#the original definitely had moments that were a little political but it never tried to center that – they just wanted to show the lives of

[puthyflapps]

Not them dying to bring Sarah back and absolutely hating their characters current plotlines 🫣🫢🤭

Carmen De La Pica Morales stans rise!

[deathbxnny]

☆《True Power. (Yanqing x HoT!Reader)》☆

-----♡

A/N: This is another request from the dear Yanqing Anon again! I thank them very much for this brilliant idea and hope, that this is good enough!<33

Summary: You are the Herrscher of thunder, that somehow found herself in the hsr world. You were taken in by Jing Yuan and eventually got together with Yanqing during it. You never had any reason to show off the extent of your powers... until you did.

Content: some angst, established relationship, Herrscher reader and her pet dragon, fluff, mentions of violence/fighting, sfw

Reader is afab and uses she/her pronouns!

((Not fully proofread, sorry for any mistakes!))

-----♡

The day started out like all days did.

You woke up, got dressed and met your master and boyfriend in the dining room for some breakfast, before everyone had to leave for another long work day. You peacefully ate your bread, listening into the conversation the two men were having. Yanqing sat next to you, his hand holding onto your thigh absently, as he excitedly talked to Jing Yuan about his most recent sword addition in his collection.

You smiled, happy to see your boyfriend in such good spirits as usual. But that unfortunately didn't last long, when the news of a Mara-struck outbreak came in, making you three hastily make your way to the generals main office so Jing Yuan could assess the situation better. The entire ship was in pure chaos, guards running around to evacuate citizens, whilst researchers ran around gathering their research.

You quickly trailed after Yanqing, his hand tightly holding onto yours protectively. "Stay close." He said to you, his eyes focused on his surroundings in case of a monster suddenly appearing. You just nodded, knowing that you'd be safe anyways. Not only because of Yanqing, but also because of the little secret you kept about your existence.

You don't know how you did it, but one day, you just suddenly woke up on the Xianzhou Luofu, in a completely different world and timeline from your original one. You were the Herrscher of Thunder and extremely powerful at that. When you met Jing Yuan and Yanqing, you tried vaguely explaining to them what you were and whilst they didn't fully understand it, they knew it had to be kept a secret, in case someone dangerous tries using you for their own gain.

And so, you were taken in by the general and instructed to not use your abilities, unless absolutely necessary. You didn't mind, as you never had a reason to use them anymore here anyways... but you had a feeling, that that may change sooner than you thought.

--

Eventually, you found yourself outside of the realm keeping commission with your boyfriend, patiently waiting on further orders on the situation. "... Are you worried, that the outbreak might spread further?" You quietly ask Yanqing, sitting down on some steps. "Hm, not really at the moment... but we should be aware of the dangers and possibilities... we can't let our guard down." He said thoughtfully, seemingly trying to also comfort you a little. But it was hard, when things were so uncertain and chaotic. The commission was scrambling to get everything under control and with the escape of a certain stellaron hunter, things were just getting worse and worse.

You nodded your head, about to say something else, when someone suddenly tapped your shoulder. "Uhm hey! Sorry to bother you... but is the commission somewhere nearby? We're kind of lost." A pink haired girl said to you nearly nervously, pointing at the older man and grey haired girl behind her with a defeated smile. Yanqing glanced at the three, noting that they were definitely foreigners. "Ah actually, it's right behind us." You say politely, making the girl blush in embarrassment.

"Oh... oops, so we were close after all, haha...!" She laughed, making the older man shake his head with a sigh. He looked over at you and stopped for a moment, his eyes narrowing. "... Are you perhaps apart of the commission?" He asked, making Yanqing quickly answer for you. "Not directly! I'm a lieutenant of the cloud knights and Retainer to general Jing Yuan. My girlfriend over here is my assistant." He clarified, guessing that the foreigners were asked to come here by someone on the ship.

You quickly found out more about the three guests after some quick mutual introductions. It was your first time hearing of the Astral Express and it intrigued you. Though Welt seemed oddly suspicious of you for some reason... you couldn't dwell on it much though, when a guard suddenly approached you in panic.

Turns out, that your worries and fears had come true. There was a mob of strong Mara-struck nearing the Exalting Santum and quickly at that. "I'll handle it. Report this to the generals immideatly." Yanqing said sternly to the guard, before turning to you and the trio behind you. "You should stay here-" "-I'm coming with you, whether you like it or not." You cut him off, stubbornly crossing your arms. "We'll join in too!" March said determinedly, as the other two deadpanned lightly at being dragged into this, yet decided to just agree and go along with it.

Yanqing stared at you four for a moment, before sighing in pure defeat. There was no time to argue back.

"Very well... but stay close and get ready for a tough fight. I have a feeling, that this won't go smoothly..."

--

And Yanqing was unfortunately right.

The Mara-struck were much stronger than you had anticipated and it was beginning to become impossible to keep them back. They were constantly regenerating their life energy and it was wearing you all out. You realised, that the only way to end this, was by using your abilities. And Welt seemed to think the same.

"I know what you are... do it and I'll have your back." The older man hummed, as he pushed up his glasses and gripped his cane. You sighed, before nodding and stepping infront of everyone. "(Y/N), stay back! What are you-" "-It's okay, I'll handle it." You said determinedly and in a flash, you took on your form as the Herrscher of thunder.

You opened your eyes, squinting a little in discomfort from how unfamiliar this felt. It's been a long time, since you've actually used your abilities like this. But you knew, that not even your sword could help much in this situation, which meant that you'll also have to call on some backup. You hoped, that your dear old "pet" still listened to you, after so long.

Most of your companions were staring at you in complete awe, never having seen someone like you before. Especially Yanqing, who's eyes trailed over the Blade in excitement. He didn't know, that you possessed it and now that he did, he'll definitely ask you to let him look at it closer later. But for now, he was intrigued to see how your abilities worked.

You crossed your arms infront of your chest, as your large mechanical arms swung down with the massive Katana and cut several monsters in half. It was much more effective, but even with your katana slashing through several enemies, there were still too many coming in. Deciding that it was time to call in your backup, you closed your eyes and focused on summoning your dragon ally.

The ground began shaking, the sky split in half, the clouds turning dark and black, as thunder roared through the sky. And much to your delight, your dear dragon Kurikara had indeed heard you and has come to the rescue. You smiled, as you looked up at it approaching you through a portal in the sky, practically racing to your aid loyally. It gave you an ache in your heart, remembering your old world always did that to you.

But you shook the emotions away, as Kurikara landed infront of you. "W-woah! Is that a new fragmentum monster or something?!" March yelled in slight fear, as the others got ready for a seemingly much stronger "enemy" now. Welt just hummed, recognising the dragon with ease, yet he said nothing. You'd explain everything on due time.

Yanqing frowned, stepping forward to protect you, as he gripped his sword in his hand. Yet he was stopped by Stelle, who was telling him to wait it out to see what happens. And he was glad he did, when you mounted Kurikara in the next moment and flew up into the dark sky. You looked down at the monsters with confidence, a small smile gracing your face.

"Let's do this, Kurikara. Like old times." You said and so the dragon unhinged it's large mouth and shot a laser beam right down onto your enemies. They were pulverised in an instant and those that did survive it, quickly retreated in fear of being next, which successfully eliminated the threat. You chuckled, your hand reaching down to pat the dragon absently.

It was nice, to feel this strong again.

--

"Sooo... you have a pet dragon? That's super cool!" March gasped in excitement, as she patted the dragon happily with your permission. You hummed and nodded, having explained that your dear companion was indeed no threat and in fact a friend of yours. Stelle decided not to question it, whilst Welt gave you a knowing look, that confirmed to you, that he knew more than he let on.

But if he didn't mention it, then you wouldn't either.

Yanqing on the otherhand just took your hands in his with sparkling eyes. He was unbearably proud of having you as a lover and was absolutely honoured too. "Thank you for stopping the threat, my crane... but I do have a request..." He trailed off and you couldn't help but smile at that. You knew what he wanted. "Once we get back and report to the general, I'll let you have a look at my blade." You promised him gently, smiling at the excited look he gave you. He pulled your hands to his lips and kissed them softly, his eyes radiating with warmth, as the sky returned back to normal, an orange hue enveloping you all.

"I love you." "I love you too, Yanqing."

-----♡

A/N: I hope this was okay and not all over the place or confusing! Thank you again dear Yanqing Anon for the request!<33

[decepti-thots]

☕ MTOs & specifically what do you think they were going for with that?

MTOs are an interesting narrative thing to me in the sense that they really are so localised to only one part of the canon; they're very clearly Roberts' idea and only really matter, inasmuch as they do matter, in MTMTE. It's pretty clear to me that's the case for one specific reason: they'd actually fit SUPER well into the narrative arc of exRiD, especially early-to-mid RiD, but they basically never come up! You'd think 'neutrals and soldiers stuggling to cohabit socially and politically' would be prime fodder (lmao) for taking advantage of a narrative about mechs born of and into war coming back to a civilian life on a planet they really don't know. And yet.

What they're doing in that comic, in MTMTE, is a little headscratching to me at times. It feels, to be honest, somewhat like worldbuilding put in to make the texture of the backstory of the war feel grander than IDW had really managed up to that point in actual on-panel stuff, without a lot of thought when doing so in the moment as to the knock on implications going forward. MTMTE does this a few times, tries to use vague gestures at important sounding stuff to bring a greater sense of history and depth to the war in the face of the actual stuff we saw in phase one being. Mmmm. Basically just twenty dudes we already know shooting at each other across parking lots. LMAO.

(Sidenote: I know for a fact Roberts watched original flavour nuWho, and this is PEAK Russell T Davies doing worldbuilding when he was on Doctor Who, and I fully believe he was cribbing from that playbook. Every damn episode RTD would make them just sort of say stuff about the Time War that made it sound incredibly vast and textured and complex but which, crucially, never made any actual fucking sense. Good examples of stuff like this would be the Crucible, the Simanzi massacre, etc. This is, to be clear, a neutral observation, not praise or criticism per se.)

I say this because MTOs should probably be a bigger deal in terms of the impact on our cast, and their outlook on life and reasons for joining the quest, than they wind up being. An MTO is a character with no experience of living in peacetime at all, likely no experience of Cybertron, no sense of kinship or home necessarily to the planet they came "back" to. All of this provides a really clear motivation, given the implication most surviving non-neutral Cybertronians are now MTOs due to huge numbers of deaths, to join a quest like the Lost Light's! But it tends not to come up much, and I think it's because it wasn't really part of the plan. Later on, there's room to slot in some details here and there- Riptide talking about his experiences with being infodumped at by the 'training' comes to mind- but it takes a while for the comic to come back round to that.

The two big exceptions, of course, are Getaway and Brainstorm. The idea is definitely interacting with their characters more, though again, it... tends to come up later. Especially for Getaway, who I'm not convinced was originally conceived as an MTO, but had it slotted in a bit later as 'well that works' stuff tbh. (And it does, so that's fine!) Which leaves Brainstorm, who lies about being forged to throw off suspicion, who it's implied never got the time of day from Quark in a way I wouldn't be surprised we're supposed to assume is some kind of remaining bias, perhaps. Who didn't see a future for himself 'back on Cybertron' and so concocted a very weird plan to avoid having to. Who never got a choice about his 'side' in the war, and wound up with no real loyalty for anyone.

I think if there's any avenue I'd have liked to see more about MTOs via, it's Brainstorm. I wish there'd been more room to focus on that instead of (I'm so sorry shippers) his thing with Perceptor as the way to talk about his sense of inadequacy, tbh. What did it feel like, lying to Chromedome about remembering a pre-war life he never got a chance to experience? Being made to shoot people and be shot and escaping the fate of having that be the only thing he ever knew by the skin of his teeth? Not being able to imagine an end to the war, so all he wants to do is save one guy and run off with him as a pipe dream? That seems like the character where a lot of this stuff should naturally lie, to me. And I think it's a shame I've seen very little talk in fandom about it!

[luxlisbons]

Voulez-Vous? - part i

Mencken's ego takes a hit when Harriet's eye wanders to the newly elected French president. In response, he engineers a grand state dinner, turning diplomatic affairs into a battlefield of jealousy.

part of the "before there's hell to pay" universe: part i - part ii - part iii

pairing: jeryd mencken x original female character. 4k

warnings: affairs, unhealthy relationships, dubious morality, explicit language, age difference, smut, religious imagery & symbolism, unprotected sex, pov first person, the french

a/n: lmao so... this idea came to be thanks to @rxgirlie and i's obsession with a current french actor known for playing a lawyer in a film (iykyk), so picture him as marcel reynaud (who will make his appearance in the second part). thank you so much to Kels and my friend Lu @nyheartbreak for proofreading and encouraging me to post this.

Read on AO3.

It all started with an online poll. The Buzzfeed type of crap you read while waiting for the clock to strike 5 pm in your crummy little open space office. 

“The definitive list of the 10 hottest presidents”

Usually, despite his very alienating politics, Mencken would place number one. What can I say? Everyone loves a bad boy, especially one they can fix with sex. Attention was brought to his steely gaze, the danger and confidence he exuded in his speeches, and his past as a 90s rock band member:

“Okay but 90s Mencken??? Twink goals, honestly😍”

“Mencken got me like 😱🔥”

“I never thought I'd say this, but Jeryd Mencken, you're kinda hot 😅 “

“He is such a silver fox zaddy 🦊”

His unofficial title became “Silver Fox in Chief”, and it gave us tabloid fodder for when we wanted to deflect from his racist dog whistles and controversial actions in D.C., which was a lot of the time for very obvious reasons. We were like puppet masters pulling the strings, orchestrating this wild media circus around Mencken. It was a classic ATN move, redirecting attention from the messy stuff and instead shining the spotlight on Mencken's supposed charm.

We brainstormed catchy hashtags and encouraged people to share their favorite Mencken moments online. It was all about creating a narrative that suited our agenda – making him this irresistible figure, a distraction from the serious issues at hand. We knew how to play the game, and damn, did it work. The internet ate it up, and suddenly, Mencken was not just a president; he was a phenomenon.

The internet had found a new obsession; fancams flooded the internet– from the way he adjusted his tie to the subtle glances he threw at the camera during press conferences. TikTok became a breeding ground for creative edits, with old concert footage seamlessly synchronized to modern pop hits, each video racking up millions of views and fueling the ever-growing fandom. 

Twitter experienced a constant Mencken presence. Anytime the president made a public appearance or donned a new suit, his name would surge to the top of trending lists. The online obsession transcended political boundaries; even those who vehemently disagreed with Mencken's policies found themselves unable to resist his allure.

His press conferences were now attended not just by political journalists but also by entertainment reporters eager to capture the latest juicy details about the "hottest president" phenomenon. Mencken, bemused and enjoying the attention, tried to redirect the conversation to policy matters, while also stoking the fires with quips and acknowledgments of his sex symbol status.

His fanbase (which consisted of both ironic and genuine fans) even created a nickname for themselves: the “Mencken Fuckers”. They organized themselves into a formidable online community. They created fan art, fan fiction, and even fan-made music videos that further propelled the president into pop culture stardom. The group's ironic name didn't deter their dedication; they wore it as a badge of honor, unapologetically reveling in their unconventional admiration for the leader of the free world.

One such video caught my undivided attention while doomscrolling through TikTok late at night. It was one created with candid moments in which I appeared beside him, laughing and talking with Lana Del Rey’s song “Let The Light In” playing in the background. The chemistry between the both of us, set against the dreamy soundtrack, fueled speculation and excitement among the Mencken Fuckers. It both amused and mortified me how close to the actual truth they were.

Caption: "Is it just me, or are these two looking like the ultimate power duo? 👀💼💫 #CloseEncounters #PoliticalChemistry"

Comments:

1. @ShipperSupreme: Move over romance novels, this is the love story we didn't know we needed! 😂❤️

2. @CuriousMinds: Are we witnessing the birth of a new power couple? 👫💫

3. @LaughingWithLana: Lana Del Rey's song just makes this whole thing even more iconic! 🎶🔥

4. @Daydreamer_Deluxe: I ship it! 😍💘 Who needs reality when we can have this fantasy?

5. @RealityCheck: Wait, are we calling them #Menkenriet or #Harren now? 🤔

6. @CupidInTheComments: My arrows of love have found a new target! 💘🏹

7. @PoliticalLoveAffairs: Move aside, political drama; we're here for the romance! 🇺🇸❤️

I couldn’t help myself, I sent the link to Mencken, who after some technical wrangling on his part “I’m 54, of course I’m not gonna have Tik Tok installed for fuck’s sake” finally saw it.

The ringing of the phone cut through the silence of my empty apartment, startling General Meow from her nap and sending her scurrying toward the living room. I sighed, muttering to myself about the timing, and picked up after the first ring, feeling like a good little lap dog.

"Hey there, Mencken," I greeted, smirking to myself as I imagined his perplexed expression on the other end. "Ready for a little adventure in the world of internet?"

Mencken's voice echoed through the line, confusion lacing every word, "Harriet, what in the hell is going on? Why are people shipping us? Are we supposed to be getting something delivered?"

Suppressing a laugh, I explained, "No, Mencken, it's not about deliveries. It's a term they use on the internet when people want two characters or real people to be in a romantic relationship. They call it 'shipping.'"

There was a brief pause before Mencken asked incredulously, "Shipping? Like cargo and ships?"

I chuckled, covering my mouth to stifle the laughter. "Not quite. It's short for 'relationship.' They think we're the ultimate power couple, Mencken."

"Is this some kind of secret code or a new political term I missed in my briefings?" Mencken's confusion was palpable.

I couldn't help but tease, "No secret code, just internet slang. They're imagining us as this influential and glamorous duo."

Another pause, then Mencken's voice returned, this time more incredulous, "You're telling me there are people out there who think we're having an affair? With each other?"

"Yep, that's the gist of it. Welcome to the world of shipping, Mencken. It's a strange place," I replied, my grin growing wider. “And they've even given us a ship name – #Menckenriet. Catchy, right?" I couldn't help but enjoy the absurdity of it all.

Mencken sighed on the other end, probably shaking his head, "I can't believe this is happening."

"Embrace the fame, Mencken! Who knows, maybe we'll start a new trend in political shipping," I teased, still grinning.

There was a long-suffering sigh from Mencken. "I don't have time for this nonsense. I have a country to run."

"Your loss, Mencken. #Menckenriet could've been the political love story of the century," I quipped. 

As I prepared to hang up, he interjected with a serious tone, "Wait, do they actually know about us... you know, being intimate?"

My playful demeanor faltered for a moment. "No, Mencken. It's just speculation and fantasy. They don't know anything for sure."

Mencken sounded relieved, "Good. Let's keep it that way."

But before I could end the call, he added in a soft voice, "Clear up your schedule. I'm gonna drop by during the weekend." 

Since Rome, Mencken's hard veneer had chipped away. He made more time for me, wasn't as mean – well, still an asshole, but, as he put it, "Your asshole, sweetheart.” 

“Well, aren't you so romantic,” I mused mostly to myself, a wry smile playing on my lips.

“Yeah, well, I figured life's too short to be a constant jerk. Besides, dealing with you is marginally less irritating than dealing with most people," I couldn't suppress a laugh. High praise, indeed. Looking forward to the weekend then.

As the call concluded, I imagined Mencken shaking his head and muttering, "I'm too old for this." I let out a loud hyena cackle which leaves General Meow staring at me with her wide green eyes.

______________________________________________________________

And then the French presidential election happened. 

It was a tight race between three players, each one from a widely different part of the political spectrum. On one hand, the far-right candidate, the heiress of the National Rally, Marine Le Pen, was Mencken's pick. On the other hand, the incumbent President, Emmanuel Macron, stood as a centrist, aiming to maintain stability and balance in turbulent times. The third contender, Marcel Reynaud, a charismatic socialist from the left, caught the attention of many with his passionate speeches and a boyish yet distinguished appearance, with graying hair that hinted at wisdom beyond his years, reminiscent of a Dostoevsky prince.

As the campaign unfolded, Marcel Reynaud's popularity soared. His fiery rhetoric and genuine connection with the people resonated across various demographics. The public, weary of the traditional political dichotomy, found in him a fresh and appealing alternative. The French, tired of voting for the lesser of two evils, began to rally behind Reynaud, drawn by the promise of a new era and genuine change.

Reynaud's physical presence added an extra layer to his appeal. Imagine a man with rugged charm, grey tousled hair that hinted at rebelliousness, and piercing blue eyes that conveyed both intensity and empathy. His speeches, delivered with conviction, echoed a vision of a more inclusive and socially just France.

Election day arrived, and the people of France turned out in record numbers. The results trickled in, each update intensifying the suspense. When the final count was announced, it was Marcel Reynaud who emerged as the victor. The socialist left candidate had secured a historic win, breaking the stronghold of the traditional political forces.

As the news of his victory spread, so did the memes, fan art, and adoring posts dedicated to Marcel Reynaud. Internet users affectionately dubbed him the "French boyfriend," and hashtags like #ReynaudRevolution and #MarcelMania trended worldwide. He quickly dethroned Mencken as the hottest president online, captivating not just the French public but garnering attention on the global stage.

The internet was flooded with swooning comments about Reynaud's “elf” vibes, and fan accounts dedicated to his every move and policy decision multiplied. Memes comparing him to heroes from literature circulated, portraying him as the embodiment of a modern-day romantic lead. His charisma had transcended politics; he had become a symbol of a new era, both politically and personally.

______________________________________________________________

Mencken was not impressed. Despite being in his mid 50s, he still was a petty child underneath it all, mad about the spotlight being taken off him and given to a soy boy from France of all places. 

The ping of random texts, accompanied by a distinctive ringtone reserved exclusively for him, never failed to jolt me with a thrill, whether I was immersed in work or drifting off to sleep – a Pavlovian response he found pathetically endearing.

M "Just saw another damn article about Marcel Reynaud. 🙄 Apparently, he's the new poster boy for socialism. What a load of crap."

H: "Oh, Mencken, you're just jealous that Reynaud's stealing the limelight. 😏” 

M: "Another day, another interview with Reynaud. 📰 Can't escape the guy. Do you think he practices that brooding stare in the mirror?"

H: "Maybe he's born with it, maybe it's political strategy. 🤷🏻‍♀️"

M: "Thoughts on Marcel's new hairstyle? 💇‍♂️ Trying to figure out if he's attempting a political rebrand or just desperately needs a barber."

H: "Maybe he's channeling the winds of change through his hair. 😂 At least he's keeping things interesting. You should try it sometime."

M: "Harriet, tell me you didn't fall for the hype. 🤨 The French might adore their 'heartthrob,' but I know you have better taste."

H: "Of course not, Mencken. I only have eyes for the 'old and grumpy' type. 😉 

To that last text he replied with a hilariously outdated “fuck yea” meme, highlighting how out of touch he could be sometimes.

______________________________________________________________

In one of our romantic getaways,  (if you can call secretly meeting in a pre-swept room with Secret Service agents hanging outside the door romantic) he once again brought up le problème. 

We had dinner from Dorsia’s to-go in my apartment, with General Meow eyeing our food from her own seat at the table. I tried to make conversation but Mencken's answers were clipped, a subtle giveaway that something was amiss. I took it all in stride, already accustomed to his mercurial moods. I knew that he was stressed about something and that once we fucked, he would relax and the tension would dissipate.

Wanting to make up for missing a couple of our dates, he takes me for a drive around the city in a sleek black car with tinted windows, a partition separating us from the chauffeur. The sound of muffled traffic and a bossa nova playlist was our soundtrack, as we furiously make out like teenagers on their way to prom. He’s quiet except for the sighs that escape his lips. I get needy and he likes it, petting me the same way he does my cat. The similarity does not escape me. His hands begin to go lower until they eventually find my hot center and he smiles against my mouth as he realises I’m not wearing panties. Mencken's voice, low and husky, breaks the silence as he whispers, "You always know how to keep things interesting, Harriet."

I respond with a teasing smile, my voice a breathless whisper, "Well, Mr. President, I aim to please."

His fingers continued their exploration, tracing patterns of fire on my clit. “Mr. President? You're playing a dangerous game," he murmured, his lips trailing hot kisses along my neck as he slips two fingers into me.

The combined sensation sends shivers down my spine. I cry out of pleasure and I am thankful for the soundproofed privacy the partition offers us. Eager to reciprocate, my hand instinctively moved toward his belt, but Mencken halted my advance with a gentle yet firm grip.

“Not here, better in the hotel room,” he whispered, his breath warm against my ear. The promise of what awaited us hung tantalizingly in the air.

Our destination was a high-rise hotel he had booked, soaring 68 floors into the city skyline. It was quintessentially Mencken, reveling in the sensation of being the most powerful man even during sex. The car eased into a lull inside the hotel's basement parking lot, providing a moment for me to compose myself while awaiting the Secret Service's assurance that the coast was clear.

Mencken eyes me mockingly. “You do realise they all know what we’re just doing in here and what we’re about to do in that room”.

I roll my eyes and reply, “A girl has to keep some secrets. Adds to the intrigue, doesn't it?"

He smirks, a glint of amusement in his eyes. "Well, let them think what they want. It's not like we've ever been ones to play by the rules."

With a final nod from the Secret Service, Mencken opens the car door, ushering me out. The hotel's opulent lobby awaits us, and I can't help but feel a rush of excitement. The atmosphere is hushed, with the discreet professionalism one would expect in such an establishment.

He is rough, manhandling me immediately after we cross the threshold of the room. 

The door closes behind us, and the plush interior of the room envelops us in a cocoon. The dim lighting casts a sultry ambiance, amplifying the energy that crackles between us.

Mencken turns to face me, his eyes filled with a hunger that matches my own. With a swift move, he captures my lips in a kiss, his hands roaming possessively over my body. In the intimate space, he pins me against the door, a delicious urgency in his touch. His kisses travel from my lips down to the curve of my neck, igniting a cascade of shivers. The feeling lights me whole like a star. He grabs my hand and leads towards the floor to ceiling windows, the quiet city completely unaware of what is about to unfold. Mencken's eyes lock onto mine, a silent communication passing between us. With a heated intensity, he guides me onto my knees, the plush carpet beneath feeling cool against my skin. 

My hands find their way to his belt, fingers working deftly to release him. His cock is already half hard, forming a wet patch on his boxers. I pull them down to spring him free and my tongue reaches out in anticipation. In that moment, the world outside seems to fade away, leaving the two of us suspended in time. His fingers tangle in my hair, a silent encouragement to continue the exploration. As my lips inch closer to their destination, I can feel the heightened tension in the room. His arousal is palpable, the air charged intensity. I wet my mouth, preparing to take him in, and our eyes lock as my lips envelop him. A shiver runs through Mencken's body, and the room echoes with his moans of pleasure.

As the sensations escalate, Mencken's husky voice breaks the silence. "Harriet," he says, a blend of urgency and pleasure in his tone. I smile at him, as much as one can smile with a mouthful of cock. Yet, he knows—I look at him with such adoration as if I were in prayer and him my patron saint. The city outside may slumber in blissful ignorance, but within these four walls, I hold the most powerful man in the world in my grasp. 

I alternate between licking his length and kissing his tip, his skin flushing to a delicious shade of pink. “Adorable” is definitely not the best adjective to describe him, nevertheless it is the word that comes to your mind. Yes, this man who can be quite vicious and spew the most hateful vitriol can also exhibit a human side. In those rare moments when it's just the two of us, away from the public eye, I get a glimpse of a softer side that few get to witness. This only eggs me on, and I fasten my maneuvers until he can barely keep standing still. 

Just when I’m about to finish him off, he jolts me up and pushes me into the bed, covering me with his body, engulfing me. He stays still for a few seconds and places his wedding band covered hand protectively over my neck. He stares at me deeply and suddenly feeling self conscious I look away. 

"Harriet…” he murmurs, his voice a low rumble. His hand moves towards my chin and commands me to look straight at him. “Look at me, please”.

And I do.  His thumb brushes gently over my cheek, and he leans down to place a soft kiss on my lips. "You're incredible, you know that?" he whispers, his words a mixture of admiration and desire.

He seems more expressive tonight, a departure from his usual sour demeanor. “Yeah, I am very well aware of it, thank you for the reminder.” I decide to inject a bit of humor into the situation. While I appreciate this more open side of him, it's honestly weirding me out a bit.

He rolls his eyes, “Don’t get cocky.” 

“Shut up. Quick, kiss me again, old man.”

He smirks, leaning in for another kiss. Our lips meet, and the intensity between us reignites. We make quick work of our clothes, and he has me on all fours facing the window. I try to push away the thought of him imagining fucking the city in that egomaniac head of his. As he roams my body, I focus on the sensation, letting the pleasure wash over me. The position lets him get in much deeper, which combined with one hand pulling my hair and the other spanking me on the ass, makes me go crosseyed and incoherent. 

“Oh shit, fuck! Oh my god”, I gasp in between moans. This goads him into increasing his thrusts and to reply with possibly the most cliche response ever.

“Nope, just me”, he snarls.

“Ugh, just shut up and fuck me, you asshole”, I groan out both in pleasure and cringe. 

He pulls me up while still inside me so my back is against his chest. His calloused fingers come to rest on breasts and my clit, both rotating and pinching me in exquisite pleasure. Inside I get hot white and my vision goes out as the tautness that has been growing explodes. Mencken follows closely, my pussy milking him until he comes inside of me.

The soft glow of the bedside lamp bathes the room in a warm aura as Mencken and I fall in tangled limbs. With the air thick with a heady mixture of contentment and the smell of sex, Mencken, typically stoic post coitus, couldn't resist diving headfirst into banter.

His eyes wandered to the ceiling, contemplating the subject that had crept into his thoughts. "You know, I can't help but think about the French election."

I turned to him, raising an eyebrow, feigning innocence. "Oh, so now you feel like talking. Do tell. Is there a particular candidate you find captivating? Is this why you were so broody this evening?”

Mencken's lips curved into a smirk, his eyes glinting with mischief.  “Marcel Reynaud, the so-called heartthrob. I fail to see what the fuss is about."

I propped myself up on an elbow, ready for the snarky exchange that was bound to follow.

"Well, Mencken, not everyone can appreciate his charm. Or perhaps, you're just not into the whole 'French boyfriend' craze?"

Mencken scoffed, dismissing the idea with a wave of his hand.

“Oh, please! He's just another commie with a mediocre appeal. Looks like he belongs in some sad Eastern European gay porn."

I couldn't help but burst into laughter at his blunt assessment.

"Oh, Mencken, you have such a way with words. I suppose, in your eyes, only right-wing politicians can be easy on the eyes?"

Mencken grinned, his snarkiness unwavering. "Exactly."

Teasing him further, I continued, "Well, you can't deny he's got a certain je ne sais quoi. Maybe you're just jealous that the internet's boyfriend title slipped away from you."

Mencken scoffed again, feigning indifference, “Jealous? Hardly."

Chuckling, I replied, "Of course not, Mencken. Your appeal is far too sophisticated for the masses."

“Wait, you really find him hot? You have the most powerful man in the world in your bed but you still are thinking about some third-rate European lefty? He isn’t even a full president, he has a fucking prime minister!”

“Woah there, I thought you weren’t jealous.”

“I’m just disappointed in you. Really, what happened to your taste?” 

He has a plane to catch the next morning. So when he has enough rest, (“I’m an old man, remember?”) he fucks me once again after eating me out, another habit he has picked up from Rome. During the week I have to wear turtlenecks and scarves to cover up the love bites he left over my chest and neck. Immature asshole.

______________________________________________________________

His administration suddenly became very interested in US-France relations. I could practically see the cogs turning in his mind, the wheels of diplomacy greased with a hint of jealousy. The irony wasn't lost on me—the leader of the free world, concerned about a romantic rival from across the Atlantic.

One evening, as we lounged in my apartment with General Meow resting on his lap, Mencken couldn't resist poking at the issue. “Any thoughts on how we can improve diplomatic ties with France? Perhaps organize a state dinner, or maybe I should visit him on a diplomatic mission?”

I exhale a sigh, knowing exactly where he was going with this. “You're the President of the United States. I'm pretty sure there are more pressing matters than cozying up to Marcel Reynaud just because your lover thinks he’s hot.”

He grinned, a playful glint in his eyes. "Well, I just thought it would be a shame if our relations suffered due to my charming French competition." 

And so it was decided, a state dinner was on the horizon, orchestrated not just for diplomatic reasons but also as a subtle way for Mencken to flex his presidential prowess in the face of a perceived rival. It was not lost on me that, deep down, this was more about asserting dominance. Men and their petty egos.

In the weeks leading up to the state dinner, Mencken's text arrived, a blend of formality and subtle suggestion. "Pick something nice, my dear. You'll be seated with me and Marcel. Let's make it a spectacular evening."

[killuagirly]

Hear me out hear me out. How about a yandere freminet with a darling thats like yumeko jabami from kakegurio. Exept she has Like, like she has a good demure personality on the surface but behind closed doors the moment she starts gambling she goes crazy, and takes a lot of risks yet is still so good at gambling and does not care whether she wins or not.

Like she has the CrAzy eyes when she strts gambling

Also take your time this was just something i could not get out of my head. Like AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥

Yandere!Freminet x F!Reader

Summary: Freminet was quite simply just trying to enjoy his nightly stalking session, but watching over you becomes much more interesting when he finds a side of you that he never had before.

Notes: Please forgive me but I have not watched Kakegurui nor do I plan to anytime soon so this may not be exactly what you wanted. Not to mention this is awfully short, more of a drabble than a full fic, but oh well. I tried my best!!

CW: Yandere, Obsessive tendencies, Possessiveness, etc. Read at your own risk!!

═══════════ ☾ ═══════════

Freminet

☆ Freminet was so in love with you. It was obvious even to him, so much so that he went to the lengths of stalking you. Only on occasion though, well, ok maybe it was every night. But that's only the night, at least he's not shadowing you all day. You were so polite and kind to him, patient with him, so caring. How could he not fall for you?

☆ Though, tonight you seemed a bit.. off. Why on earth would you be leaving the house so late, and heading into a direction he'd never been before?? It was beginning to be difficult to trail behind you going unnoticed in the dead of night, where the only other audible sounds aside from his breathing was yours.

☆ Suddenly, as if the world had read his mind, he began to approach other sounds. People, mainly shouting and some music, coming from a building that resembled a casino of sorts. 'What would she be doing in a place like this?' He walked in shortly after you, careful not to get caught. Some people gave him looks, though he definitely did look a bit under-dressed compared to the others around.

☆ It explained why you seemed to be getting ready earlier on. Originally, Freminet though you may have been going to meet someone. A mixed sense of relief and curiosity flowed through him, glad that weren't going to meet anyone special yet also curious and a bit concerned at what business you'd have in a casino.

☆ Eventually, you entered a separate room where he could only watch through a crack in the doorway. You sat down at a table as the other greeted you by name, some made side comments he didn't quite get, "Ah, hey pretty lady. Should I enjoy the calm before the storm?" You only laughed and brushed off the comment.

☆ Soon after he began to realize. You were mid-way through the card game being played at the table, and you didn't seem like yourself anymore. Your eyes were shining with a crazed look, and your entire focus was on winning the money set aside. He stared in awe at the way your personality did a 360 once your game had commenced.

☆ Watching for the rest of the night, he noted to himself every little detail that had changed in demeanor. It was so exciting to see you out of the normal. Maybe he'd have to bet cash with you just to see this other side of you again, up close and personal.

═══════════ ☾ ═══════════

Masterlist

[elvenbeard]

thanks for the tag for the WIP game!! man i wanna know about vince as much as the next guy but i also wanna hear more about your fantasy novel! what's it about or could you give your favorite paragraph, (even out of context would be fun to read!)

OOOHHHHH Thanks so much for asking!!! :DDD

Okay okay okay, where do I start... I haven't rambled about this in a while, but this story has like, not let go of me for over ten years now xD I had the first idea in 2012 just after I finished school and before I went to uni, and ever since it's gone through many changes and iterations and grown and developed.

Basically, it's set on this ancient continent that is deeply divided. On the one side you have one nation (vaguely fantasy humans) that came there as settlers, their leader really not a good guy at all. That was around 500 years ago, a long-ass time even for fantasy humans that live longer than we do, and the current generations are slowly beginning to make amends and try to make up on their ancestors' mistakes.

On the other side you have the natives of the land, amongst each other also divided into subgroups (vaguely fantasy elves and such), and they live super long. A lot of them were there when that original invasion happened, remember fighting in all the wars the humans brought them, and they're rightfully distrustful in the humans' intentions of wanting to make amends.

There is two rulers, the official king (human) who is in charge of the nation with his council and controls the larger portion of the land. On an island separate from the mainland is the other leader, not really a king but something a little more of a spiritual (although not religious - it's complicated) leader, who has no true political power but a very high standing and a lot of respect (usually at least... but his situation is special, too, and getting into details would really explode this post XD).

Then there's technically also a whole third nation who also is at home on that same continent, but they grew into their own people independently alongside for worldbuilding and lore reasons and have little contact to the two factions mentioned above - at least until the human king married one of their leader's daughters (and now it's getting really complicated).

So much to the political climate and general state of the world xD I intended it to be all very full of tension and side-eyeing each other, where you never really know whose intentions you can trust, and a lot of people really fear another war for definitive power over the land coming. But man, it's gonna be so much worse :D

As for the actual story, in the first book of the series (yes, this has gotten too complex by now to put it into one book XD) everything is told mostly through the eyes of two characters and their immediate friend groups/families on either side of the main conflict. On one side is Adoven, who is the son of the native spiritual-type leader, and he is basically an angsty teenager who cannot find his place in the world and goes against everything anyone with good intentions tries to tell him. He ends up becoming involved with a group of revolutionaries that want to incite a rebellion against the human king - or so he thinks at least. On the other side is Ricnan, who is a scholar and alchemy teacher at a prestigious school that actually is very inclusive and non-political in its policies. Everyone from all backgrounds is welcome. Ricnan himself is part of a native minority, but he has no problems with the human king (but he also recognizes that he is in a position of privilige compared to many others). All is well and he's leading a very calm and nice life until one day he saves a frightened young woman from some guards and realizes she has immense magical powers - and then, much to the dismay of his parter initially, brings her home and decides to raise her as his protége and daughter really xD

Shit majorly hits the fan the moment Adoven's and Ricnan's stories meet and basically cause a huge explosion and fallout that really threatens the peace substantially 👀

Apart from that I also have a couple of subplots going on, about soulmates, rebirth, ancient mistakes catching up to the present now, illegitimate children threatening thrones, world-shattering magic, shapeshifting, dragons, and all that fun stuff you encounter in fantasy novels occasionally that add to the already existing chaos xD Also, everyone is queer because I say so xD

I can share some paragraphs, maybe from some different characters viewpoints... Here's Ricnan and his partner, Elornan, sitting at the breakfast table and musing about the strange behavior of Neryssa, the young woman they sort of adopted xD

“What on earth was that?” Ricnan asked after a brief moment of silence, but tried to keep his voice low as he slowly turned to Elornan. Elornan took a bite from his bread and smiled at him slyly. “When I got home yesterday I saw her standing by the mailbox, even more red in her face than now,” he said, “I didn’t say anything, she didn’t mention it. But, oh well…” “I… still don’t quite understand I think. It’s too early in the morning,” Ricnan sighed. Elornan laughed. “Well, let’s say it like this,” he said, leaning in a little closer to Ricnan and lowering his voice ever so slightly, “Maybe she’s not hungry because her stomach is too full of butterflies already.” That woke Ricnan up properly. He looked at the door, to where they could hear Neryssa rummaging in her bag in the next room over. Then he turned back to Elornan. “You really think so? I mean… she never mentioned anyone special, she doesn’t seem too fond of the majority of her classmates even…” “I’m fairly sure,” Elornan said, taking another bun, “You know, I had someone else sitting at my table here quite some time ago, similarly bad at hiding his thoughts and feelings. It’s funny, you and Neryssa are not even related, but still alike in a lot of ways.” Now it was Ricnan’s cheeks to flush pink. “‘Quite some time ago’, I beg your pardon…” he mumbled with played offence. “Aaages,” Elornan continued to tease, “Actual Centuries… but time very well spent I’d say. Wouldn’t have wanted to spend it with someone else, either.” Ricnan chuckled as he cut open another warm, soft piece of bread. In the hallway Neryssa scurried past the kitchen door yelling a quick “Bye!” with one foot out the front door already before slamming it shut. Both Elornan and Ricnan couldn’t help but laugh out loud now. “Oh, to be young again, indeed,” Ricnan mused but Elornan shrugged. “Sure, some things are easier when you’re young, but admittedly, most aren’t,” he said, “Not for me at least.” “So you don’t mind me turning officially old tomorrow?” “'Officially old’,” Elornan snickered, “I’m still older than you.” “On paper, in numbers, yes,” Ricnan said, somewhat more sober now, “But physically, one day I’m gonna catch up and surpass you.” “That is still far in the future,” Elornan said, putting a hand on his arm, “and I prefer living in the here and now, not worrying about what might or might not happen someday.” “I like the sound of that,” Ricnan smiled.

And a very dramatic moment for Adoven:

His heart skipped a beat or two, and he felt like he fell forever, as slowly as a feather tossed into an endless abyss. He could only just make out the shock and disbelief on the open-mouthed face of the soldier standing above him, right before he stumbled backwards and disappeared into the office. He could still feel the rope, even though he clearly saw it dangling freely against the wall of the tower, but its sensation, its fibres had burned themselves into his palms. He fell backwards into nothingness, not even the winds able to hold him up anymore, seeming weak and insignificant compared to the violence they used to tear on their clothes, the contents of the office just minutes before. His distance to the wall of the tower grew, and he gained speed, could see his teardrops sparkling in the air above him as he fell further and further, beginning to question if this is how he'll be remembered. The wannabe-revolutionary that fell to his death from the Academy of Saratheas.

If you wanna snoop around a bit more, I have an (as of right now inactive) sideblog @ivendarea for this project with some stuff, and art and writing and everything else that sort of belongs into this world in its own tag on my main blog here: elvenbeard.tumblr.com/tagged/the%20king%20of%20ivendarea ("The King of Ivendarea" was the working title for this for the longest time until some time in 2022 I decided I will split this into several novels and referring to the first one "The Voice of the Voiceless" from there on!)

Thanks again so much for asking!! :D

[cupids-cringe]

IT IS A LOVELY WONDERFUL EARLY FEBRUARY NIGHT AND YOUR LOCAL VIRTUAL VIRUS HAS RETURNED WITH PART 3 OF MY SILLY HEADCANON IDEAS FOR SOME OF THE MULTIVERSE TRAVELLERS FAVORITE SIDE CHARACTER S skrunklys- is it is it too late to call a character a skrunkly?-

working on Worldstop & Polite Benry posed a BIT of difficulty because they're SO similar!- BUT i'm quite happy with how they turned out

AS ALWAYS, NOTES BELOW!

Dr Sleepless!

• went a bit heavier on the makeup

• ze has a heck ton of glitter in their hair and a slight purple tint at the ends simply because i think it would be fun and becuase originally it started as him using glitter in his Late Late Late Late Late Show and then ze started doing it intentionally

• changed his coat! the stars and glitter are now on the inner part but its fine since ze spends so much time posing dramatically that it can always be seem flowing like a cape

• this isn't visual but since i'm talking about them i'm adding this: Sleepless' coat has cartoony physics pockets. ze can pull ANYTHING out of them. no matter how big or how much,,, he can pull 2000 rubber ducks out of completely flat looking pockets if ze wanted to.

Darnold!

• gave him a bag for all his potions, it stores both complete potions and the items he may need to craft new ones on the spot

• slightly changed his visor but kept it mostly, removed the coded binary from Kittles hacks during the events of the Worldstop AU

• slightly upgraded rocket boots

• FLAME TROUSERS!! i wasn't sure if i should add [potion] bubbles or flames, flames felt a bit that they were stepping on Bubbys flame motifs buuuut with the rocket boots i quite like it-

• return of the lightning shaped grey hair streaks

Mailman! + Bot(rey)

• added a couple heart and pin stickers which were DEFINITELY slapped there by LB- along with the writing on his bag which is 100% glitter gel pen.

• HAIR TUFTS! i just can't help myself, Mailman has some of the fluffiest (but kinda greasy) hair of all

• slightly simplified his Bot forms vest design & nametag, & included the slot where he can print his own little notes (canon)

• both of them have a friendship necklace that Loverboy made with craft beads so that they can match (i like to think that he absolutely BUGGED Spork to make Benrys virtual model a necklace like the one he'd made for the tiny Bot) (ALSO Gordon B would probably maybe make him another when hes uninfected?-)

• minor change to his heart badge on his vest

Da Boss!

• didn't do much, his designs brilliant (i LOVE the Admins matching tron outfits so much!!) all i really did was add a bit of a cape to it to match with the other Admins long coats + bit more blue in places

• subtle earrings & some changes to his boots

• NOT PICTURED BUT HE & FREEMAN HAVE MATCHING PLASTIC RINGS THAT THEY GOT FROM AN ARCADE

+ return of his Episode 1 visor cos i think hes the Benry most comfortable with showing his hair/not having his helmet (in my opinion it goes Boss, Polite, Worldstop & then Y2KVR- i will elaborate my reasons if you want)

Polite Benry!

• the MOST. NORMAL. Person you will ever know!

• his badge says "RESTRICTED RESEARCH" after the department that the Mad Science Team work in and it was handmade by their Tommy, its sort of his new security badge and he will flash it to people when hes guarding the science team

• his helmet has been through hell - it has a green sludge splash that stained and will never come out, it has a patch of metal becuase it had to be fixed after a LASER cut through it (Polite Benry was completely unharmed, it was a cartoony moment where he dodged the laser and his helmet fell off but stayed in place midair and started spinning as the laser cut into it), its got some scratches and a patch where it got struck by Bubbys electrokinisis on accident but its still a very important item to him :]

• I STOLE THIS IDEA FROM MERKLINS BUT THE COLLAR BEING POPPED UP TO MATCH THE OTHERS!! I HAD TO ITS JUST SO!! !!!!!!!!!!

• just such a normal fella

• bit of hair always visible out the helmet, occasionally he tries to tuck it back but it falls back over his eye again

Worldstop Benry!

• now. i really tried- i tried to make him look a bit more boxey than the rest because he is a Gmod NPC from the 2000s hes a bit more blocky hes a bit squared

• MISSING TEXTURE HAIR. BECAUSE I CAN. i said in a post before i didn't want to go too overboard with the missing texture motif since its part of Kittle (& Trips) designs but i wanted to do a bit more than just his helmet inside having the texture- hes a glitched NPC, he has access to a lot of the Gmod assets, hes in place of the Nihilanth & his original model probably wasn't even a Barney so hes ALLOWED to have a couple hidden fucked up textures-

• his uniform is also just slightly more purple just slightly (mainly because i wanted him and Polite Benry to not look identical (they both went through several changes & redraws since i started drawing these becuase they did at one point look like the exact same just minus 1 helmet & minus 1 vest))

• the blue in his eyes is (i'm pretty sure unless i changed it slightly) directly ripped from the Gmod logo

• helmets a bit damaged and dented

• ALSO ALSO BEFORE I FORGET i made his hair just slightly longer to kind of resemble Forzens? just slightly

[gttinyprincess]

Curiosity killed the human

Vampire!Eddie x Human!Steve x Human!Male reader

Warnings: blood, mild violence (someone gets choked), mentions of death (no one actually dies) hostility.

Angst with a happy ending

Summary: Steve's friend is weird and (Y/N) is determined to find out why.

___________

Steve's friend is weird.

Ever since (Y/N) had met him there'd been a little voice in the back of his mind saying something here isn't right.

He didn't seem dangerous and he'd never tried to harm (Y/N) or Steve. If anything he was nothing but polite and respectful, if a little bit eccentric at times.

Eddie was a little strange to add to their group without that feeling though. A metalhead stoner who seemed to constantly be talkin about some nerd shit or other. He never understood what he was on about and yet he found himself hooked on every word the guy said. He's charming, he has this way of explaining his weird little game and the odd characters within it that just had (Y/N) mesmerized.

Even with those thoughts, a vampire was a bit of a jump in conclusions even for him.

And if it were only the off feeling he got from the guy he'd dismiss it and move on, but it's not. It's the way he's so silent in his movements, always startling (Y/N) by appearing from behind without so much as a creaking floorboard. Disappearing for no reason when Steve caught his finger with the edge of his knife or when (Y/N) burst his nose open on the coffee table after a night of heavy drinking and he swears to this day Eddie's eyes were darker in the dim light of the front room when he looked at him. The pupil blown out till the entire iris looked black, that most definitely was not normal by any means. The way he had hovered for a moment beside him, seeming to become instantly sober as he eyed the thick red blood dripping down his lips and chin. For a moment (Y/N) felt true fear, he felt like a rabbit before a hungry wolf. The look on his face was cold and hungry as if he didn't even recognise who he was even looking at. Then in an instant Steve's slapping a hand onto Eddie's shoulder and telling him to grab (Y/N) some tissue and a glass of water, sliding down to kneel in front of his mate asking him to tilt his head back so he can check the damage and just like that Eddie is gone, having left the room without a sound as usual.

So a vampire, at least that was his hypothesis.

If he's correct then that means he and Steve could be in a lot of trouble, he needed proof and a way to ensure their safety once he had it.

(Y/N) had been researching every vampire legend he could think of, raiding family video for all the vampire movies they could supply him with and excusing the mild obsession to Robin as having a horror movie binge, he had even read Dracula. His only hope was that he could at least figure out which weaknesses were useful and which were a bag of lies. So armed with his new found knowledge of the undead he decided to get to work.

Currently (Y/N) stands in Steve's kitchen with a butter knife in hand as he spreads butter across slice after slice of bread. Steve sits at the table across from Eddie nursing a coffee as he listens to Eddie explain his latest campaign idea with vigor that would put drama students to shame. "I'm telling you Dustin doesn't even know what he's in for" he grins and (Y/N) can't help but chuckle along with Steve at his enthusiasm. Slapping down the cold meat he decides to speak now while he can "either of you wanting salad cream or mayo on your sandwich?" Turning to look over his shoulder, he looks to Steve who shakes his head "no thank you" glancing at Eddie, he receives a grin, those dark brown eyes lighting up at having his attention on him "mayo please, thank you" polite as ever and totally predictable.

He'd made the group sandwiches before and so he knew Eddie wasn't a fan of just meat and bread, said it was too dry, so (Y/N) had come up with his first test based on this preference. When reaching into the fridge he avoids the original mayo and instead grabs the garlic mayo. According to practically everything he'd referenced, vampires were allergic to garlic. If true both he and Steve would see the proof, it's perfect. He smears a thick layer of the mayo onto Eddie's sandwich before dishing out the saucers and grabbing his own. The two thank him as he takes his seat beside Steve and they all tuck in.

Eddie bites into his sandwich, chewing happily for a moment before his brows begin to furrow and his chewing slows. (Y/N) tries to keep his expression neutral as he asks "something wrong?" The metalhead swallows reluctantly "it tastes...garlicky" Steve frowns confused as Eddie looks to (Y/N) "not bad...just a strange combo" he explains, it's now (Y/N)'s turn to frown as Eddie continues to devour his sandwich, thanking the other man and getting up to place his plate in the sink. "My bad I must have grabbed the wrong bottle" he mumbles tucking back into his sandwich.

So garlic is a no go.

He plans to spread his tests out over a week, waiting a day and distracting himself with work while he waits for his next opening. It's Wednesday by the time he finds himself at Steve's place once again. He invites Eddie along too, with slight encouragement from (Y/N), for a movie night and (Y/N) can't help but suggest the lost boys for his choice, it's a relatively new release that he'd only heard a little about but he was curious to see Eddie's reaction to the movie villain vampires.

Eddie arrives and he puts his plan into motion as the man hangs up his leather jacket revealing the iron maiden shirt underneath. "Hey Eddie, give me a hand with the snacks while Harrington sets up the first movie?" Eddie eyes the selection of DvDs as he adds his own to the pile, Friday the 13th, go figure. "The lost boys?" He arches a brow "yeah, I heard it was good and thought it might be worth a watch" (Y/N) plays it off with a shrug as he turns and walks into the kitchen.

"So what do you need me to do?" Eddie asks following him in as (Y/N) pulls open a bag of chips to pour into a bowl. "Uh sandwiches I guess? I don't think Steve planned a dinner so we should fill up on proper snacks if we're going to be drinking" he nods to the assortment of bread, meat and mayo he left out. "Hmm being responsible I see" the brunette chuckles moving to his station "but are you really sure you want me doing your job, what if I do better than you and become the resident sandwich maker?" (Y/N) glances at Eddie who smirks and wiggles an eyebrow at him. "Do a better job than me?" He asks, sounding jokingly in disbelief "you used garlic mayo last time" don't remind me, he thinks to himself as he remembers the failed test. "Well I got the right one out this time. I double checked" he refutes sticking his tongue out in a childish gesture, making the other man throw his head back with a laugh.

"Okay, okay. Can you hand me a knife at least so I can butter the bread?" Yes, in fact he can. (Y/N) reaches into the drawer he stood purposefully in front of and chooses a specific knife before passing it over to Eddie who holds his hand out patiently. (Y/N) watches closely as the metal touches skin, but there's no reaction, no flicker of discomfort passes Eddie's face as he inspects the fancy butter knife. "Silver" he mumbles, turning the item over in his hands "I knew Steve's parents were rich but who really needs actual silver cutlery anymore" (Y/N) is in dismay as Eddie shrugs and gets to making sandwiches.

Another negative test result.

(Y/N) huffs quietly to himself as he pushes the chip bowl to the side determined to simply move onto his next task. Cutting up some cucumber and carrot sticks to have a break from the sweet and salty snacks.

Two tasks he was sure would get him some form of a reaction and yet nothing. Maybe he was just losing it. Maybe Eddie wasn't really a vampire after all.

Unwrapping the cucumber (Y/N) reaches for the knife but stops, his hand hovering over the wooden handle as he thinks. There's one sure fire way to confirm if he's right or not, it'd only take a second. He'd be able to confirm if he really saw Eddie's eyes shift that night or if it was just the dim lighting tricking his drunken brain. The kitchen is illuminated with the bright light of a high afternoon sun and he is completely sober.

He doesn't need much more convincing than that and so he grabs the knife tightly by the blade, feeling cold stainless steel biting into his palm. (Y/N) hisses in pain dropping the knife and gripping his injured hand with his other hand. "Fuck" he spits through gritted teeth, turning around to lean his lower back against the marble counter top, squeezing his eyes shut. It hurt more than he had expected. Like a lot, lot more. Opening his eyes he huffs and looks to Eddie who's facing him, eyes wide and just as he had expected. They're dark but this time the colour is clear in the bright lighting of the room, his eyes are a deep crimson. Those eyes are trained on his bleeding palm, mouth hanging open as if he'd been part way through speaking before he froze.

Now this, this is proof.

"Eddie, man. You good there?" He asks trying to snap the man out of his stupor. He stands there mouth open seemingly struggling to pull air into his lungs but at the sound of the other speaking up those eyes finally move to rest on (Y/N)'s face. His expression twists from shock to what can only be described as downright anger, maybe even rage? (Y/N) had never even seen Eddie be so much as displeased, so this look sent a chill racing down his spine and in the blink of an eye he'd moved.

(Y/N) is forced back harshly against the cabinet and counter behind him as Eddie wraps a hand around his throat, the other ensnaring the wrist of his bleeding hand, tugging it away from where he was shielding it against his body. Eddie is in his face now, dark eyes narrowed in on him as he snarls showing off large white fangs that had definitely not been there before. "I knew it!" He growls out "knew you could never leave damn well alone!" Oh god, he was going to die here in Steve's kitchen. "I knew you wouldn't forget, so fucking nosey" he struggles against the man's inhumanly strong grip, wincing when the hand on his throat tightens. He needs help, this thing is gonna kill him. Taking in a deep breath he lets out the loudest scream he can "Ste-!" The hand tightens once more choking off his words and (Y/N) raises his free hand to claw at Eddie's.

"What was the point of all of this" Eddie snarls and (Y/N) is pretty sure he can feel tears filling his eyes as he gasps for short breaths "did you want proof of your little theory?" He did, he wanted it so bad that he forgot to have a backup plan in case things went downhill and now he was gonna pay for those mistakes. All because he couldn't leave well enough alone. "Fine then, I'll give you proof" Eddie raises the hand he has in his grip, reigniting (Y/N)'s desperate fight for freedom "Steve!" He manages to cry out weakly as he watches Eddie duck his head down to hover over the cut, those red eyes staying fixed to his face the entire time. "Please" he manages to beg but the plea falls on deaf ears as Eddie licks at the blood running down the crease of his palm, away from the wound itself.

For a moment those dark eyes slip shut and Eddie hums in satisfaction, the same way he had after a particularly nice takeaway the group had together a few nights ago, only this time it was sinister and Eddie wasn't over exaggerating for laughs. He was genuinely enjoying the taste of (Y/N)'s blood. After a moment of just savouring the first taste those eyes blink open again and Eddie begins lapping at the wound itself, wild feral eyes fixed on (Y/N)'s fearful face as if taking sick pleasure in the man's hopeless pleas for release. Those fangs only a breath away from slicing into his flesh in the search for more of the crimson liquid.

"Everything alright in-" (Y/N)'s eyes snap to the doorway finding Steve who has paused mid-sentence to observe the scene before him. Oh god this was bad. Why had he called Steve? Now they were both going to die. Eddie doesn't even bother to raise his head to look at the interruption, too focused on enjoying his meal. "Run" (Y/N) chokes out as his eyes meet Steve's, but instead of heeding his warning Steve marches over to the two. Eddie is unceremoniously thrown off of (Y/N) who slips down the counter into a heap on the floor, clutching at his throat and breathing as deeply as he can as Steve crouches beside him rubbing his back. "What the fuck Eddie?" He seethes pinning the vampire with a sharp glare, Eddie meets it with one of his own as he towers over the two from across the kitchen. "He knew" he replies simply, voice still full of anger "what?" Steve glances down at the man in his grasp and then back at Eddie.

What is going on? Can Steve not see the danger they're in? Why isn't Eddie attacking him? Why are they bickering like Eddie wasn't just caught trying to murder someone.

Wait.

(Y/N) feels ice flood his veins as he looks to Steve. He knew, he wasn't scared at what was going on because he knew about Eddie's supernatural disposition.

"The garlic, the lost boys and just now he tried to test me with silver and then the dumb fuck cut his palm open on purpose" that cold gaze is back on him "he knows" Steve rubs at his face, groaning "fuck".

He can only hope that Steve will defend him against his friend.

"He was going to find out eventually Eddie, you knew that" Steve starts dropping his hand to turn his attention to the hand (Y/N) had cut open "we should have told you sooner but I wanted you to be comfortable around Eddie first. Now we're back at square one" he mumbles, brushing his thumb over (Y/N)'s palm, but he's not looking at Steve or his hand, instead he watches Eddie over his friend's shoulder as he licks his lips clean of blood.

His blood.

How could he ever be comfortable with that?

"It's a lot to take in I know but Eddie's a good guy, a little quirky but he's harmless for the most part" Steve chuckles dryly to himself, trying to break the tension. "The cut seems to have healed up pretty nicely" (Y/N)'s eyebrow furrow as he looks down to the hand Steve has cupped between his own. The skin of his palm is smooth, no blemishes, cuts or scars left behind from the knife. As if nothing had ever happened. "What the fuck?" He exclaims pawing at the skin in confusion. "Eddie's good at cleaning up" Steve offers with a dry chuckle.

"Vampire shit, y'know" (Y/N) looks up to see Eddie glaring down at him. "Eddie calm down, he's freaked out enough already" he's jolted from Eddie's stare as Steve uses a gentle hand to turn his head towards himself "(Y/N)" his voice is soft but commanding "deep breaths." It's only then that he realise how tight his chest is as he attempts to take in a long shaky breath. From the corner of his eye he can see Eddie's shape sink to his knees, expression softening ever so slightly. "I can't breathe" he gasps shaking his head but Steve insists "you can" he nods, but each breath he takes in is clipped short by panic. "Let me try" (Y/N)'s wide panicked eyes find Eddie's, he whimpers shaking his head "I think you've done enough" Steve says disapprovingly but Eddie is already pushing his way into Steve's seat, his hand comes up to grip (Y/N)'s chin, tightening slightly when he tries to pull away "I can help" he affirms but (Y/N) is unsure as to who he's speaking to.

"Look at me" (Y/N) once again finds himself staring into Eddie's eyes, however now they're back to his original deep chocolate colour. "Take a deep breath in" and as if on command the blockage in (Y/N)'s chest clears and he's able to suck in a deep shaky breath "good, now breathe out" (Y/N) follows this command too. "Did you just compel him?" Steve scolds from just out of view but (Y/N) can't find it in himself to look away from Eddie. "You want to explain things to an unconscious body? He was gonna pass out, I helped" Eddie grumbles not taking his eyes off of (Y/N) though there's no real bite to his words.

"(Y/N)?" This time he finds himself able to turn his head and find Steve's worried gaze "you doing okay?" Not trusting his voice the teen simply nods. "Okay good, maybe we should go to the living room and talk things out" another nod. (Y/N) moves to try and stand but Steve ignores this, scooping him up from his crumpled seat on the floor "relax man, I've got you" (Y/N) relaxes into Steve's arms and focuses on taking slow breaths.

Once in the living room Steve deposits his friend down on one of the couches before taking a seat beside Eddie on the couch opposite. Wetting his lips (Y/N) speaks first "what is going on?" Steve leans forwards placing his elbows on his knees "Eddie is a vampire" he begins and (Y/N) can't help but scoff at this "no shit dude, I kind of gathered that" Steve looks to be slightly relieved as (Y/N) seems to slowly be regaining his sarcastic personality.

"It was my idea to try and get the two of you to be friends. I'm the only one Eddie trusted for awhile but I thought it might be nice to have another person he could be himself around" Steve explains "we planned to tell you, I promise you that. I thought we were getting somewhere finally when you suggested we invite Eddie" at that last part Eddie's expression sours as he stares at the carpet. "Why didn't you just ask?" (Y/N) can only shrug, I didn't think you knew" he should have known though Eddie backed off him and his busted nose when Steve put himself in the way. Eddie listened to Steve, Steve ignored Eddie's 'quirks' because he knew the truth the entire time. "Then why not ask me?" Eddie finally speaks up, seemingly having calmed down and (Y/N) finds himself shrugging again "if I was wrong, I'd look crazy" . It's a lackluster explanation but it is the truth.

Eddie groans running a hand through his hair, tugging on it "I'm sorry for...attacking you, even with the blood I should have had better control of myself. I was mad, I thought you liked me, I felt betrayed and that's not an excuse for what I did but I am sorry"

I thought you liked me...?

"I do like you, you're Steve's friend and I was trying to get along with you before all of this" Eddie seems frustrated with his answer but nods in response, Steve places his own hand over the one Eddie has resting on his own knee, offering his friend comfort. "I get if you don't want to keep hanging out, but for Eddie's safety please don't tell anyone what you know now" Steve pleads on Eddie's behalf "I wasn't planning to tell anyone. Even if I did, no one would believe me" he shrugs, sinking back into the couch cushions.

Steve nods "I know, but still thank you" Eddie hums beside him "thank you" he adds quietly, eyes meeting (Y/N)'s "do you still fancy a movie night?" He asks meekly and (Y/N) can't help but laugh at the situation.

Later that night he finds himself situated between Steve and Eddie as they watch movie after movie together, each full on snacks and cheap beer. When they finally make it to the lost boys movie they're treated to Eddie complaining about the unrealistic weaknesses of the vampires and how David should have saved himself the trouble and just killed the older brother when he was human. But by then (Y/N) is drifting off to sleep only being mildly aware of the warm body he leans against and the soft blanket being placed over his sleepy form.

It's not exactly what he'd expected his results to be, but he can't say he's displeased with the outcome.

At the end of the day their friend is kind of weird, but that's what they like about him.

[postguiltypleasures]

My Peak TV Journey: *The Good Fight*

I watched all of The Good Wife on CBS as it aired from almost the beginning. I had mixed feelings about the series finale, so I was slow to get around to The Good Fight, its spin-off/sequel. Coincidentally, it was the decision to move Evil, from the same creators, Robert and Michelle King. The two shows became my reason for a part-of-the-year subscription to Paramount+.  Now that The Good Fight has wrapped up, I miss it. Months later I  think about that series finale and how it did not feel like a series finale. It never tried to make sense of its crazy world, or ours on which it was loosely based. There is another spin off scheduled for this fall. It will be starring Carrie Preston as Elsbeth Taccioni, a character who appeared on both series. But it will not follow up on all the various plots here, because that would not be worthwhile. (Also, according to recent news, it will be set in New York City, where all of these shows are filmed.)

Though the series was introducing major characters until the last season, so maybe they will revisit them. The final season brought in Andre Braugher as Ri’Chard Lane, a real showman of a lawyer. Every episode he wore different, often wild, glasses. His story for the season was about how he fit in the firm, but he is richly drawn enough. The character’s frequent and loud proclamations of faith were off putting to me. But there are plenty of details about his life that I would be happy to revisit and see more of. The penultimate season introduced the mysterious Carmen Moya and every time I saw her I wanted more of her. Marissa and her father, the Rahm Emmanuel inspired, Eli Gold are probably done. His last episode was shocking and appropriate as a send off. Each of the episodes in the season was titled “The End of…” and “The End of Eli Gold” felt like the most appropriate title. Marissa’s life could be check in on again, but it looks like it will become something completely different than what we’ve seen.

I definitely feel like I have seen enough of Diane Lockhart's journey. I still like the character, but choosing to stay with her husband Kurt McVeigh, despite the way their political differences meant he could never be trusted was choosing a stasis that I'm done with.

I'd be happy to check in on Liz Reddick and her complicate family again.

The final season involved non stop protests outside the law firm’s offices and regular threats of violence from mostly unknown sources. I spent a lot of my watching time wondering what it said about politics. Was it doing a “both sides” thing? How does it fit in with the mostly rightwing talking points of violence in Chicago? Months later, those worries have mostly melted away. It was more about capturing the feel of the moment than making a statement about it. 

Thought that does to bring up some of the ways that this series is going to age weirdly. Its plotting choice leaded into being a product of its time so even a couple of years after an episode originally aired a viewer finds themselves thinking things like “remember the pee tape”?  And really after a little time, it is so irrelevant to life it is better forgotten. But it is funny to look back at what a big deal we made of the whole thing.

[lifewiththelulus]

Birch got it for her the first day she let Kindlin take charge of things

She wears it during special events like holidays or days they have a big sale

She definitely sings all the songs from drama club she learned while she bakes.

I can see them in the kitchen alone and Kindlin absent mindedly starts to sing a duet they did together in highschool and they both end up singing it together at full volume while they frost cakes

Using their spoons as microphones XD

They so would.

Omg If a customer is ever rude to Cirrus Kindlin will step in and is polite but her flames absolutely turn purple until they leave She's slow to anger but has her moments

At least Cirrus is good at acting so she can handle most annoying customers, but when she has her bad days Kin would be there.

Kindlin moving in behind Cirrus to grab her hand to help her chop fruit when she knows damn well Cirrus already knows how to chop. XD

PFFF omg yes she absolutely would "Here lemme help" Hugs her from behind and helps her start chopping slowly She knows what she's doing XD

Cirrus just rolls her eyes and leans into her

Ohh After a long day of hard work they're both a mess and totally drained Kindlin locks up the shop and turns off the lights But instead of heading straight to bed she takes Cirrus hands and just starts to slow dance with her without a word in the middle of the empty bakery, the only light coming from her flames and the passing cars outside. It's just a quiet, peaceful moment in their new life.

Kindlin is gonna do everything in her power to make sure Cirrus feels at home there. Birch and Sequoia are right behind her on that. I imagine Birch probably frequently checks in on Cirrus to see if she needs anything , considering the reason she moved in. Sequoia is a little awkward at first but he does suggest a few books when he finds out she likes theater

Once Cirrus is out of her depression, she starts trying to make her own original pastries in her free time, hoping to make something to bring in more customers to help update the place, maybe finally getting security cameras or fixing one of the oven's doors.

Birch and Kindlin both squeal with delight when they find out she's been experimenting and they're all over asking her what she did and how she came up with it XD They're both very enthusiastic about learning how to make what Cirrus comes up with.

Cirrus used to complain that air people's food is always soft and she used to get really jealous that she could never eat anything crispy or crunchy, so she's trying to figure out how to use air ingredients to make biscuits.

Ohhhh what if she made cloud cakes then froze them rapidly in liquid nitrogen? Make like an icy crunchy puff ball

Gasp! They could be like lucky charms marshmallows!

Poor Kindlin can't make them for her XD They'd disappear as soon as she touched it lol

The one treat she can't make for her gf She has hundreds of recipes but this one thing devastates her because she knows Cirrus likes it XD

Kindlin surprises her by closing the shop for the weekend so they can go see a musical that takes like 6 months advance for a reservation

And after they go to dinner Kindlin was going to propose then but dinner turns into a disaster

So they finally get home, giggling and chatting about the night they had When Kindlin stops them at the front door and gets a serious expression. She turns to Cirrus taking both of her cloudy hands and a deep breath "Cirrus, you make me happy. I wanna make you happy too, every day, right here. I want this to be our home and build our future here. I wish there were more words for me to explain just how much you mean to me." She gets on on knee and pulls out a ring "So let me show you instead. Cirrus, will you marry me?"

Cirrus goes full rain cloud, crying happy tears. She tries to calm down so she can hug Kindlin without getting her all wet.

Kindlin hugs her anyways, not minding the slight sting of water as she picks her up and spins her around before kissing her deeply

[beamloaddirective]

M001: Coffee & Cigarettes

This is my first post here, so I don’t even really know what to expect out of myself here. I don’t really want this to be all that critical, more of a diary or something of the sort.

Title: Coffee and Cigarettes

Director: Jim Jarmusch

Year: 2003

Format: Long Story

I bought this film on DVD around the same time that I bought a few others, like Sex, Lies, and Videotape and Melvin Goes to Dinner, during a brief period in which I lived with my parents in Fall 2020, when I wasn’t working and I had ample time to sit in my chair in my childhood bedroom and watch DVDs like I did when I was a teenager. I never actually opened the case for it and tried to watch it, evidenced by the fact that I was caught off-guard by the DVD’s inability to play past the first vignette on anything I tried it in. I started on my computer, then tried my XBOX 360, then my original XBOX, whose DVD playing capabilities I’m not certain of at the moment, and then I gave up on the dream of the DVD and tried finding it on YouTube to originally no avail (though it’s available with Spanish subtitles, I guess I just didn’t see it), then Archive, and then… of course it was available on the Criterion Channel. We ended on that, on my normal TV via Criterion Channel on the XBONE. Maybe the only three-XBOX film viewing experience of my entire life.

I tend to prefer movies exclusively involving people talking about something to most other types of movies, and Jarmusch provides the best of those. This feels like sort of an extension of the main idea behind Night on Earth, a similar situation repeated across places, acted out between different people. The little variations that come across so many repeated instances of mundanity are, in a way, what I find to be my favorite thing about life in general, and Jarmusch’s best works scratch that itch so well. I see that very deep-seated personal value reflected in his movies, and to a certain extent, those reflections in his works helped me understand that about myself, so I guess it’s only fitting that we begin this endeavor with what feels like the most distilled version of this. It’s a movie about pairs of people drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes – Less about that, moreso just… of that. 

I really find myself appreciating everything about this movie – There were a few instances in which there were juxtaposed performances, going from one very natural performance from an experienced actor in one vignette to a fairly wooden performance in the one immediately following, but I found those rougher performances endearing in a lot of ways. A great example was Renee Zellweger’s understated performance covering her cup of coffee with a hand matched with the erratic performance of the (I assume intentionally) awkward waiter. I loved the narrative subversion, I suppose you could call it, of the two French guys, wherein one tries to heighten the tension and the other immediately diffuses it. I like how this movie will set up or otherwise acknowledge rules and break them – A good example of this that I only recognized as I type this was how relative A-Listers like Iggy Pop, Tom Waits, the White Stripes, GZA and RZA, et cetera, explicitly play themselves… save for the one instance in which Steve Buscemi plays an unnamed waiter…

Oh and, then that’s subverted when Bill Murray plays himself trying to be an anonymous waiter. A lot of subversion in this whole thing. Like how Spike Lee’s siblings were the features of an early vignette, but when Alfred Molina answers his phone, Steve Coogan asks him if it was Spike Lee he spoke to, but instead it’s Spike Jonze. Interesting. The type of movie that I will be thinking about for the next few days. 

Definitely my favorite vignette was the one between Coogan and Molina. It took me a second to connect where I’d seen him before (The Day Today and Alan Partridge: Alpha Papa) but he’s so good at the awkward attempts at being polite while turning down Molina’s requests for his phone number, probably the most I laughed at anything in this movie. The last one between the two elderly men, Bill Rice and Taylor Meade, was excellent in a different, more emotive sense. 

I don’t know how to end this. I tend to prefer examining what I’ll take away from something over trying to rate something, so maybe I’ll do that to end these. Maybe next time I have a cup of coffee with someone (I don’t smoke) I’ll feel the significance of the simplicity of the moment containing everything we say.

I will say that the film makes smoking look cool. Probably not going to get me to start but I will say it makes smoking look cool.

[snackhobi]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Being a barista isn’t all bad.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s Tuesday,” he states solemnly.

“I know?”

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

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

“I did.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Actually, on the note of cute regulars—

“Your 2:15 appointment is here.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’ve barely spoken to him.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hi,” he says, and… that’s it. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Witchcraft,” he says, and you laugh.

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

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

“Was that the weekly special?”

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

“Would you recommend it?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Record scratch. Freeze frame.  

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

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

Oh, God.

A couple.

You’ve been crushing on a taken man.

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

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

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

You are the worst.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Why, oh why, oh why.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He’s dyed his hair.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So you say: “You dyed your hair.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(“Good lord,” Taehyung says faintly.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Huh?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hi,” Yoongi says.

“Oh! Hi,” Taehyung says.

“Hyung! Look!” Jungkook says.

“Jungkook, wait—” you say.

“Whirr,” the lidless blender says.

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

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

And then Yoongi laughs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Your heart aches.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Duly noted.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then he spots you standing there.

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

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

Yoongi stares at you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, you think. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Still want to take me on a date?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No, I won’t,” you say. 

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

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

taglist: @beyoncesdragon​ @vensulove

[my-insanity-is-an-artform]

Sometimes, an anonymous ask drops in your inbox and you're like Prince Charming running after Cinderella asking who they are and will you ever see them again. On that note, Nonny, here's Sky/Reader/First fic.

Twilight/Reader/Warriors fic here.

You breathed in the cool air as you dangled your legs off the edge of one of the many landing platforms in Skyloft. The air up here was thinner than you were used to, but refreshing and clean.

Gazing over the cloud layer below and out to the horizon where the sun was setting, you mentally thanked whoever it was that put all the pieces into place that allowed you to be here in this moment.

In fact, the only thing that would make it better would be if you had company.

Two to be exact.

The thought jolted you for a moment and warmth spread through you at the idea.

You had long admitted quietly to yourself that you were definitely nurturing a very strong crush (love was too big a word) on both the Hero of the Skies and Hylia's Chosen Hero.

While getting a crush on both of them had surprised you, you weren't surprised it was them. They were both gentle and compassionate to you and the people around them. Neither of them ever truly raised their voices and they were both very comforting.

They were always the first to check up on you after a fight. Sky would leave little gifts for you in your bag after a rough day and First had offered an open ear every time something weighed on your mind.

Sky was more socially confident and relaxed while First had the calm polite aura of the knight he was, but it was those little comparisons that just made you lov like them more.

Not that you had a chance with either of them.

You groan and flopped onto your back, leaving your legs to dangle.

First had history with Hylia and while he never mentioned it, it was rather obvious with the way he'd spoken about her that their relationship was more than just Goddess and Chosen One.

Sky, on the other hand, was literally attached to hip with Zelda. The Zelda. The literal Goddess incarnate of Hylia and Sky's oldest friend. She was obviously the originator of the Hyrulian Royal family and it wasn't a hard stretch to assume Sky would be the one to help make that Royal Family.

Compared to a literal goddess and her mortal incarnation, what chance did you have?

And even on the very slim chance that it wasn't what it seemed, there was a line a mile long of interested parties in both of them.

(Peatrice came to mind.)

You sighed heavily and propped your head up on an arm, staring up at the clear twilight-painted skies.

What was the use in tormenting yourself like this? Eventually your interest in them would fade like all of your past crushes had (even if they had never been this intense before) and maybe one day you'd mention it to them and laugh about it.

"That was an awfully heavy sigh."

You tilted your head up to see (Sky's) Zelda peering down at you. She smiled.

"Can I sit with you?"

Gesturing to the spot next to you, you sat up as she mimicked your position.

"Feel free."

It was quiet for a moment as you contemplated how awkward you felt sitting next to the girlfriend? childhood friend? crush? of one of the guys you had a crush on. (Actually, was it both of them since she was the reincarnation of Hylia? You decided not to think about it like that since that would only make your head hurt.)

"Link talks about you a lot. My Link, I mean. All of his letters back home mentions all of his friends, but you pop up quiet a bit."

You tried not to stiffen up. Either Zelda was making small talk or she was suspected you had a crush on her whatever-they-were.

"Well, he's probably exaggerating a bit. I have no idea what he's told you, but I'm sure he's being too nice for his own good." You said cheerfully.

Zelda hummed as she peered at you and you tried not to feel like this was an interrogation.

"He said you help patch them all up and you're his favourite to wake him up in the mornings."

At that, you snorted a bit and your ears went red. "That's because I'm nice about it and just shake him or call out. The others tend to heave him out of bed, steal his blanket or use a bucket."

Zelda smiled slowly, like a shark sensing blood in the water. "No wonder you're his favourite. I usually just set my loftwing on him." She paused, tilting her head thoughtfully. "He also said you're honest and one of the sweetest people he's ever met."

The red started to spread from your ears to your face and down your neck. "Really? He's really too nice for his own good." You said, trying not to sound like you'd swallowed a squeaky toy.

She seemed to latch onto something in your tone and grinned victoriously. "You like him, don't you?"

You squeaked and it was only Zelda's arm grabbing the back of your tunic and hauling you back that stopped you from falling off the edge. She was giggling as you both lay on your backs, breathless from the sudden adrenaline rush.

"I...I..." You tried but she cut you off with a bright mischievous smile.

"I'm glad. He deserves something good and from the way he talks about you, you seem like a good person."

You blinked at her then waved an arm. "But aren't you guys like... I don't wanna assume, but..."

She smiled and shook her head. "Nah. We're just friends and I don't like anyone like that. Some day in the future I want kids, but I don't like people romantically." Peering at you slyly, she also added lightly, "I was like that in my previous life too according to my memories. A good ally but nothing further."

You felt an awfully lot like a startled deer on the business end of an arrow.

"Um..."

"First seems nice too. He was very polite."

You groaned and threw both of your arms over your eyes. "How'd you know?"

Zelda laughed. "It wasn't hard with the way you all orbit each other. They're interested in you and you're very interested in them. Also the way they were scowling at Groose earlier kinda sealed the deal."

Huh, you did wonder why Groose had left so suddenly after trying to hit on you by talking about his 'Groosenator' (which you had been very grateful to acknowledge was an actual thing and not something else).

You felt something poke your arm and you opened them up to see Zelda looking at you softly. "They truly care about you a lot."

You wanted to deny it, but when you opened your mouth, she gave you a look that pinned you in place.

"I am serious. I wouldn't be saying so if it wasn't true."

Squirming in your spot, you conceded. "I'll think about it."

She beamed at you then stood up, brushing off the dirt on her skirt. "Good because they deserve something good and pure and I think you can give them that."

You sighed again. "Maybe."

She offered you hand and you took it, getting to your feet.

There was a sudden call of your name and the two Heroes you had just been talking about appeared.

"There you are. We were looking all over the place for you. Oh...Hi Zelda." Sky said sheepishly, having completely ignored his best friend to greet you.

First, on the other hand, ran a keen eye over you then smiled.

Zelda snickered. "I'll leave you guys to it. Why don't you show them the top of the spring, Link? It's one of the best places to stargaze." She wondered off.

You weren't entirely sure what just happened, but you think she may have just set a date up for you.

Sky grinned brightly. "What do you think? The stars will be out soon and it'll be clear enough to see once we get up there."

First nodded. "I did not have a lot of chances to simply star gaze a lot before. It will be nice to do so."

They both turned to you with bright hopeful eyes and eager smiles.

"Sure. Sounds like fun!" You said, trying not to sound so nervous with the idea of being alone with them.

You did squeak when First offered you his arm and Sky simply grabbed your hand.

Flushing red as you were pulled gently along and subsequently pulled First along, you were pretty sure Zelda was laughing at you for being such a clearly nervous wreck.

But from the way she had spoken and from the way the two were shooting you glances,

Maybe you did have a chance at not just one boyfriend, but two?

[comfortbucky]

Hey! If requests are still open I was wondering if I could request a fluffy fic where reader is having a bad day and Bucky notices and cheers them up? 💗💗

HELL YEAH!!!

REQUESTS!!! ARE!!! OPEN!!!

𝘀𝗲𝗰𝘂𝗿𝗶𝘁𝘆 𝗯𝗹𝗮𝗻𝗸𝗲𝘁 ⋆｡˚ ☁︎ ˚｡⋆｡˚☽˚｡⋆ ｡˚ ☁︎ ˚

pairing: bodyguard!bucky x fem!reader

warnings: anxiety, anxiety attack

tags: grumpy!bucky, bodyguard!bucky, fluffy bucky!!!

A/N: okay i have never written bodyguard!bucky before but i just thought it would be such a sweet concept to see him being soft🥺

sorry if the ending is kind of bad😭 i didn’t know how to quite wrap it all up, but i hope u enjoy!!!!!!!! <3 i had so much fun writing about bodyguard!bucky!!!!!

word count: 2.9k

my masterlist!

completed requests!

Y/N groaned as her phone alarm went off and hit snooze for the fifth time. She reached her hand out, head facing away and resting on her pillow, fumbling for her phone to turn off the incessant sound. Before she could shut it off, the noise stopped. Y/N turned her head slightly to see a large, dark figure in the corner of her eye. She turned her head fully to see her bodyguard with a frown on his face as he shut her alarm off.

“Your alarm, it’s annoying,” Bucky grumbled. “You should get up anyways, busy schedule today.” He walked out of the room before she could respond. Super soldier hearing was no joke if he was able to hear her alarm from his bedroom down the hall. Y/N sighed as her face planted into the pillow.

She was not looking forward to the events planned out for the day. During the day, there was a slew of interviews she had, back to back, and at night, a gala she was being forced to attend by her father.

Being the daughter of a wealthy tech tycoon had its perks for sure, but Y/N did not consider all of the press she did as a part of them. She never liked being in the spotlight but was forced to be, a birthright she had. Growing up with her dad, she’d developed a fascination for tinkering with computers, game consoles, and everything in-between. She spent a lot, practically all of her free time, with her dad when her mom had passed away. Her dad ended up throwing himself into his life’s work and she worked with him closely in the beginning, but slowly started to drift apart from him as she started to make a name for herself.

Earlier that week, her dad had sent her a text, informing her that a big announcement would be made at the gala. Big parties and large crowds weren’t really her thing, but it seemed like she didn’t have the option to avoid this one.

She got ready for the day, walking down to her kitchen to see her bodyguard, Bucky, sitting at the table, reading a book. As soon as he heard her come down the steps, he stood up and put his book away.

“C’mon, we’re already running late,” he mumbled, making his way to the door. Y/N rolled her eyes in response, grabbing a granola bar as she briskly followed behind him.

When her dad became a big name in the world of tech, the last thing Y/N thought she needed was a bodyguard, but her dad felt otherwise. It took one, very close call, of her almost getting mugged for her dad to immediately assign a personal bodyguard for her. She insisted that it was unnecessary, seeing that she was a fully grown adult, but her dad refused, as he was the one paying for Bucky’s salary.

Bucky had always been rather closed off since the beginning, and not much had changed since he was first assigned to her a little over a year ago. He kept their relationship very professional, only speaking when necessary and leaving the room whenever he wasn’t needed. She had tried to get him to open up more, learn about his past, but he always shut her questions down by either ignoring her or changing the topic to discussing something work-related. He was an enigma to her, which only left her wanting to solve the mystery that was James Bucky Barnes but couldn’t seem to crack the code.

Her first two interviews went smoothly, exactly what she was used to. A couple of questions about her current projects at work, some about her dad sprinkled in, and what she had planned for the future. It was a format she was used to and had come to appreciate, not exactly enjoying being the center of attention. During her last interview, however, she was caught off guard by one of the last questions she was asked.

“I know this might be an awkward question to ask, but I just have to! The people want to know: do you think your dad’s ever going to return to the dating pool?”

Y/N choked on her saliva. She knew her dad was an attractive man, seeing posts on social media of people fawning over him. Although she found it to be very weird and uncomfortable, she just brushed it all aside, not wanting to think about it as it only led to her thinking about the loss of her mom, a sore spot for her.

Y/N cleared her throat and forced out a chuckle. “I think that’s a question only he can answer, I don’t always know what’s going on in that crazy head of his.”

The interviewer laughed and proceeded to transition into the next segment. Y/N quickly thanked the interviewer and left, Bucky swiftly following behind. He had a feeling that something was off, as Y/N would typically stay behind to chat with the interviewer, crew members, even the service staff, whenever she finished an interview. It was always something he admired about her, how down to earth she remained, despite all of the privileges she had. She went out of her way to thank everyone on set, no matter how small their role might seem. He always told the drivers to pull the car up a little later than originally planned, just so she would have the extra time to talk.

Y/N pushed the doors open, only to find an empty street. She turned around and gave Bucky a curious look.

“Sorry, the driver just texted me,” he said, as he sent a text to the driver, telling him to come now. “He’s running late.”

Y/N nodded and leaned against the wall, looking down to fiddle with her hands. Bucky leaned against the opposite wall, facing her, his arms crossed over his chest.

“You okay?”

Y/N looked up at Bucky to find a gentle look in his eyes, slightly taken aback at the sight. She always found herself drawn to his piercing blue eyes, but they usually had a colder glint to them. This was a look she’d never seen before.

“Yeah, ‘m fine,” she replied, averting her gaze down as she felt her cheeks flush at the sight of Bucky’s soft gaze.

The car arrived, cutting off Bucky’s train of thought as he was thinking of what to say to her. For a moment he debated on continuing the conversation in the car but figured she already had a long night ahead of her and didn’t want to push any further.

After a quick pit stop back to Y/N’s place, allowing her to change into an evening gown, the car headed to the venue of the gala. Bucky got out of the car before her, walking around to the other side to open her door. Before she stepped out, Y/N took a deep breath in and exhaled, plastering a fake smile on her face as a surge of flashing lights from cameras greeted her. Bucky watched, seeing her seamlessly transform from Y/N, the girl who needed to set a million alarms before actually waking up, to Y/N, tech extraordinaire, one of the most powerful people in the tech world.

Once they were inside the venue, Bucky stuck to his usual routine. Scope out the exits, look for any potential threats, and make sure Y/N was in his eyesight. Bucky kept close by but also kept his distance. He wanted to make sure that he gave her enough space whenever they were out, knowing that having him around was her dad’s idea and that she wasn’t too fond of having security detail in the first place. So he did everything he could to make himself blend in with the crowd, allowing her to roam freely, only following her when she moved out of his line of vision.

Y/N walked around, not knowing a single soul but making polite small talk with the rest of the guests. She became accustomed to knowing how to act at these types of events over the span of her adult life. Food, drinks, more food, home. Crowds made her uneasy, but she always felt calmer when she saw Bucky in her peripheral vision. Y/N would never admit it out loud, but over the last year, he had become a constant source of relief at these public events. Just knowing that he was there if she felt uncomfortable, unsafe, or wanted to leave early made her public outings much more bearable.

“Hey, sweetie! I’m so glad you made it.” Y/N turned around at the sound of her dad’s voice and smiled, moving in to hug him.

“Yeah well, you said you had a big announcement, so I figured I’d stop by,” she joked, eliciting a chuckle from her dad as they pulled away from each other.

“I’m about to make it now,” he started, placing his hands on Y/N’s shoulders. “And I was wondering if you could join me on stage for it? I know that’s not your thing, but it would mean so much to me, Y/N.”

While she absolutely hated the idea of having to stand in front of thousands of people, she reluctantly nodded. Y/N and her dad had slowly grown apart the past several years, only talking a couple times a month to catch up. With both of their busy schedules, they always seemed to miss each other. Despite their growing apart, she would do anything for her dad, especially if it meant so much to him.

Bucky slowly followed behind, as Y/N and her dad walked up to the stage. Y/N glanced behind her to give a slight smile to Bucky, to which he nodded back. He stood backstage, watching them from behind the curtains.

“Hi everyone, thanks so much for coming out tonight,” Y/N’s dad spoke into the mic. She was standing beside him, hands clasped in front of her, trying to look calm and not totally anxious.

“Since the success of my brand, people have said that I am a man who has everything. And I definitely have a lot to be thankful for, my company, my friends, and most importantly, my daughter.” Her dad extended a hand out to point to Y/N and the crowd cheered. Bucky couldn’t help the smile that formed on his lips. Despite his brooding attitude, he had come to grow fond of Y/N, being able to see her for who she truly was. She was smart, witty, and had a heart of gold.

“The only thing I’ve been missing,” her dad looks down at the ground for a second, before looking back out at the crowd. “Is someone to share it all with.” Y/N’s smile faltered and felt her stomach drop. She couldn’t fully register the words coming out of her dad’s mouth.

“After Sarah, my wife had passed, I didn’t think I would be able to love again. Until I met Alyssa.” Y/N was frozen in place upon hearing her dad’s confession. She’d never heard of anyone named Alyssa during any of their catch-up calls and now he was saying he loved her? Y/N quickly turned as a woman walked out on stage. The woman walked over to her dad and he wrapped one of his arms around her waist before speaking.

“Now I feel complete, now I have everything.” He pulled Y/N to him and wrapped his other arm around her shoulders, smiling for the cameras ahead. There were a lot of strategies Y/N had devised over the years to deal with potential unexpected and uncomfortable situations in a composed manner to avoid having a PR nightmare.

She didn’t have one for this.

Tearing herself from her dad’s hold, she ran off stage, heading towards the exit that led to the outside. Y/N took in the fresh air, trying to stop her hyperventilating. It wasn’t working. Her chest felt tight as she began gasping for air, struggling to take in oxygen.

She was having a panic attack. It was nothing she hadn’t experienced before, but it had been so long since she’d had one. The last time she remembered, was at her mom’s funeral.

Her mom. Her dad. Alyssa.

Her thoughts were pushed aside as her vision blurred, her eyes swelling up with tears. Y/N felt like she had no control over her body and shut her eyes, allowing the panic to consume her.

Then, a firm, but gentle, warm feeling in her hands.

Y/N blinked her eyes open to reveal Bucky, standing in front of her. She looked down and saw that it was his hands in hers, holding them tight.

“Can you breathe for me, honey?”

His voice came out in a soft whisper, accompanied by the warmest and welcoming smile. She shook her head, unable to control her quick and rapid breaths. Bucky squeezed her hands a little tighter, rubbing his thumb in small circles on the back of her hand.

“Yes you can, just breathe with me, okay?”

He started to breathe in and out slowly and eventually, she was able to follow his lead, deciding to focus on his eyes. There was that look from before the ride to the gala, the gentle look in his eyes. She’d always felt that his blue eyes reminded her of stormy seas, but now, now they made her think of the calmness of the ocean in the early morning, waves crashing softly on the shores.

As she regained her composure, she realized she’d been staring into Bucky’s eyes for, probably, far too long. Bucky felt her tight grip on his hands loosen and reluctantly let go of her hands. He immediately missed the softness of her hands and how small they were in comparison to his much larger, calloused, hands.

“T- Thank you,” she stuttered out, her gaze locked on the ground, as she placed her hands to her sides.

“It’s no problem. I get them too,” he replied. She looked up at him as he clarified. “Panic attacks. PTSD from serving overseas.”

Y/N face drops, her stomach churning at the thought that Bucky had ever experienced panic like she had. She returned her gaze to the ground as a silence washed over them.

“He didn’t tell me about her,” she spoke in a quiet voice. “Never brought her up once. But I guess she must be pretty special for him to do all of this.”

Bucky stood a couple steps in front of her, seeing teardrops fall from her face. She lifted her head up to wipe away her tears, her hands shaking from anxiety. Y/N placed her hands on her face and started to sob.

She was slightly hurt by the idea of her dad loving any other woman than her mom but knew that he’d have to move on eventually. What hurt her the most was the fact that he didn’t tell her, not until they were on stage, standing before a crowd of people. It was too much for her to handle and she reached her breaking point.

Bucky’s heart dropped at the sight. He cautiously stepped forward and wrapped his arms around her tightly. Something his PTSD had taught him was how pressure from a hug could help relax the nervous system and calm him down. He held her firmly in his arms until he felt her breathing slow. She looked up at him, remaining in his embrace, her eyes glassy from crying, nose red and sniffly. Bucky felt his heart skip a beat and immediately pushed the thought away.

“You wanna leave, honey?”

She nodded in response, staying in his arms for just a second longer before pulling away. Y/N longed for his warm touch, feeling like a child who had their security blanket taken away. It didn’t help that it was also cold outside, sending a chill down her spine.

Bucky noticed and shrugged his suit jacket off to wrap around her shoulders. She beamed a smile at him and he smiled back.

The pair walked around the outside of the venue to find the car when they ran into a mob of paparazzi, shouting questions at Y/N about her sudden exit. Like a reflex, she grabbed hold of Bucky’s hand and he gave her a comforting squeeze as he cleared a path towards the car.

Bucky and Y/N were sat next to each other in the car, which was not the typical seating arrangement they usually had, usually sitting on opposite ends of the car. But Y/N hadn’t let go of his hand, not quite ready to separate herself from his warmth. Bucky had absolutely no problem with that, mindlessly rubbing his thumb against the back of her hand. She felt safe. She always felt safe with Bucky around.

Y/N felt her eyelids become heavy, struggling to keep them open. She was exhausted from her long day, and her panic attack had taken most of her energy away.

Bucky felt a weight on his shoulder and turned his head slightly to see Y/N’s head resting there. He felt a warmth rush to his cheeks and smiled, resting his head on top of hers.

“Thank you for tonight, Bucky,” she mumbled, keeping her eyes closed. “You always make me feel so safe.”

Bucky felt a surge of tenderness rush through him. That was all he ever wanted to do. He wanted to keep her safe. He kissed her forehead, causing her to snuggle closer to him.

“Of course, honey. I’m here, always.”

[covrin-guides]

The Last Night - Arthur Morgan x Reader

The Last Night and the Reunion (Part 1 of 2)

Arthur Morgan x fem!Reader

Words - 2.8k

Warnings - slight angst, suggestive content *wink wink*

| Masterlist | Arin's Ao3 | Requests Open | Join our Taglist |

There weren’t a lot of things that scared Arthur Morgan. But the way you were looking at him right now was scarier than a thousand Pinkertons with their pistols at the ready. You looked ready to kill him, and he knew that you were - at the very least - considering it. On top of that, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to stop you if you tried.

“Arthur Morgan.” Your voice was crisp and cold. The last time he heard you say his name like that was when you found him lying drunk in the bushes in front of your house - he was originally in there hiding from the law, but ended up falling asleep and you found him the next morning.

“Miss Y/n,” He dipped his head down in a greeting. It was the polite thing to do, seeing as he had just been reunited with his sweetheart after disappearing for six weeks with no warning. It was polite, and it allowed him to avoid your gaze. “Fancy meeting you here.”

Even worse that he disappeared on you, he didn’t even seek you out when he came back to town. You just happened to run into him while he was coming out of the saloon and you were leaving the general store across the street.

“Oh, are you surprised to see me?” You laughed sarcastically, “I bet I’m a whole lot more shocked to see you here. In fact, I can’t believe you’re alive. I thought’chya died.”

“See about that Miss Y/n-”

“And we’re back to formalities now, too?”

“I didn’t mean for any of this to happen,” He rushed out, but felt himself forgetting the explanation he was going to give you. He worked on it for those six weeks he was gone. You looked angry, sure, but he also noticed the way you were choking on your words slightly. As if you wanted to cry. He had a bad habit of noticing even the smallest details about you.

“Six weeks is plenty of time to write a single letter, Mr. Morgan.” You crossed your arms over your chest to try and feel bigger than you felt.

“I have a reason you know.”

“It better be a damn good one too.”

“I was doin’ something for Dutch.” Arthur said. He cringed, though, when he saw the tears that brimmed along the edges of your eyes evaporate as your gaze shifted to a heated glare.

“‘Doin’ somethin’ for Dutch’,” You repeated. “What the hell is that supposed to mean, Arthur? You’re always doin’ shit for Dutch and you always come back in a few days at most!” Your words were growing louder to the point where you were just barely below the level considered shouting. “And never without at least saying goodbye!”

Arthur looked back at you and took a moment to observe how you had changed in those weeks he had been gone. He couldn’t think of anything but you; then and now. You were in the air he breathed and the dreams he dreamt. You cut your hair first off, he noticed it was significantly shorter than when he left. You also lost a little weight in your face and there were dark bags under your eyes. You were obviously tired.

“I didn’t mean for you to see me here,” He admitted after a minute.

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” You asked with a spitting edge, “Were you even gonna come see me at all? Did you even think about me?”

“I thought of you whenever I had the chance to think.” He gave you a small, sad smile. It melted your heart, but it wasn’t enough to soothe the anger and hurt you felt. “Every spare moment I had was dedicated to you.”

“What happened, Arthur?” Your tough act was dropping rapidly. You were practically pleading for an answer; A definite answer. “Please just tell me why.”

He just looked at you with pity, something that hurt more than you’d care to admit. He was the one in the wrong here, he was the one who abandoned you right after…

You, up until this very moment, spent every second wondering what had happened to Arthur Morgan. You spent your nights replaying your last moments together to see if you had done something wrong. You shouldered the blame, you thought maybe you had scared him off. It took everyone who knew you telling you that there was nothing that you did that could have caused that man to run off on you like that (You had even run into Hosea in town and asked about it for God’s sake). But, it’s not like you were someone who liked to listen to reason anyways. Emotions tend to get in the way of reality.

*** The night before Arthur disappeared ***

Arthur had planned this evening down to the second. He wanted everything to be perfect for your… anniversary-of-sorts. It had been exactly one year since Arthur met you:

The day you met, you were nannying a couple of local kids for the day while their parents went out to the next town over. You didn’t really want to do it at all, but the couple offered fifteen dollars and a week’s worth of free meals at the local pub (which they owned) for the few hours you would have to watch the brats. You thought it was a steal when you accepted, but, all too late, you realized it was just because their kids were demons and you were woefully unprepared to deal with them. The little devils somehow managed to tie you to a tree a little ways outside of the town, take your knife from you, and run back home.

You had tried to grab the attention of a few passing farmers, but the combined sounds of their horses plus their carts drowned out your voice. The tree was a little far from the road, too, so they couldn’t hardly see you if they weren’t even looking in your direction. You were about to start using your teeth to gnaw through the rope when you saw a lone rider coming up the trail.

Long story short, he saved you from sleeping out against a tree like a fresh wrap of bear bait, and the two of you became nearly inseparable shortly thereafter. He would scare away any rough-seeming fellas that tried to mess with you and you would keep the local sheriff from locking him away in some dark cell for whatever petty crime was reported in town. Sometimes he was guilty, sometimes not, it didn't matter though, the law wanted to blame him and you could always talk them down. You were a team.

Arthur had planned this anniversary-thing as a way to formally ask if he may court you. Of course, the two of you were closer than average friends, and had drunkenly slept together too many times after long nights of drinking at the pub with his group for your relationship to be considered “proper”. But, neither of you had indicated that you wanted to take your relationship a little further than that. As in, potentially being serious enough to get wed further.

That was the night Arthur decided that he was ready to do it. He was ready to ask.

“Are you going to tell me what this secret adventure is now?” You giggled as Arthur stood with you on your front porch. He had refused to give you even the smallest detail on what was planned. All he requested is that the two of you get a little more dolled up than usual.

“Just trust me for once in your life,” He smiled and hid his nerves behind a teasing tone. You rolled your eyes at him, but took the arm he offered you.

He led you to his horse and helped lift you into the saddle. You didn’t need the help, he knew you didn’t need the help, but he thought it was the gentlemanly thing to do on a night as important as this. Plus, you didn’t question his offer like you normally would, you simply smiled and allowed him to grab your waist lighty and push you up.

He hopped on behind you and had to reach his arms around you to grab the reins. Arthur was worried you would be able to feel the pounding of his heart against your back as the two of you were pressed into each other. It was a way that you had ridden together numerous times, but tonight was so different. It felt more intimate than before.

Arthur led his horse through town. By the time he passed every shop and restaurant you were growing more curious to what he had up his sleeve.

“There ain’t anything out this way Mr. Morgan,” You turned your head so he could hear you easier, “You’re not takin’ me out here to kill me quietly or somethin’ right?”

He chuckled softly at your joke and you could feel the rumble of his laughter against your back, “No ma’am, just got something set up here a ways.”

You looked ahead and saw something lighting up in the distance. You were confused at first, seeing as there wasn’t another town around for miles and you could still see your town behind you. It took a few more seconds before you were close enough to see that it was a tree with candles set up around the trunk with mason jars with tea lights inside hanging down from the branches.

Arthur rode up to the tree and carefully slid out of the saddle. He held his hands out for you to grab, but you were mesmerized by the view in front of you.

The candlelight made the tree appear to be glowing. There was a light blue blanket spread at the base of the trunk that had a couple of empty plates, a bottle of whiskey that looked suspiciously like the ones the saloon made for themselves, and a very poorly weaved basket that was nearly falling apart.

“Arthur,” You said in awe, “What is all this?”

“Get down here and I’ll show you,” He winked at you as he said it.

“Why you’re being awfully forward, sir.” You grinned and finally took his hand to slip off the saddle as well. As Arthur led you to the blanket residing over the dust, you recognized the spot you were in. “Arthur Morgan.” You gasped slightly.

The way his full name rolled off your tongue always made him feel special, “Miss Y/n?” He hummed.

“Is this what I think it is?” You laughed in disbelief.

Arthur momentarily panicked thinking you had already figured out what he intended to ask you that night. His heart leapt into his throat as he replied, “What do you think it is?” Your laughter made him nervous. Maybe you figured it out and were making fun of him for it.

“This is where we met, isn’t it? Where those goblins left me tied up because they didn’t want to listen to me anymore!” You giggled and placed a hand on the bark of the tree, reminiscing on how livid you were. Yet, you had those kids to thank in some backwards way. They were the reason you met Arthur.

“Oh that,” He breathed a sigh of relief, “I was hopin’ you’d remember.”

“Of course I remember. How could I forget the day I met my…” You turned towards him, your face merely inches from his, and could hardly think. The lights were reflecting in his eyes and made them seem brighter and boy-like. He looked younger, carefree. “My best friend.”

You weren’t sure what you and Arthur were, but best friend was the closest you could get without telling him you were ready to jump his bones any time of the week. Void of the beers it took to get you confident enough to do it.

“Well,” He cleared his throat and sat down on the blanket opposite from where you were standing, “Seeing as it’s been about a year since I found you stranded out here like a wounded pup-” You scoffed. “I figured we might as well make a date of it. Like a holiday.”

“Like an anniversary,” You ask slyly as you sit across from him. “My, my I didn’t think you were the anniversary-type, Arthur.”

“Important days deserve recognition,” He mumbled, turning to hide a growing blush on his cheeks.

“Well, let’s see what kind of treats are included in an ‘important day’ celebration.” You smile and reach into the basket.

“John put the food together while I was setting this up,” Arthur admitted with a sheepish grin, “So no clue what he put in there.”

You pulled out a few apples from the basket, two pieces of sponge cake wrapped in cloth, an opened tin of sardines, and some tried meat. Looking at the haul of food in front of you Arthur grunted in annoyance. “Fucking John.”

“No, no it’s wonderful!” You laugh, “You know how well sardines and cake pair together. And appes and jerky too! It’s a meal fit for a king.”

“I’m sorry, Y/n.” Arthur blushes as he picks up the sardines and puts them back in the basket with a glare - He actually hates them and knew John added them just to mess with him. “I should have asked Ms. Grimshaw to pack that.”

“Don’t you fret, Mr. Morgan.” You scooted yourself closer to him so you could press a comforting hand to his bicep - which was very strong and defined, you noticed, “If I expected to eat a five course meal then I’d be pursuing the Innkeeper’s son, but that man is unbelievably dull and extremely boring.”

“Right,” Though you meant to be comforting, your words made Arthur flinch just a bit. You were the kind of person who could pick to be with anyone, so why did he think you’d be willing to accept what little he had to offer. He couldn’t even plan you a decent dinner. “Why don’t we just eat this… snack… and I’ll make this up to you another time.”

“Make it up to me?” You laughed incredulously, shocked. “Arthur, you must be joking. This is beautiful: The set up, the drinks, even the food - It’s perfect.” You leaned closer into him, gaze fixated on his lips.

His breath became unsteady and ragged as he also began to lean into you, his eyes scanning your face as you grew closer/ Eventually, he watched as you lifted your chin and your eyes fluttered closed, all he had to do was move a few centimeters and his lips would meet yours.

Arthur was afraid, though. He was worried he’d screw it up in some way. That he would ruin you by just touching you. This wasn’t some drunken stupor the two of you had managed to get yourselves into; this was something far more vulnerable, far more raw.

As he contemplated whether or not he should even continue with his plan of confessing to you, he heard you plead under your breath, “Please, Arthur.”

That’s when he lost all self control and smashed his lips to yours in a moment of passion. How could he tell you no? He snaked his hands around your waist to try and pull you in closer. You wove your hands through his hair as you were practically dragged into his lap. The kiss was messy, but perfect.

When the two of you broke the kiss, gasping for air, it didn’t take long for his lips to attach themselves to your neck as he worked deep kisses down your jawline to your collarbone. You gasped as teeth nipped at a sensitive spot on your neck and Arthur let out a low growl at the noise.

He continued peppering kisses on every bit of exposed flesh as you pulled the jacket and suspender straps from his shoulder and brought your hands under his shirt. Once he felt you starting to lift the shirt up as well, he pulled away from you and grasped your hands in his own. His pupils were blown, his lips were red and swollen, and his hair was an absolute mess. You knew you didn’t look much better, and it made your heart flutter.

It took all your self control not to jump his bones right there as you watched him lick his lips and give you a smirk.

“Before I get too carried away here,” He pushed a few pieces of stray hair behind your ear and stroked your cheek, “I have a question to ask you.”

<><><>

Hope you enjoyed part one of my first ever Arthur Morgan fic! I decided to do this instead of the pile of homework I have sitting on my desk right now, plus I figured it was a good day to post the first fic on the blog too!!

This was getting a little long so stay tuned for part two coming in a few weeks or whenever I get to it :)

-xoxo Arin

[robininthelabyrinth]

Prompt~ hoping you'll like it ♥️

Things between the Nie brothers are not always nice and happy, they fight, just like any other pair of brothers, and sometimes things are said, sometimes these things are heavy and painful. Sometimes they're said in the wrong moment (maybe at the eve of a battle? Sunshot campaign?) and huaisang doesn't know what to do with the broken look his brother gives him before leaving the unclean realm. Because what if he doesn't return? What if the last thing he said to him was how much he hated the man he became?

Labyrinth - ao3

“But I didn’t mean to wish him away!” Nie Huaisang cried out.

“That’s really too bad,” the goblin king said, looking pleasant and humble and charming the way he always did, even in his cape of glittering gold and high-browed hat. “I wish there was something I could do for you, but the rules are the rules. You wished him away, and I took him.”

“Aren’t you supposed to only take babies?” Nie Huaisang demanded.

“Your brother’s enough of a crybaby to count, it’s close enough.”

“It is not!” Nie Huaisang wrung his hands. “You don’t understand, the last thing I said to him was that I hated him! Meng Yao, please!”

“It’s Jin Guangyao,” the goblin king corrected. His smile looked a bit strained. “Listen, do you think I’m happy about this? He’s my sworn brother! I’m only doing what I have to –”

“Oh, save it for Lan Xichen,” Nie Huaisang growled. “Show me the labyrinth already.”

“You’re going to face the labyrinth,” the goblin king said. His voice was very polite, and yet still expressed significant doubt. “You.”

“Yeah, me!”

“You remember that it goes ‘through dangers untold and hardships unnumbered’, right? Not ‘through a nice teacher and a forgiving grading system’?”

“Yeah, well, your father is a fragging aardvark. Let me at the labyrinth already!”

-

“You know what,” Nie Huaisang said thoughtfully. “Thanks, but no thanks.”

The life-sized animated puppet blinked at him. “You – don’t want my help?”

“Nope. I’m good.”

“You haven’t even gotten into the labyrinth yet!”

“It wouldn’t be fair if I didn’t have a chance to get in,” Nie Huaisang said, patting around his sleeve and pulling out a fan. “So I’m just going to walk over and beat at the wall till something happens.”

The puppet followed him, staring blankly. Quite a change from his original apologetic ‘I’m sorry, I’m busy with my own things, I really can’t help you, also it’s too dangerous and you shouldn’t go’ response.

“You were blackmailing me to help you just a moment ago,” the puppet said after a little. “Don’t you need a guide?”

“Listen, I’m bad at memorizing things and I’m a little useless, but I’m not actually dumb,” Nie Huaisang said, fanning himself. “Jin Guangyao is a demon of the mind above all else, and the labyrinth is supposed to be ‘fair’ – which means, more than likely, that the labyrinth is a reflection of the subconscious, specially tailored to each person’s strengths and weaknesses. And that means that you, who sound exactly like Lan Xichen, are almost certainly a set-up sent by Jin Guangyao to ‘reluctantly’ aid me and then betray me.”

“Uh,” Lan Xichen-the-puppet said. “My name’s Hoggle, actually.”

“Whatever makes you feel better, er-ge…A-ha!” Nie Huaisang beamed at the gates that automatically opened. “Perfect!”

-

“Oh, don’t go that way,” the worm said. “Never go that way. And are you sure you don’t want to come in for a cup of tea?”

“No time,” Nie Huaisang said. “Thanks a lot – wait.”

The worm blinked at him.

“You’re a pretty attractive worm, in a slimy sort of way,” Nie Huaisang said, frowning at him.

The worm blinked again. “Why, thanks!”

“No, that’s not what I meant. Is your name Su She, by chance?”

“Definitely not!”

“Mm. Oddly vehement of you. Never mind. Just, quick, could you tell me exactly why do I not want to go that way?”

-

“I don’t suppose straight ahead is an option?”

The hands-faces stared at him.

“I’m just saying, I feel like most of my problems so far have come from the fact that I decided to accept the whole concept of turns. It seems like a mistake.”

“…it’s a labyrinth,” another set of the hands said. “You have to make turns!”

Nie Huaisang shook his head mournfully. “I should’ve brought Baxia or something and just – ZIP. Gone straight through. You know what I mean?”

“I’m dropping you in the oubliette regardless of your decision,” the first set of the hands said. It sounded a bit like Sect Leader Yao. “Just so you know.”

“My life is so hard,” Nie Huaisang sighed. “So hard! Do you know what it’s like to be overlooked by everyone? Do you know how hard I have to work at being this useless?”

“Drop him,” the set of hands that sounded like Sect Leader Ouyang said, and the set of hands that sounded like Sect Leader Yao said, “Yes. Now!”

Down Nie Huaisang went.

-

“I can take you back to the beginning of the labyrinth,” Lan Xichen offered.

“What, and waste all that time? I have a time limit, er-ge!”

“It’s better than being stuck in an oubliette. That’s where they put people to forget about them, you know.”

Nie Huaisang’s eyes filled with tears. “You want to forget me, er-ge? You think I’m useless, don’t you? A good-for-nothing, who’ll never amount to anything –”

“Please don’t cry.”

“ER-GE! WHY DON’T YOU LOVE ME!”

“Please stop crying!”

-

“So what’s the point of you?” Nie Huaisang asked the Wise Man with the Talking Hat.

“Not everyone exists to contribute to your storyline,” the Talking Hat snapped at him. “Some of us’ve got our own problems. Now hand over the candy!”

“Don’t be mean,” the Wise Man said. He had a white cloth over his eyes, and was smiling like he found the hat funny.

“Awww, but daozhang…!”

“Different plotline entirely, I guess,” Nie Huaisang decided. “Probably just here as a foil. Shall we keep going, er-ge?”

“I can’t believe you scammed me to get out of the oubliette,” Lan Xichen mumbled. “I can’t believe…”

-

“Oh, leave him alone, he’s just sensitive!” Nie Huaisang snapped.

“Am not!” the upside-down creature snarled, curled up on itself and trying to hide from all those that had been hitting him. Its fur was a vivid sort of purple. “Go away!”

“Don’t you have some sort of special power to help you here,” Nie Huaisang asked him as he tried to get him down before the goblins came back with weapons. “Rocks, maybe?”

“…lightning?”

“Well then get to it, will you?” Nie Huaisang frowned. “Wait. Lightning, constantly being tormented, terrible at communication, and purple? You’re Jiang Cheng, aren’t you?”

“…maybe.”

“Well then get down faster! I need to copy someone’s notes here!”

-

“Leave me aloooooooone!” Nie Huaisang howled, running away from the measuring snake.

-

“Wow,” Lan Xichen said, holding his cheek. “You kissed me.”

“You saved me from the snakes,” Nie Huaisang said. “Can we focus on how we’re in this awful stinking bog?”

“It’s not that bad!” a voice piped up. “I don’t smell anything!”

Nie Huaisang turned to stare, then pinched the bridge of his nose. “Of course you don’t,” he said. “I bet the total absence of a sense of smell helps when you eat spicy food, Wei-xiong.”

“There’s nothing wrong with spicy food!”

“You’re short,” Nie Huaisang informed the small goblin-like creature with the big grin and the red ribbon in its hair. It looked vaguely fox-like, or possibly like certain large breeds of rabbit.

“Why you..!” Wei Wuxian crossed his furry little paws over his chest. “Just for that, I’m not going to help you.”

“Uh-huh,” Nie Huaisang said. “Really. That’s awful…oh no! A dog!”

Wei Wuxian jumped high into the air. “A dog?! Lan Zhan, Lan Zhan! Save me!”

Much to Nie Huaisang’s surprise, a furry dog immediately darted out of nowhere – only Wei Wuxian didn’t seem afraid of it, but rather hid behind it, teeth chattering.

Truly, Nie Huaisang reflected, the eyes of love are blind.

“I think the ‘dog’ is gone now,” he said. “Your brave and noble Lan Wangji must’ve scared him away.”

Wei Wuxian’s head popped out from behind dog-Wangji. “Well, Lan Zhan is really cool…hey. Are you trying to manipulate me?”

“Is it working?”

“No!”

“So you won’t help me?”

“No!”

“Not even if it means you get to figure out a really tricky puzzle?”

“No – wait. A puzzle?”

“I can’t believe this is going to work,” Lan Xichen muttered from behind Nie Huaisang. “I mean, I can. But also…Wangji…I love you, but you could do so much better than this.”

-

“Ugh,” Nie Huaisang said. “I’m so thirsty.”

“Have some Emperor’s Smile,” Lan Xichen said, offering a jar.

“Amazing,” Nie Huaisang said, accepting it and taking a swing. “I had my doubts, you know, but you’re actually good for something after all, er-ge –”

-

The golden bird was Nie Huaisang’s favorite.

He’d worked so hard to bring it back to his aviary – it couldn’t be forced, he knew; it would play along at first but in the end it would turn on you and bite you. It had to be coaxed with gentleness and kindness, approached indirectly so as not to spook it, convince it that you really did mean well – that you were harmless, that it had no reason to fear you. It was arrogant, too, proud of its shining feathers and ashamed of the brown plumage of its chick days, which still remained visible on its tender underbelly. Ironically, that was Nie Huaisang’s favorite part of it, the soft and gentle part; it might not be as pretty as the gold, but it felt more genuine.

Nie Huaisang smiled as he brushed the beautiful feathers, and the golden bird allowed him. He felt cherished, treasured. So what if he had to hide all the sharp parts of himself to get this close?

It was fine. He didn’t like to be sharp.

He wanted to be soft. Soft and gentle, careless and free, relaxed and without effort, good for nothing –

Wait.

No!

-

“It’s all junk,” Nie Huaisang hissed at the pile of burning fans, tears in his eyes. “I want my da-ge!”

-

“You’re all right!” Wei Wuxian exclaimed, helping pulled Nie Huaisang up.

“Huaisang-xiong,” Jiang Cheng said, looking relieved. “You’re back.”

“We have to go to the temple beyond the Goblin City,” Nie Huaisang said, teeth gritted together. “We have to. I won’t let that bastard…we’re going to go there and throw all his damned tricks right in his face!”

“Just us?” Wei Wuxian asked. “I mean, I’m awesome, Lan Zhan is fantastic, and of course Jiang Cheng is great, too, but…uh…there’s a lot of goblins in the city.”

“We’ll sneak in,” Nie Huaisang said. “He thinks he’s sidelined me entirely – he thinks I’m useless. He won’t be expecting me to get this far.”

“I can get help,” Jiang Cheng said. “I have friends.”

“…not to be rude, Jiang-xiong,” Nie Huaisang said. “But – really?”

-

“You know what,” Nie Huaisang said, eyeing the pile of rocks following Jiang Cheng around, each one painted with a name. One of the names was yellow. Two were in white, with forehead ribbons. “This is fine. I feel like it says something really rude about my empathy for and interest in our junior generation, or lack thereof, but you know what? I don’t care. It’s fine.”

-

“You saved me,” Nie Huaisang said blankly, looking at Lan Xichen, who shrugged, abashed. The remains of the mechanical temple guard were scattered all over. “Over – him?”

“Huaisang –”

“No,” Nie Huaisang said, holding up his hands. “Don’t. Don’t…I don’t want to hear you talk.”

Lan Xichen’s head dropped down and he looked at the ground. “You knew from the beginning what I was like,” he murmured. “I never tried to hide it –”

“I forgive you for being what you are,” Nie Huaisang told him, and Lan Xichen looked up at him, startled and pleased. “I forgive you for not having the backbone to stand up against Jin Guangyao for me – or for da-ge. For being willfully blind for so long, for needing someone else’s proof of his ill-intentions, for always picking him first, for never trusting me…I forgive you, even if you’d never forgive me for the same.”

He dashed away the angry tears in his eyes.

“I just wish this wasn’t a fucking metaphor.”

-

Nie Huaisang left the fighting to the people who knew what to do – Wei Wuxian, Lan Wangji, Jiang Cheng, even the rock-juniors – and went to the temple at the center of the city alone.

Some things, he knew, needed to be done alone, even if it was the type of alone when you were surrounded by other people. Even when those other people stood by his side and made him promise that if he needed them, he would only need to call. Some things…

“I want my da-ge back,” he said to the maze of stairs.

“Then go and find him,” Jin Guangyao replied, looking smug, and Nie Huaisang had to go up and down all those fucking stairs, because Jin Guangyao was nothing if not predictable with his trauma, looking all over, looking for –

Looking for pieces.

“It’s just a metaphor,” he whispered to himself, ignoring how tears were streaming down his face. “It’s just – I need to put him back together, it’s fine. I’m not too late – I’m not too late –”

-

Jin Guangyao held Nie Mingjue’s head in his hands, blinded and gagged and bound with talismans, pulled out of whatever oubliette he'd shoved it into to forget about what he'd done. “Beware, Huaisang,” he said, still smiling. Always smiling. “I’ve been generous up until now, but I can be cruel.”

Nie Huaisang laughed, scoffing. “Generous? What have you done for me that’s generous?”

“Everything! Everything you’ve wanted, I’ve done – I cared for you, I gave you attention, I got you out of work, doing your schoolwork for you and coming up with excuses to get you out of saber training. I gave you presents, fans and pretty clothing, and when that brute of a brother of yours tried to take them from you, I rescued you. And then I even managed your sect for you, answered all of your questions, any time you had – Huaisang, I’m exhausted trying to live up to your expectations of me. Isn’t that generous?”

Nie Huaisang bared his teeth. “Half of those are burdens that only fell on me because of you. Why should it matter to me that cleaning up your own mess and satisfying your own guilt is hard? Why should I pay such a price when all I wanted was to be your friend? When all da-ge wanted was to be your friend? How dare you, Meng Yao!”

“Huaisang…” Jin Guangyao shook his head mournfully. “Huaisang, the last step here is to say the words to break the spell. But you were never good at memorization, were you?”

Nie Huaisang bit his lip until he drew blood.

“Through dangers untold, and hardships unnumbered,” he said. “I have fought my way here to the temple beyond the goblin city –”

“Huaisang, stop! Look at what you’re risking here. You know how everyone loves me – do you think anyone will forgive you for taking me down, for tricking them all? You’ll be all alone!”

I already am, Nie Huaisang thought.

“My will is as strong as yours,” he said. “And my kingdom is as great…”

His voice trailed off.

“I ask for so little,” Jin Guangyao said beseechingly, convincingly, looking just like he always did, like the man who'd been their friend. “Just let me fool you, and you can have anything you want. No responsibilities, no stress, a life of your own. You can even have Lan Xichen, if that’s what you want…”

What’s the last line, Nie Huaisang thought, hating himself for being such a poor student, for cramming things into his mind without any order, for never being able to retain a single drop of it no matter how hard he tried. What is it? Why can’t I ever remember?

“It’d be so easy,” Jin Guangyao crooned. “Much easier than this. Just fear me, love me, believe me, and I’ll be your slave.”

Sharp teeth in a false smile.

Nie Huaisang shook in terror. He couldn’t – his da-ge needed him – he couldn’t be afraid, couldn’t be a coward, couldn’t be good-for-nothing – couldn’t let Jin Guangyao win – couldn’t let him –

That was it.

Nie Huaisang raised his head until his eyes met his enemy’s.

Sensing something wrong, Jin Guangyao’s eternal smile dimmed, and he began to step forward, reaching out, but it was too late.

“You have no power over me,” Nie Huaisang declared, and the world within a world collapsed.

-

Nie Huaisang opened his eyes.

-

Nie Huaisang sat in his desk in the Unclean Realm, trying to amuse himself by trying to figure out what exactly he’d eaten the night before that had given him such bizarre dreams. It was not successful, on account of him being alone.

Alone, just as he had been every night, and every day as well, since the success of his scheme at the Guanyin Temple.

Just as the dream-Jin Guangyao had threatened.

It wasn’t that Nie Huaisang regretted what he had done – the dream was clear enough about that; he’d do it all again in a heartbeat if he had to. But in the dream he’d been working alongside his former friends, with Lan Xichen betraying but then returning to him, with Wei Wuxian dragging Lan Wangji around, with stone-faced Jiang Cheng and the rather interchangeable junior squad behind him…and in his dream, in the end, they’d let him go to take his revenge, telling him that if he needed them for any reason, he could just call.

Just call, and they’d come back to him. Instead of turning from him in disgust, they’d stand by his side…

“Stupid subconscious,” Nie Huaisang mumbled to himself. “What do you expect? That I'd write to them and say ‘for no real reason at all, I find that I rather need you’?”

Silence answered him.

“Well, I do,” he said with a sigh, putting his chin on his hands. “Does that make you happy? I do need you.”

“You do?” Wei Wuxian’s voice rang out, and Nie Huaisang jumped nearly out of his skin. “Well, why didn’t you say so?”

Nie Huaisang turned, staring: it was Wei Wuxian at the door, the human version of him, and of course there was Lan Wangji right before him, and Jiang Cheng, and the (still mostly interchangeable) juniors, and – and even Lan Xichen, who Nie Huaisang was sure had gone into seclusion with no intent to leave.

“What are you doing here?” Nie Huaisang squeaked. And why hadn’t any of his sect disciples warned him?

“We just bullied our way though the door before anyone could stop us,” Wei Wuxian said cheerfully, answering the unspoken question first. “As for the rest – it turns out that I had the strangest dream the other night, really, truly bizarre, and obviously I had to tell Lan Zhan all about it, except it turned out he had a strange dream too.”

Nie Huaisang’s jaw dropped. “But –”

“I felt da-ge’s qi woven into the labyrinth,” Lan Xichen said quietly. “I thought it’d have long ago dissipated or been locked away, but – it was there, in every stone, in every turn. Every obstacle that didn’t really hurt you, every goblin that was more silly than scary…he was there. It was unmistakable.”

Nie Huaisang swallowed. The story of the labyrinth, baby-stealing wish-granting goblin king and all, had been one that Nie Mingjue had told him as a bedtime story, when he'd been a child in need of comfort; he hadn’t thought of it in years before last night. “But…why…?”

“Because Chifeng-zun has a demented sense of humor?” Jiang Cheng suggested, looking irritated.

“Jiujiu means that he hasn’t had that much fun in years, and also that you should throw a party,” Jin Ling said. “You are hosting all three of the sect leaders of all the other Great Sects. Also, why were we rocks?”

“Uh, no idea,” Nie Huaisang said. “Da-ge’s weird sense of humor, no doubt! Anyway, did you say party? I can do a party!”

He rushed out of the room, calling for his servants, calling for them to bring food and wine and tea, and as he did, he looked out of the window – a golden bird was flying away, looking hunted as if something was chasing it, and even as he watched, it crossed the borders of the Unclean Realm and suddenly dissolved into a fizzle of golden dust.

Nie Huaisang put his hand on the stone wall, and felt a familiar echo.

A very familiar echo.

“Oh,” he said, to his servants, feeling somehow simultaneously sheepish and filled with joy. “And while you’re at it, can you bring me my saber? I seem to have – misplaced it…”