those words out loud. “Are you sure? If I had known this morning that you’d be one of my students…” he trails off, because he’s not so sure that would have stopped him after all. Considering he’s wanted to ask you out for at least the last four months.

“I’m glad you asked me. Student or not. I promise not to make it weird if you don’t.” You give him a brilliant smile, coy and full of mirth but light enough to make his heart jerk inside his chest.

“No weirdness, got it,” he agrees, unable to help his own teasing smile.

“So, I’ll see you then?” you ask, hefting your canvas bag on your shoulder. His eyes flick to it, noting the splashes and swirls of fabric paint that cover the outside. Yoongi wonders if you painted it yourself.

He nods, letting his eyes drink you in one last time before you turn to go. You’re still wearing the same jeans and thin cable knit sweater from the coffee shop this morning. Even in such casual clothes, you are stunning. A work of art all your own. He doesn’t stop staring until the door to his classroom shuts behind you.

“Fuck,” he curses under his breath. It’s not out of irritation or anger, just an acknowledgement of how truly and utterly he’s got it down bad for you.

☕☕☕

Seven can’t come soon enough. It only took you thirty minutes to get ready, putting on a simple black dress and flats. It’s not too fancy, but it makes you feel far more put together than just jeans and a t-shirt.

At five til, you make your way down into the coffee shop from your upstairs apartment. All of the main overhead lights are off, leaving only the warm accent lights that line the menu board and the display case lights on. Even now, the space smells delightedly of coffee.

It’s kind of funny, the fact that you’re not a coffee drinker. Everyone finds it odd that someone who doesn’t drink coffee would aspire to open a coffee shop. What they fail to realize is you love the smell of coffee. The warm, roasted, mildly sweet notes are what you thrive on, better than any shot of espresso in your mind.

There is a street lamp right outside your shop, flooding the sidewalk with a pool of yellow light. Standing just within the glow is Yoongi, his back to the shop door. You watch as his head swivels, looking down both directions of the sidewalk, completely unaware that you’ll be coming from behind him instead.

The sound of the lock turning over startles him. He jerks around and laughs softly, taking a step back, hand to his chest, as you pull the door open. “Can’t say I expected you to come from inside the cafe.”

“I would have been down sooner had I known you would be a bit early,” you say, locking the door behind you. “I probably should have given you my number or something.”

Yoongi eyes you, his gaze sliding up and down your body like he’s drinking you in. You hope he likes what he sees. “I think I was so excited about the date that I forgot even to ask,” he admits, giving you a sheepish smile when his eyes finally land back on yours. “You look,” —he gives you another quick once over, shaking his head and sinking his teeth into his bottom lip— “gorgeous.”

“Thank you,” you preen under his praise. “You look quite handsome, yourself.”

You’re not just saying that to return the compliment, either. Yoongi is wearing the same thing he was this morning, except the tie is loosened, and the top button of his shirt is undone, giving you the slightest peek at his prominent jugular notch.

“Shall we?” he asks, offering you his arm.

You slip your hand into the bend of his elbow, falling into step beside him. The walk to the steak house is short, just enough for pleasant exchanges. He asks how your day at the coffee shop went, and you ask after his first day of classes. Neither of you bring up the fact that you were part of one of those classes.

“I’ve been meaning to check this place out. I’ve heard excellent things.”

Yoongi hums, nodding his head at your words. “I’ve also heard good things, though it might perhaps be biased considering all the praise I’ve heard has come from the owner himself.”

“You’ve spoken with the owner?”

“He’s one of my best friends, actually. This will be the first time I try it out. I kept telling him I’d stop by, but it always got away from me.”

You can’t help the laugh that bubbles up. “I can’t believe you know Seokjin.”

“Wait, you know Seokjin?” Yoongi asks, surprised.

“I’d say know is a relative term. We get deliveries from the same produce truck. He tried to take my apples one time. I had to set him straight.” That makes Yoongi laugh along with you. “We chat sometimes, mostly about the quality of produce and the best places to get ingredients. I had no idea he was your friend.”

“Small world,” Yoongi says. His smile is warm and inviting. You’re sure you could get lost in it if he’d let you. It makes you wonder what his lips taste like. They have a slight sheen to them like they did this morning. Cherry chapstick? Maybe mint? A nice subtle vanilla?

You’re not sure the last time you laughed so hard you had tears in your eyes. But Yoongi has your sides in stitches and your cheeks aching from smiling and laughing so much during dinner.

“Oh gosh,” you wheeze between fits of giggling, clutching your stomach. “Ow, ow. Don’t make me laugh again. I can’t take it.” It just makes you laugh even more, the huffs trailing off as Yoongi reaches across the table toward you.

You pry your hands from your abdomen and slide them into his. His fingers are warm against yours, his thumbs rubbing across the backs of your knuckles. It’s a gesture he’s done several times tonight, silently asking for your hands any chance he could.

“Sorry, you just have such a beautiful laugh,” he says. “I could listen to it all day.”

His flattery hasn’t stopped. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think the two glasses of wine he had with dinner were going to his head. But, he speaks so assuredly and looks in your eyes like you’re truly something special.

Feeling so intimately connected with someone you barely know might be absurd. Yet, you can’t help but feel drawn to him. If you’re being honest, the attraction started long ago, and tonight has just made it blossom into something so much more.

Yoongi has been the perfect gentleman. He’s not tried to railroad the conversation or make decisions for you like other guys you’ve gone on dates with. Whenever a server approached the table, he would defer to you and your needs before his.

“You’ve been so wonderful to me tonight. Please let me repay you with coffee and dessert. If you’re up for it.”

Yoongi squeezes both your hands before letting them go and sitting back in his chair. “There is no need to ‘repay’ me,” he says, emphasizing the word repay. “But, I wouldn’t say no to a date after this date, say in fifteen minutes, coffee and dessert?”

“Fifteen minutes? Coffee and dessert?” You give him a thoughtful look, tapping your fingers against your chin. “Hmm. I think I’m available.” You both break into more fits of soft laughter, contrasting so highly to the high energy from before; it’s intimate, if laughing can be such a thing.

It’s easy being with Yoongi; he’s attentive and curious. “What made you want to open a coffee shop?” he asks as you unlock the door to the cafe.

“I liked the idea of having a space that could cater to people from all walks of life. Businessmen in a hurry? Get it to go. Students needing a place to study? I have a quiet corner for that. College professor looking for his daily decaf Americao fix? Would you look at that? I got that covered, too.” You usher him inside, closing and locking the door behind you. “It also doubles as a great place to have a private coffee and dessert date after a lovely dinner date.”

You watch as Yoongi looks around the cozy space, his attention ending on the mural wall. “What’s your favorite kind of coffee?”

“Would it be weird if I said I don’t like coffee?” you ask.

He glances at you from over his shoulder. “Really?”

You shrug. “I love the way it smells, though.”

“Acrylic?” Yoongi asks, nodding toward the mural.

“Good eye,” you assess, stepping behind the counter to start making the coffee. You grab two pecan cinnamon twirls from the dry storage where you keep extra treats to take up to your apartment at the end of each shift and pop them into the small convection oven along the back wall. “You teach art, but it might be presumptuous of me to assume you also create. So, do you?”

“Not nearly as much as I’d like to. Pastels and charcoal are my favorites to work with. I like the mildly messy, chaotic feel of them. There are few things better than the feeling of taking something so uncontrolled and turning it into a thing of beauty.”

“Charcoal, huh?” Your mind instantly goes to the framed collection of pieces you have in your apartment upstairs. “I can appreciate that.”

“Maybe I can show you sometime.” Yoongi turns from his appreciation of your mural to watch you work behind the counter. He gestures to a few frames hung up on either side of the giant menu on the wall. “Arfé, right?”

You glance up, moving with automated motions to load the portafilter into the espresso machine. “Oh,” you laugh. “Yeah. An experiment. I wanted to try something new and needed some new decor. I thought it was appropriately on theme.”

The half-dozen pieces are all made with swirls of various shades in brown and tan and depict a mix of cups, mugs, bags of grinds, lumps of sugar, and piles of roasted coffee beans.

“Very appropriate. They’re lovely. You’re an exceptional artist.” You’ve lost count of the amount of compliments Yoongi has paid you tonight. You might have been the one flattering him this morning, but it seems he’s making up for that now.

“Thank you. Truly. That means a lot coming from you.” The hiss of the brew machine fills the air, and the soft gurgle of espresso trickling into the small mug follows. “One decaf Americano for one of my best customers,” you say, carefully carrying the steaming cup over to a table beside Yoongi. “Please, sit.”

Yoongi settles at the table, bringing the cup of coffee up to his nose and giving it an appreciative sniff. “Wonderful,” he murmurs before taking a tentative sip. “Thank you, that hits the spot.”

“If you think the Americano is good, wait until you try this,” you say, scooping the twirls out of the oven and onto a plate. They’re perfectly warm and gooey. “You’ve never tried any of our pastries, have you?”

You sit across from him. The table is small enough that you could reach out and cup his cheek if you wanted, and set the plate on the table before Yoongi. He whistles low, “Wow, these do look amazing. Maybe I’ll become a pecan twirl and coffee guy every morning instead.”

Your eyes track his movements, watching as his fingers pinch and slightly sink into the edges of one of the twirls. Some of the warm glaze and cinnamon sugar filling squishes from between the layers.

Yoongi’s lips part and the tip of his tongue peaks over his bottom teeth as he brings the pastry up to take a bite. The moan he lets out surprises you both. His eyes flutter before landing on you and going wide. He chews methodically, his gaze not leaving yours. His tongue darts out, swiping over his lips before he swallows.

“Well?” you ask, settling your elbows on the table and leaning into him, expectant.

The smile that tugs at his lips is coy. “Might be one of the best things I’ve ever put in my mouth.” There is a heat in his gaze as his eyes search yours. “What other surprises do you have up your proverbial sleeve for me?”

“Now, if I told you, they wouldn’t be surprises anymore, would they?”

That makes him laugh. “Fair point. You know,” he glances around the coffee shop, “I never knew just what it was about this coffee shop I loved so much, but I think I’ve figured it out.”

“Yeah?” you say, feeling positively giddy.

“Mhm. So,” he mirrors your pose across the table, his elbows nearly touching your own, fingers toying with yours where they’re folded in the air in front of your face, “is it too soon to ask you on a second date?”

“I thought this was our second date.” You raise a teasing eyebrow, a smile quirking on your lips.

“A third then,” he offers, eyes hopeful.

Of course, you want to say yes. And in the spirit of trying to be coy and playful, you lean in with the full intent of showing him instead of telling him how much you want to go on another date.

Yoongi’s eyes flicker to your lips, watching as you deliberately lick them as you lean in a bit closer. Acceptance lies within their dark depths, a flash of hunger at the impending response that’s only a breath away.

As you advance, your elbows slide on the table, accidentally knocking the coffee cup. Liquid goes everywhere; it floods over the table and pours off the side…right into Yoongi’s lap.

“Oh fuck!” you yell, jumping up from the table and rushing around to his side. “I’m so sorry! Are you okay? Do I need to call an ambulance? Does it burn?”

Yoongi pushes back from the table, holding his arms up off his lap as he assesses the mess. “No harm done. It was already cooled off. It's just a bit of a mess, that’s all. I’m fine,” he laughs. “Truly, I promise. Do you have any towels or anything?”

“Oh god, your shirt, it’s going to stain,” you lament, staring at the dark splotch soaking through above his trousers. “Towels? Yes. Yes. Okay. And some baking soda. Come on, let’s hurry. Again, I’m so sorry!”

“Should we clean this up first?” he asks, motioning at the coffee-covered floor.

“I can mop in the morning. Please,” you fret, guilt making you a bit frantic and flustered.

Yoongi lets you lead him up the stairs in the back that go to your apartment. “You live here?” he questions. “No wonder you were coming out of the coffee shop earlier. That’s very cool.”

You make a noncommittal sound. “It’s cool if you like the smell of coffee and don’t mind rising early every day to open shop.”

It’s so hard to think right now, your mind solely focused on cleaning up the mess you’ve made of Yoongi’s clothes. That’s what you get for trying to be sly and answer his date question with a kiss. You’ll be lucky if he still wants that date now, surely.

The bathroom is barely big enough for the two of you. You insist Yoongi sit on the lip of the tub while you dig under the sink for the baking soda that you use for cleaning and removing your own coffee stains.

“Hey,” Yoongi says softly, grabbing your attention. You glance at him over your shoulder, bottom lip clamped between your teeth in an effort not to fall apart entirely. “I promise it’s okay, alright? You don’t have to stress over it. It’s just an accident. It's a pretty funny one if you ask me. If I’d have known we were getting wet on the first—I mean, second date, I would have planned accordingly.”

His words hang between you, full of static and charged with intention. He’s trying to lighten the mood…and it’s working. It’s also making you feel a certain kind of way. Words shouldn’t have the power to do that. Yet, here you are, flustered for a whole different reason now.

“Date’s not over yet,” you respond, unsure where the bold attitude came from, but you’ll take it. His eyes flicker with something like surprise mixed with desire, though it’s gone before you can really be sure. “Do you mind?” You gesture to his shirt. “It’ll be easier if I can soak it in the sink.”

Slowly, Yoongi undoes the buttons on his shirt, starting at the top and working his way down. Somehow, you weren’t expecting him to be naked underneath, but every open button reveals another swath of flesh. He shrugs out of the shirt, revealing a toned chest and taut belly. His nipples are hard, dark chips, standing out in contrast to his smooth, creamy skin. Yoongi is absolutely breathtaking.

In fact, you have to remind yourself to breathe, taking in a large lungful of air that’s so much it makes your chest ache. He holds the shirt out to you in offering. Your fingers tremble lightly as you take it, quickly turning back to the sink and the distraction of scrubbing at the stain.

Reading over the garment tag quickly, you make sure what you’re about to do is okay. You can feel Yoongi’s eyes on your back, like heated dagger points pricking beneath your skin. You turn on the water, letting the tap run until it’s hot, before quickly swishing the area of the shirt covered in coffee under it. The hot water alone makes a world of difference, the dark liquid swirling away down the drain.

“Do you want my pants, too?” Yoongi asks, startling you.

Your eyes flick up to the mirror, looking at him through the reflection. He’s talking to you, but his attention is zeroed in on your backside. Suddenly, you’re intimately aware that your dress has ridden up dangerously high. You can feel the cool air of the bathroom kissing the crease between your thigh and asscheek.

Turning off the water, you slowly turn to face him. Your chest rises and falls as you try to take deep, even breaths, but with the way your heart is revving inside, it’s impossible to do so. “Let’s see the damage,” you say lightly, raising an eyebrow in question, giving him a chance to call you off.

When he doesn’t comment further, you close the distance to where he’s sitting and ease down onto your knees. You mentally tell yourself it’s so you can get a better look at the coffee that’s saturating the dark fabric, but you know better than that.

Being so close to him, you can feel the heat of his body. His chest rises and falls as rapidly as yours, and when you look up and meet his gaze, there is no mistaking the fire that you see blazing there. “Don’t think I forgot you still haven’t answered my question,” he murmurs, lips barely moving as he watches you.

You lift a hand, hooking your index finger under his chin and using it to angle his face toward yours. “I’d love that,” you respond, your lips brushing over his with every syllable.

He kisses you. Or maybe you kiss him. It’ll be something you tease each other over for many years to come. You open yourself to him, welcoming the glide of his tongue against yours. The kiss tastes mildly of coffee, yet for the first time in your life, you don’t mind the flavor.

“For me to take my pants off, or the date?” he teases, alternating between nipping and consuming kisses. Yoongi’s hands frame your face, holding you to him as he continues to ravage your mouth.

“Mm, both,” you manage to get out. “Definitely both.” Sliding your hands down his torso, you marvel at the softness of his skin and the already very prominent bulge that your fingers dance over as you try to get a grip on the button to his slacks.

Yoongi breaks away from the kiss long enough to help you with his pants, standing up from the edge of the tub and bringing you up with him. He toes off his shoes, leaving his pants puddled on top of them. “Good answer,” he chuckles.

You let out a tiny squeal as he wraps his hands around the backs of your thighs and hauls you up, your legs automatically winding around his waist. Thick erection pressed right against your panty-covered pussy, he slowly walks you out of the bathroom and into your adjoining room. You land on the bed with a soft oomph, Yoongi following you down. His weight is a comfort, settled over your body in a warm, hedonistic embrace.

“I’ll change classes,” you pant, flexing your hips against his. “As long as our next date is to an art gallery.”

“Is it weird for that to turn me on?” he responds, groaning as you roll your hips against him again. “The art part, not the dropping classes part. You don’t have to do that if it’s too much trouble. I know your schedule must be pretty set with the cafe.”

You press your hands against his chest, giving him a gentle push until he’s rolling over and you’re hovering over him. “I’ll make it work. I want to make it work. Everything tonight,” you pause and sit back on your heels, dragging your hands along his torso as you do, “I want more. You’re driving me crazy in the best of ways.”

“Says the woman who’s been running through my thoughts for the last several months now.” Yoongi’s lips part in a gasp, turning his last word into a breathly plea as you trace the tips of your fingers over his straining erection. The fabric of his grey boxer briefs is slightly sticky when you brush your thumb over the head.

“It reminds me of making art,” you casually say, curling your fingers over the waistband of his underwear and tugging until he lifts his hips and lets you drag them down. You toss them to the side, marveling at the glory now resting against his belly. Yoongi’s cock is a gentle upward curve, all smooth steel and thick veins. It throbs, bouncing against his stomach, leaving behind a thick smear of precum. “The way you make me feel.”

“Art?” he asks, breathless. His eyes flutter behind his glasses, his chest hollowing as he sucks in ragged breaths.

“Being with you gives me the same feeling as viewing a Duncanson or a Matisse, calm and full of joy. Though, you can also make me feel the chaos of a Kandinsky when you touch me.” To emphasize your words, you wrap your fingers around his girth, angling it up, watching the emotions on his face. The tip of his tongue works at the corner of his mouth, lips parted with every pant and soft moan. “Is this okay?” you ask, leaning down and gently blowing over the leaking tip before tentatively giving it a kitten lick.

“More than,” Yoongi moans. His eye slide closed as you wrap your lips around the head and suck. The flavor of him bursts across your tongue. You can’t help but moan yourself at the idea you’ve made him like this, hard and leaking.

Working as much of his cock into your mouth as you can, you delight in the shuddering convulses you can feel from his body as he loses himself in the sensations you’re bringing him. Yoongi always seems like such a collected individual. He still appeared so well-kept even when he stuttered over his words asking you on the date this morning. Now, though, he’s unraveling into a puddle of debauchery.

It’s a satisfying feeling, similar to when you get into a perfect rhythm when working on a project, bringing him to the edge. You work your mouth and hand in tandem, never leaving an inch of his cock free of your touch.

“Mmm,” you moan, the head of his cock resting in the back of your throat. Yoongi jerks under you, half raising onto his elbows, his eyes zeroing in on where you’re wrapped around him.

His fingers twist into the duvet, bottom lip puffy and flushed as he worries it with his teeth. “I’m going to cum,” he grunts, throwing his head back and moaning his pleasures, deep and throaty.

You quicken your pace, hollowing your cheeks as you suck in earnest. Yoongi cries out a second before liquid warmth floods your mouth. It’s greedy, the way you swallow and continue to lave your tongue over him, eliciting tiny tremors and more moans.

“Just like art,” you whisper, finally letting his cock slip from between your lips. You’re riding your own high, wet and throbbing between your thighs. You can feel the ache in your clit, begging to be touched. All it would take is a few seconds, a few well-placed swirls of your fingers, and you know you’d be floating in orgasmic bliss.

Before you can even think of bringing your hand between your thighs to find relief, Yoongi is sitting up and urging you backward. Your back hits the mattress, and he settles on his side beside you. Somewhere between there and here, he pulled off his glasses. Despite having just found his release, his eyes are still so full of hunger and desire.

“May I?” he asks, pressing a hand against your inner thigh. You nod, eyes locked with his as he slowly trails his hand upward until his fingers brush over the soaked fabric of your panties. “You are so beautiful,” he whispers, leaning in to capture your mouth in a languid kiss. Your lids flutter closed, consumed as you are by his touch.

Yoongi takes his time, toying with the edge of your panties before tugging them down past your knees. They pool around your ankles as he pushes your thighs apart, exposing your weeping pussy to the air of the bedroom.

“Yoongi.” His name is half moan, half curse as he brings his hand back up and cups your heat. The meat of his palm rests against your clit, right where you need to be touched, but the pressure isn’t enough to satisfy.

“An exquisite work of art.” His lips strum against yours, plucking and teasing just the way his fingers do through your wetness. The tips of his fingers briefly kiss your clit, dancing away before returning; a slow build of decadent pleasure.

It’s not above you to beg. “Please. Yoongi, please!”

“Open your eyes, look at me. Let me watch you fall apart so I can brand it into my memory.”

You snap open your eyes the exact moment he slides two slender fingers into your pussy, thumb finally giving the needed pressure to your clit. You’re so worked up that your body pulses around the intrusion, a tiny fluttering orgasm rippling through you.

“Fuck,” you whimper.

Yoongi gives you a wicked, knowing smile. “It’s not over yet, beautiful,” he assures you in a whispered promise.

His fingers are long, able to reach the perfect, special place inside you. As he strokes his fingertips, moving them in an undulating wave, his thumb swirls in a circle around your clit.

The next orgasm is less surprising, building to a heightened peak that has you crying out as you careen over the edge, entirely at Yoongi’s mercy. “Yoongi, fuck!” you babble, your whole body alive with sensations of pleasure.

“That’s it,” he coaxes. “So beautiful.”

Your body shudders around his hand, his fingers slowing down their rhythm until you finally recover. The slide of his fingers along your walls as he withdraws makes you wish he’d put them back in…or maybe something else. The bereft feeling lasts only a moment before Yoongi gathers you into his arms. He’s completely naked, and you’re still wearing your dress, but you feel just as exposed as he is…only, it’s your soul on display for him instead of your body.

You wait for the feeling of vulnerability to filter in, that broken feeling of uncertainty. But, it doesn’t come. The only thing you feel is complete and utter content. It’s not even the post-orgasmic bliss that’s clouding it, either. No, there’s plenty of that, but it feels different; he feels different.

“Yoongi,” you begin, resting your cheek on his chest. You want to confess to him, but the words get choked in your throat. Is it too soon? Are you completely crazy? What if he doesn’t feel the same way? Fuck. Here goes nothing. “This feels good, really good. Is it too soon to say…?”

“Too soon to say?” he prompts.

You absently trace haphazard swirls and lines across his chest, trying to think of how to word it. “I, well…”

“Too soon to say that I think possibly, maybe, I’m falling for you?” You look up at him, surprised by his words. Yoongi looks at you with so much warmth and affection in his eyes. “Because that’s exactly how I feel, too.”

◅ Back to Main Master List ©️ 2023-12-30 ColorMePurplex2

#min yoongi #yoongi x reader #yoongi smut #yoongi imagines #coffeeshop au #yoongi fanfic #yoongi fanfiction #bts yoongi #professor yoongi #bts fanfic #bts smut #bts angst #bts imagines #micdropnet #bangtanwhq

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greenglowinspooks · 2 years ago

Text

(DCxDP) Drowning in formaldehyde (Pt. 2)

—

Tw: canon-typical violence (Batman), emetophobia at one point

Will be crossposted to AO3 eventually

(Pt. 1)

(Masterlist/subscription post)

—

Danny sat in the back of one of the transport trucks currently on the way to Arkham, his hands in his lap.

So far, everything was going to plan.

About a quarter of the team had gotten themselves admitted into Arkham in the days leading up to the raid, carefully sneaking in supplies and weapons for both themselves and the rogues they were going to free.

Half of the team was on trucks, ready to storm the building with their fancy new tech. A couple others were keeping an eye out for the Bats, and the last one was holed up in a recently condemned building, ecto-modified sniper rifle in hand, ready to fire.

Danny’s hands were cold.

He hadn’t always run cold, from what he remembered. Even after he died—hell, even after he started developing his ice powers—he had always been warm.

Now, though, his body was freezing.

Maybe it was because of the ecto siphoning he and Derringer had done the day before.

He couldn’t make the ecto guns work without fueling them, after all, and the only ectoplasm he had access to was the stuff inside his body. So, he had Derringer hook him up to a GiW machine and filter the ecto out of his blood.

The process was excruciating.

Not only did he get light-headed from the loss of fluids, the machine also chilled his blood considerably during the filtering process, and when it was pumped back into his body, it was freezing. Derringer had to cover him with heating pads and thick blankets to get him to stop shaking.

Still, that had been a little over eighteen hours ago, so that probably wasn’t it.

Maybe it was just another side affect of his time with the GiW.

Overuse of his ghostly wail, he had realized earlier, was the reason that he had lost his voice permanently. Maybe he had accidentally used his ice too many times the same way, and now his body was irrevocably changed. Maybe warmth was just another tiny privilege he had taken for granted, that had now been lost forever.

Danny stared down at his hands.

Maybe his body had just given up entirely on keeping him warm, on pretending to be human.

“Kid, you alright? We’re almost there.”

Derringer’s voice snapped Danny out of his thoughts.

“Yeah,” Danny signed, “just tired. And cold.”

“We’ve got to get you a jacket, kid,” Derringer said, “it’s not even winter and I already have to worry about you freezing to death.”

“I died a long time ago, it’s fine.”

“No,” one of the other men in the truck drawled, “it means you’ve got to be extra careful. You’ve got a second chance at living, so you better not screw it up.”

“What did he say?”

“Danny thinks that because he’s died before, he doesn’t need to worry about freezing to death.”

The truck went quiet for a few moments. Most of the guys in there didn’t know he had died before. He didn’t exactly like to advertise the fact.

“I have a cousin who had a heart attack, and it only made his heart worse,” one of the guys near the front of the truck offered.

“See, kid?” Derringer said, “I’m right. As soon as this is over, you’re getting a jacket.”

Danny crossed his arms, slumping over in his seat with a huff.

A few moments later, a loud clang echoed through the truck. Danny jolted, almost falling out of his seat.

The door opened, the driver looking at them with boredom written all over his face.

“Alright, up and at em. It’s go time,” he mumbled, smacking the door loudly for emphasis. “The sooner we’re done, the sooner we can leave.”

They all stood, hopping out of the truck and making their way to the fence line.

Danny moved his hand to the bandolier on his chest, fingers brushing against the small ecto-bombs he had attached to it.

There were five of them, their bodies made of tempered glass and black steel, and they glowed a sickly green in the night. They were designed mainly for combat; he had a few larger ones meant to blow a hole in a wall in his backpack, which was securely zipped shut.

His hand then drifted to the holster on his left side, and the ecto-gun nestled securely within it.

Most of his parents’ inventions were far too big and bulky to be practical in any real combat setting, so he had downsized them considerably. The weapon he had was modeled after a standard glock pistol, matte black paint covering the GiW white of the gun’s body.

The gun should be able to fire around fifty shots a minute without overheating, which was more than enough for Danny. Hopefully, he wouldn’t have to fire a single round tonight. However, for whatever reason, the words should and hopefully didn’t inspire much confidence in him.

Danny followed the group as they snuck up to the facility, Derringer by his side.

Originally, neither of them were going to go on the raid, but someone on the patient list had caught Danny’s eye, so he decided he would investigate in person. Derringer was just along for the ride because Mr. Cobblepot wasn’t willing to lose an asset as valuable as Danny.

Danny would make it up to the bodyguard later, he decided.

Entering Arkham was, all things considered, pretty easy. Mr. Cobblepot had connections to a few of the orderlies, and it was all too easy to convince them to “forget” a few steps in setting up the security system for the night.

However, since nothing can ever just be simple, they ran into an unexpected patrol of nightshift guards just a few minutes after all splitting up to find the rogues.

Danny and Derringer were able to take them down pretty quickly, but not before they sounded the alarms. And, according to a few guys on the comms, they weren’t the only ones to run into guards where they shouldn’t be.

“They must have changed their patrols,” Derringer huffed, spinning the pistol in his hands, “c’mon, let’s go see about freeing our good friend Victor Fries.”

Danny nodded, scampering after the man as he sprinted through the halls.

The inmates, who had woken up from the loud alarm’s continuous blaring, shouted at them from their cells. Danny’s pulse was loud in his ears, drowning everything out.

Distantly, he wondered if those guards were going to die. Maybe they were dead already.

He supposed that it didn’t really change much if they were.

Soon, they were at the cell. It was custom-built to hold Mr. Freeze, constantly kept at subzero temperatures to avoid killing him.

Derringer hefted his bag off of his back, pulling out the suit and freeze gun that Mr. Cobblepot had procured. As he did so, Danny took a few of the larger ecto-bombs and placed them on the joints of the door.

They carefully moved away, putting some distance between themselves and the door, and Danny detonated it.

The explosion was loud. It shook the entire building, the shockwave knocking Danny to the floor.

Danny brought his hand up to his safety goggles, yanking a small piece of metal shrapnel out of them and dropping it on the floor. He was dimly aware of more pieces sticking out of his kevlar suit. Derringer was similarly peppered with metal, luckily uninjured as well.

They had come from the body and mechanism of the bomb, he realized. He’d have to fix that later.

Mr. Freeze emerged from the cell a few moments later, a scowl on his face. Derringer quickly shoved the suit and freeze gun into his hands and he retreated back into the cell for a few moments, getting dressed.

“I could have died from that, you know,” he hissed. “Killed by some amateurs with shoddy explosives.”

“The Penguin sent us,” Derringer said, ignoring the man’s clear annoyance, “our getaway car is outside. If you’d come with us…”

Mr. Freeze nodded sternly.

“Hurry up, then.”

Derringer and Danny hurried out, Mr. Freeze right behind them. Then, at a certain hallway, Danny paused.

He had to check.

“Kid,” Derringer barked, “we have to go.”

Danny shook his head.

“You go,” he signed, hands trembling, “I have to check.”

“Oh, what’s the problem now?” Mr. Freeze asked, his frown more pronounced by the minute.

“Danny…” Derringer sighed, “Danny thinks his sister might be in here. He hasn’t seen her in years. It’s the whole reason he was a part of the Arkham raid, actually.”

Mr. Freeze paused for a moment.

“Well, lead the way, then,” he said, clearly regretting his words as soon as he said them. Danny just nodded, scurrying forward, the other two men close behind him.

They came to the right cell quickly. Danny looked in through the glass, and he felt a piece of himself shatter.

That was Jazz, his sister, sitting in a padded wall wearing a straightjacket and a muzzle.

She didn’t bother looking up at them as they arrived, not stirring even when Danny slammed his hands on the door to get her attention.

Shakily, he attached an ecto-bomb to the door, hoping with all his might that she wouldn’t get hurt.

The door blew open, and Danny rushed in.

Jazz’s head swiveled to look up at him, her eyes narrowed.

He slipped the goggles up and his bandanna down, exposing his face as he came to kneel beside her.

Slowly, her expression shifted to shock.

“Jazz,” he creaked, his broken vocal chords cracking painfully as he spoke, “it’s me.”

She looked at him like a deer caught in the headlights.

“Danny?”

He nodded, pulling her into a hug, careful not to let the shrapnel dig into her skin.

“I thought you were…”

“Very heartwarming,” Mr. Freeze snapped, “but now isn’t the time. We’ve got to go, now.”

Jazz nodded, leaping to her feet. Danny stood as well, slipping his mask and bandanna back on, and grabbing onto one of her arms for support.

They left the cell, Danny doing a double-take as he saw the frozen-over pathway that they had just come from. He looked to Mr. Freeze, tilting his head questioningly.

“There were guards,” he said flatly. “Now hurry up, we need to get out of here.”

Derringer grabbed the two of them, dragging them along as he sprinted through the hallways. They had to take a bit of a detour, coming out of the main entrance instead of the side one they had entered.

Unfortunately, there was an active gunfight going down.

Danny was roughly pulled behind a desk, just barely dodging a few rounds.

His hands shook as he pulled a small ecto-bomb from his bandolier, priming it and throwing it at a small grouping of night guards. They cried out as the pure ectoplasm collided with them, covering their bodies in burns.

The smell, while familiar to Danny, was still horrific.

They took a few shots off at the night guards, trying to take them down. Their group was efficient, but with the rate they were going at, it wasn’t going to be enough. Only adding to that, the gun Mr. Cobblepot had prepared for Mr. Freeze had broken after just a few uses, leaving them unable to create an ice wall.

Then, Danny heard the sound of a gun’s safety being turned off behind them, and his vision went white.

He grabbed onto Jazz and Derringer, making them intangible right as the night guard opened fire.

Waves of nausea hit him all at once and he doubled over, his vision swimming. Danny was only dimly aware of Jazz taking the guard down with a high kick right to the head, and Derringer pulling him into a protective hold.

Ignoring everything, he pulled the last of the large bombs from his bag, throwing it into the air, pulling everyone behind the desk.

The entire room went white.

Danny’s ears rung as he scrambled out from behind the reception desk, dragging Jazz with him.

Luckily, none of the hired hands on his team had gotten injured, but the guards…

Danny looked away, trying to ignore the taste of bile in his mouth.

It was fine. He was fine. Everything would be okay.

The next few minutes were a blur. He knew that he had puked only a few seconds after they had left the building, and that Derringer had picked him up afterwards, carrying him to the truck with Mr. Freeze and Jazz in tow.

Danny’s entire body was wracked with tremors, an unbearable phantom pain passing through the still-healing surgical wounds in his head and torso like lightning. He dry-heaved, shivering uncontrollably.

They drove off soon after. Luckily, no one had been left behind. Someone, probably Derringer, helped Danny rinse out his mouth and got him a bottle of water to drink, wrapping him in his jacket.

As soon as the truck doors were opened within one of Mr. Cobblepot’s safehouses, Danny became aware of the sound of wailing.

Hopping out of the truck, most of his mind still far away, he saw a man being rolled out of the room on a stretcher. He was one of the people who had been on the other truck, Danny realized.

Beside him was a teenager, probably only a few years younger than Danny, who was screaming and crying uncontrollably. They wailed at Mr. Cobblepot, who only stood there with an uncomfortable expression on his face.

“Oh shit,” Derringer breathed. Danny pulled on his sleeve, tilting his head at him questioningly.

“The guy on the stretcher, that’s his sibling.”

Danny just stared, a hollow feeling deep in his chest.

Jazz, her arms now freed from the straightjacket, pulled him away from the scene. Danny let her.

—

#dcxdp #dc x dp #dp x dc #dpxdc #dp x dc crossover #dc x dp fic #vengeful danny #villain danny #btw Danny’s just cold because he has an iron deficiency. lmao #girl this is what happens when you don’t eat for two years. you get deficiencies. now stop angsting and eat your veggies #also my descriptions of the ecto filter come from donating blood plasma + platelets #Danny is Going Through It™️#btw I’m finishing this chapter at 3:03 am #just in case you thought I didn’t care about you all #btw the guy who’s injured’s sibling is a surprise tool that will help us later #also I was totally gonna kill Derringer at first. btw #but y’all avoided that with the poll. also it would have been a bit cheap imo

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pollux-starsz · 2 months ago

Text

DCA Slasher AU belongs to @wyervan :D

guess who finished that writing i mentioned in that little ask x3c

writing below the cut, i had tons of fun with this!!

Wrong Way

The cold bit at her cheeks as Kalamela zipped up her coat, fingers slightly stiff from the chill that had settled over the town like a thick, icy blanket. It was only just past four, but the sky was already fading to a dusky purple, the sun barely peeking over the horizon. Streetlights buzzed faintly to life, one flickering above her head as she locked her front door with a soft click.

Her boots clacked on the sidewalk as she made her way toward Crystal Cove, the familiar weight of her skates slung over her shoulder by the laces. The air smelled like woodsmoke and exhaust, and a gust of wind tugged at the ends of her multi-colored curls, which she'd tucked under a cozy jacket hood and scarf—well, "tucked" might've been a stretch. They were still rebelliously sticking out like confetti from a party popper.

She hummed to herself, a little melody from a commercial stuck in her head, and puffed out a breath that fogged in front of her. A light ache was blooming behind her left eye—cluster headaches teasing her again—but she pressed forward. She was used to it. Crystal Cove wasn't far, and she'd already promised herself an apple cider from the staff machine the second she clocked in.

Snow crunched under her boots as she crossed a quiet intersection, the only car in sight a dusty pickup parked under a tree wrapped in half-lit string lights. The winter chill clung to her coat despite the layers, but it wasn't unbearable—just the kind of cold that made her nose sting and cheeks glow pink. Her breath puffed out in slow little clouds, each one quickly whisked away by the breeze.

The walk was calming, in its own sleepy sort of way. Familiar buildings passed by in a blur of frosted windows and twinkling holiday displays—some cheerful, some barely holding together after a long season of wind and teens throwing snowballs. A few shops still had music playing faintly through speakers over their doors, jazzy jingles and old songs filtered through static.

She shifted the skates on her shoulder, the leather laces biting into her jacket a little as she adjusted her grip. Her left eye throbbed once, a dull, insistent pulse just behind the socket, but it wasn't anything she hadn't dealt with before. She could practically taste the cider already, sweet and a little too artificial, but warm enough to make the pain back off for a while.

One more block. Two, maybe. She passed a fence lined with frozen ivy, and a dog barked somewhere in the distance.

And then—

"Boo."

A low, scratchy whisper right behind her ear.

Kalamela jumped so hard she slipped on the ice and she spun, skates swinging wildly as she threw one hand out for balance and the other ready to deck someone.

"GOD—!" she yelled, clutching her chest. "Are you trying to kill me!?"

Moon, of course.

He leaned lazily against the lamppost behind her, like he hadn't just popped out of nowhere and aged her a decade in half a second. His hood was down, the collar loose around his neck, and his eyes glinted with absolute, unapologetic mischief.

"I said it softly," he rasped, tilting his head slightly. "Could've shouted."

"Oh shut up!" she snapped, still catching her breath. "Where did you even come from? You weren't here five seconds ago!"

Moon just shrugged, a little too smug for someone who'd just activated her fight-or-flight response. "Been tailing you for, like, three blocks."

She blinked. "WHAT—"

"You were humming," he added, as if that explained anything. "Off-key, by the way."

Kalamela squinted at him, "You're a jerk."

Moon grinned. "Correct."

She rolled her eyes, exhaling hard through her nose as she tugged her scarf back into place. "Shouldn't you be at the arcade, sleeping on the couch or something?"

"Day off." He peeled away from the lamppost, stretching a little, his breath curling in the cold air. "Figured I'd make it yours too."

"…Huh?"

He stepped in beside her and began walking like it was the most normal thing in the world, hands stuffed deep in his coat pockets. "You're not going in today. Sorry. Plans changed."

She furrowed her brows, walking to keep pace with him. "Says who?"

"Says me," he replied smoothly. "And also your boss, who—fun fact—thinks you're 'very responsible' and 'deserves to go do something stupid for once.' Her words."

Kalamela stared. "You called Crystal Cove?"

"I did."

"And you convinced Marlene to let me off?"

"I have a very convincing voice," Moon said, completely deadpan.

"What did you do? Sweet talk her?"

"I absolutely did, she attends that aerobics class with Sun and I may have given her a few tips to be a bit friendly with him," he said proudly.

Kalamela groaned and lightly bonked her forehead with the heel of her palm. "Unbelievable. Absolutely deranged. You're lucky I kinda love that about you."

"Aww," he teased, nudging her shoulder with his. "Flirting already?"

"Don't push it, asshole."

He just laughed, the sound low and warm and a little wheezy, like he didn't quite remember how to fully laugh without it coming out like a breathless wheeze through a haunted accordion.

They walked in silence for a beat, the area settling in around them like a snow globe—soft and slow and quietly alive. The sky had dipped into deep twilight now, and the first true stars were beginning to shine through the haze.

Kalamela looked over at him. "So… where are we going?"

He smirked, not looking at her. "You'll see."

"Moon."

"Kalamela."

"Moon."

He didn't answer this time. Just picked up the pace a little, boots crunching louder in the snow like some cryptid on a mission. No plan. Just chaos in the shape of a man with too many sharp smiles and too much time on his hands.

She sighed, deep and slow, as if trying to summon enough patience to deal with whatever nonsense he was dragging her into this time. "You didn't actually have a plan, did you?"

He grinned wider, shoulders rising and falling with a lazy shrug. "Nope."

"Of course not," she muttered, adjusting her grip on her skates again. "Just had to be annoying today, huh?"

Moon made a noise in the back of his throat that might've been a laugh or a satisfied purr. "It's my day off. I'm allowed to be annoying."

Kalamela gave him a sidelong glare. "You nearly gave me a heart attack."

"You looked cold," he replied with mock sincerity, hand to his chest. "I was warming you up. A good scare helps, y'know."

She huffed out a tired laugh, despite herself, rubbing her hands together. "You're insane."

"And yet," he said, stepping sideways just enough to walk backward in front of her, arms spread with a dramatic flourish, "you're still following me."

She stared at him flatly. "Only because I want to make sure you don't walk straight into traffic."

"That's so sweet," he cooed, winking. "Look at you, caring."

"Shut up before I trip you," she muttered, but there was a ghost of a smile tugging at her lips.

And Moon? He just kept walking backward like it was a performance, boots slipping a little on the ice but never falling, like he was built for this kind of nonsense. No destination. No plan. Just the fun of dragging Kalamela away from work to spend time with his and Sun's main source of homemade food.

Kalamela sighed again, breath puffing in a pale cloud as she watched Moon strut backwards like some lanky cryptid auditioning for a circus act. The twilight deepened around them, purple sinking into navy and casting the snowy sidewalks in a strange, silvery blue. The streetlights flickered in uneven rhythms, halos of amber forming puddles on the frostbitten concrete.

"You're going to slip and eat the entire sidewalk," she warned, voice dry.

"Bold of you to assume I haven't already made peace with that," he said, arms still out. "If I go down, I go down with you."

"You'll go down like a dumbass," she muttered, though there was amusement curling at the corners of her mouth.

A wind swept through the street, catching the edges of her curls that had stubbornly escaped the hood. Moon squinted at them, stepping back into sync with her stride.

"Your hair looks like a confetti cannon had an emotional breakdown," he said with an odd cheerful tone to his voice.

"Thanks, I washed it in regret this morning."

He gave a pleased little snort, clearly enjoying himself far too much. The buildings around them were thinning now, shopfronts replaced by low houses with yellow-lit windows and stoops buried under old snow. A pair of kids ran across a yard in puffball coats, laughing and hurling snowballs, their voices echoing down the quiet street.

Kalamela glanced sideways, watching Moon sidestep a patch of ice without missing a beat.

"So seriously," she tried again, "you dragged me out into the frozen void. There has to be some idea here."

"There is an idea," he said, grinning. "The idea is: walk."

"…Walk."

"Yup. Just walk. Keep walking. Don't stop walking."

"That's not a plan, that's a concept, sugar," she groaned.

Moon spun once dramatically, coat flaring. "And yet, here you are. Participating."

"Only because you called out of my job for me."

"Exactly."

She sighed again, loud and theatrical this time. "God, my boss likes you. That's the scariest part."

"She likes Sun," he corrected. "I just reap the benefits."

They walked in silence for a few more blocks, the town slowly giving way to open road. The sidewalk narrowed, then vanished altogether, the pavement edged by sleepy trees and skeletal bushes coated in frost. The snow here was untouched, a soft powder crusting over dead grass and broken fences.

Kalamela shifted the weight of her skates again, grumbling softly as the laces dug into her shoulder. Moon noticed.

Without asking, he plucked the skates right off her and slung them over his shoulder.

She blinked. "Hey—"

"Relax," he said with a crooked grin. "I'm tall. This is my burden now."

She narrowed her eyes. "You're gonna complain about the weight in ten minutes. Since when do you want to be all sweet n' sugary to me?"

"Please. These are nothing." He glanced at the skates with mock suspicion. "And maybe I'm just in a good mood."

"Oh, praise be, hm."

Moon snorted. "Oh nooo, the short stack is armed."

"Over six feet of stupid and you're still scared of me," she said sweetly.

"Terrified," he agreed, deadpan.

The quiet wrapped around them again as the wind settled and even the dogs from earlier seemed to fade. The moon—his namesake—peeked through wisps of cloud, casting the snowy fields beyond the road in soft silver light. The world was still, empty, like they'd stepped outside of time.

Kalamela's headache had dulled to a faint throb. It was strange, how calming it was. No expectations. No work. No destination.

She looked at Moon again. "Hey."

He raised an eyebrow.

"…Thanks."

His smirk softened just a little. "Don't mention it."

She hesitated. "I mean it. This… weird endless walk thing. It's dumb. But it's nice."

"You're welcome," he said. Then, after a beat: "You're still not getting your skates back, though."

"Moon—!"

He took off at a jog, her skates bouncing behind his shoulder as she shouted and took off after him. She stood there for a moment, before rushing after him to catch up.

Moon did not take her to cider or donuts. Oh no. Not yet.

He veered off after a block, dragging Kalamela down a narrow alley between two apartment buildings, both of which looked sketchy enough to get you tetanus just by thinking about them.

Kalamela squinted. "Okay. Definitely not a cider shop. Where in the world are you takin' me, honey?"

Moon shot her a grin over his shoulder. "Even better."

He didn't explain. Just grabbed the bottom rung of a rusted fire escape, pulled himself up like it was nothing, and looked down at her from halfway up the ladder.

"…Moon. No."

"Yes."

"I'm wearing HEEL—no. BOOTS. HEELED. BOOTS."

"You always say that like it matters."

"IT DOES!"

"Does it?"

He stared her down with those red, mischief-dripping eyes, and she knew this man wasn't about to take no for an answer.

So, with the world's most dramatic groan and a whispered "Já tě zabiju," she grabbed the ladder and hauled herself up after him, cursing the entire way.

By the time they hit the rooftop, her curls were windblown, her thighs were burning, and her back was definitely going to file a complaint in the morning. But dang it if the view wasn't worth it.

The rooftop was flat and wide, surrounded by a low ledge. Christmas lights were tangled along one pipe, long dead but still clinging to life. A couple of milk crates sat near the edge like makeshift seats, and there was a clear spot where the snow had been stomped down—probably Moon's doing.

Beyond that, the town sprawled out in lazy, glowing rows—rooftops coated in snow, cars crawling down roads like beetles in molasses, stars shimmering above the city haze.

Moon spun around once, arms out, breathing in the cold night like it fed him. "See?" he said, grinning. "Way better than cider."

Kalamela plopped down on one of the crates, pulling her coat tighter. "I'm freezing. My ribs hurt. My shoes hate you. But yeah. Kinda cool."

He beamed, then immediately leapt onto a nearby vent like it was a jungle gym. "Bet you I can make it to the other side in ten seconds."

"You don't even know what's over there!"

"That's what makes it fun, sweetheart."

He bolted—leaping from the vent to a pipe, from the pipe to a ledge, his long limbs moving like a spider. Kalamela just stared, jaw slack.

"What are you doing?!" she half-laughed, half-screamed. "You're gonna get yourself hurt!"

"I've done this a thousand times," he retorted, then landed in a crouch with a skid of snow and threw up his hands like a gymnast. "Ta-daa!"

Kalamela buried her face in her hands. "Nooo..."

Moon bounded back across the rooftop like gravity was just a suggestion, dropping into a slide that landed him perfectly in front of her again. "You'll be fine, Star. Nice to have a bit of fun, anyways, hm?" He snickered, a wide, teasing smile on his face as he leaned in and poked her on the forehead.

"I'm going to hit you if you keep poking at me, you idiot."

"You'll have to catch me first."

That was definitely the wrong thing to say. Because in less than two seconds, she was on her feet, chasing him around the roof while screaming a combo of English threats and Czech curses, her boots clacking wildly against the icy tar.

Moon was laughing the whole time, just barely keeping out of reach, vaulting over boxes, spinning around pipes, ducking behind a vent. "You can't catch me like that, sweetheart."

"I WILL TURN YOU INTO A FLOOR MURAL, MOON!"

She finally snagged the back of his coat, and they both went tumbling—right into a snowbank that had settled near the ledge. They hit the pile in a tangle of limbs and coat flaps, Moon howling with laughter, Kalamela wheezing and face-first in snow.

"…You okay?" he asked, mouth full of snow.

She spat out a flake. "You absolute demented creature."

He grinned, cheek squished into the snow beside her. "I missed you too."

And for a second, neither of them moved. Their breath fogged up between them, soft and slow. The world was so quiet up here, above the streets and the noise, like they were the only two people left alive.

"…Don't think this gets you outta buying me cider," Kalamela muttered, cheeks pink from cold and maybe something else.

Moon bumped his forehead against hers. "Wouldn't dream of it, Sugarplum."

She rolled her eyes, "Sure you wouldn't, honey."

The air around them felt thicker than it should've been. The sky above had swallowed the last traces of color, leaving behind a dull, relentless gray. It was the kind of day that made everything feel too heavy, like the world was about to collapse in on itself.

Kalamela sat on the bench with her arms crossed tight against her body, a grimace tugging at the corners of her mouth. The pain in her back was only getting worse, and the cold in the air didn't help. It dug into her bones, making her wish she'd stayed inside, under the soft glow of the restaurant's neon sign, where it was warm.

But no. Of course, Moon had insisted they continue their walk. In this weather.

She could feel him beside her, a massive presence that seemed to lean in with every breath she took. And she knew what was coming. It always did with him. The teasing, the prodding, the way he made everything feel just a little too intimate. Too close.

She shifted on the bench, a small wince escaping her lips as her back twinged again.

"Something wrong, Kal?" Moon's voice was a smooth drawl, low and teasing, like a predator toying with its prey.

Her lips parted to snap something back, but before she could, he leaned closer. Close enough that she could feel the heat of his body pressing in, and she didn't know if it was the cold air or something else that made her shiver. She refused to meet his eyes, instead focusing on the dirty pavement beneath them. But he didn't make it easy.

Moon's hand rested on the back of the bench, just behind her head, his fingers barely brushing against the metal. She could feel the warmth of his presence now, like a weight just behind her, suffocating in its ease.

And then, his voice lowered, becoming almost a whisper, soft but deliberate. The kind of tone that made her heart skip a beat. "You know… I've been meaning to tell you something. You'd probably like to know, wouldn't you?"

Kalamela's heart dropped into her stomach. She shifted uncomfortably. "I'm not in the mood for your games today, Moon."

"Oh, no games here, sweetheart." He said the words like a promise, and then, without missing a beat, continued. "It's entertaining, trust me."

Her stomach tightened. She didn't need to hear this.

But Moon wasn't the type to let something like permission get in the way. He leaned in closer—so close that his breath brushed against the side of her face. His lips barely moved as he spoke, his words slipping past like they were meant to be secrets. Dangerous ones.

"The kid used to scream at night. Locked up in that room. They didn't think she'd keep fighting back." He paused, his smile turning into something darker, almost nostalgic. "But she did. She always did."

Kalamela bit her lip, feeling her chest tighten. But hearing him speak of it, so calmly, so... matter-of-factly? It made her skin crawl.

He continued, his voice never faltering, each word measured like a slow drumbeat.

"They thought it would break her. That if they locked her up, left her in the dark, she'd stop screaming. But that just made her listen harder." He smirked at her, almost too casually. "The things I could hear in the room. The blood. The smell. And the thing about silence, Kal? It's more dangerous than anything else. Once you get comfortable in it, you stop hearing the screams." He leaned closer, lips almost brushing her ear as he whispered, "I stopped hearing them. And I made sure they didn't hear anything else."

Kalamela's pulse quickened. Her breath hitched in her throat, but she refused to show it. She kept her eyes trained straight ahead, gripping the sides of the bench like it might keep her anchored to this world and not the abyss Moon was pulling her into.

His next words were the worst part, soft and slow, as though he were savoring them.

"I killed them. Took my time. And I made sure Sun did, too." He let out a dark chuckle, the sound like a cold wind. "I didn't leave any of them behind. Of course, Sun complained about the mess. Got a bit excited."

The cold from the sky above was nothing compared to the chill that ran down her spine as she finally glanced at him. His expression was unreadable, but there was something in his eyes—something that made her realize he wasn't talking about just this girl's parents. There was something behind those words. Something darker, like he was reliving it all over again. Like he was proud. And he was very proud of himself, it wasn't hard to tell.

She tried to swallow, but her throat felt tight. "Moon…"

His smile was a little too sharp, his eyes catching hers. He leaned in just a hair more, and for a second, she could feel his breath tickling her ear.

"Still think I'm just the quiet one?" he asked, voice dripping with something that was far too playful to match the conversation. "You know, if you ever need someone to talk to, I'm all ears. But... I'm also really good at silencing people."

Kalamela's heart pounded in her chest. She wasn't sure if it was fear, excitement, or something else entirely. But it didn't matter. Moon had a way of making everything feel like a game, and she was his favorite target.

He could tell she was rattled. It was too easy. He pulled back, just enough to give her space, but it wasn't enough for her to shake off how uneasy she felt.

The silence stretched between them, thick and heavy, as he leaned back, eyes glinting with amusement.

"Relax, Star. You're not scared of me, are you? You're livin' with us now, we can't have you running off in a frenzy," he teased, his voice light, but his gaze never leaving her face.

Kalamela exhaled slowly, trying to steady herself. "I don't know..." She uttered, fidgeting with her hands.

"Oh, you have no idea how great it feels," he said with a grin, his posture almost too relaxed, as if he hadn't just shattered something inside her. He tapped his fingers along the back of the bench as his arm rested behind her.

But in a way, it was all too familiar. The tension. The danger. The way he made everything feel just a little too real when he wanted it to.

The sky above them stayed gray. But for the first time in a while, Kalamela wasn't sure if the weather was the worst thing she had to face.

Moon tilted his head slightly, watching her with that same slow-burning intensity. He looked far too calm for someone who just casually dropped a murder confession like he was talking about the weather.

Then, his voice cut through the silence again, low and velvety.

"There's something else."

Kalamela didn't move at first. She felt like if she so much as breathed, the tension would snap like a rubber band and launch her straight into another one of Moon's spirals.

"…Please tell me it's not about another corpse," she muttered, trying to keep her voice steady. Trying to joke.

But Moon's smirk softened. It wasn't sharp now—it was... different. Sincere. Almost vulnerable, in a way that made her heart stutter.

"Nah," he said. "No more bodies. Not today." He paused, his voice dropping even lower, almost hesitant. "It's about you."

Her breath hitched.

"You," he repeated, like it was a prayer. "The way you sit here with me even after I tell you stuff like that. The way you look at me like I'm not just some... broken machine or a ticking time bomb. You don't flinch, even when you should."

Moon leaned closer again, but this time it wasn't menacing. His hand moved—slowly, gently—until it brushed against hers on the bench.

"You make me feel like I'm not a monster," he whispered.

Kalamela turned to him, wide-eyed, caught off guard by the sudden honesty. She should've pulled back. Should've said something sarcastic. But she didn't.

Her hand didn't move away either.

"I don't think you're a monster," she said softly, the words escaping before she could even think about them.

Moon looked at her like that was the first time anyone had ever said that to him and meant it. Anyone other than Sun, anyway.

Then he leaned in. There wasn't any teasing this time. No smug grin or cocky remarks. Just quiet tension, his gaze flicking to her lips and then back to her eyes, like he was asking permission.

She gave the tiniest nod.

And he kissed her.

Not rough. Not fast. Just slow, deliberate, and warm in a way that made her knees weak even though she was already sitting. His hand cupped the side of her face, calloused thumb brushing her cheek as he pulled her in.

It didn't feel like some movie scene.

It felt real.

Raw.

Like a confession of sorts.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead resting lightly against hers, he exhaled a shaky breath.

"I didn't think I was capable of wanting something soft," he murmured. "But then there was you."

Kalamela was stunned into silence for a moment, her cheeks flushed and her heart doing acrobatics in her chest.

Moon was still looking at her. Searching. Waiting. He also seemed a bit.. worried? Irritated?

She didn't say anything.

Couldn't.

Because the reality crashed down all at once:

She just kissed someone who kills people.

She's in love with someone who kills people.

TWO people. Sun too. They kill people. And she kissed him. And she liked it. And she wants him. And now he knows that. And now—

Kalamela stood up, heart still racing, trying to shake off the lingering warmth of Moon's kiss. She wasn't sure what had just happened, but she knew one thing for sure—that was not how she'd expected the evening to go.

She rubbed her forehead, fighting the swirl of emotions threatening to rise. The last thing she needed was Moon to get all... soft on her.

"We should get going," she muttered, trying to get her bearings. "Before you decide to drop another bombshell on me."

Moon's smirk never wavered, even as he slowly stood up. There was something dangerous about that grin, like he was savoring the effect his words had on her. He knew what that kiss did to her—she could tell. He wasn't going to let her forget it, and honestly, part of her hated how much she was letting him.

"Oh, sweetheart, I'm not done yet," he teased, his voice smooth and velvety, the playful edge never leaving. He took his time as he walked over to her, his steps measured, as if he were enjoying every second of her discomfort.

"I'm not sure you really want to leave so soon," he added, his eyes dancing with mischief. "We could walk back inside, maybe... get comfortable." His lips quirked up as he leaned in slightly, his voice low. "Get to know each other better?"

Kalamela's stomach churned, a mix of frustration and something else she refused to acknowledge. "We are getting to know each other, Moon," she shot back, though her voice wavered slightly. "And honestly? I'm not sure I can handle any more of your... charm tonight."

Moon chuckled, his eyes gleaming. He wasn't fazed by her words in the slightest. "Oh, come on. You're not scared, are you? Not after everything I've told you?" His tone was mockingly sweet, like he was trying to coax a kitten out of hiding.

She turned sharply to face him, trying to hold her ground. "I'm not scared of you, Moon," she said, her voice firmer now, though her insides were still tied up in knots. "I'm just... done with your games for the night."

He raised an eyebrow, clearly entertained by her defiance. "Done?" he repeated, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Sweetheart, you're a mess. I can see it all over your face. You want more." He leaned closer, just enough that she could feel the heat radiating off him. "You liked that kiss, didn't you?"

Kalamela's heart skipped a beat, and she cursed herself for the way her body reacted. "You're impossible," she muttered, but the words lacked their usual conviction.

Moon's smirk widened, and he chuckled darkly. "Yeah, I know." He shrugged like he was just stating the obvious. "But you kissed me back." He let the statement hang in the air, a challenge in his eyes.

Before she could respond, Moon turned and started walking down the path, his hand resting casually in his pocket. "We'll talk more later, Star," he said over his shoulder, his voice rich with amusement. "You can run away all you want, but we both know you're not going anywhere."

Kalamela didn't have a response, not a smart one anyway. She stood there for a long moment, staring at the empty space where Moon had been, his snicker still echoing faintly.

She was in way over her head.

After a long exhale, Kalamela followed him, her footsteps heavy but determined. They walked in silence for a while, the night air cool around them, the dim streetlights flickering faintly. She wasn't sure where the hell this was all going, but something told her that whatever it was, she wasn't leaving him behind.

Moon glanced at her over his shoulder, his eyes gleaming with that same knowing, teasing look. "Told you, you're not running away from me."

Kalamela shot him a side glance. "I'm not running. I'm just... walking." She uttered awkwardly.

He chuckled again, slowing his pace just enough to match hers. "Sure you are. But you keep following me, so don't pretend like you're not curious, Kal. You like the chaos. You like the challenge. And you definitely like me."

Kalamela rolled her eyes, but there was no denying the flicker of something that pulled her closer to him, even as she fought against it. "I'm not sure what's worse," she muttered, "your ego or your persistence."

He leaned in closer, his shoulder brushing hers lightly. "What can I say? I'm just trying to keep you on your toes."

Kalamela rolled her eyes, feeling a heat rise to her cheeks. "You're impossible," she muttered, but the usual fire behind her words was flickering out.

Moon's grin only got wider, all smug and knowing, like he had her completely figured out. "Yeah, I know." He shrugged like he wasn't saying anything important. "But you kissed me back."

She let out a frustrated sigh, almost groaning. "You're so full of yourself."

"Hey, I'm just stating facts." He slowed his pace to match hers, looking down at her with that signature look in his eyes—half teasing, half smug. "You're cute when you pretend you don't like it."

Kalamela shot him a side glance, arms crossed tightly. "You really think I'm cute?"

"Oh, absolutely." He leaned in just a little closer, eyes flicking to her face before glancing down. "And you're short. It's adorable."

Kalamela's steps faltered for a second, but she quickly recovered, turning her head away like she hadn't heard that last part.

"Yeah, well, I don't remember asking for your opinion on my height."

Moon let out a quiet chuckle, the sound rich with amusement. "I just think it's funny how tiny you are next to me," he teased. "Must be pretty hard to keep up, huh? You're like... a little firecracker, but I'm the one who's gotta keep an eye out for you tripping over your own feet."

"Oh, please," she grumbled, glancing up at him with a scowl. "I've been keeping up just fine, thank you very much. It's you who keeps having to slow down for me."

He raised an eyebrow, a smug grin tugging at his lips. "I'm just trying to make sure you don't fall behind. You know, wouldn't want to leave my short friend all alone in the dark."

He glanced down at her, like it was all part of some little joke he'd been running in his head for hours.

She groaned and resisted the urge to kick him. "If you call me short one more time, I swear, Moon, I'm gonna make you regret it."

He smirked, obviously unbothered by her threat. "Sure, Star. But we both know I'm the one who's taller, so that's gonna be pretty hard."

She shot him a side-eye. "Yeah, yeah. Keep it up. It's still cute how you think you can tease me about something that's not even my fault."

"Aw, I know," Moon said with a teasing sigh, slowing just enough so their steps were perfectly in sync. "I'm just a big guy. Gotta pick on the small ones, y'know?"

Kalamela didn't bother responding, just rolling her eyes and shaking her head. He could be such a pain, but deep down, she was pretty sure she'd never get used to it.

When they reached the house, Moon gave an exaggerated stretch, acting like he'd just done the most heroic thing ever. He threw her a look with that smug, "I told you so" kind of grin.

"Home sweet home, Star. And hey—you didn't even have to run away from me."

"Ugh, yeah. Real victory." Kalamela didn't even look at him as she marched toward the door.

And of course, as soon as they stepped inside, Sun was lounging on the couch, clearly expecting something.

"You two had a fun time tonight, hm?" Sun asked, his voice light and teasing, unaware of the kiss or anything else that went down.

Kalamela shot Moon a tired glance. "Yeah, tons of fun." She managed a dry smile. "I'm so glad I could spend the night with someone who thinks teasing me about my height is hilarious."

Moon made a big show of pretending to be offended, raising his hands as if to say What can I say?

"Hey, it's not my fault. I'm just pointing out the obvious. You're adorable when you're short. It's like having my own personal pocket-sized piece of candy."

Kalamela shot him a sharp look and then let out a heavy sigh, holding her hand up as if to surrender.

"I'm done with both of you tonight." She turned to Sun with a grumble. "Can you tell this guy that teasing me isn't funny?"

Sun chuckled, stretching lazily as he sat back against the couch. "Oh, Moon's always been like this. What, you didn't know that already?"

Kalamela shot a look at Moon, who was still looking way too proud of himself.

"Of course I did. Doesn't make it any less annoying."

Moon's grin softened a little, the playful glint in his eyes still there, though now it had a little more warmth to it.

"I'll stop teasing, if you want. But you can't tell me you didn't enjoy the chaos." He leaned against the doorway, that smug little expression still hanging around. "I'll take that as a yes, though. You're just not admitting it out loud."

Kalamela rolled her eyes, already done with the back-and-forth. "Can we not do this right now? I just want to go to bed. This day's been way too long for me."

"Well, I'm just saying." Moon held his hands up, stepping back a little. "You didn't leave..." He winked. "But hey, we can leave that conversation for later."

Sun stared as he watched the two of them, his gaze flicking between them in that confused kind of way.

Kalamela's face flushed, and she crossed her arms. "Shut your mouth." Kalamela was already making her way toward the stairs, muttering under her breath. "I'm going to bed. You two figure out how to not make my life miserable tomorrow."

"Good luck with that," Moon teased. "Sleep well, Star."

She paused at the bottom of the stairs, shooting Moon a quick, sharp look over her shoulder.

"I'm not short. Not."

Moon shrugged, that same smirk never leaving his face. "I'm just saying what I see."

With that, she trudged up the stairs, trying not to feel completely done with both of them—though, deep down, she knew she'd never actually be rid of them.

#dca slasher au #dca slasher sun #dca slasher moon #dca slasher au y/n #dca au #dca sun #dca #daycare attendant #dca moon #i like their dynamic of “tall fucking guy” and “average sized woman who appears really short next to said guy”#THEY MAKE ME ILL!!!#saw the post for cat sun and im awaiting moon...#if moon was a bug what bug would he be?#i was thinking a centipede #sun would be a pachnoda marginata beetle

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