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springfallendeer · 11 months ago

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Endurance Training

Late BDay gift for @justaduckarts. Shockwave x Reader.

There is a daily routine here.

Wake up at 7 AM sharp, when the lights turn on and a familiar alarm dings. Get up, get dressed, and get ready to face the day.

Getting ready includes everything from using the bathroom to taking a shower. All basic but essential aspects of personal hygiene must be attended too, as those things were all vital to long term health.

The goal of all of this was to make it last as long as humanly possible. Then maybe beyond, if the process of drawing it out further could be unlocked.

8 AM. Breakfast is served. A perfectly balanced meal containing all of the essential nutrients needed to get them through the day. Some sort of protein. Carbohydrates are a must. Fruits. Vegetables. Oils. All prepared in a way that allows them to remain palatable, though they are a far cry from anything that a human might make for themselves.

Slurries. Crackers. Cakes or loaves. Everything fell into a category of that sort.

It was easiest to think of everything as astronaut food. Though they were by no means an astronaut. The meal was merely something easy to make, easy to store, and easy to eat. All for the sake of efficiency. With enough care put into maintaining a range of taste and texture to assure some level of enrichment, which would make the otherwise boring food somewhat easier to consume.

Eat quickly then relax using remaining time. It was best to allow the body the chance to begin processing the food before the next part of the routine began.

9 AM. Begin the daily exercise routine. Maintaining physical health is a must in this environment.

Eight total exercises to go through in two hours. Ten minutes of activity for each exercise, with a five minute break between to allow for rest and a chance to rehydrate.

An adequate mixture of liquid and electrolytes is provided in order to assure maximum efficiency.

Music will be provided if asked. The usage of VR to simulate different activities in different environments will be put to use if requested. Otherwise the exercises are carried out in the stagnant environment of the exercise room.

11 AM to Noon. Relax and recover from the exercise routine. Enrichment will be provided at request. Media of any form can be accessed through simple voice requests. The interactive AI in charge of maintaining the habitat will assure that all needs are met.

Now is the time to put in requests to change in the environment. The habitat can be recolored with ease. If additional plants or enrichment decorations are desired, they can be obtained within three solar cycles.

Animal companions are forbidden due potential risk of sickness or injury. Specialized robotic companions will be provided as a compromise. These robotic companions will be programmed with a mixture of interactive AI and behavioral data gathered from observing the organic life of earth.

12 o’clock noon to 12:15. Engage in any needed hygiene maintenance. Evacuate accumulated bodily waste. Bathe to remove accumulated perspiration. Change into provided clothes. The testing process will soon begin.

12:15. The ceiling of the habitat will open. Shockwave will retrieve you. Step into his hand once lowered into the habitat to consent to the day’s experiments.

From 12:15 to 1 PM, expect to be given all information pertaining to the day’s experiments. Anything of importance will be given, from expected level of discomfort to how long each experiment is expected to take, if there are multiple. This is the time to ask questions or engage in small talk. Expect short responses.

Shockwave is a creature of few words. He is driven by logic and by the drive to understand the various workings of the universe around him. No matter how complex or mundane they might be.

You are his current subject of interest. An illogical one, from his perspective. The experiments that he subjects you too are less out of desire to understand humans, and more out of the need to grasp why it is that he is so unusually attached.

You are his pet. His personal guinea pig. Something that he looks after and has no intention of doing away with.

Something that has awakened urges within him that he long thought eliminated due to the punishment he once endured. Something that he could not even properly use as a means of satisfying these urges, due to the weakness of the human flesh and your pathetically small size.

1 PM. The experimentation process will begin. This is where the overall routine tends to deviate, as the experiments tend to change day by day.

Sometimes he puts you in a maze and has you find your way through. Sometimes the maze is empty. Sometimes he provides you weapons and expects you to make your way through without suffering serious injury.

You might be hunted by small machines. You might wander into traps.

He might just strap you to a table and subject you to a range of stimuli to get a read of how your body will react.

Some days, the experiments are boring; used more as an excuse for interaction than anything else.

Some days, it would be more accurate to state that he tortures you. You will be subjected to painful or genuinely distressing experiences that will leave you on the brink of a psychological breaking point. But there will always be time set aside to assure that you will recover from the process. To the point that there may even come a break from the routine and future tests will be put on hold, at least until you have adequately recovered.

Some days, like today, it was the polar opposite of torture. Or at least, the torture was not meant to be painful.

“For today’s experiment, we will be doing an endurance test.” Shockwave states as he places you down atop the usual table.

There, you find a smaller table set up. One more suited to your size. One that you can and are obviously expected to lay down upon, given the obvious cuff points that are meant to keep your arms and legs restrained.

You’re very familiar with the table. All manner of sweet and agonizing torture alike have been inflicted upon you in the past, while you laid strapped down and helpless on top of it.

Already aware of what the table entails, you strip out of the sterile clothing that Shockwave had you change into just a short while ago.

While it might seem redundant to change only to then immediately strip, the clothes provided protection during transport. They kept your skin safe.

That, and they were equipped with special devices that would slow your fall if you somehow wound up being dropped. So you would fall slower, thus allowing Shockwave to easily grab you without risking severe injuries. That way, you could fall from heights that would normally prove fatal and suffer sprains at worst.

That didn’t make falling any less terrifying, though. If anything, it made it worse, because you would fall for longer.

You place your clothes in the usual spot before you climb onto the experimentation table and make yourself comfortable.

Or as comfortable as you can get with your arms and legs strapped down to the table by electromagnetic cuffs.

They make your extremities tingle a bit. Not in an unpleasant way, but it can make you feel like you’re going numb, after a while. It is a very strange sensation. But it is necessary.

You are restrained for your own safety. To keep you from getting uncooperative as the tests are carried out. That way you cannot accidentally hurt yourself or otherwise sabotage the experiment by struggling.

Shockwave steps away to retrieve his supplies once you’re thoroughly restrained.

As he does, the usual helpers emerge from their charging docks to see you dealt with.

Your body is so small and delicate compared to his. He could easily crush you with one of his fingers, if he was not careful. So smaller robotic creatures, crafted vaguely in his image, were used to get you sorted.

Their little grasping limbs could easily work with whatever device Shockwave crafted for the sake of an experiment. Whether that device was a separate object, or something built into equipment that was already in use. Like their bodies, or the bed that you were strapped down too.

They change your position to make the experiment easier. Individual plates on the bed are prompted to move, allowing the cuffs to move, which slowly pulls your legs further apart.

What is then presented to you is probably the wildest looking sex toy that you have ever seen.

A long purple tentacle, lined on each side with glowing red spots. It has overlapping plating, which gives it an almost reptilian look. But it is entirely mechanical and made from materials that your feeble human mind could never hope to grasp.

The tentacle is attached to some sort of crescent shaped base, which in turn has electromagnetic straps connected to it.

You will very obviously be wearing this thing.

The endurance training that Shockwave has in mind is unlike any that you have ever experienced in the past.

The robots get your body prepped as Shockwave returns.

He’s brought with him a similar looking piece of equipment. The same crescent shaped support and the same straps. The only difference being that in place of a tentacle, there is… Well. You would refer to it as some sort of a fleshlight. A long hollow tube that looks like it might take whatever he had to offer. Plus a tube at the end, likely to allow certain fluids to drain and reduce the mess.

A generous amount of lubricant is applied to your body while Shockwave sits down to get himself ready for the experiment.

“These tools will provide near constant stimulation to the most sensitive parts of our bodies. They will keep track of our every response to the stimulation. From our sensitivity levels, to our number of orgasms. I will take the collected data, to compare the differences between human and Cybertronian endurance.” He explains whilst going about the process of strapping the device to his own legs.

Robotic fingers poke and prod inside of you all the while, making sure to stretch you out in preparation for the sizable device that will be probing at your insides.

From where Shockwave is sitting, you can watch his every move. The smooth, calculated motions of his hand as he unlocks his pelvic plate to coax out his phallic appendage.

His spike, as it is apparently called. The Cybertronians have their own unique means of describing body parts. Though from a human perspective, it really was a strange term for a penis.

Regardless, his spike slides effortlessly into the hollow tube of the device.

As it does, the robotic aids begin to usher the probe into your thoroughly prepared body.

It is a snug fit. Intentionally so.

The fake spike has clearly been designed with the shape of your body in mind. It curls perfectly so as to avoid hitting any unpleasant spots, while keeping all the essential areas thoroughly stimulated.

Once the device is attached, the robotic aids back off to allow the experiment to proceed. They will not be needed again until it is time to release you.

You bite your lip as the stimulation begins. It starts with slow pulses. Vibrations that carefully work to get your body on board with the intense experiment that is to come.

The object wrapped around Shockwave’s phallus lights up. It visibly stimulates him with a similar range of vibrations, though it also appears to be stimulating him further through subtle electrical discharges.

He doesn’t make a sound.

You, on the other hand, are not so adept at keeping your composure.

“I modeled your device after my own spike.” Shockwave states. He adjusts how he is sitting so that he can rest his arms on the table on either side of you. All while making sure not to accidentally jostle you or bump the table that you are strapped down to.

“Our devices are designed to work in sync. The one I wear conforms to the shape of my spike, and relays information on my every movement to yours. Your toy takes that information to adjust the movements of the false spike, while taking into account every movement of your vaginal canal. Thus assuring that my device will wrap around me just as your body wraps around that spike.” He explains.

His words are more than enough to coax a soft whimper out of you.

This whole experiment is just an excuse to simulate intercourse. His device replicates the feel of your body wrapped around his shaft. Your device replicates how it would feel to have his spike slowly grinding into you.

You can feel it moving inside of you. Those overlapping plates give the device the ability to squish itself smaller or expand, which creates the sensation of slow thrusting.

Even the straps used to keep the device in place are slightly lax, allowing some give each time that the spike mimics an inwards thrust.

Shockwave’s lone eye constricts and expands at random intervals as he studies your every reaction.

You’d like to think that those subtle movements of his eye are a means of displaying pleasure. That his eye might constrict with each jolt of euphoria that rolls through him, and every relaxation is the relief before the next spike.

The antennae on the side of his head click down and then back up every so often, seemingly in time with your every internal clench.

He feels your pleasure, thanks to the devices strapped to both of your pelvises. You’d like to believe that his every reaction, subtle as they are, are in response to you.

Unlike him, you’re far from silent. You’re incapable of maintaining any level of composure throughout this strange and erotic game that he’s playing with you.

Though your movements are severely limited due to having been restrained, no efforts have been made into locking your waist into place. And so you reflexively thrust your hips to meet the stimulation of the tentacle, all the while pretending that he’s there to meet your movements.

You squirm. You moan. You whine, and you whimper.

Beads of sweat form on your heated skin. If they don’t evaporate, then they accumulate and roll down your body.

Your back is uncomfortably sweaty against the metal table. Your front is cold, from the slight breeze in the air.

You clench your hands. You curl your toes. You bite your lip and arch your neck back with each orgasm that takes hold of you.

You’re an absolute mess, compared to him.

The closest that you ever get to a big reaction on his part is when his eye dramatically flickers. His antennae will flatten almost entirely with loud clicks, and his eye will tightly constrict.

It constricts so much that he seems to be struggling to focus on you, causing a rapid flicker as his eye shrinks and expands while staring directly at you.

This lasts for a few seconds each time. Then his antenna returns to their usual relaxed state and his eye expands to its standard shape.

Some part of you wants to believe that that was an orgasm. That the pleasure managed to get so good that some part of him failed to keep tabs on his composure, causing him to have physical reactions that would otherwise never come to be.

The experiment goes on for hours.

You genuinely have no idea how many times you orgasm. You wouldn’t have been able to keep track, even if you wanted to.

There are times where the pleasure bleeds over into pain. Times where the build to the next orgasm is so overwhelming; so intense; that for a few seconds you experience genuine agony.

Tears will well in your eyes and roll down your cheeks. Your moans break into momentary sobs. You almost plead for him to stop. But before you ever can, the rush of relief washes over you as your body works its way beyond the limits of euphoria.

The experiment concludes at 9 pm. Not because Shockwave calls it quits, but because both of the devices abruptly power down; either because they have used up all of their stored energy, or because they have gathered all of the data that they could.

By then, you’re an absolute mess. Drenched in sweat, your hair clings to your skin. The evidence of your many orgasms forms a visible trail of viscious fluid, trailing down from your pelvis to the bottom of the table. The beginnings of a puddle has formed underneath, further accentuating just how overly stimulated and abused your body is after all of this.

The robotic aids return to set you free and help clean you up.

The electromagnetic cuffs are deactivated. You try to push yourself off of the table, only to immediately collapse back on top of it. A mixture of exhaustion and hyper-sensitivity renders you unable to move.

Damp cloth is used to wipe your body clean.

You tremble not just because the cloth is cold, but because your body has been left so sensitive to touch.

Extra care must be taken when cleaning between your legs. The continual stimulation has left your thoroughly used orifice flushed and slightly engorged from the constant flow of blood to the area.

As ashamed as you are, you orgasm more than once while the robots clean your soiled nethers. Which Shockwave makes a verbal note of, in order to keep the data accurate.

His voice tremors as he speaks.

After having spent the whole session completely silent, you had assumed him perfectly composed. But his voice gives him away, even if the change is barely audible.

There’s a faint tremble in his legs as he stands to clean himself. And for the first time since you have met him, his hands appear unsteady as he works.

Not even Shockwave is immune overstimulation. He is merely better at maintaining an image of composure than most.

“You held out for longer than anticipated.” Shockwave states as he cleans himself up.

His spike is absolutely saturated in… Whatever the Cybertronian version of ejaculate is.

It may very well just be a diluted form of Energon, given its bright color.

He makes sure to get himself cleaned up and tucked away before he brings his attention back to you.

“I will need time to process all of the data. So you will be exempt from further experimentation for the time being.” He explains.

Once you have been ushered back into your clothes, he reaches out to retrieve you.

The robotic aids make sure to get out of his way. He is forced to gently nudge you into the safety of his palm. You are so exhausted that you cannot assist him in picking you up.

Once he has you, he easily lifts you up to eye level so that he might observe you.

“... I am satisfied with your efforts.” He states.

This is the closest that he can get to showering you with praise. Not that you mind. You can tell by his behavior that he cares for you, in his own odd way.

Though he keeps you in a terrarium like an insect to be studied and he experiments on you like a lab rat, he obviously cares. Otherwise he would not put effort into providing you the enrichment that he cannot otherwise give you.

There is no need to give you decorations for your home. No need to let you listen to music, or for him to even make you a robotic pet.

He does that in an attempt to make you happy. Because some part of him; some small, mentally disconnected part, cares about your happiness.

That fact is made most obvious at times like this. When you’re weak and exhausted after a taxing experiment. When you’re at your most vulnerable, and at the greatest risk of being damaged by anything that he does.

Rather than just put you back in your habitat and leave you to rest, he holds you.

He carefully wraps his fingers around your tiny body and applies mild pressure to gently squeeze you, as if hugging you with his hand. Then he just holds you and observes you until you inevitably succumb to exhaustion and fall asleep.

There will be no sentimental words of praise. No compliments. No sappy promises.

Just his unwavering gaze and the delicate contact of his hand. Until you fall safely into slumber.

You’ll wake to find yourself tucked into your bed. There will be a drink and a meal waiting for you to help you recover from this taxing event.

You might even find a special treat. A cookie or a cake. Something made not by him, but by human hands back on earth; stolen away with you in mind to be used as a wordless sign of adoration and care.

He does care about you. He knows that he cares. Even if it is illogical for him to do so.

#Shockwave #Reader Insert #Not Osha Approved

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silentmassacres · 6 months ago

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tue, nov 19

there came a time in which the length i was so far ahead of people became shorter. even those either behind or equal to me came to have an easier time with the things i'd prided myself in, or things i needed desperately, yet couldn't reach. it's become so easy to surpass me.

and so, i feel the need to make up for it. even if not a soul listens to me, i can pride myself in certain aspects. of course, these aspects just set me apart more, but they always have.

it's harder now. and, unfortunately, the aspects that push me ahead are seldom noticed. when there's little recognition of the things that i can do well, then we go back to the feeling of being behind.

it makes me bitter, which is awful, of course. but when it feels as though i'm looked down upon constantly, it almost feels justified. "if you look down upon me, then i'll switch those roles" kind of thinking.

—

i do get. worried, with my emotional issues. those around me get it, i've made sure of that, but i can't help but wonder what that implies for my relationship. i'm not an outwardly emotional person, including affection, and i know that's bad. it's subjective, i guess, but in this situation, it is a bad thing.

i don't mind my emotional processing. i prefer it and i don't want to force myself into the unknown for the sake of being more. palatable, or something. that's the part that worries me — how much will i, or both of us, have to change to function together?

maybe therapy will help. maybe somebody will tell me the key to not being deeply traumatized and behaving normally in a relationship. the hard part is accessing therapy. i might start fighting for it again

—

i hate discussing trauma. in personal contexts, at least; if it's detached, then i feel less connected to the conversation.

but discussing trauma is like discussing any other issue, and when aid is based off of who listens, then it tends to get to you when nobody does.

and, of course, it tends to come down to whoever screams the loudest. but sometimes that's not it, sometimes it's just chance or severity. i hate thinking about severity.

i know what i've been through is bad, yet i can't help but feel like maybe i'm just dialing it up for. pity, or something. this thought process often goes hand in hand with straight up denial — if it wasn't a severe experience like anybody else, was it even bad at all?

i still do question it. i know that the brain is able to freak out over things that aren't real or that bad, so i have to wonder if that's the case. sometimes i wonder if pretending i have no trauma at all would be easier. or less, at least.

i think it'd make me look bad. there's a reasoning for my more unsavory behaviors, be it mental illness or trauma. if those go away, then there is no reasoning — i'm just broken, or evil, or something irredeemable altogether.

—

i've been somewhat vocal about my worsening state. it's a warning sign, really, to tell others that i'm not being malicious but instead can't find any energy to do anything.

it induces worry, i know that much. i wish i could talk about the extent of it, but i don't want to induce. that much worry.

i worry i may fall into disordered eating again. social media algorithms have been seeking me out and it's making me consider it. i don't know what happened to my discipline; maybe i could do it again, if i build up to it.

but i'm horribly depressed. and when i'm snacking to cope, that only leaves me starving and miserable. i wasn't miserable over the summer, not because of it.

—

i'm scared about the self harm thing too. i wish i could say i know better, but it really is a slippery slope. i don't want to get rid of my blades, partially because i use them for multiple things, but it gets hard trying to distract myself sometimes.

i got really scared that night, when the blood wouldn't stop. it hasn't even scarred yet, though it is decently healed, and i find myself wanting more. that scares me.

i feel like i'm 14 again, trying not to make cutting myself into a daily habit. nobody noticed before, i don't see why this would be much different.

#6am #6pm #this was a draft from the morning continued at night

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ramuneempiremtl · 1 year ago

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Slave-kun's Happy Life in Another World: Chapter 13

Looking around the room, I noticed clothes strewn across the bed.

Oh, ho.

May I do the laundry? I'm going to do it anyway.

I think it's wrong to dangle work in front of me like a carrot.

From here on, it's time for the slaves to show their true colors.

In the bathroom, I knead the collected sheets and pillowcases in a water ball conjured by magic. The linens swirl around inside the giant water sphere. It looks so refreshing.

Instead of detergent, I use "purification" to clean them, and then I separate them from the laundry by imagining the water I was manipulating being drawn out. This way, they'll dry wrinkle-free and crisp. I drain the extracted water into the bathroom drain.

In this world, lazy people get by with just "purification" for laundry. But washing with water feels better, somehow.

I step out onto the balcony to let the linens get some sunlight… Oh, but I wasn't supposed to leave the room. The balcony is part of the room. No problem there.

The clothes are the same way… no, I wash them individually for each person. Anything that might bleed color gets "purification" only.

I don't know how to fold the washed clothes. I just lay them out neatly on their respective beds.

Haaaa────！！

I'm filled with a sense of elation from a job well done. When I'm on a worker's high, I don't need "powder."

This is how slaves should be.

I start cleaning, riding the momentum.

When I say cleaning, I don't mean using a rag or a broom. I leave it to the convenient magic "Purification." It's easy as long as you have the magic power.

I wonder if I'll get yelled at for cleaning the inn without permission. I think I'd only get yelled at if I made a mess, not if I cleaned.

I'm going to clean. I'm going to do it anyway.

I spread the magic of "purification" across the floor, imagining myself mopping.

"Purification" is a convenient magic that breaks down dirt and germs into something like magic power, but if I'm not careful, it can even strip off a little paint. It takes quite a bit of concentration.

I "purify" the floorboards, getting into every nook and cranny. I also "purify" the drains in the bath and toilet, going deep inside.

I polish everything except the kitchen and Aki's belongings. I avoid the fermented foods, as I shouldn't clean the yeast.

In truth, "purification" is a magic I named myself. I haven't properly tested its effects, so I have to be careful.

Riding the wave, I finish cleaning, polishing every corner of the walls and the beams on the ceiling.

I look around the room, savoring the sense of accomplishment from finishing.

Yes, it's much brighter now.

The walls are clearly a shade brighter, and the air even feels cleaner.

A perfect job.

…Maybe I overdid it.

The difference in efficiency between doing a job while bracing myself for violence and not is incredible, so I just…

It's like a miracle to be able to live so peacefully.

In the afternoon, I decided to take it easy, eating the lunch that had been prepared and looking through the reading material the master had left.

Lunch is a pita bread sandwich with various things stuffed into the thin bread. It's delicious.

I get excited when I find something like thin ham inside, but then my spirits plummet when I find something bitter.

This body must have a child's palate, because it can't handle bitter things. I used to love bitter things!

I drink some water conjured by magic and clean my hands and the plate with "purification" before picking up the book on the table.

The book is bound a little differently than the ones I remember.

The paper is probably plant paper?

I turn the cover, which has some unreadable characters written on it, and am met with a colorful picture of a creature.

The master must have left an animal encyclopedia. This looks fun.

They look somewhat similar to Earth animals, but they're slightly different. For example, there's one with a tiger-like pattern but a lion-like mane. There's also a lizard with webbed wings. I wonder if there are dragons in this world.

The creatures get larger and larger with each page I turn.

And then I realize.

This isn't an animal encyclopedia, it's a monster encyclopedia. Each creature is depicted with some kind of ominous aura-like effect. Next to each one is a drawing of what looks like a stone, its size and material, and a method for dismantling it.

In this world, there are creatures called "monsters" that are different from animals, and at their heart there is a spiky stone called a crystal. This crystal is the power source for various convenient gadgets.

I knew about this crystal because I used crushed stones in my lamp when I was in the mansion. I had no idea it was taken from so many different monsters.

I became quite engrossed in looking through the encyclopedia.

I'll definitely need this kind of knowledge, since I'll be traveling with a party of adventurers.

I'm grateful for the master's exquisite choice. I thought he was a good-for-nothing, but I'll have to change my opinion.

But it's frustrating not being able to read the words.

I wonder if I could ask him to teach me.

Suddenly, the hallway becomes noisy.

Before I knew it, the sun was starting to set.

It looks like everyone's back.

I should go greet them.

"We're back. Were you a good boy… Huh? What's this! Where are we!?"

"Whaaat? …Did we go to the wrong room?"

You're in the right place.

The two who had come in left the room again and closed the door.

Maybe I did overdo it with the cleaning after all.

#slave-kun

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rainbowuniversepageantsys · 2 years ago

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Piggy Back from Inner Beauty Tip about: Have Boundaries!

I don't really think a female can be called a lady until she earns it with her behavior and attitude and that means she needs to have boundaries so males and everyone else will respect her and same goes for males. If a guy doesn't have respect for himself and make sure he doesn't let people cross his boundaries then he can't really be called a gentleman, he won' t be gentle.

I just posted an article abot a no make-up pageant and I thought it was great because it's exactly what RUPYS is all about (inner beauty which requires no make-up on the outside otherwise you can't see much of what's on the inside). When females were make-up they want to be looked at and when they wear no make-up they want to be heard and it brings out their inner beauty. They are saying "I have a boundary that says I don't need to be made up all over my face for you to like me. I want you to see me and hear me for who I really am from the inside out".

So what are boundaries?

*Rules & Regulations for:

Time - don't be available all the time so people don't monopolize your time and you have time to do the things you want to do.

Touching - be ready to say no to anyone who touches you too long, too much or too aggressively for your preference, it's your body and you have the right to make anyone stop touching you when you want them to and they should always take no for an answer and you don't have to allow anyone to touch you at all.

Pleasure - everything in moderation is the name of the game, when we find things that please us it's best to set limits on pleasure and be able to ignore things that please our eyes and our bodies and our palates from time to time so we don't get addicted.

Food Intake - as you know if you eat too much you weigh too much usually, some people have fast metabolisms but for the most part the older you get the slower the metabolism gets and even if it doesn't we don't need to gorge out on food. It's there for us to enjoy eat to live not live to eat.

Mental Stimulation - when it comes to educating ourselves there is so much knowledge in the world but if we are hungry for everything we see then how can we process that information to utilize for our good or someone else's good? We can't. It will be information overload like too many files and folders on your laptop. Set some boundaries for mental stimulation so you can rest after all of that intake.

Access and Availability - Social media is the culprit here and cell phones, it's easy to get in touch with anyone at pretty much any time, celebrities included so that means for the most part we are easily accessible and available to respond and connect or chat with anyone at any time of the day or night. So I say do what I do and turn your cell phone off at a certain time at night and don't turn it on right away when you get up in the morning. Have some "me" time and try not to be so available and accessible or no one will leave you alone when you do want some "me" time.

Strength & Weakness - we can say we are strong but if you appear too strong it will be hard for people to see your frailties and they may not take you seriously if you are looking for a shoulder to lean on; as with weakness it's the same thing, if you appear too weak people will walk all over you and wipe their feet on you so find a balance here and have some boundaries so you show your strengths but know that you have some weaknesses to work on too.

Spirituality - if anyone walks around praying or meditating all day and all night it will be really hard to connect with anyone on a physical level. If we aim to help and heal we still have to meet people where they are so don't cut out the physical world completely because you still have a body that needs your tender loving care and that means you can put your Bible down and go play football outside for a while.

Work - we need to work to pay our bills and have a purpose in life or maybe to just stay out of trouble. You know an idle mind is the devil's playground so it's important you find some kind of work but don't overdo it or you will burn out and not want to work at all.

Money - if we spend too much money then we may not have enough left to pay bills or take care of our basic needs or help a family member of friend when they need you. If we hold on to too much and are afraid to be generous and give we can lose it because we are holding on to it too tightly andthe heavens cannot bless a closed fist; you won't have any room to receive anything more or anything else if your hands are not open. So spend, save and give freely adn with wisdom so you won't have to worry about too much loss or not enough gain.

Play - same thing for playing; I make it an important part of my life to find some time to play (weekends usually; all mine) and have som fun or I will not be a happy person nor friendly to anyone but too much play can make you resistant to working and that means you might end up regressing to childhood and be an immature adult.

Rest and Relaxation - resting too much is for the lazy and really gets us nowhere but it's still important to find some time to rest and relax so we can recover from our hard work, sweat and tears.

Focus - when you have some type of passion that you love make it your business to focus on that but not too much or you end up with a one track mind oblivious to what is going on around you and awareness is key to any focus efforts. So give your brain a rest and smell the flowers around you, doze off and take a nap or watch children and animals play off and on so you can chill for a while

So if you have experiences with controlling or abusive people, I strongly encourage you to not all anyone to take over your life, mind, body, or time at any time or you pretty much do not exist anymore. If you rant and rave and argue to someone who controls your life and you say "you owe me" then that person probably will not listen to you because you don't exist. It will be that person's way always because you let him or her cross your boundaries because you said yes to everything. If a person can say no to you and they can kick you out if they don't want you around or tell you to wait until they are ready for something then you should be able to do the same thing. If anyone harps on you and tells you they don't want anything to do with you because you said no to them or you didn't listen sometimes then I say let them go so you can be yourself and be happy because that kind of person should not be worth your time.

Always guard your heart and keep your boundaries up when you need them so you can protect your body, mind, spirit and heart, stay safe and say no when you want to.

0 notes

neiptune · 2 years ago

Text

a casual arrangement

(eren x female reader)

warnings: nsfw, heavily suggestive, explicit language

a/n: on my eren shit again please look away

Your friend with benefits happens to be over as the very last person you'd want him to meet materializes at your house as well

You didn't plan any of this.

The actual plan was to spend the afternoon chilling in your room, maybe indulge in a face mask and a netflix show. It's your day off and your roommate is visiting her family so you really just wanted some peace and quiet. What you got instead, was a text from Eren Yeager asking for permission to come over.

You two have a friendship superficial enough to allow the casual and comfortable arrangement of being friends with benefits.

Rules of said casual arrangement: you're not exclusive, PDA should be kept at minimum, absolutely no feelings involved. It's just a nice, convenient indulgence. It's just uncomplicated sex.

You're pretty much in the same social circle so it's not like you only spend time together while he's inside you. Most of your friends know by now anyway so you go out to eat together or watch a movie at his from time to time: he's never been the shy type and you're well past your initial awkwardness.

Still, the plan for today definitely didn't involve ending up sitting on your own desk with legs dangling over the edge, Eren standing between them with his hands resting on your parted thighs, what started as an innocent, lazy make out session growing steamier by the minute.

When a whimper eases from your throat as he skillfully nips and sucks at the skin of your neck, Eren can't help but rut his hips against you, making you feel the hardness straining at his jeans.

Inevitably, you giggle because of how easy it is to get him worked up each time. You've barely done anything, not even touched him properly yet and there's already a tent in his pants.

He parts from your skin, laboured exhales ghosting over what's soon to become a bruise.

“Shut up” he grumbles and your hands travel from his belt loops to his cheeks, to guide his face closer to yours.

“You're cute” still smiling, you kiss him but Eren isn't having any of your teasing today. His warning comes in the form of a not so gentle nip to your bottom lip and his hands are quick to slide behind your thighs to scoop you up in one swift movement, like you weigh nothing.

“You think you're so smart, hm?” as your legs automatically wrap around his waist he walks backwards until he's sitting on your bed, scooting back until he's comfortable against your pillows as he draws a surprised gasp out of you when slick lips find their way to your neck again, only to bite down right where your racing pulse resides. You protest with a whine and he smirks.

“So immune” he's quick to soothe the stinging pain of the spot he's bitten with his tongue before pressing an unexpectedly sweet kiss to the bruising skin.

“Don't get cocky” you barely manage to breathe the words out, interrupted almost right away by his tongue sliding past your parted lips, tip agonizingly slow as it teases your palate. God, he's good.

“Cocky?” Eren chuckles to himself as he pulls back to catch his breath, grip on your ass so strong you're almost certain he's gonna leave bruises there as well “didn't you get off just by riding my thigh last week?”

Fuck— the mere thought of how the rough texture of his jeans felt while you dragged your hips against his muscular thigh, bare and needy and desperate, is enough to get you drenched once again. Core tightening, you can't help but grind against his erection, drawing out a groan from him at last.

“You're so annoying” you lightly tug at the hair at the nape of his neck and he huffs out a laugh, the only thing on his absolutely otherwise blank mind the agony of not being inside you yet.

Aren't you as impatient as him, he wonders? Dripping on his lap, cunt most probably clenching around nothing by now?

Hands squeeze your ass and push you towards his chest, urging you to rock your hips once more. Eren almost, almost lets his raw desperation spill out. He wants to ask if you need him just as much as he needs you, wants to hear you squirm some more and beg him to bury himself in your walls as deep as he can go, all the way to the fucking hilt.

But you never do, so he doesn't, choosing to resort to a more familiar snark instead.

“You gonna do something 'bout it before you leave a stain on my pants, again?”

“Baby?”

You both freeze at the sound of the high pitched voice suddenly piercing through the quiet of your apartment. Questioning eyes dart to yours but, as realization dawns on you, you quickly and very much clumsily get up from his lap.

“You have to go!” grabbing him by the collar of his shirt, you urge Eren to get up and frantically motion towards the window.

“Excuse me?” even if you're pushing, he isn't moving, and the last, fragile wire holding your mental sanity together is about to snap as you try to push harder. The man's made of concrete apparently, your efforts are absolutely useless.

“I'll explain, just go!”

“Through the fucking window?”

“Ohmygod fine, just stay in my room and wait until we're out, then leave”

Eren doesn't remember a time when he's been left as blue balled as he is right now but the panic in your eyes makes it evident that there's a matter certainly more urgent than the cock still painfully throbbing in his pants.

“I'm sorry” it's kinda cute, the apologetic gaze you direct at him before you rush out of the room, not even giving him the time to fix your hair a little.

As you close the door behind you, the woman whose presence shouldn't come as a surprise because you've made plans with her a week prior, stands right before you with furrowed brows as she inspects your winkled clothes and smudged lipstick.

“Is it a bad time? I thought we were supposed to grab lunch!”

“No! It's a perfect time, actually! I'm so sorry, mom, I totally forgot. I was— uh, taking a nap” you smile nervously, voice coming out hoarse despite your attempt at sounding normal.

She hums, eyes darting to a few suspicious purple spots scattered on your throat and neck.

“Let's get going!” you chirp a little too excitedly, grabbing her arm to guide her to the front door and as far away as possible from your bedroom.

“Don't you want to... freshen up first?” she's now blatantly staring, which makes you think something's wrong with your face, which causes you to panic.

“Sure, why don't you wait right here? Be right back!” you smile, quick to turn around and race to the bathroom at the end of the hallway, eyes instantly widening in horror at your reflection in the mirror.

“Christ” you mutter under your breath as you reach over to grab some micellar water and a cotton pad to scrub your lips clean of the mess that was once your carefully applied lipstick. You wash your face next, not even attempting to put any other make up on, and try your very best to give your hair a more tamed appearence. There's nothing to do about the marks Eren has left literally everywhere, a sour reminder of the sexual frustration you're going to be left with for the rest of the day. Damn it.

As you carefully pat your face dry with a towel, you freeze once more. You can hear voices through the door and the terrifying thought of your mom barging in your bedroom is enough to make you throw the towel in the sink and quite literally bolt all the way to the living room, breath heavy and composure long forgotten.

Well, it's pretty fucking worse than your mom barging in your bedroom. She's sitting on the second hand green sofa your roommate had insisted on getting from a thrift store and, right next to her, is sitting the man who was supposed to stay in your room and pretend he didn't breathe or exist until you and your mom took off.

They're having a conversation about god knows what: ever the charmer, you can tell he's put up that charistmatic facade of his and of course it's working. She's all smiles and sparkling eyes and honeyed voice. It's basically your nightmare incarnated.

“Ah, baby, ready to go? Eren was so kind to come introduce himself, why didn't you tell me your boyfriend was here?” your mom's smile is blinding as you carefully make your way into the room, terrified eyes darting to his pants. Nothing. Jesus, did he finish himself off in your room in record speed?

“He's not... we're not—” you have no idea how to make this right, because you'd rather die than admit to your sweet, supportive, open minded but still a little conservative parent that you've been having casual, mind blowing sex with one of your friends for the past two months and that such an arrangement doesn't nor will ever lead to being in a relationship. She'd be disappointed. Not because of the friends with benefits thing per se, but because she always tells you how much she wants you to have a stable presence in your life, to find someone special, a partner you could finally be emotionally vulnerable with. Yeah, that ain't happening anytime soon.

“We're kinda new. She's still shy about it” Eren grins and you purse your lips, feeling a weird, definitely unwelcome warmth creeping up from the nape of your neck.

“It's not a relationship” words come out between gritted teeth and your mom furrows her brows in confusion. Nonchalantly, he grazes her arm to direct her attention to himself once again.

“Ah, yes, she calls it dating. Between you and me, I think she has a hard time processing her feelings”

Oh my god.

“I know exactly what you mean” your mom lowers her voice as well, as if the two are sharing a secret you're not supposed to hear.

“Mom, we should get going” you interrupt the all too familiar exchange unfortunately taking place right in front of your eyes, relief washing over you as they both finally get up from the goddamn couch.

“Eren, you should totally join us for lunch!”

Inevitably, your swallowing muscles stop functioning and you choke on your own spit, a series of sudden coughs you barely manage to contain with your elbow and that leaves you not so graciously gasping for air at the end.

Finally, he has the decency to look embarrassed, like his innocent entertainment has been taken too far. You play stupid games, you win stupid prizes.

“Ah, thank you but I don't want to impose. I'll just go home and—”

Your mom casually links her arm to his, dangerous fondness glistening in her gaze and softened features. “I insist. Can't remember the last time she's introduced me to someone, you can't refuse”

Eren directs an apologetic gaze at you at last and you narrow your eyes at him because it's obviously too late and now you have to go through with his stupid little game, even though peril is written all over the whole goddamn thing in neon letters. And although you're an adult and you get to decide how to live your life, you kinda want your mom to have this moment. To give her something to be happy about and that'll make her less concerned about her hasn't-been-in-a-proper-relationship-in-years daughter. You want her to think, no, to know you're doing alright.

Somehow, it's a relief to be able to have Eren by your side in the process. He's worked his magic on her just like he does with everyone else and, honestly, better him that some random asshole you're not sure you'll want to hang out with ever again. Who knows, maybe once this whole friends with benefits arrangement comes to an end, you'll still be able to be just friends.

“Let's go, then. We're gonna be late” you surrender, slightly flinching when Eren takes your hand to slip his fingers in between yours like he's done a million other times, squeezing once as if to apologize. Confused by the unsettling reason why it feels kinda different this time, you squeeze back.

“How mad are you?” he asks as he shuts the front door behind him and turns the light on.

You take off your shoes, not bothering to reply and choosing to make your way to the bathroom instead, to wash your hands. Eren's footsteps trail behind yours and you meet his concerned gaze in the mirror as he stands behind you, patient enough to wait to be acknowledged. Him choosing the sheepish, apologetic route certainly makes it harder for you to be actually mad but he doesn't need to know that yet.

So, again, you shoot him a glare and avoid replying, out of the bathroom and into the kitchen you go in the blink of an eye, Eren following you again like a stray cat that's been fed too many times to leave.

“Not the silent treatment” he groans as you gingerly pour yourself a glass of water “talk to me, please”

“Why're you here? I'm not in the mood anymore” you grumble the lie from behind the glass, hoping he won't read into your features well enough to understand how overwhelmingly not mad you actually are.

He doesn't.

The lunch has been a delight, honestly. You've never witnessed your mom like one of your friends as much, let alone a boyfriend. She's asked him endless questions and he seemed so genuinely happy to indulge her curiosity, all smiles and witty jokes, playful teasing directed your way from time to time and one or two stolen kisses for good measure, to make it look like you're actually happy and dating.

Truth is, Eren has depicted you as someone you really are not. He's said an endless amount of wonderful things that are not true and it's honestly so annoying how you wish they actually were: not for him specifically, just for someone.

“Yeah, we met at a party, then ended up finding out we're friends with pretty much the same people and it's just been so easy from there, you know?” he smiled with a little shrug.

Well, one true thing, at least.

Your mom hummed softly to herself, mindlessly cutting up her steak.

“What was your first impression? She tends to come off a little strong”

“Mom!” you whined and she laughed.

“Ah, yes. But I also thought she was so smart, a little intimidating even. It's honestly a miracle she's settled for me” Eren was all focused on his parmesan chicken as he spoke but the words were just so unexpected you found yourself searching for his gaze. You couldn't, for the life of you, figure out how on earth he could be such a perfect liar.

“She's a charmer” your mom smiled fondly as she reached over the table to shortly graze your cheeck “what about you, sweetie? Did you know he was the one right away?”

“Mom, we're just dating, you're making it sound as if we're about to get married” you grumbled, cheeks growing hot by the literal second as Eren's knee playfully nudged yours underneath the table.

“I'm just askin', you never know” she winked and you rolled your eyes with a groan, exasperated.

“Baby, answer the question” he casually demanded, jade eyes focused on you and brows raised expectantly. Christ.

“I thought he was way too outgoing” you picked at your pad thai, words leaving your lips reluctantly “and I didn't believe someone with such a strong magnetic field, capable of attracting so many people, could be genuine. But he's just the most authentic, honest person you'll meet. Funny too, every once in a blue moon”

“And cute, right?” Eren masterfully deflected and lightened the overall mood, his reply swallowing your mom's honeyed aww. He couldn't help the heat rising to his cheeks at your compliments: fake or not they sure sounded sincere.

You gave him an unimpressed look as you brought the glass of iced tea to your lips.

“Well, you didn't say you thought I was cute, did you?”

“Clearly, would've been way too simplistic. I thought you were stunning”

“Gosh” your mom's voice covered the sound of you almost choking on your drink “you sure you're not thinking of marrying him?”

His face contorts in an outraged expression. “Hey, you make it sound like I only hang out with you to fuck!”

“When was the last time we did something other than that?” brows raised skeptically, you walk past him and plop down on the couch, fingers gently raising to your temples to hopefully massage a surging headache away. He hums, pensive, as he sits right next to you, way closer than one would need to.

“Fine, you have a point. But I'm honestly just here to apologize”

“Oh, give me a break” you scoff.

“I mean it! I took the joke too far and m'sorry if you felt uncomfortable”

You peer at him at last and there's really nothing but sincere regret in his annoyingly big eyes.

“It's fine. I'm not mad” you concede and he perks up right away. God, he's a literal child.

“You're not?”

“No”

“Cause if you are, I could eat you out to make amends”

You huff out a laugh mirrored right away by his smile, choosing to ignore how your thighs clenched at his words. It's like your body is on autopilot whenever he opens his mouth, reacting by muscle memory at everything he says. An effect he really shouldn't be aware of having.

“But you'd love that so it's not like it'd be an actual punishment” you arch a brow and Eren grins a boyish grin, shrugging. Something inside you flutters and it's not just because you're turned on.

“My mom really likes you. God help me when I'll have to tell her we broke up” you sigh, scooting back until your spine meets the armrest. He picks your legs up and places them on his lap.

“Why?” he asks absentmindedly, inching across the coffee table to grab the remote control and turn the tv on, leaning comfortably against the backrest of your couch right after.

“Why?” you parrot “d'you want her to believe we're happily dating while we're actually seeing and fucking other people?”

Eren doesn't cast his eyes away from the screen as he stays silent, seemingly meditative. His hand is massaging one of your ankles and you can't suppress a yawn as you turn your head to look at what's being aired as well. There's nothing in the fridge so you'll probably have to order pizza for dinner, unless you steal your roommate's infamous potato salad. The thought is tempting but she'd have your head for it.

“Wanna stay over tonight?” you mindlessly ask, eyes fixed on the host of what looks like a fairly popular talk show.

“Hm? Thought you weren't in the mood anymore” mischief laced into his smirk, he lightly pinches your calf and you faintly kick his hand away.

Ah, right, you mostly spend time together to have sex. It'd be too weird to suggest staying over to just... what? Share dinner, watch a show and go to sleep? Like a damn (gagging) couple?

Idiot. Divert.

“Well, you do have amends to make” you clear your throat as he goes back to rubbing your ankle, the motion so soothing you consider shutting your eyes and relax into his touch, letting it lull you into a nap.

Eren chuckles quietly to himself.

“Fine” he says and your heart squeezes a little, an undesirable feeling you can't seem to shake off in what will go down as one of the weirdest days you've ever lived “make sure your mom knows I'm also the best fuck you've ever had”

You laugh heartily at that, sock-clad foot rising up to his face to jokingly poke his cheek. He slaps it away with an exaggerated grimace.

“Best fuck and performer. She'll ask me to bring you over for christmas”

“I'm amazing with family dinners. You'd have to give me an oscar by the end of the night” with a devious up-to-no-good smirk, he crawls on top of you and you playfully push his face away as one of his knees finds its way between your slightly parted legs, hands resting on either side of your head.

“Get off!” you giggle as his face presses against your hand harder and harder until you have to retract it and his forehead lightly collides with yours.

“Did I tell you” he smiles at your frown, lips brushing against your forehead before they start to trace your jaw with soft, chaste kisses.

“How hot”

kiss

“You are”

kiss

“When you're”

kiss

“Embarrassed?”

And then his lips are on yours, soft and gentle and slow for a change, your hands rising up to cup his face and bring it impossibly closer with a desire you've been dying to give in to for the entire day.

He pulls back ever so slightly, a gesture out of the ordinary as you're pretty sure he's never once interrupted a make out session to look at you like that. All serious, like he's on the verge of breaking the fragile branch you feel like you're standing on.

“What? Hard already?” you whisper, heart racing so badly you pray he won't lower his head to kiss your neck again because your pulse at the moment is frankly embarrassing.

And sure enough a tiny, airy laugh crawls out of his throat as one of his hands slips under your shirt, thumb casually tracing the under curve of your breast sending an instant shiver down your spine.

“Way to ruin the mood”

What mood?

He carefully lifts himself up and takes a second to drink the sight of you all flustered and confused right in before he extends a hand to help you up as well.

“Bed?”

You fake a groan as you accept his offer and are up to your feet in a second, remote control in hand to turn the tv off tossed on the couch once again. As you precede him to your room, he suddenly calls you by your name and you turn around to find him leaning against the door frame of your living room, arms crossed.

“Who else are you seein'?” the question is almost sheepish, embarrassment embedded in his unusually tense features. You tilt your head.

“No one” your reply is equally hesitant but way more confused.

He hums to himself, as if to confirm a thought known to him only.

“Me neither”

#eren yeager #eren x reader #eren yeager x reader #aot #snk #aot fanfic #aot x reader #eren fic

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snackhobi · 4 years ago

Text

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Being a barista isn’t all bad.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s Tuesday,” he states solemnly.

“I know?”

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

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

“I did.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Actually, on the note of cute regulars—

“Your 2:15 appointment is here.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’ve barely spoken to him.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hi,” he says, and… that’s it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Witchcraft,” he says, and you laugh.

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

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

“Was that the weekly special?”

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

“Would you recommend it?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Record scratch. Freeze frame.

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

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

Oh, God.

A couple.

You’ve been crushing on a taken man.

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

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

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

You are the worst.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Why, oh why, oh why.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He’s dyed his hair.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So you say: “You dyed your hair.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(“Good lord,” Taehyung says faintly.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Huh?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hi,” Yoongi says.

“Oh! Hi,” Taehyung says.

“Hyung! Look!” Jungkook says.

“Jungkook, wait—” you say.

“Whirr,” the lidless blender says.

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

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

And then Yoongi laughs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Your heart aches.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Duly noted.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then he spots you standing there.

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

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

Yoongi stares at you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, you think.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Still want to take me on a date?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No, I won’t,” you say.

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

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

taglist: @beyoncesdragon @vensulove

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

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sunkissedpages · 4 years ago

Text

instead of you [part fourteen]

pairing: [best friend’s brother] tom holland x college!reader

summary: you didn’t expect to spend your summer pretending to be your best friend’s girlfriend- then again, you didn’t expect to fall for your best friend’s brother, either.

warnings: swearing, alcohol consumption

word count: 2.6k

series masterlist

“Just that you’re not technically a chef yet,” Tom explained defensively. “You’re not certified.”

“A chef doesn’t need a piece of paper to call themselves a chef,” Leo countered. “Anyone can be a chef. But don’t tell the WAC I said that.”

“Yeah, Tom haven’t you ever seen Ratatouille?” you teased.

“Great movie,” Leo added. “Sam, great job on your dough,” he reiterated.

Sam stuck his tongue out at his brother across the table who rolled his eyes in response as Leo picked up his ball of dough and rolled it in his hands.

“Tom, yours is still a little tough. Keep working on it.”

He nodded and took his dough back to continue kneading it. You noticed his jaw clenched subtly in frustration, but he didn’t say anything else. You watched as he rolled the pasta dough with a little more force, maybe a little too much.

Leo checked yours next and gave you similar feedback to Tom’s, even though Sam had helped you with yours. You didn’t want to think about what kind of feedback you would have gotten on your own.

Your dough was still flaking apart when you went back to working on it, and you tried desperately to hold it together with little success. Sam had left your side to help his mom so you were on your own.

At least Tom was also struggling. You felt a little better knowing he was miserable too.

You were starting to sweat with effort, you were so out of shape that even cooking had you catching your breath. You had thought this was going to be fun, but instead you were having flashbacks to high school P.E. class.

Leo made his way down the rest of the table and checked everyone else’s dough before circling back to you and Tom. He took over for Tom and instructed Sam to finish kneading yours so that he could move on with the lesson. It was embarrassing to be singled out, but Sam assured you it wasn’t your fault. He wasn’t making much progress with yours either.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with yours,” Sam whispered to you.

“I probably did it wrong,” you hissed back.

“I watched you do it, you did it the same way as everyone else.”

“Then why is it being like this?”

“Sometimes food has a mind of its own,” Leo interjected, making you realize the entire class had been listening to you and Sam’s back and forth. “This is good enough, though. We can set it aside with the other balls of dough to let them rest while we make the fillings.”

You and Tom set your sad pasta balls on the counter with the others before moving to the sink to rinse your hands.

“I think they’ll still taste good,” Tom said thoughtfully as he offered the bottle of soap to you and pumped some into your hands.

“I hope so.”

“It’s pasta, it’s almost impossible to fuck it up.”

“Yet somehow we still managed to.”

“Some would say it’s talent,” he said and shrugged.

You bumped his shoulder with your own as you fought over the water stream. You managed to stick your hands in first and Tom put his above yours only for you to shove them away.

“Hey!”

“You’re completely ruining the purpose of washing my hands!”

“I have soap on my hands, you have soap on your hands, what's the issue?”

“And you’re washing off your germs and they’re going on my hands now!”

“Fine, fine, I’ll wait my turn,” he seceded and let you finish washing your hands before he rinsed off his own.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

Making the fillings for the pasta was a much simpler process than making the dough. All you had to do was mix certain ingredients together. It didn’t matter what order you added them, if you whisked fast or slow, the only important thing was that everything made it into the bowl one way or another.

You worked in pairs for this step. Sam mixed together the pesto filling while you did the parmesan-truffle one.

“This is different than the pesto I make,” he said, looking at the mixture in his bowl.

You frowned. “But I like your pesto.”

“It’ll still be good, baby,” he assured you with a kiss to the forehead. “Don’t worry.”

When the fillings were done it was time to revisit the balls of dough and roll them into pasta. Sam explained it to you like rolling Play-Doh, but it was far more difficult in your opinion. Play-Doh was nowhere near as stubborn as this. The pasta dough somehow retained tension, and would bounce back every time you tried to stretch it.

Sam ended up having to help you and Tom because both of you were starting at a disadvantage with your fucked up dough.

“I never want to hear you say I have it easier than you ever again,” Sam warned as he folded your strands of dough into raviolis.

The class had moved on to the final step, shaping and filling the noodles, but you had already tapped out. Sam was done with his portion before you had even finished one so he had taken over for you.

“I’m sorry for saying that,” you said, remembering all the times you had teased him for stressing out over his ‘soufflé final’ or ‘crepe labs’. “I would much rather be writing a paper right now.”

He shrugged. “Everyone has their strengths.”

“I’m starting to think that Ratatouille movie was bullshit,” you groaned.

“How ironic,” Tom snorted across from you.

He was really starting to get on your nerves. But you let his comment go, not allowing your temper to get the better of you. He was still Sam’s family, even if they had a... complicated relationship.

When the class finally settled in the dining room of the restaurant to eat you were sweaty, sore, and exhausted. You could feel your skin sticking to the leather seat, and you felt severely underdressed. Back in the kitchen you hadn’t been so self-conscious. But now you couldn’t stop thinking about your appearance.

The atmosphere was much more sophisticated. The lights were dim, and soft music played in the background. All of the other guests were following an unspoken black-tie dress code while the fifteen of you were still wearing your disposable aprons, only now they were covered in flour and egg yolk.

And to make it worse-

“Smile!”

Nikki held up her phone and motioned for you and Sam to scoot your chairs closer together. You took a deep breath and complied, leaning your head against your fake boyfriend’s and managing a grin. You really didn’t want this moment to be immortalized, but you didn’t want to be difficult either.

The camera flashed once, then again. Sam wrapped a hand around your waist and pulled your body against his, pressing a kiss to your cheek for another picture. You scrunched up your face as the flash went off, the tickle of his breath against your skin and the feather-light touch of his lips making you squeeze your eyes shut.

“That’s a good one!” Nikki complimented, even though you were sure it wasn’t as flattering as she was making it out to be.

The pasta was served with a glass of red wine for everyone. Sam was right, the pesto was different from his, but it was still good. It was no match for his recipe, but the handmade pasta did give it a few bonus points. You were sure you hadn’t gotten any of the noodles you made because all of the ones on your plate were perfect. It didn’t feel fair that you got to enjoy somebody else’s hard work while they got your shitty excuse of a ravioli.

But as the wine dwindled from your glass the negative thoughts began to ebb away too. Your muscles, though still sore, relaxed slightly and you rested your head on Sam’s shoulder as everyone else finished their meals around you. The conversation carried on without your contribution. Your social battery had died hours ago, but you were content to listen to the Hollands chat with other students at the table.

You weren’t a huge fan of wine, but the one served with dinner was palatable, and to be honest you weren’t one to turn down complimentary alcohol anyway. It tasted more expensive than anything you had ever drank, like the equivalent of velvet on your tongue. You finished your glass and the rest of Harry’s.

The next few days in Florence passed in a similar fashion. You ate a lot of carbs, drank a lot of alcohol and let the business of the itinerary overwhelm you. It was getting tiring, living in an act. Trailing along behind the Hollands like a dog, worn on Sam’s arm like an accessory.

You had known what you were getting into, and you were trying your best to enjoy the experiences- because who the fuck knows when you’ll ever get to go on such a nice vacation again, but pretending to be in love with your best friend was a harder feat than you had thought.

It felt like being in a school play. Every move and phrase had to be intentional. You tread the lines of your relationship with rehearsed expertise. And you had to watch what you said, because everyone’s eyes were on you. At least that’s what it felt like.

Sam’s parents were easy. They fully bought into your lie, seeing what they wanted to. They usually left you to your own devices, too. His brothers were the ones who needed convincing. Not even Harry, though. Tom was the problem. Tom was always the problem.

You were in Rome now, walking back to the hotel from the Colosseum. Sam had his arm slung around your shoulders and was talking his twin brother’s ear off about the Gladiators and inaccuracies in films about Ancient Rome.

You didn’t think you’d seen him this excited the entire trip. It was cute, the way he talked with his hands and looked off into the distance whenever he was really engaged in something. Harry was also cute. He was trying his best to keep up with Sam, nodding his head at all the right points, asking questions when there was a pause in conversation.

“Yeah, gladiators fucking unionized,” Sam explained. “They put their lives on the line all the time, ya know? Might as well get benefits.”

“If I was a gladiator I’d join their union,” you said, adding to the conversation for the first time in a while.

“There were women gladiators too, babe! You totally could’ve been one.”

You laughed. “You remember my season on the intramural dodgeball team? I wouldn’t last a day. But I appreciate the thought, Sammy.”

You had dinner in the restaurant attached to the hotel lobby. Nikki passed around her Canon for everyone to look through the pictures from the day while a bottle of limoncello was passed around the table.

You’d scarfed down your pasta and passed on dessert in favor of another shot of limoncello. Rookie mistake.

In the past the sugary drink had always tasted like cough syrup to you, but this batch tasted like straight-up lemonade. You were tipsy, bordering on drunk, but nowhere near blacked. Nikki and Dom turned in around shot three, leaving the tab open for the four of you. Sam went upstairs next, having gone too hard too fast on the limoncello (he was on shot five when his parents went back to their room).

Then it was just You, Harry, and Tom. You told Sam you’d join him in a bit after the pianist played a couple more songs. In all honesty, the music reminded you of Sam. Back at school you could always find Sam in the music hall if he wasn’t in the culinary building. You’d always hear him playing as soon as you walked through the double doors. You could always tell it was him at the keys by the way the playing sounded. He was self-taught, but still a genius in your mind. He didn’t need any formal training to make beautiful music, and that’s what you loved about it.

When he moved out of the dorms and into an apartment he bought a keyboard, and you’d spend nights together in his room illegally pirating sheet music for him to learn new songs. He’d play whatever you requested, and if he didn’t know how to play it he’d teach himself.

The pianist in the restaurant played with a little more expertise. The notes sounded refined, perfected. Sam always told you that perfect music was restrained music, that real music had flaws, that a song should sound a little different every time it was played.

After an encore of Beethoven the man at the piano stood from his bench and took a bow, passing his hat around the room to collect tips. Tom dropped a bill into the hat and you did as well, handing it back to the man afterwards. He dumped the contents of the hat into a briefcase and closed the lid of the piano, thanking everyone in the audience for their donations.

“Well, I think I’m going to head up now,” Harry said, yawning for emphasis. “We still have to get up at the ass crack of dawn even though we’ll all probably be hungover.”

“Speak for yourself,” Tom said cockily, then turned to you. “One more shot?”

The bottle of limoncello was almost empty anyway. Might as well finish it off, it’d be a shame to let it go to waste, right?

“Hit me.”

“God, you’re both going to be so fucked tomorrow,” Harry groaned.

“We’ll be fine,” Tom insisted, rolling his eyes at his younger brother.

“Good night, Harry,” you sang, waving at him as he walked off.

“Yeah whatever.”

Tom wasted no time pouring you both a shot of what was left of the limoncello. The restaurant was beginning to clear out so he worked fast, filling the glasses up to the marked line. You both took one and clinked them together before throwing them back.

You winced at the burning sensation in the back of your throat and put the glass back on the table, searching for something to chase the shot with. Your eyes fell to Tom, lingering on his cheeks, his lips, both pink from the alcohol or something else. You flicked your gaze down to his neck, his collarbone that was peeking out from the neckline of his shirt. You thought about how it would feel to kiss him there, to run your tongue over a love bite you’d given him.

You forced your gaze back to his eyes, hoping he hadn’t caught you staring. You had to act uninterested, you couldn’t let on to- but he was staring back. His eyes were intense, and almost impossible to read in the darkness of the room. You knew you should look away, knew you had to keep up appearances, but you couldn’t.

Later you’d blame it on the alcohol, but in that moment you knew the limoncello wasn’t what was making your head spin, or your what was making your vision cloudy.

You were about to leave the table, about to rush to the elevator and back to Sam but then suddenly Tom was kissing you. He cradled your head in his hand and tilted your chin up to meet his lips. It wasn’t desperate or messy like most drunk kisses were. Instead, it was delicate. You swore you could feel every line of his lips against yours, feel his heartbeat through his hands on your cheek.

It was only for a second, not enough time for you to react or reciprocate and then he was pulling away, eyes wide with panic.

“Please don’t tell Sam.”

logging off before i get yelled at but lmk what you think i always appreciate feedback!!

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#instead of you #iou #tom holland x reader #tom holland x bi!reader #tom holland x fem reader #tom holland x you #tom holland x y/n #tom holland series

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tianarpowell · 1 year ago

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“All right, a little bit of Kurobuta in the meatballs, and the rest for the second recipe to go with the chicken fried beets!” Tiana practically burst out. She beamed when Remy congratulated her on the promotion she’d earned! “Thank you, thank you for your kindness. I’ll remember about that raise! These are the things I need to tell myself to do…but, you know, Remy, if it hadn’t been for you and some other friends of mine really encouraging me the past couple weeks…I don’t know if I’d even be making this new food I’m getting to make at work now. Thank you sincerely for that. If I hadn’t met you, I’d be worse off. I’m being honest.” His easy kindness on the job and in conversation had inspired her to take that big step. And Tiana didn’t take kindness for granted, never ever.

“Now,” Tiana told Remy about that bread bowl, “on the MasterChef show, they did use a different type of flour for the bread bowl. It was the standard baking flour, I think. This is different, the one I asked you to bring. That was actually why I subbed in the unbleached flour for the standard bread flour—I’m thinking our flour will hold soup a lot better and have a more appealing texture if we want to eat the bowl at some point. On the show, they had to spend a lot of their time, the contestant did, on making the soup thicker so it would present well, like you’re talking about. But this avocado soup we’ll be creating for the dish, it’s naturally lighter. I don’t want to have to thicken something that just tries its hardest to stay light, you know? Anyway, that’s my reasoning.” Tiana listened as Remy started in on the pork meatballs and pushed the salt and pepper grinders his way. “I can taste those meatballs already,” she told him when he mentioned the meatballs absorbing their clove-and-wine-reduction sauce. “You go for it!”

“Remy,” Tiana said at his suggestion to use soy and ginger for their second recipe, “that’s brilliant! Absolutely genius! You’ve got a gift for flavors!” She meant that—she could tell, based on the things she’d tasted of his and the way he put together dishes, that his palate was very defined. “Please, do whatever you want to do for that part of the meal. I trust you one hundred percent!” She moved to the side so he could have more room for his workstation.

Tiana gladly accepted the jug of lemonade from Remy when he retrieved it from the fridge and poured them both full glasses. “All right,” she said, handing Remy his glass (a reddish cup that had been borrowed and never returned from her mama’s nice house). “Yes, yes, paprika and other seasonings are stored in a little rack I keep in this cupboard.” She opened it up for him over both their heads. “Go crazy with it! And whatever else you think is best…chef!” She grinned back at him. They were two peas in a pod.

Now it was Tiana’s turn to start cooking. She turned back to the ingredients for the spaghetti sauce (a filetto, potentially, with paprika added in for a kick). She felt very content as she moved through the steps, dicing and pouring with a practiced comfort. This felt better than work ever felt to her. Why would that be? Maybe it was because they were making recipes they’d thought about themselves…or maybe it was because Tiana knew that she could trust herself and Remy with something they felt passionate about making. The love for cooking, and for giving things a try, in that kitchen was palpable. Tiana felt happier than she could remember feeling in the recent past. She wanted to show that to Remy somehow…but how could she be kind in a noticeable way to the kindest person she knew?

“Remy,” she said at last as she got that spaghetti sauce over the stove. “I haven’t talked about this much, but I…am bad at cooking with other people.” It was unfortunately true. “I always tell them things they already seem to be doing, so it makes communication really pointless and bad. But with you, I’m not telling you anything, I’m helping you. There’s such a big difference! Helping versus guiding…” Now that Tiana was saying it out loud, she was realizing that to “guide” someone while cooking, which inevitably happened to her in kitchens, meant that she was probably on a different level from them. And maybe, probably shouldn’t be cooking with them in that way at all…

“What I’m trying to say,” Tiana continued, “is that I’m able to relax and just have faith in your understanding. I feel really calm, for the first time in a while.” This was also true. And it was very fortunate that it was, because Tiana knew that Remy was someone who deserved a lot of faith in the kitchen…and a lot of leeway. That was abundantly clear. “What else can we do to mix things up, while we’re at this stage of the game? You suggested the paprika, which—” and Tiana gestured with her head to the saucepan— “I already added in just now! Tell me, chef…” Tiana actually felt that he would make a great head chef, but she didn’t say that yet. “What flavor can I add to those beets coming up? We’ve got the familiar flavor of the chicken, the sweetness of those beets, like you were telling me… Anything we can use to round off the flavor profile? Like you explained, it’ll be unconventional for sure. But I like unconventional. It’s actually my favorite kind of flavor.” Tiana smiled over at Remy.

"Oh, I don't know if we should use this pork for meatballs..." Remy said, rubbing his chin. "I mean, I feel like it's way too good to grind and mix... But, you know, if we could use just a bit... You'd still get some left for some insanely good pork chops," he suggested. "I mean, I can't lie and say that now I'm not curious about what Kurobuta meatballs would taste like." They were trying stuff out, after all. Risks had to be taken.

"A promotion? That's awesome!" he smiled. "Congrats! And hey, that's not small! You should be rightly proud of it!" He managed to stop himself in time before almost slapping her back in support, like he usually did with Emile and his cousins. "And remember to ask for a raise after the first few weeks... You deserve it, if you're moving on up to a harder more demanding task."

There was no time to settle in. There was work to do. And Tiana's excitement was contagious... As if Remy needed more reason to be excited. "That sounds just beautiful," he nodded, rolling up his sleeves. "Funnily enough, I don't think I've ever done a bread bowl, even though I work in the bakery. Do you do something to the dough, so the crust ends up hard enough to hold the moistness of a whole soup?" he asked. "Apart from, you know, the usual water-in-the-oven trick?" It felt so good to discuss these things with someone who knew what he was talking about. This looked up to being the best time he would have in a long while. "Right, I'll get to the meatballs," he said, picking up a knife and a cutting board. "Cloves, onions, garlic, here's the pork... Where do you keep the salt and pepper?" he asked as he moved around the kitchen, picking what he needed. "We need to get the sauce going first, so we can cook the meatballs in it. That way they'll soak up in it nicely."

Remy turned to look at the lovely Kurobuta pork. "My God, what an honor," he said earnestly. "What about making the pork chops with ginger and soy?" he suggested. "I mean... It's gonna end up being kind of a weird menu, I know, but it'll be really good. Some saltiness to cut the sweetness of the beets." And then Remy let out a laugh. "Remember to breathe... If you don't breathe every so often, we can't cook." He nodded again. He really hadn't expected to be so game to following someone else's orders. Remy knew himself to be sort of tyrannical in the kitchen; so the sheer fact that he was comfortable doing what Tiana asked of him really spoke to her talent for leading.

"Great," he said, opening the fridge door and looking for the lemonade so they could both have something to drink while they worked. "Do you have any paprika? I usually put it in my filetto sauce, it really gives it some spiciness and an amazing color," Remy said. "Just a little bit in the wine reduction, I think it might work some magic. Does that sound good, chef?" he asked Tiana, shooting her a glance and a smile.

#remy

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scary-monsters · 3 years ago

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Why do u like Diego so much. Like, what's the personal obsessive zeal for the feral rock-eating dinosaur man over any other fabulously bizzare jjba character

it's quite simple, really: he's hot

no, that's a joke, i genuinely have a lot of really Strong feelings about diego brando as a character, he rides that thin line between villain and "hey maybe this guy isn't so bad" (which is something i'm always a sucker for), his motivations are interesting, also i think his character design is SICK. i really will just sit here, ramble, and make zero sense, so i'm going to attempt to break him down in chunks AHEM (general warning for sbr spoilers!!!!)

so diego at face value is this pompous jerk who wants money and staus, and he's willing to do anything he has to in order to get what he wants. in his mind he's number one, he values himself over literally everybody else. all of this is great, i love characters that are unapologetic assholes, but what really gets me is what we can see if we dig a little deeper!!! he's constantly on the hunt for more, more, more; there's this ache inside him that he can't quite relieve. he wants revenge for the way his mother and him were treated when he was young, and he will stop at nothing to get that. (i have to wonder if he understands that there's probably nothing he can actually do to fix that deep-seated anger. i'm not sure that even killing his father would be enough, but that's purely me trying to burrow myself into diego's psyche LOL) he's just so HUNGRY and ugghhh i Love that, i love his determination and the way he will throw himself into really dangerous situations if it means he has the potential to benefit himself and move even a fraction closer to his goals. so that instantly earns him major points in my book.

the moment that i personally said "yep, he's The One" was of course the rattlesnake joke... i think i literally swooned irl.. not only is he very nice to look at, he's also FUNNY???? sold. instantly. i think at his core diego is a goofy lil guy (also childish and desperate for validation, but we'll touch on that later) who could potentially be such a good ally for so many characters if he'd simply get his head out of his ass and trust other people a reasonable amount. but he won't because he's diego and he's horribly misanthropic. (this kind of explains part of my fascination with dinopants: we finally see him alongside someone, strategizing, exhibiting some trust (even if just a little), and he actually treats hot pants with respect, like an equal!!! tune in next time for a dinopants analysis /hj) It's just so funny to watch him in the scary monsters arc, he feels very.. candid, i guess? in his interactions with johnny, the refined aura isn't really there and he looks a mess LMAO, i instantly took even more of a liking to him during this part!!! he just felt more human to me (which is ironic bc.. he very much wasn't for the majority of the arc fhdkjlghs) It's just like.. OH.. this seemingly perfect man is now acting absolutely feral and being so weird ?? i'm in love with the duality of him!!!! (and oddly enough, vaguely lizard-like person is a very specific trope that i Adore, my username isn't tendou-satori for nothin')

so far we've got: mean little motherfucker with a massive chip on his shoulder, at his most palatable he's silly and funny and appears to actually have some humanity even though it's stuffed beneath thick layers of self-importance and resentment. also: hot dinosaur eat rock. but i like to think my specialty is psychoanalyzing characters (to the point where it may or may not feel canon) so let's dig deeper :))))

there's this profound sadness in his character, i think? touched on it earlier, but his motivations are built on a desire for revenge, and i'm not sure if that hunger for revenge could ever be satisfied. it's a childish motive (imo) and i think it really showcases just how much growing up he needs to do. i think it's easy to forget he's just 20, because he acts so high and mighty and it seems he has a lot of enablers; he's probably had his ego blown to ridiculous amounts for almost the entirety of his life. i'm sure he had to work hard for his place in the world of horse racing but his celebrity status absolutely gets to his head, he eats it up. but with all that being said, without the influence of either of his parents he had to rely on himself, and with that i'm sure he had to grow up very fast. but there's still childish tendencies there, things he never unlearned, like his need for being the center of attention, being generally mean to people, putting himself first no matter what & to the point where it endangers others, etc etc etc. he's resentful and doesn't understand he has to let that go or else it will eat him alive. but i also think there's something so beautiful about how determined he is to get what he wants.

but the sadness doesn't end there; the part that absolutely rips me apart is the fact that he could have gotten so far if he hadn't been burdened by so many things during the race. scary monsters is fucking cool, yeah, but maybe if he hadn't gotten pulled into the whole corpse parts thing he could have gone all the way. his determination bit him in the ass, his need to be at the center of everything fucked him over. he couldn't let it go, he had to let his greed for higher status get in the middle of it. up until the end he was so hungry for what he wanted that he literally threw himself out a window for it. his last words were "the one who was victorious was me" because that's all he wanted, he just wanted to win and climb the social ladder and he threw everything else away just for that shot. and his need for validation was probably a part of that too. validation that he lacked as a young child after his mother's passing, i imagine. (this part of my love for him may very well be completely fabricated in my mind but i have a tendency to make characters sadder than they actually are, it's my bread and butter, so take all this with a grain of salt)

the need for validation thing kinda kills me too, i have to wonder if there's some deeply rooted insecurities in there (also probably a longshot, but please give me this) and he might not even be aware of them because he's not good at self-reflection. every time he's like "well?" in terms of asking others for praise or validation or confirmation or whatever it sort of feels like a faint "please tell me i'm good because i have to hear it".. he's grown up hearing this stuff about how gifted and amazing he is, so he hasn't had to supply that validation for himself, if that makes sense?? his self-worth has been built off other people's words and, yes, while he fully believes those things about himself and will flaunt his everything, i think there's still something Sad about that. idk man i'm verging on 100% headcanon at this point but these are still things that make me appreciate his character even more. either way, he has Depth. a lot of jjba characters do, but he specifically fascinates me. dio started out being my favorite character in the whole series (and i still love him) but diego is like... dio but with some Good in him, he's redeemable. he's only hostile towards others if they get too close to him or pose him a threat. but at his core he's just like "leave me alone and i will leave you alone" and he isolates from people. god idk i just think he's so interesting and sad and troubled and the way it's all hidden underneath this air of self-importance is So Fucking Good!!!! i think if anyone could get underneath that thick layer of safeguarding they'd find a man who needs genuine human connection so badly and could really flourish and emotionally mature if he had it (again, we are in headcanon territory)

SO, i don't claim any of this as canon, when i love a character like this it's typically because i like to psychoanalyze them (and maybe sometimes project on them), it's like they become my little puppets and i make them dance around in ways that really intrigue me. diego is my favorite favorite favorite subject right now. i cannot get enough of this dude... :'))) also he fucking eats rocks... you Cannot hate a guy who eats rocks, fumbles around trying to drink coffee, and can turn into a literal dinosaur.

also, he is sooooo fucking hot.. like Holy Shit.. araki really said "im gonna make diego brando the prettiest character in all of jojo" and then He Did That. personal opinion, ofc, but oof the things i would do .. ANYWAY....

if you read through this monster of a post then i hope i answered your question LOL... i love talking about him and i'd love to hear other people's thoughts and headcanons about him :')) he's such a great character, i love drawing him, i love writing him, i love having him as a muse, he fills my heart with so much joy!!!!!

#diego brando #ig i'll tag this ... sighs lovingly #i am kissing him on the mouth and lovingly kicking him in the ankles #my little dinosaur man ..... loml #there's probably so much more i could say!!!!#but i have trouble organizing my thoughts.... things always come out a jumbled mess...#regardless i'm always READY to talk abt him

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lisatelramor · 3 years ago

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Kai-shin- 34. You can taste what your soulmate is eating at the time.

A Matter of Taste

Whoever Kaito’s soulmate was, he had complaints. Every day, his taste buds were assaulted by bitter coffee. Or something sour. Or fish. Okay, not everything they ate was bad but would it kill them to eat something sweet every once in a while? Fruit? Please? Kaito popped a chocolate in his mouth because at least sweet milk chocolate complimented strong black coffee. Soulmate, your stomach lining is going to be burned away with that rot.

Kaito made a point to eat something sweet at least once a day to broaden the horizons of his soulmate’s palate. Considering how often they chased it with something of a different flavor profile, they appreciated it about as much as he appreciated the frequent disgusting bitter flavors.

If they didn’t have enough of an overlap, Kaito probably would have gone crazy. Thankfully, they both had a Japanese palate.

Supposedly, he was going to find his soulmate someday. Kaito didn’t really get how the mechanics worked, just that they did. Now knowing who your soulmate was tended to be the tricky part. Keeping track of what acquaintances were eating at any given time was kind of tedious. Kaito tended to keep a running background note to people that reoccurred in his daily life, the reoccurring flavors (like the damn coffee), and the times he had the taste of something on his tongue. Like normal mealtimes, or those weird days where his soulmate wouldn’t eat or drink anything for twelve hours, then get coffee like some kind of insane person. They needed a minder. They needed someone to set a clock for meals because for every three days they had a normal food schedule, there was at least one where they skipped a meal or substituted it with something caffeinated. Did they want an ulcer? Were they an adult and had a weird work schedule? A college student with really bad habits? Kaito had an endless list of theories and absolutely no answers because life was fun like that, and fate was a whimsical bitch sometimes.

Anyway. Point being, he was definitely going to have a talk with this person someday.

*0*

Shinichi’s soulmate couldn’t take a hint. Whoever they were, they would not stop eating sweet things. Shinichi hated it. He hated the taste of refined sugary crap with fake flavoring. If they were going to eat something sweet, couldn’t it at least be something with some redeeming health value? A fruit tart? Something?? But no, they drank juice and sweetened their black teas and loved chocolate to an extent that was frankly a little alarming. He was going to have to ask them if they had cavities. Or if they had a family history of diabetes because for goodness’s sake there was no way that this was healthy.

Also, they had an aversion to fish? Shinichi never tasted it on their end despite noting quite a lot of other Japanese foods, which was pretty weird since fish was a main staple. Maybe they didn’t like the smell? They didn’t eat terribly other than that, sweet addiction aside. A bit prone to easy to cook foods and eating out, but Shinichi couldn’t judge them; he was a teenage boy fending for himself and ate whatever was most convenient too. He could cook, but it wasn’t something he enjoyed much, and he got the impression whoever his soulmate was, they had similar feelings. Or maybe their parent didn’t cook. Who knew? They could be anywhere from a few days apart in age to a decade given the average of recorded soulmate age differences. They could be anywhere from a student to someone fully established in a career by now, and Shinichi couldn’t bring himself to feel too bothered by the specifics.

That said, he had a theory that they were close to him in age based off the fact that alcohol rarely if ever was consumed, and the food preferences fit closer to what he’d expect of his generation, not someone a bit older. Also, he’d been tasting what they ate all his life, so they definitely weren’t younger than him, or if they were, not by much. His current theory was that his soulmate was a university student due to a sudden uptick in snacks at odd hours in the morning, but obviously he didn’t have proof to back that up.

Shinichi was just waiting for them to eat something terribly distinctive that he’d also eaten to potentially track them to a restaurant he’d visited at some point, but so far no luck. Japan was large amount of land to cover. They probably weren’t even in the Tokyo area no matter how much he hoped they were for the sake of convenience and proximity. So yes, Shinichi did want to eventually meet his soulmate with their horrible sugar addiction, but he wasn’t holding his breath about it.

And he wasn’t saving his heart. There was nothing wrong with falling in love with someone who wasn’t his soulmate. Whoever they were, he couldn’t imagine having a deeper connection than he did with Ran. So yeah, the universe could take its time shoving him at his soulmate and his soulmate could learn to like what Ran gave him to eat in the meantime.

*0*

The universe was laughing at both of them as Kaitou Kid split a granola bar with an unhappy-looking Edogawa Conan. “Look,” Kaito said, “we don’t have to get along permanently. This is just a truce.”

“A truce,” Edogawa said, taking the chunk of granola from him. “But the moment this is over, so is the truce.”

“Fair enough.” Kaito bit into the bar. It was sweet, but not as sweet as he’d have liked. Then the flavor hit his tongue again, right as Edogawa scrunched up his nose and chewed a bite.

“Too sweet,” he complained. Then he froze as he realized the same thing Kaito did.

Kaito took another bite, just to be sure, and saw Edogawa’s face go pale even as his eyes seemed to fill up his whole face behind those awful, oversized glasses.

“Are you serious?” Edogawa said, though it didn’t seem to be directed at Kaito so much as it was directed at whatever mysterious force in the world created the soulmate bonds.

Clearly that deity had a terrible sense of humor.

Ten-year age difference, huh? Awkward. Although. Wait a minute…

“Wait. You can’t be six. I’ve been tasting terrible coffee since before you’d have been born.”

If possible, Edogawa went even paler. Then the color came rushing back as he scowled. “There is no way my soulmate is a thief.”

Kaito bit a pointed chunk of granola. “Mm, sorry, fate says otherwise.” He swallowed. “You think I want a detective as my soulmate? Please.”

“At least I have the moral high ground.”

“Do you?” Kaito asked in a false-pleasant voice. “Do you really?” Because if he wasn’t actually six (somehow), then he probably wasn’t actually Edogawa Conan, which meant he was lying, possibly to everyone in his life. And really, Edogawa was very willing to push legality in pursuit of what he deemed justice. Kaito didn’t think stealing a few gems and returning them, even with all the fanfare, was that much worse. “We’re both living a lie ‘Conan-kun’.”

Edogawa twitched. “There’s an explanation.”

“And you’re not going to tell me, are you?” Edogawa remained silent. Of course. Ugh. About the only thing that Kaito could see in him as a soulmate was the way his brain worked, but he supposed he’d have to make peace with that. He did want to have his soulmate in his life even if it was someone like annoying-terrifying Edogawa. “It wasn’t a curse, was it?”

“A what?” Edogawa looked at him like he was crazy. “You’re not telling me you believe in magic.”

“Oh no, of course not,” Kaito lied. Look, he hadn’t believed in actual magic either, but facing a witch gave perspective. “Just wondering if there’s a cure for it.”

“A lot of experimental science and an antidote that doesn’t exist yet,” Edogawa said.

“Hm.”

“… I still don’t like you.”

Kaito sighed and pressed a hand to his chest like Edogawa had shot him. “Hated by my own soulmate! Tragic!”

“Oh, go jump in a lake.”

“Hell no, I don’t like swimming that much.”

“…I’m still going to try to get you arrested.” Edogawa said.

“And I’m still going to steal. This doesn’t change anything.” Lies; it changed something, but Kaito wasn’t sure how it would play out yet.

…He didn’t think this was a romantic soulmate situation, but hey, who knew? Maybe under all that detective-ness and six-year-old appearance was someone Kaito could like and admire. …Hmm. Yeah, he wasn’t going to deal with that right now.

“Now are you still going to help me catch that gunman?” Edogawa said after an uncomfortably long pause between them.

Kaito snorted. “Of course. I do have lines I don’t cross in my morals, detective.”

“I know you do, or we’d never have a truce in the first place.”

Kaito was going to sit him down someday and pick his brain because Edogawa Conan made no sense. “We’re going to get back to you not being six at some point. But I am prioritizing getting rid of a public threat first. And don’t think we won’t be talking. I know where you live.”

“Of course I get a stalker as a soulmate.”

“Not a stalker, prepared. Knowing your enemy is a step toward staying ahead of them.” Kaito dusted crumbs from his gloves.

Weird as the whole thing was, he supposed he could do worse than Edogawa Conan as a soulmate. At least Edogawa wasn’t evil. Annoying, persistent, and reckless yes, but also caring, determined, and smart. They’d work things out. Maybe. Possibly. If they didn’t try to kill ach other from their differences first. …Was the universe sure it hadn’t made a mistake on this one?

#detective conan #soulmates #kaishin #fanfiction #My writing #my prompt generator landed on kaishin a lot guys

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wondersofdreaming · 4 years ago

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Sex on Fire - 3

Co-written with @radaofrivia

Characters: AU Captain Syverson - Gynaecologist, dr. Syverson x female reader

Word count: 7.601

Warnings: NSFW! Overthinking. Talking to a dog. Flirting. Nervous energy. A little awkwardness. Smut. 69. Making love. Love. Fluff. The end.

Author’s note: This story was co-written with the lovely @radaofrivia - who wrote the beautiful smutty parts.

The dividers are made by @firefly-graphics

This story is dedicated to all the women who struggle with pain. It doesn’t matter where that pain is, but know that you are not alone.

Please go enjoy her stories here:

Rada’s Masterlist

I do not own any characters in this short story, except the reader who is a figment of my imagination.

MY MASTERLIST

Sex on Fire Masterlist

Feedback is appreciated.

“What have I gotten myself into?

You stood in front of the mirror, having changed into the fifth dress, but nothing you had tried on was good enough for a date with the hottest doctor in town. A loud groan left your lips, making your sister peek inside your room.

“Everything alright in here?” she asked, looking over the room. Clothes were spread everywhere, shoes thrown all over, and you pacing in front of the closet, desperately trying to find something fitting to wear. “Looks like a tornado went through.”

“I have nothing to wear! So please, either come help me or get out,” you snapped. You heard the angry tone in your voice and turned around to face your younger sister, who looked mildly annoyed at you. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to sound like a bitch.”

“Care to tell me what’s going on? I thought you were excited to go out with the dashing doctor?” She asked and went to sit on the only available space on the bed.

You picked up the five discarded pieces of clothing.

“This,” you held up the first dress, “is too short. He’ll think I’m a whore.”

“Then wear leggings underneath it. Do I need to remind you, sissy, that he has already seen you butt-naked?”

You glared at your sister, feeling she didn’t understand your situation that this date had to be perfect.

What if our attraction was a fluke?

“This,” you showed the second dress, “is too long. He’ll think I’m a prude.”

“Then cut it to the right length.”

What if he thinks I was an easy prey? I was. I practically begged him to fuck me. Fuck!

You were starting to sweat as you held up the third dress.

“This shows too much cleavage. He’ll think I’m trying to seduce the entire restaurant.”

“Wear a shirt under it.”

What if he isn’t taking me to a restaurant? What if we’re going to his place?

You kept rambling about the fourth and fifth dress, and your sister retorted with solutions to each of them.

“Sissy, your thoughts are so loud I think even he can hear them.”

You threw a dress in her face.

“You’re thinking of every possibility that this could go wrong, aren’t you?”

“No…” you mumbled, but a good death stare from your sister made you change your mind from lying, “Yes, I’m scared, Pat. What if he isn’t the man he made me believe he is? What if he’s a serial killer disguised as a vaginal doctor? What if he’s a wolf in sheep’s clothing? What if I’m walking right into grandma’s house and get eaten by the big bad wolf?”

“Stop, stop, you’re making no sense whatsoever…”

“And what if he doesn’t like me? What if we don’t have any chemistry? What if… oh my god, what if he only wants me as a fuck-buddy?”

You were pacing around your room, walking through the clothes, kicking the shoes away from your wandering path. Your sister grabbed your wrist and pulled you down on the bed.

“You are overthinking,” she booped your nose, “You are a gorgeous human being, very pretty too, if I have to say so myself. If he was only going to have you as his fuck-buddy, then you either say yes, because God knows you need a good fuck, or you say no because you’re looking for something deeper. And he wouldn’t have asked you on a date if he wasn’t into you! Take a deep breath with me.”

You both inhaled and exhaled, again and again, until your heartbeat wasn’t about to gallop right out of your chest.

“Now that you’re nice and calm… eh, ish, let’s put on some music and get you ready for your date. I have the perfect dress for you to wear tonight, just promise not to spill wine on it.”

Lucas walked out of the steaming shower, wrapping a large fluffy towel around his hips. His dog, a German Shepherd, was lying on the carpeted bedroom floor by the door. Her brown eyes were staring at him intensely like she knew that he was going somewhere.

“I’ll be home as soon as I can, Aika. And I promise to bring your favourite treat from the restaurant,” he told the dog. Mention of the treat perked her ears up.

Sy chuckled as he started grooming his beard. Then a light went off in his mind.

Fuck, what if she doesn’t like dogs?

He looked apologetically at Aika, who was drooling on the carpet, already tasting the treat on her palate.

Lucas finished in the bathroom and went to his spacious walk-in closet.

“What should I wear, girl?” He asked as if Aika knew what was hot in fashion. She walked over to where he hung his trousers, sniffed a few before picking a grey pair down from the hanger. She then managed to trot over to him with a pair of brown leather shoes.

“Well, thanks, girl, these are perfect. So what do you think, a white shirt or a black shirt?” Sy held each piece up to Aika, and she barked happily at the white shirt, her tail wagging excitedly. The dashing doctor also chose a matching grey suit jacket. He looked himself over in the mirror.

“I really want this to work, Aika,” he mumbled to his dog, who cocked her head to the side. “I think she’s amazing, and I hope she likes dogs because if not, I would be really sad… to say goodbye to you.”

Aika growled at him, making Sy laugh out loud.

“Sorry girl, I’m just kidding, I’m kidding. You belong with me, forever and always,” he scratched her belly. “What do I do if I make an ass out of myself?”

Aika rolled around and let out a loud ‘woof’ as if she was saying that he should just be himself.

“Okay, I’ll do my best. But what if she’s not who I think she is? What do I do then?”

Aika let out a deep rumble from her chest. I’ll bite her sorry ass if she isn’t.

You walked down the pavement looking for the restaurant Sy had texted you the address of. Sy was standing out front, waiting for you, he looked so handsome in his grey suit, and now you felt you might have been under-dressed. His face lit up in a warm grin, and his eyebrows arched when he saw you moving towards him. You smiled shyly back.

As Sy leaned down to kiss her cheek, you were going for his lips, ending in an awkward angled greeting.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” you whispered at the same time he said: “Sorry!”

You stood there, looking down on the pavement, red-faced and suddenly very shy, not knowing what to do next while he was staring at you, not being able to take his eyes off you.

Lucas chuckled and presented his arm.

“Shall we go in?”

He was smiling at you, trying his best not to make your encounter awkward. You took his arm and was led into the restaurant. You looked around at the warm and comfortable atmosphere of the room. Chinese lanterns were hanging down from the loft, casting a soft light over space. The wooden tables had an induction heating plate for the hotpot that could contain either one, two or four different soups. The couple were seated near the covered fishing pond that was placed in the middle of the restaurant, a glass wall surrounding the pond, so no one could fall and get wet. The koi fish were swimming around, showing off their orange, red, white, and black scales. It was a soothing and calming sight and helped you relax in the presence of the handsome doctor.

A waitress came to take your drink orders while you looked through the menu.

“Oh, I don’t know what goes well with anything here,” you said, suddenly feeling so out of place.

“May I suggest one of their beers? They’re really good,” Lucas smiled at you warmly as he gave his drink order. You ordered one of their light and refreshing beers.

You looked down at the menu again. Not knowing what to pick as everything sounded delicious.

“There’s so much food,” you commented with a giggle.

“Do you want to try one of their special menus? That way, you can try a little of everything,” Sy suggested.

“I’d like that.”

The waitress came back with their drinks, and Sy rambled away your order. He ordered the four soup hot pot, various meats, seafood, vegetables, and an enormous amount of different types of noodles.

“How did you come by this place?” You asked, taking a sip of beer.

“I was walking around the neighbourhood one day with my sisters, and one of them wanted dumplings, another some noodles, and the third wanted some soup. I searched for a restaurant that had all three things, and this place popped up. It has become my favourite restaurant in the entire city,” he was a vivid storyteller that doctor.

“You brought me to your favourite restaurant?”

“Well, yes. I know it’s not the most traditional place to have a first date, but the food is amazing,” a pink blush crept up his neck and reached his cheeks.

“I think it’s the perfect place for a first date. I like trying new things,” you assured him, watching as a boyish grin of pride spread on his lips. God, how you wanted to kiss those lips.

“I hope you mean that because here comes the food,” Sy nodded towards the three waiters walking with an extra table full of food and the pot filled with the four soups.

“Oh dear,” you watched as they set the plates full of meat around you. “Are we feeding an army?”

“Trust me, darling, this might not be enough when we first get started,” Sy smiled. He reached for his chopsticks, “Have you eaten with chopsticks before?”

You gasped, pretending to be offended.

“I will let you know, doctor, that I was trained by the best to eat with chopsticks,” you showed him your hold, “My sister loves to get Chinese takeout when none of us feels like cooking, and there’s a restaurant that makes the best potstickers and chow mein.”

“Maybe we can order from there one day,” Sy suggested, his voice soft and full of promises.

“I’d like that. So, how do we do this?” you asked.

Lucas told you about the four different soups. They ranked from not-so-spicy to hell’s gate spicy. He talked about all the different cuts of meat, how to just put the ingredients in the soup, advising that you put in the lotus root first as it took a long time to cook.

While the doctor was talking, you were watching him. Your sole focus was on the way his lips moved and his tongue darting out from time to time. That tongue, that godly tongue.

His voice was rich and deep, so smooth and velvety you wanted to hear him talk forever. He caught you ogling at him.

“Everything alright?” he asked, looking a bit confused.

“Yeah, I was just thinking how amazing you look out of your white coat,” you blurted, making Sy laugh and blush an even deeper shade of pink before turning red.

“Why thank you, but I think the real showstopper tonight is you. You look beautiful,” he complimented.

“You’re just saying that because I complimented you first,” you giggled like a teenage schoolgirl with a crush.

Sy shook his head as he reached for the pieces of meat he had put in the soups. He picked one out and moved the chopsticks closer to your mouth.

“Try this,” he recommended. You closed your mouth around the chopsticks, letting the meat fall on your tongue. The sweet umami flavour of the pork was melting in your mouth, and you let out a soft moan.

Lucas was watching your mouth closely. The mouth that had been sucking him off a few days earlier in his office. The pretty mouth that swallowed his seed. His pants were suddenly feeling very snug around his groin area. Fuck, not now!

Thankfully his horny thoughts were interrupted by your suggestion.

“My turn to feed you,” you dove into the spiciest soup and picked out a dumpling. Why does he look so good? Lord, what is he thinking? Why is he looking at me like that? Something on my face?

Your hand was shaking a bit as you leaned over to give the dumpling to Sy, and then you dropped it, watching in slow motion as gravity did its thing, making the dumpling land on Lucas’ crisp white shirt and then down to his lap it went.

“Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry!” you exclaimed. You quickly stood with your napkin and went over to clean the mess you had made. Lucas had picked up the fallen dumpling, not even thinking about the stain the red soup had made. He was having sinful thoughts of you sitting on your knees trying to wash off the red colour with your napkin.

“I ruined your shirt,” you sighed as the stain became worse, and it started to spread the more you rubbed the fabric.

“You’ve made it a habit to ruin my clothes, sunshine,” Lucas chuckled, but his laughter died quickly as you dabbed the napkin on his thigh, moving closer to the hard-on he was willing to go soft, but too late.

Oh, ooooooh.

“Maybe I don’t like that they’re hiding what nature has so gracefully given you,” you smirk up at him, giving him a sultry look.

Lucas swallowed hard. You could see his throat tensing as his Adam's apple bopped up and down. He’s looking you straight in the eyes, trying his best to restrain himself from taking you right then and there.

“God, I love your boldness,” his voice was low, soft, almost velvety, as if he was trying to tell you with the tone of his voice alone how much he wanted you. The smoothness of his voice was sending shivers down your spine, and some part of your brain was signalling that now was the time for you to attack him, rip his clothes off, ride him right there in the chair, not even caring about the people around you.

“Is everything okay?” A waitress asked, interrupting the moment. You snapped out of your lust-filled haze and went back to your chair. Sy coughed, masking his even dirtier thoughts.

“Yes, everything is good. The food is amazing. Can we get two shots of baijiu?” he asked, suddenly in need of something strong to stay put during dinner.

The waitress came back with the shots. Lucas held up his glass.

“Cheers,” he said and downed the clear liquid in one go, but you took a small sip.

“Oh shit, it’s burning my throat,” you gasped, putting the shot down.

“Believe me, you’re going to need all of it until we’ve finished eating,” Sy hinted at something more.

You inhaled the shot, letting the fire spread throughout your chest all the way down to your thighs and throbbing core. Your brain was slowly getting fuzzier, giving you the courage to ask him what had been on your mind since he asked you on the date.

“What are we, doctor?” You blurted, not thinking about how loud you actually were. You continued as you watched confusion spread on his handsome face: “What are you looking for in a partner? Are we going to be a no-strings-attached kind of thing? Casual hookup?”

You stopped and took a deep breath, waiting for his answer. You watched his lips, trying to avoid his eyes. If he wanted a ‘friends with benefits’-relationship, you would be devastated.

“There’s nothing casual about you, buttercup,” Sy was surprised by what you had just told him. He couldn’t deny the connection there was between the two of you. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but he felt it deep in his guts that there was something more, and he wanted to be more for you. “I want to get to know you. I want to explore the deep connection that we have and see where it leads us. What about you? What are you looking for?”

“I… I want that too. Because to me, this. What we have is too good to be just an emotionless thing,” you started, “I feel safe around you, Lucas. I don’t know why, but I do. Do I make any sense? Because I feel like I’m just sitting here rambling…”

Lucas grabbed your hands across the table, avoiding the soups. He caressed the soft skin over your knuckles. His protective instinct was on overload, he wanted to protect you, and his heart was racing from hearing you say that you felt safe around him.

“You make sense to me, bug.”

Your first date had been perfect, so were the following dates afterwards. Lucas Syverson was the perfect gentleman and taken it like a champ when you had asked to take things slow, especially with you not knowing if it was still going to hurt when having sex. You wanted to have your ‘problem’ solved before you took that all-intimate next step with Sy. You built a beautiful relationship and a strong friendship from your attraction.

Lucas had invited you out for lunch one day. He asked about how it was going with the new gynaecologist he had recommended, a woman, as he wasn’t keen on knowing another man touching you in such an intimate place. You told him that you had been referred to a physiotherapist and was going to see a specialist in vaginal diseases.

With time you hurt less and less, and it was with the support from your sister and Sy that you continued the different treatments the doctors gave you. You stretched out muscles in your abdominal area. You used soap that was for intimate use only. You even started using an anaesthetic gel to relax the nerves in your vagina by Sy’s recommendation. You had cursed him all the way to hell the first time you’d used it, even as far as telling him that it burnt worse than the alcohol shot he made you drink at the Hot Pot restaurant. You were walking like you’d ridden a horse all day long until the burning stopped after a few minutes, and Sy had kept his laughter to himself, not wanting to hurt your feelings, but when you had started giggling from looking at yourself in the mirror, he couldn’t stop the roaring laughter either.

Sy was very helpful when you were exercising. He had made the stretching into a game of some sort. You might not be having sex, but you could still tease each other, orally or with your hands, anything to build intimacy between the two of you. He was determined to make the process sexy and fun, not dull and boring.

You asked him to penetrate you a few times but had to tell him to pull out because the pain became too intense. Sy was extremely understanding, and he helped you through the crying afterwards, as you felt that you were never going to heal again. He loved that you were comfortable enough around him to tell him to stop, and you felt so safe with him.

It became your goal not only to have sex but to be penetrated without the pain. And you would get there eventually. For now, you would just bask in the afterglow of a good make-out session with Lucas on the sofa.

You had always felt that there was a part of you missing, a vital part, and now, with Lucas, you felt whole. You couldn’t go a day without at least texting him, saying you missed him, or when you were together, and he went to the bathroom, you missed him. When you had to go home the following day after a night of cuddling, you missed him the minute you walked out the door. Both of you felt like you were addicted to the other. It was almost becoming an obsession.

Life with a boyfriend like Sy was amazing, incredible, fantastic. He was everything you needed without having known it. And Lucas loved to have someone he could take care of, protect and maybe even love. Sy had never felt this way about anyone before. It was a fantastic feeling to have this wonderful woman he could call his girlfriend. His.

Not only were you an extraordinary human being: you also loved animals just as much as he did. If you were allowed animals in the apartment you lived in with your sister, you would have filled it already. Sy had let out a breath of relief when you’d told him. You and Aika had become cuddle buddies whenever you were visiting Lucas. The German Shepherd would completely ignore Sy and follow you around instead, and Lucas was only happy to share his girl with his other girl. The sense of having found you excited him, completed him and made him so happy.

There are two kinds of tired: one that needs a good night's sleep and one that needs so much more. Lucas fell into the second category. He was both physically and mentally exhausted from a long and hard day at work, and he also had to face the guilt for ruining your plans for a quiet dinner.

“Plans are made to be changed,” you told him when he called you to cancel your dinner plans and suggest grabbing something to eat and spend the evening at his place instead.

"And I really like the sound of staying in and just cuddling with you, big bear," you whispered in your phone so your colleagues wouldn’t hear you.

"Big bear?"

"Yes, you're massive, hairy and just like a big cuddly teddy bear," finishing the phrase you noticed that one of your colleagues, Rita, was looking at you, chuckling at your big bear comment. You cleared your throat and with all the seriousness you could muster you told Sy: “I can’t talk right now. Call me when you get here,” and quickly ended the call, turning to her, “he’s an activist for the conservation of big brown bears.”

“Yeah, right,” she laughed. “Have fun with your bear-man, girl, you don’t need to explain yourself.” She winked at you and went about her work.

To your dismay, Lucas didn’t follow your instructions and decided that would be the day he showed his face to your work coming into the library to pick you up. He walked into the place, standing tall, his long strides and posture showing a sense of confidence and ease. He was as handsome as always, in his dress jacket, white shirt and jeans. Upon entering the library, he took off his sunglasses revealing his cobalt blue stare that made people stop in their tracks and this time was no different.

“Oh my God!” You heard your colleague gasping next to you when she laid eyes upon him. A small grin formed on your face to her reaction. You watched your man getting closer, noticing that his face looked tired, something only you would notice. The moment your eyes met a warm, sweet smile spread on his gorgeous lips, lighting up his face.

“Do they accept new members in the bear conservation club?” She asked not too loud, but loud enough for Sy to hear, who was standing right in front of you now. You blushed from embarrassment and broke eye contact with him. His soft laughter brought your eyes back on him.

"Sadly all positions have been filled up," he countered looking directly at you with a lopsided grin. “Ready to go home, sunshine?” You nodded excited, picking up your things quickly and moving on Lucas’ side, looping your arm around his offered elbow.

“Have a good evening, Rita,” you said giddily, looking back at her as she was fanning herself trying to cool off to the sight of Sy’s behind.

"What would you like to eat for dinner?" Sy asked as he opened the car door.

"You," you whispered silently.

In the shower, the water came down warm and soothing, washing the weariness and bad energy of the day off of Lucas’ body. He took some time for himself to relax and find his balance again. But the thought of you sitting on the other side of the wall made him impatient. He needed to be close to you.

Aika whimpered at you, licking your fingers and begging for another treat. You were lying on Sy’s bed, flipping through channels, nibbling at the leftovers of your Chinese takeout, with a comfortable, fluffy pillow behind you, soft and crisp sheets underneath you and Aika laying across your lap, sharing the guilty pleasure of eating in bed with you.

“Shhh, girl! Do you want him to hear us?” You whispered at her, feeding her another bite of the delicious potstickers you had for dinner. She gulped the treat and then licked your hand in gratitude. “Eating in bed is the best, right Aika?” You told her in a colluding way, scratching your accomplice behind her ears. You knew that Sy didn’t approve of eating in bed nor sharing food with Aika, so you both were on the lookout for when he would finish his shower. You didn’t want him to find out the ‘magic tricks’ you had used to gain Aika’s trust so fast.

The moment you heard Sy turning off the water, you both jumped up, Aika taking her usual place at the foot end of the bed acting all cool, and you ran to hide the evidence in the kitchen and wash your hands from the grease. In a minute, you were back in bed pretending you were watching TV. Of course, you had no idea what was on.

“What are my girls doing?” The bathroom door opened, and Sy came out with a towel wrapped loosely around his hips. He leaned lazily on the door frame, smiling in all his wet, half-naked glory, making you choke on your own drool. Quickly, you gathered yourself trying to sound as convincing as possible.

“Nothing special, just sitting here and relaxing.”

Sy walked across the room heading for his dresser that was on your side. Your eyes followed every move he made, studying even the tiniest dent and bump his muscles formed. At the view of his butt, a very unladylike sound escaped your throat.

‘Everything ok, sweetheart?” Lucas asked absentmindedly while looking for his underwear.

“Mh-mm,” you nodded, turning your eyes to the TV. There was a short pause after you heard him close the drawer.

“Babe, is there something you want to tell me?” You craned up your head to meet his eyes. His face was serious. The only thing that kept you from worrying was a small twitch of a smile on his lips. Oh, his lips.

“Huh? Like what?” You asked puzzled.

“I don't know, maybe you want to confess something?” Your mind started racing, a hundred thoughts per second: you are so hot, take off that towel, take me now, how lucky can a girl be, you are perfect, I love you. What? Where did that come from?

“Uhh, no. I don’t think so,” you mumbled trying to hide the instant blushing on your face.

“Don’t you think that trust and openness are important, darling?” He leaned over you, his hand running over your jaw. So busted! But how?

“Of course!” You gulped, readying yourself for the revelation.

“Then can you tell me, why are there crumbs on the bed, bug?”

“What?” That was not what you were expecting.

“Aika?” Sy turned to the German shepherd. She whimpered, hiding her snout in her paws and quickly left the room.

“Traitor,” you muttered.

“I thought we had an agreement on this,” Sy spoke softly, putting on his underwear and sweatpants and headed to his side of the bed.

“I want her to like me,” you confessed in a small, guilty voice.

Lying down, Lucas let a deep sigh out, finally being able to relax and cuddle with his girlfriend. He pulled you closer letting you rest your head on his shoulder.

“Baby, you don’t need to buy her off. I’m sure that Aika loved you the first moment she met you… just like her owner.” Sy’s voice drifted off as he started zoning out, feeling so relaxed in your arms. Your breath caught in your throat, gazing at him like you saw the sun for the first time after an eternity of darkness. You wanted to say so many things but couldn’t find the words to bring out of your head. The only thing you could utter was:

“Wrap your arms around me,” you felt the need to be close to him, lost in him.

“How’s that?” He murmured with his eyes closed.

“Perfect.” He brought his face in your hair, inhaling deeply from your scent.

“Mmmmm, you smell amazing.” This felt so right to him, holding you and being held. He tightened his arms around you. Being in his embrace felt so soothing, calming and safe to you, that you let out a soft purring sound.

“Did you just purr?” He opened his eyes, a huge grin forming on his face.

“No….”

“I think you did.”

“Uh-oh,” you said lazily, burying your face into his neck.

“Alright. But in case you did, I find it really cute.’’ He let you know in his deep, soft and gentle voice.

“I might have…” Your admission made you both dissolve into laughter allowing you to release all the pent up energy. Once out of your laughing fit, you were both left gazing into each other’s eyes. It was you who made the first move, bringing your hand on his cheeks, your fingers idly playing with the curls in his beard before you kissed him, slowly at first, lips tracing lips, becoming deeper, bolder and more intense as your tongues danced in a passionate rhythm. The moan that escaped his mouth when you finished the kiss, gently biting and tagging his lower lip set you on fire.

Sy felt he was on cloud nine. His head was spinning with giddy happiness. The way your body was moulded to fit him like a puzzle piece. His heart was galloping, his mind was going crazy, his feelings were all over the place with joy and love, he felt loved, so loved. But the minute you moved to sit in his lap, grinding against him as if you were riding a horse, his mind was transported to another place, only thinking about how good the friction between you felt, he wanted so bad to make love to you, to make you feel as good as you were doing to him at the moment.

He was still lost in your kiss, basking in your touch with his eyes closed as you kissed your way from his neck to his ear whispering:

“Baby, I think I'm ready.”

He opened his eyes, blinking lazily. At first, he didn’t understand what you were talking about. He looked straight into your eyes, his eyebrows furrowed with question. You caressed his face softly, waiting for realisation to hit him. The smile on your face, the feeling in your eyes soon let him in on the meaning of your words. His heart had skipped a beat as he truly grasped your words. You saw the surprise register on his face, his breathing quickened, his lips parted ever so slightly, his hands stilling on the lower part of your back and a faint wrinkle showed between his eyebrows. And then immediately his short-lived surprise gave its place to happiness shining through his eyes, fueled with desire as the colour of his blue orbs turned to a dark navy ring around his full-blown pupils.

His arms wrapped around you and you felt him pulling you onto his chest. You could feel the urgency in his movements, there was raw emotion in the way his fingers curled around the fabric of your dress. He claimed your lips once again, kissing you deeply, absorbing every detail of the moment, your scent, the weight of your body against his, all the feelings that were washing over him, raising a wave of heat inside him.

The taste of him stripped you from all your thoughts, fears and senses. His kiss, hungry and intense, ignited a fire inside you. Your palms were flat on his chest, your fingers were trying to dig into his skin as if wanting to hold on for dear life before you let go of all inhibitions and get lost in him. His hands trailed down your neck, never releasing your mouth from the hot, wet kiss he had you captured. Your body reacted to his touch, sending shivers down your spine and making you moan. You brought your hands to his deep brown curls, carding your fingers through them, tugging at his roots, to feel a little bit of control as your sanity was in the balance of tipping over. The little pain that he experienced made him exude more lust, he loved how you took control, as he could unwind and let you loose.

With one strong arm around your waist, he gathered you up and moved you both to a sitting position, letting you sit astride his lap. His fingers dug into your hips and pulled you closer to him, pressing your core to his straining bulge. You couldn’t help but grind against him, letting your instinct take over. Your kissing grew more passionate, more urgent, muffled moans and gasps filling the room. Sy brought his hands on your breast, kneading the soft flesh over the light fabric of your sundress and realising that you had no bra on. A throaty noise escaped him as he broke the kiss, looking at you with blazing eyes.

“You had it planned all along, you little minx!” he growled, his thumbs tracing your perky nipples through the thin layer, weakening your core, making you lean your forehead against his for purchase. He could feel the warmth coming off your skin through the lite fabric, but it wasn't enough. He wanted to touch you, he wanted to see the delicate, subtle flesh of your breasts.

You could feel the feral animosity inside him, as you kept grinding your core to his groin. You had never seen him like this before. His hands were eager to touch more than just your dress. Before you could think about taking the dress off, it was ripped from your chest, the fierce action kicking the breath out of you. Buttons flew in every direction and landed on the soft carpeted floor.

“That was my favourite dress,” you said in a shuddering voice, watching him take in the image of your naked body like a starving beast.

“Payback time,” he snarled. He studied you, running a finger over your breastbone slowly down to your stomach, his eyes following the invisible trail his touch burnt on your skin. He left a wet kiss on your chest and licked his way to one of your nipples, taking it into his mouth, torturing it with his tongue and tugging it with his teeth making it even harder. Although his moves were slow, you could feel how aroused and ravenous he was, his breathing shallow and fast just like yours. You closed your eyes, burying your face in his hair, feeling him everywhere; his lips on your breasts, his fingers pressing into the flesh of your lower back, his erection stirring between your legs. His scent and taste defined your reality now.

Sliding your hand between your bodies and pressing firmly on his arousal made him growl like a wild animal against your skin. He looked up at you with lustful eyes ordering you to take off your clothes. The demand in his husky voice stole your breath for a second. He commanded and needed you at the same time. You stood up obediently, let the dress fall down to your ankles, slowly peeled off your panties down your legs and stepped out of them with small moves while watching him watching you.

You crawled back onto the bed languidly, wrapping your fingers at the waistband of his sweatpants, removing them slowly along with his black boxer briefs, revealing his throbbing manhood and his muscular thighs. He stared at your face through half-lidded eyes with desire, taking in how you ran your tongue over your lips at the sight of the glistening precum that oozed from the top of the head, showing your eagerness to taste him.

He pulled you against his body, holding you close, feeling the warmth of your body skin on skin, your breasts pressed into his chest and his erection straining against your body. His lips captured yours in a deep passionate kiss, owning your very existence.

“The things I wanna do to you, right now,” he moaned in your mouth, locking eyes with you.

“Tell me what you want.”

“I want to make you come. Hard.”

“Mmm, how?” you purred, biting your lower lip to the suggestion. His eyes fell on your lips again and a small wicked grin appeared on his.

“Ride my face and I’ll show you,” his voice low and heavy with desire. His words sparked an adventurous excitement inside you, making your heart start racing. A bold smile appeared on your face taking up his challenge and the look of awe in the doctor’s eyes gave you the courage to move over, stride his beard, facing towards his body. His strong hands guided your knees on either side of his head and then trailed over your body, adoring every inch of it.

The beautiful close up of your dripping core mere inches from his eager mouth made him salivate, yearning for the taste of you. His tongue started tracing the inner of your thighs, writing small circles on the sensitive skin, lazily finding his way to your lips, licking, sucking, and making them beautifully wet. But his hands on your butt cheeks, kneading the round flesh with fervour showed you that he was impatient to dive into the main course immediately.

A warm, coiled tension started building up inside you, feeling your muscles quivering in anticipation. You couldn’t stop yourself from grinding on the soft bristles of his beard, the variation in textures making you weak. You leaned slightly forward, putting your hands on his stomach to hold on, the small change in angle intensifying the sensation and giving him more space to navigate. You couldn’t tell the difference between his lips or tongue. All you could feel was just a nice, sloppy warm mess. A loud gasp escaped you when you felt his tongue run over your opening, lapping your juices.

“You taste like honey,” he grunted into your core, the vibration of his bass hitting you hard. He didn’t wait for you to answer, he went on with his smooth, wet and warm stimulation. When he hit your clit, your whole body shuddered in his tight grip. The effect he had on you made his cock jump. You leaned lower, putting your mouth on him, your fingers wrapping around the base of his shaft. You felt his body jerk upon contact and he tried to drown a curse clenching his teeth, causing you to laugh around him. But you didn’t stop, taking him deeper, giving him the attention he needed.

For a moment, he let himself get lost in your ministrations, having your eager, soft tongue wrapped around him, eyes closed, moaning deep, feeling he was growing bigger and harder in your mouth. You took advantage of his openness and brought your hand over his sack, massaging it softly, accelerating the pace, your tongue twirling around his glands every time your lips were around his head.

“Fuck!”

His hips thrust up involuntarily, searching to go deeper into the wetness of your mouth. You felt like you had the upper hand, loving the power he granted you over him, the naughty side of you wanting to make this a race of who was going to come first. But you should have known better, Sy wouldn’t let you have this one. He pressed his tongue flat on your core, intensifying the sensation and then ran it over your opening and sliding it inside you. You couldn’t keep the needy moan from escaping, feeling his tongue teasing your moist entrance and penetrating you.

Your focus was lost and so was your balance. You leaned your forehead on his pelvis, concentrating on all the pleasure he was giving you, stroking him slowly with your hand.

"Don't stop,” you whimpered, feeling the warmth of your orgasm spreading all over you. He pulled you closer against his face and shoved his tongue deeper inside you, fucking you at a frantic pace while his beard set your clit on fire. Your legs started trembling, his firm grip not allowing you to move away from him, the light tremors of your orgasm building into an earthquake, making you shudder and scream.

“God, Luc! Your tongue is magical,” you gasped as you collapsed on the bed, panting with your eyes closed. You heard his deep chuckle and felt the bed shift as he moved over, lying next to you. His arm wrapped around your waist and he scattered small kisses on your shoulder and collarbone, his beard wet from your nectar left a cooling sensation on your skin. You turned to face him, bringing your hand on his jaw, guiding him into a deep kiss. His kisses were always a delicious treat but now that you tasted yourself on his lips and tongue, it made you feel amazing and aroused again.

Never breaking your kiss, Sy laid on top of you, his weight spreading your legs apart. You couldn’t stop your hands from tracing his taut body, relishing in the texture of his muscles. You could feel he was tense, his strength, his heat increasing as he was taking over you and you couldn’t get enough of it. You needed this. You wanted to watch his face as he came inside you, to have his sweat all over you and you couldn’t believe it was finally happening. And neither could he.

He fought to control his movements and the urge to claim you hard, pouring all his passion on you. He needed his mind to take over the primal, animal instinct he was feeling at that moment. He was too far gone by now, his whole body aflame. Your voice brought him back.

“Lucas,” you whispered more breath than voice.

“Say it again. Say my name,” he said in your ear, his voice a low groan.

“Lucas, do it.”

His expression was one of intense concentration, replaced by wide sensation, as he eased slowly inside you. His thrust was slow, gentle, allowing your body to get used to his size and open up for him. You took in a deep breath as your body prepared for that familiar feeling of pain to come and tensed up but his kisses, his bites, his touch, his fire engulfed you, making you relax and forget about everything. Without even being aware of it, your pelvises touched and there you were, one deep inside the other. The realization alone made you both gasp, staring at each other with awe.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Sy murmured, the overwhelming feeling choking him.

You paused for a moment, running a mental check before nodding faintly and breathing: “More”.

Sy took a moment trying to catch his breath and allowing you to catch yours. Eventually, your bodies unwinded and your breaths almost synced. With slow, soft thrusts he started moving inside you, claiming your mouth at the same slow, languid pace. Your bodies now were the closest they could be. The intense feeling of your tightness made him moan against your lips.

“I can feel every muscle inside you moving,” he gasped, “and it feels fucking incredible.”

"I love the way you feel inside me," you said, your voice giving away a slight hint of breaking, feeling a lump in your throat. You just needed to say it, tell him before your heart burst.

"I love the way I feel inside you," he let out a low content groan, not picking up your emotional overload.

"I love that I can trust you," you went on, closing your eyes trying to contain your feelings, trying to find comfort in his motions, rocking back and forth inside you.

The tears in your voice were more evident, making Sy stop and look at you with worry on his face.

"Baby... Look at me."

You couldn't bring yourself to open your eyes, you didn't want to ruin this moment for both of you.

"It's OK, bug. I'm here for you. Open your eyes."

"I love how you are always here for me," you gasped an intense sob ripping through you. "I-I love... you."

His eyes travelled from your lips forming those three words to your eyes, gazing inside them, finding your soul and claiming it as his own. He saw you, really, truly saw you and loved what was there. He tenderly caressed your face with his fingertips, wiping away the trail of your tears. He placed a feathery kiss on your lips and whispered:

"I love you too."

#Henry Cavill #This man #I need a drink #Captain Syverson #Sex on Fire #Fanfiction #henrycavillfanfic #henrycavillsmut #radaofrivia #SMUT #co-written #Henry Cavill x female reader #Henry Cavill x reader #Henry x female reader #Henry x reader

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tharros-auris-black-asimi · 4 years ago

Text

Lay All Your Love on Me (Chapter 4)

Pairing: Soft!Dark!Lee Bodecker x Female Reader

Summary: After moving to Knockemstiff, Ohio with your troubled parents, you find solace in the local Seven-Eleven. There, you bump into the Alpha sheriff, Lee Bodecker.

And then you keep bumping into him. There’s just something about that chubby Alpha that keeps drawing you in. Now there’s something going on with the new preacher of the church that you attend. Everything’s a mess.

But you’re an unbonded Omega. Life can turn to shit anyway.

Chapter Warnings: ABO dynamics, dysfunctional families, mentions of cheating, age gap (Reader is nineteen while Lee is in his late twenties/early thirties), religious themes, scenting, explicit language. There is a physical fight in this chapter, as well as some mild slut-shaming words being used.

As the months flew by and the springtime slowly turned warmer, hotter, your mother had been pondering. Looking. Sitting in the car in front of the police’s office, as she had been for the past few hours now. Since her husband had been off doing his gambling again. It was nighttime.

The sheriff’s light was still on. She could see it still lit from where she was in the car.

Sometimes, your mother wondered, how she had allowed it to come to this.

She always thought about leaving. About skipping town with you and never coming back.

It would’ve been so easy. She should've done it sooner.

But she didn’t.

She couldn’t.

Divorce would’ve been okay for her. Betas had so much leeway with the laws, that no one would've batted an eyelash with a pair of Betas divorcing.

But if a Beta couple had an unbonded Omega?

Forget it.

She knew after the Civil Rights movement that Omegas were slowly getting more and more rights now. Especially in the workplace. Just a bit. Not enough to change everyone’s view of Omegas working in the workplace, however. But it was a start.

The car door opened. She let out a sigh. Her chest heavy. She closed the door behind her as she made sure to lock it, slipping her car keys into her purse. Clutching her purse tightly to her chest, she made her way into the police station.

Lee had been working.

He had been working all night.

He wasn’t able to have a date with you tonight. You had gotten the cold and had stayed home. Your mother had been taking care of you for the past couple of days. Lee had felt so empty without seeing you sitting in the chair across from his desk, smiling at him. Sipping at your slushie as you watched him work. He never felt so lonely. It was almost like his mood had soured.

A knock on the door made him pause his work. The chair squeaked as he got up to walk out of his office, to the front entrance.

What he saw made him pause.

Your mother stood on the other side, looking at him with the same exact look she had given him the same day he was there at church. Looking at him up and down, as if she was studying him. Like he was something to be studied. It didn’t make him uneasy. He had faced hell and back. His Alpha was not scared of this Beta. But Lee could smell your mother’s citrus scent. She had notes that smelled like you. Your familiar smell of chocolate chip cookies. It was a slightly sweeter undertone that made him feel safe. Made him feel at home. Warmed him from head to toe. It reminded him of home.

“Evenin’ ma’am.” Lee greeted your mother. Your mother gave him a nod.

“Sheriff Bodecker. Are ya the only one on duty?” She asked. Nodding came from Lee as he escorted her inside. He might’ve been an Alpha, had a position of power that was above you and your mother, but Lee Bodecker was still a gentleman. When the two of them had walked back to Lee’s office, he told her to make herself comfortable before he sat down behind his desk and looked at the last bits of paperwork that he had. The things he did to be where he was now.

“I need ta ask ya, Sheriff. What are your intentions with my pup?”

Lee looked up at your mother. Completely and utterly caught by surprise for the first time in his life.

“Ma’am?”

She only leaned closer. Looked at him straight into the eyes, like she was trying to pick him apart. Or rip him limb by limb. Whichever seemed palatable at the moment.

“You heard me, sir. What are your intentions with my pup?” She said again.

He blinked.

“Um…”

“Do you want her bite? Are you going to give her pups? A warm home? Are you going to take care of her and your pack?” she demanded him.

And she waited.

For a few seconds, she looked at him, her gaze seemingly burning into his soul like she was his Judge.

It was at that moment that Lee made up his mind.

Like it clicked.

The puzzle pieces going right into the place where they should be.

“Yes.”

Now it was just easy.

Flowing through him like drinking water on a cool day.

He knew exactly what he wanted.

His Alpha was in total agreement. For once, they were on the same page. Totally and completely.

No more fooling around.

He needed to get straight to the point and just do it.

“Yes, what?”

Your mother was just the slightest bit unconvinced. Because she needed to know. Right from the source. She needed to make sure that you would be okay. That you would be taken care of. That if she were to pass away suddenly, that you had a roof over your head, someone to support you, and a family that you would have with your future Alpha.

You needed to be secure.

“Yes. I want it. I want all of it. I want to be with her. I want my mark on her gland.”

And how badly he wanted it too.

He wanted to see it.

He wanted to see his mark on your gland. He wanted you to smell like him.

He wanted you to carry his pups.

Be his Omega.

His Bondmate.

His wife.

Everything and anything. All of it. The entire package.

“… I want her to have my pups too. My ring. My name. All of it.”

Your mother listened.

There might have been a part of her. A part of her that was preening because it had been exactly what she wanted to hear. Her hands put themselves on Lee’s desk. She continued to look at the dark-haired, much older Alpha and pondered.

“And you’re sure? You’re sure can take care of her, be the Bondmate, be the Alpha, be the father to her children, her pups? Be the one she needs?”

Lee leaned close. So close your mother could see the storminess in them.

“I’m not sure. I know I’m the one she needs. Are you going to doubt me anymore, ma’am? Any more questions?”

Your mother’s lips curled. Stretched into what looked to be the beginnings of a smile.

“No. No more questions, Sheriff Bodecker. Thank you. Have a good night. I’ll go and tell my daughter that you said hello.”

She stood up, beginning to head to the door.

“Wait.”

She was just about to turn the doorknob when the tone of his voice made her turn her head back.

“Tell her I love her too.”

Your mother smiled.

“I will.”

And then the door opened and closed.

A few weeks later… in Coal Creek, West Virginia…

It was sticky.

Hot.

Humid.

You felt like you could drink the air as if it were water.

Such weather you were not surprised with, nor not used to, due to living in Michigan before you had moved to Ohio.

So the sticky hot, humid air didn’t quite make you suffer as much.

Emma and your mother were out. They had gone into town to grab some supplies with Arvin.

There was going to be a new preacher that was going to fill in the position after the old one had retired. At least, that was what Lenora had told you. The two of you were back at the church graveyard. Visiting her mother, as she usually did. Or tried to. She had told you that she hadn’t grown up with her mother. That her dad was nonexistent. She had been a baby when her mother died, and when her father had basically vanished off of the face of the earth. But Lenora was convinced her dad was still out there. Somewhere.

You came for emotional support.

Because you didn’t know if you could be helpful for anything else, really.

Hand clutching, holding her Bible close to her chest, Lenora got up from her crouched position. She looked at her mother’s grave, a solemn look in her eyes.

“You know… I think he’s still out there. My daddy.”

You looked at her.

“That’s good, Lenora. Maybe… maybe one day you’ll find him. You’ll see him.” You assured her. Lenora didn’t smile though. She just gave you another solemn look and only gave you a short nod.

You hugged her. Gently rubbing your wrist against hers, softly enveloping her in your scent.

“It’s okay,” your whisper was gentle.

“It’s okay.”

“Did you get the stuff?” You asked Arvin later that day when the two of you finally had some alone time. The two of you were now outside, on the porch, while Arvin was standing up and you were sitting on the old rocking chair that Emma never truly wanted to donate, or give away. She loved that old thing. It held a special place in her heart. She had a point though, every morning you tried to get some sun, and you’d just come out there and sit on the chair. Just gazing out. Seeing the sun slowly rise.

Arvin looked at you.

“Yeah, we got the stuff. Some liver,” Arvin replied back to you. A thoughtful hum came from you.

“Liver, huh?”

He nodded.

“Yeah,” he said, “it was all we could really afford. We ain’t as rich as the other people who go ta church with us.”

That you understood. You could understand that.

“Your grandma’s a hell of a good cook though. Anything she makes, I’ll eat it.”

Arvin chuckled. You could smell the wafting smells of a bonfire. It made you feel warm and safe. Cozy.

But you could still feel her. Your Omega. She was slithering around, waiting on the sidelines.

Now. Your Omega didn’t mind Arvin.

Not at all.

But he wasn’t Lee. He did not smell like her Alpha. He did not smell like chocolate and bourbon. He smelled like a damn bonfire and it made her want to choke sometimes. It wasn’t that she hated him. She was very fond of the other Alpha. Arvin was only a year younger than you. Around your age. So it was okay.

“Even if it got burnt?” Arvin questioned you.

You let out a snort.

“Puh-lease. As if ya Auntie could burn anything. Hell, she could burn it and I would still eat it. Put enough salt n’ pepper on it, and I wouldn’t be able to tell the difference.”

Arvin laughed again.

Later that week...

You were pulling at the sleeves of the dress that you were currently wearing.

Itchy.

Your skin was itchy.

And it was still hot. And humid.

You hated this.

Your Omega was looming in you. Being depressed, as usual.

She missed her Alpha. Dearly.

Because as people were crowding into the church, she loomed. Watched as people walked around you.

Preston Teagardin was standing in front of the room.

Watching.

His blue eyes looking around.

Watching all of these people as Emma put her dish down on the table, before walking back to where you, Arvin, Lenora, and your mother were.

And then he saw you.

Standing there. In your black dress, looking around like this place was the last place where you’d rather be. Your kitten heels on. Your hair was tied up, due to the hot and humid weather.

And you were looking back.

A chill creeping up your spine as you looked into those blue eyes.

Your Omega stirred.

She was up and alert now.

Narrowing her eyes at him from where she was seated in her cage.

This Alpha.

She did not trust this Alpha.

A few days later…

The worst day in your life happened in the afternoon.

Your father had come home early. Your mother was still at one of her friend’s houses from down the block. Doing as housewives did. Catching up. Gossiping. Discussing their book club. Stuff like that.

When he stepped through the front door, nothing had been out of the ordinary. There were no noises coming from the house and he suspected that maybe, just maybe, you weren’t home.

And you weren’t. You had secretly gone out to go and get some air, go to the local library to catch up on the latest book that you were reading, and then later after you came home and got some time by yourself, you were going to go to the Seven-Eleven and meet up with Lee as you usually did. Your usual schedule.

So when he walked into the hallway and peered into your room, because your bedroom door was open, he saw something strange.

A leather jacket had been nestled into your nest. Your room smelled like you. Chocolate chip cookies. Sweet. Making your father remember the happier moments in your childhood.

But there was something lurking on the surface. If your father had been drunk, he might’ve not noticed it.

However, he was not drunk now. Now, he was fully and completely sober. Having been off of the alcohol for a few days. Three, at the least. It was a well-known and memorized routine that you knew by heart. Your father would drink, wait three days, and then drink again. Not like Lee, who was kept off of the damn beverage.

The slight smell of bourbon and chocolate was filling the air. Almost like it was possessing the space. Like it was sinking its way in.

His footsteps carried him into your room as he opened your bedroom door with a small creaking noise.

He came closer to your nest. In your space.

When you and your family had fully moved in, you had told your parents up and down, side to side, that they were not welcome in your room unless you allowed them in. Your room was your space. It was the only room in the house that you could have all to yourself. Needless to say, you were a bit territorial with your room. And who could blame you?

The familiar thought went through your father’s mind as he walked into your room, towards your bed. As he got closer, he realized what he was looking at.

A leather jacket had been nestled into your nest. When your father took a whiff, it was nearly rubbed out completely of its scent.

Chocolate and bourbon came up to his nose.

There was only one person he knew that smelled like that. Had that particular scent.

Sheriff Lee Bodecker.

You were messing around with the sheriff.

His eyes were narrowing. His scent, his woodsy scent became more pronounced, changing, shifting to someone more woodsy. He could almost imagine himself in the woods.

Your father would wait. He was patient.

When you got home from the library, it was too late.

As soon as you had come through the door, made sure you had even locked it behind you, a hand came, gripping your hair so tight you were sure it was going to be pulled from your scalp. You let out a shout. It had happened so quickly that your brain hadn’t even registered it.

Pulled. You were getting pulled somewhere into the house. Deeper into your family home. You were beginning to shout now. Shout and scream in protest. If it weren’t for the overwhelming, overbearing smell of a tantalizing woody forest, you would’ve never figured it was your father dragging you by your hair. Your feet kicked from underneath you. Not good enough to trip your father by his own two feet. He had been a doctor after all. He had been trained in situations like these. He worked in the damn ER, for fuck’s sake.

From the familiar clicking of your kitten heels on the floor, you managed to look down.

The kitchen. You were being yanked into the kitchen. Then you were shoved headfirst towards the wooden cabinets. Being shoved so hard that you nearly broke your nose due to the hard impact. There was a loud thud noise when your face smacked up against it. You must’ve heard a cracking noise.

Your nose was broken. It had begun to bleed. You were gasping, frantically gripping the countertops of the sink to keep you steady. A sharp kick to your back made you cry out in pain. Not that you weren’t in pain already. You could feel your Omega within you, screeching. Having begun the starting points of throwing a fit. Screaming at the audacity of your Beta father for treating you this way.

Your head had begun to ring. A white noise buzzing.

You had been so focused on getting your wits back, and your Omega was far too busy throwing her fit that the two of you had blocked out your father’s yelling.

“… and then I see this! Have you decided on being a fucking harlot now?”

You turned your head.

Your eyes had gone wide.

In your father’s grip, in your father’s hand, was Lee’s leather jacket. The one he wore so often. The one he had given to you because you had gotten cold one day. It had been a slightly chilly night and he had given it to you. You had protested the entire way home, saying that you would be fine. Even though you were visibly shivering. But Lee had shrugged it off of him, his jacket pouring pure Alpha pheromones, and had put it on you.

You had been so certain. So sure that you had put it away from sight.

But then you had remembered that you had put it in your nest.

Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid. You were so fucking stupid. How could you have done that? Put Lee’s jacket in your nest like a fool? Those types of behaviors, those types of things were for bonded pairs! Like your parents. Not like people such as Lee and you. You didn’t have his mark. He didn’t have yours. What the hell were you thinking, entertaining this charade?

As your father continued to shout at you, his words were slowly sinking in.

He was right.

Why had you been entertaining this goddamn charade? Why?

How could you let this go on?

You couldn’t do it.

You couldn’t keep doing this.

“… I raised you in this house-”

No, you didn’t, your Omega thought snidely. You’ve been sleeping with other women. What’s your excuse?

Was your father hearing himself?

“… after all the damn hard work I did, raising you-”

Please, your Omega was butting in again. If anything, I saw my mother more than you. All you did was work. I barely saw your ass.

Stupid Beta.

When your father had opened his mouth to speak again, your Omega lashed out.

Your foot came from your front. Shooting out and kicking him as hard as she could. Your Omega had been aiming for his groin, but apparently, she had reached just a bit higher. Good on her. She saw your father shout something as she kicked him again, sending him back a bit.

Yanking the cabinet door open. Your hand grabbed the first thing it could find a grip on.

A handle.

This felt familiar.

Oh.

It was a skillet. When you managed to pull it out and whack it in your father’s face, you then realized, you had grabbed a cast-iron skillet. The one that your mother had used yesterday to make dinner. It was a little rusty. But it would do. Scrambling to get to your feet, your Omega snarled.

She was done.

Finished.

Her temper had sky rocked out of the roof.

She was done with a capital D.O.N.E. and this Beta, this lousy excuse of a Beta who had given you his sperm was going to pay for the words that he had spoken against your Alpha.

Another whacking noise had sent him back. The further he crawled back, yelling at you, the more she stepped forward.

How dare he.

When she raised the skillet down and rained blow after blow down on his body, she might’ve heard something crack. Or snap. She was sure she had gotten his shoulder. Maybe cracked one of his ribs. She knew his face was bleeding. Blood coming down from his nose.

How dare he talk bad about her Alpha?

How dare he?

“How fucking dare you!”

Pissed.

Oh, she was so fucking pissed off.

And it was around that time that she began to hear sirens. Shouts were filling the house and your Omega screeched, screamed, and shouted as someone was trying to pull her off.

“Get off of me!” You were howling. Clawing at someone’s shirt.

This was not your Alpha. A young Alpha deputy was pulling you away as you howled in dismay. Your Omega being pushed back again, kicking and screaming.

Alpha.

She needed her Alpha.

Taglist: @greeneyedblondie44, @bxnnywriting

#lee bodecker #the devil all the time #lee bodecker x reader #lee bodecker smut #sebastian stan fanfiction

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