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frankenstein-ate-my-left-shoe · 1 year

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destiel!steddie pt.3!!

Pt. 1 | Pt. 2 | NOW ON AO3!: you can hear the call (when trouble's on the way)

ok so it's been a while since i posted part two of this, but i guess today was the day i decided to go feral and not only finish this part but also include the first ever smut i've ever written.

destiel (and the fics i used to read of them) has been on the brain in a big way recently, friends. enjoy!!!

Eddie gapes at her, his mouth opening and closing on its own.

“What’d I miss, kiddos?” Wayne sinks into the previously abandoned chair at the end of the booth and picks up his (now cold) burger. “Eddie, shut your trap, you’re not a goldfish.”

“I called Robin, she’s on her way.”

Wayne hums in response around a mouthful of food “So where’s the man of the hour?”

“Where’dya think? Flapped away like a panicked pigeon.” Eddie gripes.

Wayne hums again “I didn’t know your angel knew how to feel panicked.”

His face grew hot “He’s not my angel, old man, shut up…”

“If anything, he’s Robin’s.” Nancy shrugs. “He’s basically her soulmate.”

“Ah, she’s his girl?” Wayne asks

“No, they are ‘platonic with a capital “P”.’ soulmates.” she emphasizes with mimed air-quotes. “The literal best of friends, inseparable and codependent almost to a fault.”

Eddie tunes out Nancy catching Wayne up on what he missed while he went to check on Fred, staring out the front window at the sparsely filled lot.

He can picture the upcoming events so clearly: this Robin character flies into the parking lot in some old beater, barges through the door, looking around frantically for Steve, only to find her friend casually eating fries with an old man and some random frizzy-haired guy. All three with a significant lack of Steve.

“Where the hell is he?” Wait, that was exactly what had happened, wasn’t it? “Nancy, you said you found Steve and yet I see no Steve.” The poor girl looks frantic.

He glances out the window again and sees a shiny retro BMW haphazardly parked out front. Okay, so not exactly a beater, but still.

“Robin, sit down, we’ll tell you everything.” Nancy’s voice is cool and soothing and yet;

“I don’t want to sit down, I want to know where Steve is.” Robin says, still irritated, as she sits down across from Eddie.

“Well??” She asks him incredulously.

“You better start talkin’ Ed.” Wayne gestures for him to get on with it with a particularly long french fry.

“Okay, well, I’m Eddie, this is Wayne, my uncle. We are hunters.”

“Hunters.” Robin repeats.

“Yeah, not that kind. We hunt supernatural creatures and about six months ago, I died.”

“Okay, this I hadn’t heard, I swear.” Nancy says to Robin, then turns her full attention back to Eddie.

“Somehow I don’t believe you died; also how in the hell is any of this relevant? I want to know where Steve is!”

“I’m getting there, I promise! I–okay, you know what? Fine. TL;DR is: I died, was brought back to life by something–like just fully yanked outta hell–and when we tried to summon whatever it was that did it, we first met Steve.”

Robin is silent for a moment. “Okay, despite how much I really want that whole story, that still doesn’t tell me where Steve is.”

“I don’t know where he–wait, you believe me? Just like that?”

Robin shrugs at him.

“Wait, and you too,” He points at Nancy “You believed me right away about the ghost. What the hell is happening here??”

The two women look at each other quickly then back at the two men.

Nancy opens her mouth to reply, but is stopped when there was a fluttering sound near the diner entrance.

Eddie is facing away from the door so he turns to see Steve walk in, and has a fleeting thought about if the one waitress and cook still here past midnight are seeing all this too.

He expected Robin to be on her feet and running to the other man immediately, but she must see the angel and not the man, recognizing that it isn’t quite her Steve.

“Hello.” The angel states simply when he returns to their booth. “You must be Robin.”

Robin has tears flowing freely down her face now and it strikes Eddie straight to the heart.

“You are not Steve.”

“You would be correct, Ms. Robin, I am not. May I?” Steve gestures to the bench across from her, to the seat he’d vacated previously.

Robin says nothing, eyes wide, and tears falling over her trembling lip.

“Go ahead and sit Steve, where’d you go?”

“Thank you, Nancy, I left to retrieve your Steve.” The angel sits beside Eddie, who forgets to move when hit with that little nugget of information, and almost gets a lapful of angel before scooting over against the wall.

“You went to get Steve?” Nancy asks.

“Yes, I returned to my Father’s Kingdom and asked him to come with me to see you.”

“So….he can hear us?” Eddie asks.

“Yes, if it will be alright with you all, I will let him take over and speak with you. I will pay any conversation no mind, so please, speak with him as you would normally.”

Nancy nods, “Robin, would you like to talk with Steve?”

It seems like Robin still can’t quite form words, but nods her head furiously to her friend’s question while still glaring at the thing in front of her.

Steve gives a small nod and closes his eyes.

He takes in and releases a long breath, as he does, Eddie can spot the small twitches his eyes make beneath his lids and the slightly more pronounced breathing pattern that give away when angel becomes human.

Hazel eyes open, then immediately start blinking away tears. “Robin…” Steve breathes out like a sigh of relief.

A sharp, short, aggravated scream erupts from Robin, and her hands start flying.

“Whoa, what is happening right now? Is she freaking out? Is she okay?” “Yeah, she’s freaking out, and yes, she’s fine.” Nancy assures him, tracking Robin's movements with her eyes “She’s signing.” she nods and goes back to her fries.

“Ah…” Okay, that makes a bit more sense. “I would say let's leave them to it but I think we’re stuck here until they’re done.” he says, gesturing to the wall they’re sitting next to in the booth with his chin, but still watching Robin’s hands, trying his damndest to see if he can possibly pick up on anything she’s saying.

Nancy snorts a short laugh and watches her two friends for a bit. “I’d offer to teach you but I only know a few myself, y’know, just in case they–well, just her now–needs something in a non-verbal episode.”

“Do these happen a lot?” Wayne asks, his eyes also tracking Steve and Robin’s hands

Nancy gives him a sympathetic look. “The two of them have been through a lot, we all have, but yes, they’re more often than I’d like.”

Steve waves his hand at Nancy, getting her attention. He signs something, pointing to her, does something that looks like grabby hands with his hands stacked atop one another, then points to himself, moves to tap his closed fingertips to his mouth, moves the same hand, palm to his chest, moving it in a circle, then finishes with a crook of one finger, like suddenly he was the star of the Shining.

Robin looks incensed that he’d dare take his attention away from her when she’s very clearly trying to yell at him some more, and waves her hand directly in his face again before launching into even faster hand motions.

Nancy pushes her nearly empty plate of fries to Steve (who somehow continues his conversation with Robin one-handed as he shovels the cold fries into his mouth sloppily), and turns to ask Wayne something, already getting out of his seat, “I got it, don’t worry, what flavor does he want?”

“Strawberry!” she calls then turns back to a shocked Eddie. “Wayne knows sign?”

“News to me.”

“Steve asked me to get him food.” She repeats each sign he’d done, “You. Get. Me. Food. Please.”

“What was the redrum shit he did at the end?” Eddie copies the finger motion.

“A question mark!” she says cheerily, copying the motion to him.

She continues to teach Eddie what she knows, just little things, like asking for water, how to say hungry, the sign for hurt, “That one is made over wherever it hurts, it’s distinctive enough to do one-handed, too.”

Finally, after Steve’s burger is gone, milkshake half-gone, the two friends’ hands finally still; their faces are soaked through with tears, chests heaving like they really had been screaming at each other this whole time.

Eddie tentatively reaches over to touch Steve’s shoulder “You doing okay, Big Boy?”

The man startles with a squeak and Eddie removes his hand like he’d been burned. “Who–who are you??”

“Uh…” Eddie says, as astute as ever, looking to Nancy for help. She just shrugs at him. Jerk. “Sorry, Stevie–Steve, I know the angel version of you.. I’m Eddie.” He puts out his hand for the man to shake.

Steve’s face tinges pink and signs something to Robin, pointing to Eddie, putting his palm flat to his own chest, then brings both his fists together at his knuckles over his heart, redrum-ing his thumbs in sync.

Robin speaks for the first time in a while, “How the hell should I know?? Just ask him yourself.” She crosses her arms over her chest angrily and looks away.

He clears his throat and turns back to Eddie, shaking his hand. “Nice to meet you, Eddie, sorry it wasn’t before I died.”

Robin squeaks, but Steve keeps his eyes fixed to Eddie’s. “Oh, uhm, nice to meet you too, Stevi–Steve. The angel version of you is pretty okay, but I wish I had too.” he smiles, releases Steve’s hand and leans forward, stage-whispering to the other man as if the angel couldn’t hear him. “The other guy is basically just a baby in a sweater.”

Steve blinks once and erupts into the most lovely peals of laughter.

Wayne clears his throat then, and smiles, Steve’s attention is pulled to the older Munson. “Nice to meet you, son. Name’s Wayne, I’m Eddie’s uncle.”

They shake hands and Nancy speaks up, “So, Steve, what happens now? Are you going to stay here? With the angel Steve?”

The smile melts off his face at that, “Oh, uhm.. I don’t think… no. No, I want to go back.”

Both girls’ faces twinge with hurt, Nancy’s behind her gentle smile, and Robin’s more pronounced in the hurt already on her face, still looking away from her soulmate.

Something in the air changes, and both Eddie and Wayne share a look, they both feel the need to escape the conversation that’s coming.

“I am okay right now, I was super hungry, but I can feel it coming. I can tell that if I wasn’t currently half celestial being right now, that the years of dealing with Upside Down would show themselves again.” his voice gets even smaller then “I’ve really been enjoying the break from it all.”

It’s Wayne who speaks first after that, clapping Steve on the shoulder closest to him. “You enjoy your break, son. Lord knows I wish I’d had that after we dealt with those flower-faced fucks back in my day.”

Spluttering chaos erupts from the three barely adults, “After you dealt–”, “A break?!”, “Flower-faced fucks? You know about the Demogorgons??”

“How do you guys know about Demogorgons?”

“How do you know about Demogorgons??”

“It’s a monster in D&D, what does that hav–”

“Oh my god, of course that’s where they got the name from.”

“They? Who’s ‘they’??”

Wayne raises a hand to stop them, and surprisingly, it works. “Back in my day, we didn’t have’a proper name for ‘em, just called them flower-faced fucks. And yes, we dealt with a few, my buddy Fred and I went snooping around the woods near–”

“Hawkins Lab right?” Nancy cuts in.

“Yep. nearly got us, but we’d been takin’ the long way from Emerson’s house after a game’a ball. Knocked the thing’s lights out with our bats, but it disappeared.

“Over the next, what, five years? We’d somehow be the unlucky ones to run into more of ‘em, but they quieted down about a year before I left. After I got Eddie o’course.”

“Well they ramped up bigtime in the last four for us, met a girl with superpowers, there were demogorgons, demodogs, a mindflayer, the mall burned down, there were Russians, it was a whole thing.” Robin rambles off, “It’s how Steve's gotten hurt so bad. Someone” she glares at him “decided to be the punching bag every time.”

He looks sheepish. “No one else was going to do it…The party says I’m their–”

“Paladin.” Eddie finishes with him. Of course he’d be a paladin.

Steve beams at him.

“How many concussions did’ja end up with, Mr. Paladin?” Wayne grouses from his chair.

“Th-three. I think. Uhm.. I got a plate to the head once, too.” He points to a small scar at his hairline above his left eyebrow, “That was just from a racist monster though, not like, a monster monster. Started losing my hearing on that side after that…hence the ASL.”

“Fuck…” Eddie can’t help it, the word just falls from his mouth.

“There’s someone else you need to talk to, Steve.” Robin cuts in, “You are staying here until tomorrow morning at least, so I can bring Dustin to you.” and finishes with a glare. “Where are you two staying?” She directs at Eddie.

“The Hawk Inn?” He looks to Wayne for confirmation, who nods. “The one right off the main road, just past the entering Hawkins sign.”

“Fine. I will be there with Dustin tomorrow at 8 am.” She stands and gives Steve a look, then heads out the front door to the beemer.

“D’ya mind staying on the mortal plane with us for a night, Stevie?” Eddie wraps his arm over Steve’s shoulders and gives him a slight shake.

“Dustin’s really gonna love you.” Steve’s lips twitch up into a still sad smile, “And no, I don’t mind, it’s for Dustin afterall.”

“Come on then, let's get you some beauty sleep.” He shoos him off the bench after Wayne stands to pay their check. “Nance, you gonna meet us there tomorrow?”

“Of course, you still haven’t told me about this hunting business.”

–

Ten minutes after the weirdest post-hunt meal ever (and that’s saying a lot), the van rattles to a stop in front of the motel.

“I call dibs on the shower!”

“Why d’ya need to shower? Your angel cleaned us all up no problem!”

“That’s not the point, Wayne, I still feel gross and I can’t sleep unless I feel like I’m clean.”

“Whatever, I’m going to bed.” He gets the door unlocked and pushes it open for the other two, closes it, and flops down onto one of the beds. “Make sure you put down salt lines before you get in there, Ed.”

Eddie rolls his eyes, but sets their regular wards and precautions. “You want to take a shower first, Steve?”

“No, I’m alright, I’m just going to lay down I think.”

“Sure, I will be out in a few.”

He grabs up his things, preparing to take a few extra minutes to brace himself for catching a few hours on the hard motel loveseat.

Eddie ends up relaxing a bit too much while in the shower though, waking up from a doze when the water temperature starts to dip. Grumbling, he gets out and towels off, working off muscle memory alone. Dry off body, scrunch hair, pull on boxers, brush teeth, drop towel on floor, shuffle to bed.

He’s out as soon as his head touches the pillow.

—--

Eddie soon becomes aware of two things: One, how damn soft whatever it is he’s laying on is, and Two: the familiar weight of another person on top of him.

He opens his eyes, and groans as they adjust to the light to take in the sight above him.

Steve’s flushed and slightly sweaty face blink into clarity and Eddie’s aware of a third thing.

They’re both completely naked.

He groans again when he feels something brush across the head of his cock, then again as whatever it was wraps around him.

“St-Steve?” he breathes, “Ungh, Stevie, that feels so good.”

Steve releases his hold on the two of them, and he feels his arms secure themselves around his back instead. He’s lifted up into Steve’s lap, straddling his knees, and arms draping around his neck.

“Tell me about it, angel.” Steve says, and Eddie looks down at his (beautiful, perfect) face, but is distracted by something behind him.

“Holy shit.” He breathes out, feeling Steve’s hair brush against his abdomen when he turns to look at what it is that caught Eddie’s attention.

“Oh, those?” the wings shuffle to life from where they’d been lying, dropped lazily to the ground from Steve’s back.

Eddie watches them curl in on themselves, folding in before unfurling back out, this time spreading high and wide. They are enormous, astounding, and leave Eddie awestruck looking up at them. The feathers catch the light in ways he hadn’t thought possible. A golden sheen glints off the chestnut and auburn colored feathers, patterns Eddie's certainly never seen before.

He reaches forward and touches a finger to the plumage, then just has to sink his whole hand into them. “They’re so soft..”

“They’re old news,” The honey-sweet sound of Steve’s voice snaps his attention back from the mesmerizing wings to the man they are protruding from. “These, however, are simply divine.” Steve says as he slides his hands up Eddie’s back from where they’d been wrapped around his waist.

If he thought the feeling of those hands on his skin was heavenly (hah), some other word entirely new needed to be created for the feeling that shot through him when Steve touched…something on his shoulder blades.

“Ah…hah…what are you–” Eddie turns his head to look over his shoulder the best he could, struggling to see what Steve’s talking about.

“C’mon darling, you can do it, lift those pretty wings of yours for me to see.” Steve sighs.

Eddie can’t compute anything he just heard in the slightest. Struggling to make sense of what the hell is happening right now and desperately trying not to come at how Steve’s words had affected him.

Through no conscious thought of his own, two dark brown, nearly black wings shoot up behind him, and Eddie is picked up from Steve’s lap for a split second from the momentum of the movement. He watches as they posture themselves into a mirror image of Steve’s (though they are noticeably smaller). Eddie feels his skin beneath the feathers contract slightly, making the feathers puff up in a feeble attempt to match themselves to the senior angel’s size.

He realizes that he’d been craning his neck to look up at his wings when he feels Steve’s lips and hot breath pepper across the column of his throat.

“Such a sweet little thing, my Eddie.” Steve laughs against his adam's apple when Eddie bucks his hips forward into Steve’s stomach involuntarily and a whine escapes his lips.

The angel leaves one hand grasped over the base of one of Eddie’s wings and traces his fingertips down the bumps in his spine, then down further between the cleft of his ass with the other.

“Oohhh, fuck, Steve–Ah!” Eddie’s hips pitch forward again and his hands tangle themselves into the hair at the back of Steve’s neck, pulling the angel forward to his throat again which he latches onto immediately.

Steve sucks bruises into Eddie’s neck as he pushes and prods and swirls his finger around his hole. “Relax my love, let me take you, take care of you.”

Eddie nods dumbly, breathing hard, willing himself to relax. He sighs and closes his eyes, rests his forehead against Steve’s once the other man pushes a finger past the ring of muscle.

“Good, good job starlight. You’re so beautiful.” Steve praises as he pumps his finger in and out.

Eddie opens his eyes and looks down at the man below him, though it’s short-lived, as his eyes roll back with yet another groan as Steve adds a second finger.

“That’s it, baby, you take me so well.”

Eddie opens his eyes again, cataloging as much minute detail, every expression that flits across Steve's face as he can while the angel works him open.

The brilliant hazel of his eyes seem to glow around the dark of his pupils, the flush on his face slowly working down his neck to his collarbones; but it’s the look of absolute reverence that has Eddie weak. The angel admires him as if he is some sort of gift. Like Eddie is a breath of fresh air, an ice-cold soda on a hot day, not the broken, unworthy man that’s somehow been graced by a literal angel’s presence.

He knows what his own face must look like, eyes hooded, pupils blown wide, mouth hanging open as he pants with desire, but Steve relishes in it, pulls him in for an open-mouthed kiss as a third finger is pushed in along the other two. Their tongues roll languidly against each other, hot breath changing lungs while Steve works.

“Ah–Steve, sunshine–I’m ready. Please!”

“Of course, Eddie.” Steve sounds like he’s out of breath; he removes his fingers and lifts Eddie easily, lining himself up with his opening.

Eddie pitches backwards as the head of Steve’s cock pushes into him.

“Easy there, darling,” Steve chuckles as he holds Eddie close, “Those things are heavy when you let them relax like that.”

Eddie hums in response, taking a second to figure out what Steve’s talking about. Tilting his head back and looking up, he doesn’t see the dark chocolate brown of his own feathers, so he turns instead. “Ah, there they are.” he says, still feeling boneless.

Steve chuckles, “That they are. Fold them up for me, Eddie, so I can lay you back.”

Eddie’s brain is swimming, but he’s doing his best to make it and his wings cooperate, “Mmmm, want you to, want you to fuck me down into them…”

A rumbling groan sounds in Steve’s chest “Eddie. Fold them in. Now.” Steve’s impressive wingspan had relaxed somewhere in the last few minutes, but are thrown upwards again as if to emphasize his words.

Just like before, at Steve’s command, Eddie’s body immediately follows the direction. His wings snap in around him and Steve lays him down into plush feathers, pushing further into Eddie at the same time.

They groan in unison. “You are so perfect, so pliant for me.” Steve praises and he starts to move, pulling the most sinful noises from Eddie’s throat as he is fucked into over and over.

“Yes, yes, please don’t stop!” Steve listened to his pleas. He didn’t stop. In fact, he pitched his hips into a slightly different angle, and went in harder and harder, plunging into Eddie so fully and so dead on he was seeing stars.

“Eddie, Eddie…” Steve chants his name in time with Eddie’s moans, “Eddie, I’m–”

A sharp pinging alarm wakes him, always set to 7am sharp.

Eddie grumbles some nonsense as he pushes his face farther into the firm mattress, warm where he’d been laying, and reaches to turn off his alarm.

He does, then settles back down fully, swearing to himself that he’s just gonna get a short little snooze in…and turns over to–

“Jesus H. Christ!” Eddie jumps so high he ends up on the rough carpet, looking up at the man sitting on the opposite side of his bed.

“Good morning, Eddie.” Steve turns his head and smiles down at him on the floor. “What were you dreaming about?”

Steve looks pointedly down to Eddie’s lap.

He looks down at himself, “Oh shit,” He snatches up the discarded comforter from Wayne’s bed to cover himself, a wet spot on his boxers making the fabric stick to his skin. “Fuck, I’m just gonna…” He trails off, hopping up and grabbing whatever clothes he can find and darting into the bathroom to the sounds of Steve’s muffled laughter

He changes quickly, his base layer being almost exactly what he was wearing yesterday thanks to Stevie cleaning them up like he did after dealing with that ghost. He leaves the small bathroom and grabs one of Wayne’s flannels from his duffel.

“Looks like Wayne got up before us.”

“He did, he asked if we wanted anything when he left.”

“Eh, he knows what I like.” Eddie shrugs.

The pair sit in silence for a few moments before Steve breaks it. “I’m sorry I scared you, Eddie.”

‘Yep, totally, that’s the only reason I freaked out. Definitely not because of the crazy sexy dreams I was having about you.’ Eddie thinks to himself.

“No worries, Big Boy, I’m just not used to waking up to someone in my bed.” If that ain’t the truth. He clears his throat, “I normally talk in my sleep, I didn’t say anything embarrassing did I?”

“Only some groaning.” Steve shrugs to himself.

He lets out a relieved breath. “Good, that’s good.”

“Oh, wait,” Steve snaps his fingers (“Oh no…”). “You did say ‘Yes, yes, please don’t stop!’.”

Steve throws him a shit-eating grin but before Eddie can sputter out a single decibel, the sound of a key jiggling in the room lock snaps him up to his feet to grab the knob.

“Oh no you don’t, do the knock!” he calls, shoulder pressed against the door to keep it closed.

Eddie hears Wayne’s exasperated sigh through the thin door, but their decided pattern of a knock is tapped out and he opens the door.

Wayne steps through with a bag of take out from the nearby fast food joint. “Thought for sure you'd still be out cold. Eddie’s got a habit of snoozing five too many times.” Wayne directs the last at Steve, who chuckles in response.

Eddie just rolls his eyes, “Bullies. The both of you.” he points at the greasy bag in Wayne’s hand “Now gimme some of that so I’m not dying of hunger when we meet this Dustin kid.”

>:) Part 4 here!

@undreaming-rambles, @potentialheartofdarkness, @munsonfamilyband, @evix-syne666

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5eraphim · 6 months

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posting this here instead of main bc i like to keep my writing stuff here,

i stopped attaching songs to fics bc i was sick of being like "who the hell is gonna listen to this?" every single time i included one. i like using quotes a lot more to be honest bc its a much more effective to give the reader a peek of the story's vibe

but usually id wait till the last moment to pick a song to attach, or i'll pick a few and decide ever everything was written.

usually i sort of let the prompt marinate in my head and think of one scene i really wanna write, or some kind of specific dialogue interaction

before starting the draft i write out an outline in longhand in a notebook and include notes on the margin abt content warnings and what dirty stuff i wanna add. (im sorry this is very cumbersome and weird but its the only way that makes sense to me)

also i sort of break the outline into chunks and usually end up starting the fic somewhere in the middle to write the part i care about the most. and then kinda skip around and hope for the best when i get to editing.

in my experience if you write smut, or explicit content, you really gotta force yourself to write it in one sitting. ive found its so hard to write the endings to dirty scenes if i cant quite remember the feelings i started with, if that makes sense?

examples of scene inspired fics:

solly getting his boots kissed in hunting party

not gonna lie when i read the request for nuthin' personal i knew right away i wanted sniper to use jarate to "rub a little salt in the wound" if you know what i mean

trypanaphobia, or more generally using a phobia against you to force cooperation (upcoming story)

examples of dialogue inspired fics:

Engie's "so you think i'm the selfish one" interaction from birthday cake

scout's ma talking about what scout's been through and about how he was growing up, why he gave up on wanting to find his father talk from puppy eyes

basically all of doomer medic's lines in heaven waits. like i basically wrote his lines at once and went back to add the other half of the conversation and narration. i usually like to write dialogue first then fill in the narrative blanks, but ive always write every character's dialogue together (bc thats what makes more sense) but heaven waits has been the only acceptation.

i cant write chronologically to save my life so i like to let whatever sparks my creativity the most to start. writing long hand helps me visualize what scenes are gonna be the longest/ get a general idea what the beginning middle and end are gonna look like.

also writing longhand is good when u have ideas at odd hours of the night u wanna jot down and remember rather than using notes app bc the notepad's not going to irritate your eyes like a screen would. i think that deserves a shout out.

#anonymous #unedited im sorry this is such a ramble #thank you so much for the ask ! <3

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whothefelsewantedtobelynnyx-ao3 · 1 year

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Welcome to my Tumblr!

Hi guys! My name's Lyn, also known as LynNyx or WhothefelsewantedtobeLynNyx. This is the blog where I'll be keeping up with my series, works, and friends from AO3.

Who I am

I’m a budding author and part-time fanfiction writer. My current focus is The Owl House! You may know me from works on AO3 such as:

The Raven House (A TOH Swap AU)

Insomnia

The Red Herring In The Tea Leaves

Ground Zero

And more! (for anyone new, check me out here!)

Why I’m setting up a new Tumblr.

I recognize that a lot of you follow me for content that only comes out every couple months. I want to interact with you guys more than that, and give you more content than that! That’s why I’m creating this blog. On Tumblr, I’ll be able to post more often and post more unique content, including:

Worldbuilding

Art

Answered questions

Updates and timelines

Shorts and mini-fics

Sneak peeks

Other related content, such as incorrect quotes postings or little facts that I’m not able to work into the story

I’ll also be able to interact with my amazing, amazing audience more! I’ll be answering asks, doing Q&As (both in character and out) and just generally chatting with y’all. Every once in awhile, I may open up a poll, prompt, or some other kind of interactive post- like the one where OCs can be featured in The Raven House.

Rules

I have some ground rules and boundaries that I’d like everyone to please respect, for the sake of myself and others.

I do not proship, nor do I allow discussion of proshipping when it pertains to my works. Here’s a link to the post where I discuss my reasoning on my other blog. My main concern when it comes to this rule is my work ‘Shades of Lavender’, but it still stands in regards to my other works.

I will not tolerate hate in my comments. Full stop.

I’m writing this just before the release of For The Future, and I’m sure you all know of the leaks from the episode. I am lucky enough to have the privilege of being able to watch the episode legally and supporting Dana and her team. While I recognize that not everyone has that as an option, I ask that we try and avoid spoilers here, both with regards to the upcoming release and when the final episode comes out (because we’re 0/2 so far on managing not to get leaked, and I don’t love the chances)

I don’t do NSFL stuff, which in my definition includes:

Incest or pseudo-incest/found family incest

Vore

Graphic or detailed rape/non-con

Any form of underage character/adult character shipping

When it comes to 18+ stuff, I do occasionally create and discuss smut works. However, it will be clearly marked and closely monitored. I also do not create 18+ stuff involving underaged or aged up characters (where they’re aged up for the sake of making smut legal).

Be patient with me, please. I’m a full time student with a part time job. This is my hobby and I love it, but I don’t have the luxury of spending as much time as I’d like on it. Sometimes projects will come out late or take ages to update. If that happens, know that I’m doing the best I can to create the best project I can.

Anything else?

Don’t hesitate to shoot me an ask or a DM if you’re more comfortable with that! I’m always happy to chat. To celebrate the start of this new blog, I’ll be running an AMA for the next day or so! Feel free to shoot me any questions about me or my works that you’d like to ask, and I’ll get back to you ASAP!

#the owl house #the owl house fanfiction #lynnyx writes #archive of our own #ao3 #toh ao3 #toh fanworks #toh au #toh #fanfiction #fanfic writer #fanfic #fanworks #author #creator #toh fancontent creator #toh fanart #toh fandom

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just-my-fandom · 1 year

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Author Interview

I was tagged by a friend from Quotev (whose account is inactive here on Tumblr). I realized I’ve been posting on here for four years, and never fully introduced myself.

1. Name; Just-My-Fandom, or K. Privacy reasons, I’ll never give out my full time.

2. Age; Over 18. I feel that is the best I can give out especially with some fics I’ve written.

3. Fandoms I write; I started out doing major ones such as Criminal Minds and Marvel, and started drifting into DC (Flash), to Ninjago, to even Steven Universe. Sooner or later I will start writing for Twilight (Which I’ve JUST seen in my lifetime). I also write for Stranger Things, Outer Banks,Voltron, My Hero Academia, and many more.

4. Where do I write; Mostly all on Tumblr. I do have a couple one shot books on my quotev (same username), but have been inactive on Quotev since late 2021.

5. Worst part about writing; Smut. Yes, I am of age, and I’ll admit, I like reading it, but writing it myself I have never been comfortable with it unless it is a character OF AGE. But even then, I get hesitant.

6. Favorite Story; I honestly don’t have one. I love all my stories equally no matter how much more attention one gets compared to another.

7. Story I’m nervous to post; Ooh, I currently have 21 drafts, and the only one I’m nervous about posting is one with Cisco Ramon (The Flash). Spoiler, the reader is in only half of the story, and that makes me worried that no one will want to read it once they realize the reader is no long part of the story.

8. How do I choose the titles to my stories; I just wing it. I’ll choose a standing word or quote from the story most of the time, so it doesn’t ever end up having a title until I’m halfway or all the way done with it.

9. Complete Works; Rocky Roads Season 1 is fully complete.

10. Incomplete Works; Rocky Roads Season 2, One After Another, Brought Back are all incomplete.

11. Do you outline (follow plot); For the most part, yes. Occasionally, I’ll change the plot but most of my stories consist of events that have occurred in the show/movie.

12. Upcoming most excited for; Probably “Call It”. It’s my longest one chapter fit revolving Cisco Ramon (Flash), and it is an alternate plot change to the Cisco Ramon fic I’m nervous to post.

#get to know me #get to know the author #upcoming fic #Cisco Ramon

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melis-writes · 2 years

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When will you publish the new oneshot ? 🙂💗

The question of all questions, isn’t it? 👀 I’m halfway through the Tony Montana x Reader smut oneshot for one but the Moth to Flame oneshot that’s upcoming I’ve yet to start writing. 😅 I like having my fics planned out from the very beginning to end, thoroughly detailed so when I start officially writing it, I have all my ideas, suggestions from you guys, little quotes I’ve scribbled in the sidelines, etc, ready so I can all include it in.

Moth to Flame’s oneshot is definitely not going to be short, is all I can say. It’s very action packed and we’re seeing not just Michael, Victoria and the infamous Alphonse Ricci, but we’re also seeing all of Victoria’s brothers involved as well!! 👀🙏🏻 I’m almost done planning it so I’ll begin to write it soon, I promise!! Little hard to balance 3 fics with work, life and also writing out the amazing prompts coming in from you guys, but I’ll be regularly updating about the Moth to Flame oneshot after the planning is complete! 😅

I only wanna write the best of the best for you guys, not to rush it or have it up and posted just to say “it’s here”! It’ll be worth the lengthy wait!! 🤞🏻✨

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sunbitesworld · 1 year

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"Ya wanna act like a whore, yer gonna get treated like one."

#sunshine speaks #D U D E #thirsts #quote from upcoming smut fic #last teaser before it drops in an hour

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snackhobi · 3 years

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Being a barista isn’t all bad.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s Tuesday,” he states solemnly.

“I know?”

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

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

“I did.��

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Actually, on the note of cute regulars—

“Your 2:15 appointment is here.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’ve barely spoken to him.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hi,” he says, and… that’s it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Witchcraft,” he says, and you laugh.

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

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

“Was that the weekly special?”

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

“Would you recommend it?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Record scratch. Freeze frame.

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

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

Oh, God.

A couple.

You’ve been crushing on a taken man.

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

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

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

You are the worst.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Why, oh why, oh why.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He’s dyed his hair.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So you say: “You dyed your hair.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(“Good lord,” Taehyung says faintly.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Huh?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hi,” Yoongi says.

“Oh! Hi,” Taehyung says.

“Hyung! Look!” Jungkook says.

“Jungkook, wait—” you say.

“Whirr,” the lidless blender says.

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

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

And then Yoongi laughs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Your heart aches.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Duly noted.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then he spots you standing there.

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

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

Yoongi stares at you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, you think.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Still want to take me on a date?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No, I won’t,” you say.

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

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

taglist: @beyoncesdragon @vensulove

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

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guardianofrivendell · 2 years

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Back by popular demand (lol two people but let me have my moment): the Guardianofrivendell Birthday Writing Challenge!

A writing challenge?

Yes! To celebrate Tullaina's and my own upcoming birthday on June 11th, I challenge YOU, my dear mutuals, friends and followers, to write! Because what better way to celebrate my birthday than by being creative?

You can write anything from a little drabble to a full-blown 5k+ words fic story, whatever you feel like. But about what?

Well... If you remember last year, the writing challenge was all about the Incorrect Tullaina Quotes. I’m bringing them back because it was a lot of fun, but I’m adding two more options for those who want to try something else this year or simply don’t want to write about my OC (which I totally understand!!)

You can write fluff, angst, even smut, use every cliche trope in the book if you want, but make sure to tag your work accordingly so no one gets surprised!

You can find the three options further down this post.

How do I participate?

If you decide to join this little writing challenge, I'll be forever in your debt and super super grateful that you helped by not letting this flop!

Send me an ask or dm if you want to join this challenge with the option of your choice. I'll list the participants in this post and depending of if they want to, I’ll add what option they chose so you’ll have a basic idea of what everyone else is doing (because we like that, we’re human after all)

Deadline is Saturday June 11th 2022, this means you’ll have about 6 weeks time to write your work. On June 11th, everyone can post their work on Tumblr using the tag #Guardianofrivendell Birthday Writing Challenge 2022 so we can find the fic and don't forget to tag me in it!

The day after I’ll link all the works in one big GBWC 2022 Masterlist.

Can I post the fic on other platforms too?

Sure! Go ahead and post it on AO3, Wattpad or whatever platform you use outside of Tumblr.

What if I can't write, but I want to draw something or make a moodboard?

Uh... Yes please! You don't even have to ask! Same thing, send me an ask or dm that you’ll join the challenge and I’ll add your name to the list. You can still choose between the three options!

If you have any questions, don’t hesitate to send me an ask or message! I’ll probably reblog this post a lot of times the next 6 weeks, so sorry in advance for that :)

I read this post but I still don’t understand what this challenge is or what I have to do?

Don’t worry, we all get that sometimes! Luckily for you (and me!) I did this challenge last year as well. You can read all the works and watch the beautiful art pieces here so you can see how my wonderful mutuals and friends took on this challenge like a boss! Aren’t I the luckiest one?

Alright, alright, we get it! Now get to the options already!

You can choose out of three options, or combine them if you want, go crazy:

Pick a quote (or quotes if you’re feeling ambitious) from the tag “Incorrect Tullaina Quotes”. Use it as inspiration, build your story around it or use it as part of a dialogue in the fic. Your choice!

Search the tag “Incorrect Tullaina Quotes” in the Tumblr search bar or on my blog and you’re supposed to get most of them that way. There are over 100 incorrect quotes, so I can’t link them all in this post. It would simply be too much. However, if there are enough people who do want a list with all the quotes lined up, let me know and I’ll see if I can collect them in a doc and link that doc here. It’s a lot of work, so it can take a while before I’m able to do that.

If you need more information about my OC Tullaina, you can find fics, arts and her character sheet in my masterlist.

As you all know I’m a pretty slow writer and cursed to be visited by plot bunnies all the time. This can be quite frustrating because I know I won’t be able to write them all, even if I really, really want to.

So why not challenge you to write them for me?

Under the “read more” cut you can find a selection of Tullaina Plot Bunnies, little moments out of Tullaina’s life that I was planning to write someday. Some are almost summaries of the (non-existing) fic, while others are just “what about so and so”.

Don’t be afraid to write Tullaina OOC because you can’t! If I learned anything about last year’s challenge it’s that I love every version of Tullaina that was created, not once did I think “She wouldn’t say or do that!” because I was so in the moment!

Isn’t that a question we all ask ourselves sometimes? What if?

Well, now is the moment you can find out! Under the cut are 10 “What if” questions. Pick one and rewrite a scene from The Hobbit or Lord of The Rings, or write a new one!

For example, what if you pick the question “What if Thranduil was the smallest Elf in history?”, you could imagine how the scene in the throne room between Thranduil and Thorin would go a little differently... Let your imagination run free!

Thought of a What If-question that you would love to write but can’t find in the list? No problem, then you’re choosing number 11!

Participants

@midearthwritings

@grunid - art

@beenovel

@medusas-hairband - art plot bunny

@sunnyrosewritesstuff - what if

@sketch-and-write-lover

Tullaina Plot Bunnies

Here you can find little snippets out of Tullaina’s life that I wrote down in a doc (literally, it’s a copy paste out of that doc minus two that I really want to write myself) because I wanted to write a fic about it at some point. But you know me, I can’t write fast so who knows when it’ll get done, if ever. Feel free to give it your own twist!

Tullaina has a nickname ‘Tulls’, but only Fili and Kili use it. They get very protective if anyone else picks up on the nickname and uses it to address Tullaina. What would happen if at some point (say at a feast or gathering), another Dwarf uses the nickname when he talks/flirts to her? Could be any period of time: Ered Luin, during the quest, in Erebor, ...

There’s a ball in Ered Luin, the first one since forever (mostly to boost morale a bit) and the first one Fíli, Kíli and Tulls are allowed to go to. It’s the first time Fíli sees Tullaina all dressed up (hair done nicely, a proper dress). His mouth runs dry and he knows it will be a long night this way. How does the evening go?

Tullaina is trained by Thorin and Dwalin, and sometimes even Fíli and Kíli. She has the normal amount of training every Dwarrow gets, but once she decides to join the Quest, her training sessions pick up. What would a training session look like? How is she doing? And why doesn’t she wield an axe? Ered Luin era

When Kili meets Tauriel (? or another OC?) and falls in love during the quest, he tells Tulls he wants to ask her to marry him. And then Tullaina wonders ‘but who am I supposed to marry now?’ because they promised each other when they were teens that if they didn’t find their One they would stick together, maybe even marry each other. And she jokingly says (but secretly also kind of means it) that she’ll forever be alone now. Fili is standing there, he wants to swoop in and say something smooth like ‘you will always have me’ but can’t seem to find his voice. The moment is broken when Bofur says just that, and it becomes one of their ‘almost’ moments.

“Uncle Thorin” moments with Fíli, Kíli and Tullaina

There was really only one other Dwarf who genuinely wanted to court Tullaina, when they're in Erebor. You can imagine how that affected Fili... How is he dealing with this? And Kíli (aka their biggest shipper?)

Fíli runs into Kíli late at night, he’s looking for Tullaina. “Have you seen her? She’s not in her room and I can’t find her anywhere.” They’ve been working all day for the past few weeks. “Do you think she could have left?” “Maybe she finally got enough of being alone, we’ve neglected her” etc etc They look for her in the library, great hall, the stables but can’t find her anywhere. Slight panic, Fíli freaking out, Kíli trying to reassure him. When they’re on their way to alert Thorin and Dís of her disappearance, they find her sleeping with a book in her lap in a nook in one of her secret reading spots.

Once they’re settled in Erebor, married and all, Fíli surprises Tullaina with a grey puppy called Mouse (kind of like a Great Dane but the ME version of it, so... BIG, Fíli hates the name she gave him), as a guard dog for her when he’s out (worried husband y’all). Turns out it’s one big softie and instead of being weary of new people he’s welcoming to everyone. Until one time he doesn’t and everyone is suspicous. Rightfully so.

What If?

Pick a number and (re)write a TH/LOTR scene of your choice with this question in mind, or create a new one (a deleted scene if you want)

1. What if Dís went on the Quest, along with her brother and two sons?

2. What if Ori was the one to fall in love with Tauriel (movie verse)?

3. What if Boromir survived the arrows?

4. What if Hobbits could talk to animals? Like tiny dr Doolittles?

5. What if Gandalf couldn’t keep a secret/can’t lie?

6. What if Smaug was a different kind of animal?

7. What if Víli, father of Kíli and Fíli, was still alive when they leave for the quest?

8. What if Middle Earth was more modern than Tolkien let on?

9. What if Elves can’t tolerate water (maybe it burns them or harms them in some way) ?

10. What if one of the Hobbits is cursed with saying everything the opposite of what they mean? (fe yes means no, I’m sleepy means I don’t want to go to sleep)

11. (your own What If question)

Tagging a few people who were interested: @midearthwritings @beenovel @grunid

#Guardianofrivendell writing challenge 2022 #Tullaina #Fíli x Tullaina #The Hobbit #Birthday Writing Challenge #Guardianofrivendell #The Hobbit fanfiction #The Hobbit OC #OC x canon

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lokislastlove · 2 years

Text

Rural Rivalry (Bucky Barnes x Reader x Clark Kent) p3

Summary: Moving back home is made tolerable when you start dating you old grade school crush, but tensions build between him and your childhood best friend.

Warnings: NONCON/DUBCON, smut, fingering, rough sex, spanking, (some others but ya know… spoilers 🤫)

Note: This was the first thing I ever wrote, and I decided to go back and edit the hell out of it because it was BAD 😬. I feel a bit better about it now so I figured I’d post it. Fuck it. THIS IS A DARK FIC! Mind the warnings y’all. 😘

🍂

Chapter 3:

Weeks go by and things get better. After much deliberation, and a full week of penitent pampering from Bucky, you decided to ask Clark for a bit of space while you work on things with Bucky. Clark, ever the gentleman, is understanding and resigns himself to avoiding you as much as he can. Bucky agrees to work on his anger and shows tremendous progress.

Winter arrives and your anxiety spikes the morning your mother reminds you of your obligation at the upcoming Winter Festival. The whole town pitches in, with some families volunteering to host specific events. Your family just so happens to organize and run the ‘Charity Holi-Date’ auction.

Local vendors donate a special date to bid on, with the proceeds all going towards some sort of town improvement, last year it paid to fix the library’s leaky roof. The dates range from a couples massage, a free dinner and games at the local pub, or a private movie screening. For one night Steve closes the theater to the public and plays whatever movie you request, free popcorn and candy provided. That was always your favorite date, secretly dreaming of winning it for years.

The only problem is, you have never had a boyfriend to try to win it for you, until this year that is. Your parents, geniuses that they are, decide that they could collect even more money by adding another option to the auction, someone to share the date with.

So for the past five years your parents manage to convince some local girls and a few young men to include themselves in the auction. Needless to say, the addition quickly turns it into one of the most popular events of the fair.

Steve became an avid supporter of the event after Bucky, the expert wingman, bid on a date with Tasha in Steve’s name. They hit it off immediately, as everyone had expected, and the rest was history. Sadly, Wanda and Vis didn’t have the same longevity, though despite her recent break-up she still signs up for the auction with you.

“I can’t believe your parents are making you sign up for the auction even though you have a boyfriend,” Wanda smirks, sticking a finger full of chocolate frosting in her mouth.

“Yeah. They keep saying that it can be a platonic date. Dad says, and I quote, ‘everyone in town would love a date with you’,” you rolls your eyes as you continue frosting the cupcakes. “I want to believe he is just trying to be nice, but –,”

“But it could just be that your dad doesn’t like Bucky,” Wanda raises an eyebrow knowingly and your shoulders sag.

“Yeah. I don’t know what his problem is,” you scoff. “Seems like I’m just a big disappointment to all the men in my life.”

You watch Wandas face fall, giving you those big sympathetic eyes. You had given her a vague account of that rough night with Bucky, trusting her not to judge your decision to stay with him.

“So are you worried about the auction, or Clark and Bucky being in the same room?” Wanda asks after studying you for a moment.

“Well, Bucky has been doing really good with his anger management, and I’m sure Clark will try to keep his distance. He’s not exactly the type to cause drama, especially with the whole town there,” you hope, unsure if you are trying to convince Wanda or yourself.

“Uh huh,” Wanda drones out doubtfully.

“Hey, I’m trying to be optimistic here,” you narrow your eyes and playfully flick a piece of frosting at her face.

Wanda laughs and smiles back at you, “It’s going to be fine. I’ll be there with you for support. Besides the thing we should be worrying about is who is gonna be bidding on us tonight.”

“Well I’m not too worried about that, as if Bucky would let anyone else win a date with me,” you laugh as you finish the last of the desserts and put them in the plastic containers to keep fresh. “Maybe the mysterious tall dark and handsome will finally make a move.”

“Ha! Let’s hope not. I prefer him as a distant admirer. Ok I think you’ve made enough cupcakes. Let’s go get ready!” Wanda hops off her barstool and drags you upstairs to prepare for the evening.

—

The decorating committee sure outdid themselves this year, likely due to Tasha’s recent involvement. The town hall ceiling glitters with paper snowflakes and baby blue icicle lights. Fairy lights underneath sheer white curtains adorn every wall, giving the room a soft enchanting glow. The crisp scent of pine from the trees draped in tinsel and the sweet smell of holiday treats permeate the air. The tables scattered around the room are cloaked in silver table clothes, decorated with sparkling white manzanita trees and blue tea candles. You relish the atmosphere of the room as it slowly fills with more and more guests.

The local cover band plays classical holiday songs to fill the time until Mayor Odin arrives to make his annual holiday toast. Despite the speech being similar every year he has a way of commanding the attention of the room, kicking off the festivities just right.

The “winter ball” as the town calls it is the last night of the weekends festivities so people go all out. There is a buffet style dinner, followed by the announcement of the raffle winners. After that the dancing commences, and somewhere in the middle the auction winners are announced. Thankfully the open bar is free for the first three hours of the evening, helping to loosen people’s wallets when it comes to bidding.

The bidding is anonymous, people submitting an amount of their choosing and the top bidder is called to the stage to claim their prize and select the person they’d like to share it with. You hate being on stage, all those eyes on you makes you nervous.

“Come on, it’s a party! Loosen up!” Wanda grabs your shoulders and shakes you lightly in the rhythm of the music. “We are young, we are hot, and we are here to have fun!”

“Yeah. Fun. I can do that,” you nod, trying to consciously relax your body.

“Wow, pep talk fail. Okay, why don’t we get you a drink while we wait for Bucky and Steve to get here,” she huffs, dragging you across the room. “Oh look Tasha has first shift at the bar!”

You spot Tasha behind the bar wearing a tight navy blue dress, with a plunging neckline. Her red locks elegantly pinned away from her face with a sparkling snowflake hairpin to match her dangly snowflake earrings. She looks stunning as ever.

“Well, hey there,” Tasha coos seductively as she watches you and Wanda walk up to the bar and take a seat. “If it isn’t the two top prizes of the evening,” she winks.

Wanda laughs and flips her hair theatrically while batting her lashes, “Gotta look good for our sugar daddies.”

You grimace but laugh, a little nervous that Wanda might have gone a bit overboard with your outfits. Taking into account your parent’s conservative attitude and your jealous boyfriend, she selects the slightly less skanky choice for you. You wear a white form fitting dress with a bustier top blending into a lace A-line shirt that ends at your knees. Its preferable over the black backless skater dress that Wanda chose for herself. The straps are thin and the skirt barely conceals the red lace panties you know are underneath. Thankfully, she lets you go with a neutral palette and hairstyle.

“Steve is going to flip when he sees you,” you smile, raising your brows at her cleavage.

“Yeah, what the hell were they thinking giving you the early shift? Imagine all the tips you could make for charity later,” Wanda jokes.

“Trust me, it’s always better to have the early shift. People get handsy after they’ve had a few drinks, and I don’t feel like breaking any fingers tonight,” Tasha quips as she cuts lemon slices. “So, can I get you ladies anything?” she flirts in a sultry voice.

“Yes! This girl needs a stiff one. She’s nervous about Bucky and Clark both being here,” Wanda teases, bumping your shoulder.

“I’m fine,” you whine. “But yes I will definitely welcome that drink.”

“You got it,” Tasha winks, busying herself behind the bar.

With drinks in hand, you both swivel on your barstools and scan the crowd. After only a minute Wanda seems to find what she’s looking. She crosses her legs slowly, giving someone in the crowd her most seductive bedroom eyes as she slips the straw between her painted lips. You look at her, mouth gaping and cough out a laugh at her antics.

“Damn girl. You really are putting it out there tonight, huh? I mean, you aren’t even looking at me and you got my attention.”

“Don’t want to be third wheel forever,” Wanda smirks and takes another drink.

“Who is the lucky guy?” You ask, trying to follow her gaze.

“Tall dark and handsome just got here…and he is looking extra good tonight,” Wanda says biting her lower lip.

The crowd shifts enough for you to spot the mysterious ‘prince’ of the town, Loki. Dressed in an all black suit, dark emerald shirt and black tie, long dark hair brushed back neatly. He looks far too posh for the small town scene. In fact, both the Mayor’s sons are slightly alienated from the town due to their boarding school upbringing, but for Wanda it only adds to his allure.

“I see the appeal. He certainly knows how to wear a suit, I’ll give him that,” you smile into your glass as you continue scanning the room.

“And he’s not the only one,” Tasha offers from behind you.

You look back at her and she nods her head across the room. Your pulse quickens as Bucky and Steve strut toward the bar, more gorgeous than ever. Steve leads the way, his blue tie bringing out his eyes and his skinny grey suit showing off his lean legs and broad shoulders.

“Bucky,” you breathe quietly as you drink him in.

The pair of them turn quite a few heads as they make their way toward you. Bucky tugs on his lapels, bringing your attention to the tight fit across his arms and chest, he has been working out more lately and it shows. The deep navy blue suit and black shirt bring out his sun-kissed skin and bright eyes. You are left breathless, wholly unprepared for the way it makes your core ache and your panties dampen.

“You look absolutely stunning, darlin” Bucky coos, running his eyes down your body.

He makes a show of putting his hands in his pockets, shaking his head and whistling as his eyes finally land back on your face. The hunger in his eyes mirroring your own. He takes in a deep breath and reluctantly looks away to the rest of the ladies.

“Wanda, you’ll have them lining up for you tonight. Tasha, looking lovely as always this evening,” Bucky compliments sweetly, before extending his hand to you.

You take it eagerly and he twirls you to him, admiring every inch before stealing a soft kiss. Although it’s brief, his minty breath, the rich scent of his cologne, and the silkiness of his lips leave you breathless and wanting more. How is he even real?

“You look amazing. Is this a new suit?” Your hands glide down the lapels admiring the smooth fabric.

“Thought I might need one for special occasions,” Bucky smirks, unable to keep his eyes from drifting down to your breasts pressed against his suit.

Time stands still as you hold each other in mutual admiration. Your pulse racing as he lets his fingers lightly graze over as much of your exposed skin as he can without appearing indecent. Its your first time having a real date to this event and you feel giddy at the thought of dancing with him the whole night. Your nervousness subsides in the glow of your excitement and you almost forget what had you so worried in the first place.

Shit. Clark.

Your brain floods with memories of all your previous winter dances. Evenings spent pining after boys and inevitably ignored until Clark comes to save you. Every year he’d be there to make sure you got to dance, but surely he’d know this year is different. You quickly hide your anxiety by burrowing into Bucky’s chest, letting his strong arms wrap around you.

You spend nearly an hour at the bar getting in free drinks and keeping Tasha entertained during the lulls. Finally when people start making their way over to the buffet, you grab a table with your friends. Your knee bounces under the table as you steal glances at the auction display table. Each date has its own poster with pictures to help entice the bidders, and in the center is a collage of headshots, including yourself and Wanda. You hold out hope that even if Bucky doesn’t win one, no one chooses you, it is optional after all.

As dinner comes to an end and the raffle winners are announced a familiar chuckle draws your attention back to the charity display. Your breath hitches as you see Clark and Loki hovering over the sign up sheet, cracking jokes with your parents. He looks amazing, his charcoal suit clinging to him in all the right places, eyes lingering on his ass which rivals every man and woman’s in the room.

Your father smiles at Clark, clapping him fondly on the shoulder and, to your horror, points in your direction. Before you have a chance to look away Clark’s eyes land on you, his jovial smile shifting into a smirk when he notices you watching him.

Even at this distance the look sends a shiver down your back, goosebumps erupting across your skin. He runs his tongue over his lips slowly as he holds your gaze and you watch him turn away and lean over the table, scribbling something with the pen your father hands to him. Clark returns the pen and gives your father a firm handshake with a respectful nod before walking away laughing with Loki at his side.

This is the longest you have gone without talking to Clark. You find a bit of relief that he doesn’t appear to be upset with you, though you can’t describe the look he gave you as particularly friendly either. Maybe his curious new friendship with Loki has something to do with it.

You fight the urge to go say hi and break this awkward tension, unaware that your boyfriend has been watching you. Unfortunately you aren’t as subtle with your attention as you hope, which you blame on Tasha’s heavy hand.

“Do you want to go say hello?” Bucky’s voice sobers you up instantly.

“What?! Oh. N-no” you replied quickly shaking your head fervently and putting all your attention back on your boyfriend.

“It’s ok Darlin’. I think I can handle you saying hello in a room full of people. You have been very patient with me, and I appreciate that. But I think it’s been long enough. Go say hi. I’ll be right here,” Bucky smiles sweetly before kissing the back of your hand.

Your face lights up at his words and you wrapped your arms around his neck pulling his face to yours for a deep kiss. You pull away with a sigh, looking into his stormy blue eyes as you spread your hand along his stubbled jaw and trace his bottom lip affectionately.

“I love you. I won’t be long,” you promise before leaving to find Clark.

The walk across the room feels long and short all at the same time, legs wobbling slightly in your tall heels. Your mind buzzed with what to say, everything sounding too dramatic or too casual. How do you rectify choosing your new boyfriend over your best friend?

Loki notices you coming first, whispering something behind his hand before snickering at you and slinking away. Clark watches you make your way towards him, content to stay leaning against the wall near the entrance to the main hall. He was never usually this hard to read. He has one hand in his pocket and another wrapped around a bottle of beer. He takes a long swag as you neared him, the right corner of his mouth curving upward the closer you get.

“Uh, hi,” you mutter weakly, hands twisting nervously in your skirt as you bit your bottom lip.

“Well it seems our time apart has done you some good, you look even more beautiful than I remember,” he remarks flatly as he gestures down your body.

You feel your face heat and you take the opportunity to appreciate his perfectly tailored suit, just tight enough to suggest the strength underneath. His crisp white shirt lacks a tie, but the unfastened buttons show off the tuft of chest hair below. He knew what he was doing when he got ready today.

“Definitely didn’t seem to hurt you either,” you laugh sheepishly.

“I wouldn’t say that,” he mumbles, taking another sip.

“Clark… I…,” you frown. “Look I know I was selfish and I understand if you’re mad at me. I’ve felt so guilty about it for the past three months. I have no idea how to fix it, but I just want to let you know I’m going to try… because you’re important to me too,” you hold his gaze.

“How does the boy toy feel about that?” He returns clearly not convinced.

“Bucky is actually the one who told me to come over here. He’s really working on his… issues. I think he’s finally starting to see there’s no reason for it,” you try to smile reassuringly, faltering when you see a flicker of anger in Clark’s expression. “I’m sorry Clark. You mean so much to me. Please. I can’t handle you being mad at me,” you plead, voice threatening to break.

You stand there in silence for a few seconds just staring at the floor in shame, until Clark hooks a finger under your chin forcing you to meet his eye.

“You know I can’t stay mad at you, sugar” He pinches your chin with a small smile. “Best get back to him. I’d hate to piss him off this early in the evening.”

“Ok. I’ll see you soon?”

“Count on it,” he asserts.

He looks over your shoulder nodding to someone unseen, the corner of his mouth curling upward. You turn to look curiously and he catches your chin, placing a soft kiss on your cheek.

“Save me a dance,” he whispers before walking off, leaving you no room to argue.

The stress you’ve carried over the past several weeks finally seems to fall from your shoulders with an evening of dancing with your friends. Bucky’s hands rarely leave your body, making sure you don’t stray too far. He maintains his composure the whole night, in fact he’s been perfectly sweet and attentive, even encouraging you to talk to Clark. You know it will take time, but its a much better first step than you expected tonight.

“Ladies and gentlemen, may I please have tonights Holi-date participants join us up here on stage.”

Your mother’s voice rings out as the music fades. Wanda whoops loudly and grabs your hand, pulling you through the crowd. One of the other participants, Sam, helps you and Wanda up the stairs onto the stage and joins you in a line behind your mother.

“You clean up nice, Sam,” you whispered, bumping his elbow.

“Not so bad yourself,” he offers as your mother goes through a brief description of each date.

“Remember the person with the biggest donation gets to select first. So without further ado, it looks like our top prize goes to…,” your mom pauses for dramatic effect, the band offering a drumroll for extra flair.

“Loki!” Your mom exclaims excitedly.

Wanda squeezes your hand tightly as she stands next to you and you both watch Loki make his way to the stage. He takes the envelope with the voucher for the ice skating date and slowly saunters towards Wanda, outstretching his long graceful hand. His notorious grin sharpens his chin and Wanda giggles, taking his hand as they leave the stage.

You smile, bobbing your brows to your friends who you find laughing in the audience. Well, more like Tasha laughing at Bucky and Steve’s dumbfounded expressions.

The second place winner is one of Steve’s old ex-girlfriends, Sharon, who claims the paintball date as well as Sam. He throws you a quick wink before leaving the stage with his arm wrapped around Sharon’s waist.

“Our third largest donation was from… aw Mister Clark Kent,” your mom coos.

Your breath hitches and you freeze, eyes flicking to Bucky on instinct. His eyebrows draw together as he watches Clark climb the steps. You feel time slow as Clark crosses the stage, pausing to embrace and thank your mom, his footfalls echoing in your ears. Grabbing the envelope labeled ‘movie theater’, he slowly taps it against his palm as he stares you down, eyes dark and expression triumphant. You could feel your breathing pick up as you silently beg him not to do this.

Clark rounds the table and takes the unfortunately short walk to you, blocking your view of the crowd as he holds out his hand. You don’t know how long you hesitate, body trembling, feeling hundreds of eyes burning into you. You gulp and place your sweaty hand in his. His grip is firm and his teeth sparkle as he smiles down at you. As you exit the stage, your vision tunnels, vaguely aware of clapping and your mom speaking without missing a beat.

Clarks hand wraps around your waist but you block out the strange sensation as you focus on not falling down the stairs while you try to spot Bucky in the crowd. Steve grips Bucky’s shoulder and whispers urgently in his ear, attempting to calm or restrain you aren’t sure, but it’s obvious that Bucky is pissed.

You make it off the stage and try to pull your hand away but Clark tightens his grip, “Hey don’t be running off so soon, we still have the winners dance, remember.”

“What are you doing Clark? Are you trying to piss him off? You probably just ruined all the progress he made with this little stunt of yours,” you hiss quietly, smiling politely at the few in the crowd still watching you.

“Hardly a stunt, sugar…besides, it’s for a good cause,” he winks and pulls you closer.

“Last but not least we have Mr Barnes! Come claim your prize young man,” she claps and looks around the room.

Scattered applause mixes with hushed whispers throughout the crowd and you try to search where he had been standing only moments ago. You spot Steve standing there with a sour look on his face, Tasha rubbing his back in comfort as she watches Bucky storm out of the hall.

“Oh well, we will make sure this gets to him. Thank you all so much for your participation! We hope to see you next year, but for now will the prize winners make their way to the dance floor for their celebratory dance. Have a great evening everyone!” Your mom finishes her speech as the band reclaims the stage.

“Shall we?” Clark gestures to the dance floor.

You scoff and stomp ahead of him, the silent treatment is always your go-to when you are angry. Clark locks his hand around your wrist and spins you back to him when you reach the open space, the other couples quickly joining you. He twines your fingers together as his other hand slithers around your waist keeping you close. You try to pull back, putting some respectful distance between you but Clark doesn’t allow it. You grit your teeth as he presses you firmly to his broad chest.

“You really do look beautiful. I’ve missed you. You know how hard it has been to try to stay away from you these past few months?” Clark whispers as he nuzzles your hair, breathing you in and making you shudder.

“I’m sorry, but this was not the way to punish me for it, Clark,” you snarl, nostrils flaring in anger.

“Punish you?” He chuckles darkly. “Oh sugar, this isn’t punishment,” his hand drifts down your side feeling the curve of your hip, a low hum rumbling his chest.

You gape in shock as he bites his lower lip, eyes fixed on your cleavage pressed against his torso. His hand drifts down further, running along the outside of your thigh before suddenly gripping your leg and bringing it to his hip. He lets go of your hand and holds your back, dipping you as the song ends. You squeak as your world spins and you grip his shoulders tightly. He keeps you bent awkwardly as people in the crowd applaud, his eyes flashing with a petrifying intensity.

“Thanks for the dance, Sugar,” Clark goes to press his lips to yours but you manage to turn your head so he catches the corner of your mouth.

He growls his disapproval and pulls away, returning you to your feet. Suddenly, you are pushed apart, someone gripping your upper arm and pulling you away from Clark.

“Dance is over now, Clark,” Wanda asserts, standing in front of you protectively. Clark tilts his head, jaw ticking before he nods slowly and backs away.

“See you soon, Sugar,” Clark says over his shoulder, as he heads toward the exit.

#dark fic #Clark Kent #Clark kent x reader #Bucky Barnes x reader #Bucky Barnes #MCU #DC #crossover AU #Rural Rivalry

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