Tagged by lovely @lalunalolita whose own response spurred my first fact:
1: I need a night light. I can’t sleep in complete darkness. I’ve got to be able to see my way to the door and the bathroom.
2: I don’t have a specific side of the bed. I can sleep on either side, but I WILL pick the side furthest from the door. Cuz if monsters, aliens, or murderers are coming through the door, fucker, they are getting you first.
3: I hate seafood. I’ve tried many many times to like it and failed. It’s too fishy. I also hate cranberries. This can be a problem when one lives most of their life on Cape Cod.
4: I do love to cook though. I’ve even cooked seafood. Just won’t eat it.
5: I have long toes. Monkey toes. I can pick things up off the floor using my toes. It’s nice not to have to bend down. I can write with them, and paint, and stir things too. Don’t ask how I know that.
6: I have one dimple. On my face. Just one. My gramps called me “Jeannie One Dimple.” I get my swift wit from him.
I know I say imagine a lot but like, imagine Yamaguchi having back dimples. Two dimples right above his beautifully perfect butt. Yeah, what a beautiful view Tsukki must enjoy. Or maybe he doesn’t know about it and discovers it when they’re changing in the locker room and he’s just… staring. He’s been Yamaguchi’s best friend for years and this is the first time he’s seeing this. It’s beautiful.
to your breath (17) p: following the kiss with a series of kisses down the neck
you liked watching namjoon paint whenever you could - wherever you could.
there are days where he’d opt for a ride to the outskirts of town with a briefcase filled with his supplies, gripped with one hand, the other holding onto yours. sometimes he feels like sitting out on the balcony of your shared apartment, loving the soft bustling of the nightlife being painted out with the strokes of his paintbrush onto the canvas, his back, straightened when you lean against him from behind because he sits on the ground and you decide to be his backrest.
today, he occupies the dining area. his easel set up nicely with an angle of the living room. you, however, on the sofa as one of his main subjects if it wasn’t for the gorgeous view out the window; outlines of the city being casted on the carpeted floor in shadows. that was a masterpiece waiting to be captured and namjoon got around to it when he sees you lazing around in nothing but his shirt and a pair of comfortable undergarments, hidden with your crossed legs.
it’s been almost two hours now and you’re getting a little tired but it’s nothing compared to the six hour project he had once and let’s just say, being in a corset where he held back restraint to not take it off the second you had it on was a bitch. so this was nothing, really. you got to lie down, sleep if you wanted to, talk to him, even.
which brings you to now where you’re staring at him with a content smile on your face despite the angle of your legs getting in the way. you get a sight of namjoon focusing on his painting, brows furrowed and teeth scraping over his lip every now and then at the main goal to get that god damned stroke right. he’s extra observant when he’s painting, that’s a given. so when a little shift in your knees to grant a better view, namjoon tuts to the quietness with y/n, legs.
snorting, you shift them back into where they were and that eases a bit of tension resting on his eyebrows.
it’s not until a couple more minutes go by and - “joonie…”
“not yet, love,” he replies almost instantly at your whine, not sparing a glance as he mixes some colors on his palette before going back to touching up. with a sigh and a couple more incoherent words you’re chewing on, he eases your nerves with: “count to hundred and when you’re done, i’ll be done,”
“at least be fair so i know how many seconds i have left,” he chuckles, dimples showing and when you start counting, they fade away as the seconds dissolve into his efforts of perfecting the remaining touchups on the canvas. it’s like time passes by so fast because the moment you reach hundred! he barely has time to register what’s going on until he feels your chest against his back, easing his sore muscles from sitting upright (and bending, twisting his body around to reach the corners) and the airy breath you fan his neck with.
his hands come over to brush on your skin when he puts away his things, groaning softly when you press kisses down his neck, ever so slowly pulling him back until he turns around and when he does, he gazes up to you with a smile, hands coming up your sides as he touches gently, then tugging you towards him with a squeeze behind your thighs, “do i want to know what brought upon this?”
a giggle from you with an innocent move to use his lap as a seat has him eyeing you carefully.
“well… you just look really good when you concentrate,” you murmur, one hand resting on his shoulder, the other coming up to his cheek where you’re able to reach his brow with the tip of your thumb, “it’s sexy,”
“…is it, now?” he muses, leaning back but being cautious to not smudge his hard work behind him.
with a smirk, you nod with a hum, “mhm,”
his hands appear again, up your knees, over your thighs, then disappearing under your shirt and leaving goosebumps on your skin wherever this fingers can reach.
“so you want me to concentrate on something else, i assume?”
“if that’s what you’re assuming,” your hands grab ahold of his with the thin material of cotton in between, a shared look of lust in both pair of eyes locked together, “i won’t say no.”
Can you be in love with someone you’ve never met? I do not know how your skin feels in the early morning light but I know what makes you laugh and I know the way your eyes crinkle and I know that you have a dimple on your right cheek. Can you be in love with someone you’ve never met? I don’t know what your hugs feel like but I know that you would lay down your life for those you care about without a single thought and I know that means me, too. Can you be in love with someone you’ve never met? I don’t know what your lips feel like or how your kisses taste but I know the things that drive you and I know the things that keep you up at night and I know what causes you worry and how when you’re sad you close up and you so desperately just want someone to fight for you. Can you be in love with someone you’ve never met? I have not fallen asleep beside you or woken up to your hands but I know what your voice sounds like in the morning and you know mine. I know your favorite songs and your favorite books, I know your favorite movie and that your favorite color is black and you wish for the ability to draw because you wish to capture so many beautiful things. I know that reading bores you but yet you’ll do it for me because I sent you a novel that captures all the words of my heart and I know that nothing is easy and that we will have to fight every day but you are a solider and you are strong and I know that you’re going to fight for what we’ve got so I will ask you again; can you be in love with someone you’ve never met?
you know when I have a bad day I just think of namjoons cute dimples and how easily embarassed he gets when he has to act cute or how jimins hands are so smol they can’t even reach all around the mic and how yoongi acts all calm and detached but lowkey always looks out for his members and idk things seem less shitty when I do that
Not to discriminate
against other eye colors, brown just worked for this one. Pardon if this is awful I’m quite sick and I got going but not sure if it went anywhere. I apologize that it’s long and I hope you manage to read all of it.
No one spoke to him. Not that he minded much because he was
pretty shy. But most people were scared of him because he wore leather and
smelled like smoke. And when you went to a prestigious university like this
one, that didn’t fly well with the cookie cutter kids that came from Mummy and
Daddy’s trust fund.
But Zayn didn’t care. He deserved to be here as much as any
of the other students. He was studying English because he loved to read and on
a good day he would say he was something of poet too—maybe more of a lyricist.
But aside from his professors, no one knew he was a good English student.
He loved to write. Even essays he liked because he could
get absolutely everything he thought of the literature on paper. He was good at
it; and if he was being generous to himself, he would say he was quite original
in thought and was better than some of his peers.
But no one dared to remove the leather jacket and see the
twenty-one year old for what he was worth. Especially because no one believed
that this misfit, bad boy could attend a preppy university like this one.
Zayn had a messenger bag across his body as he skated on
his board while reading to the coffee shop down the road. It was actually quite
amazing that he could drive and read at the same time. He never bumped into
anyone. Stopping directly in front of the coffee shop door, he closed his book
and kicked the board into his hand before stepping inside.
There were a few people in the shop sitting and reading
while a few stood in line. All the patrons sitting seemed to be very wary of
the boy in leather. He fished some bills out of his pocket as he got to the
front of the line and was met with the widest eyes he’d ever seen. You were
gazing at him sweetly, a gentle smile on your pretty mouth.
It was one of those times that Zayn thought of himself as a
poet because he wanted to write about the little speckles in your eyes that no
one else saw and he wanted to describe how his heart was sent to the floor but
then shot up to heaven…as if it was resurrecting because you were just too
Not knowing what else to say, he just kind of stared
blankly at a few moments so you waited another moment as he looked at you as if
he was looking through you. You should have found it odd, uncomfortable, but
you liked the way he looked. His hair was just so and he had really nice hazel
eyes that reminded you much of the coffee you served. And you liked that
because coffee was one of your favorite things.
Plus, he smelled like cigarette smoke—and maybe it was
gross or wrong of you, but he smelled like the good one and you imagined all
his clothes smelled like that. And the thought got your cheeks tinting red. You
were grateful no one was in line behind him, so you could spend more time
And he liked that he could ogle you too.
“C-can I help you?” You stammered quietly.
“Just a regular, three sugars, no cream.”
He would not get cream.
You quickly whipped the beverage up and handed it to him.
Zayn felt his hand shake as he passed the correct money over to you. You handed
him the change and he dropped it right into the tip jar. “Thank you, have a
good day,” you said methodically as you looked at him for a long period of
Zayn wasn’t sure if he said, “You too,” he hoped he did.
But he was so distracted that he nearly tripped over his board and spilled his
coffee all over the floor. But instead he dropped into a seat across the room
where he could continue to look at you and write poems about your hair and how
all your small movements seemed to make you look like an angel floating around
Zayn liked you and he was upset by that—because what good
girl like you would like a so called bad boy like him?
You worked really hard to get to this university and would
be working hard until it was over and then some. The scholarship you got was
incredible—you were grateful for it, but it would be difficult to live without
a supplemental income.
So you worked as much as you could at the coffee shop. You
hated it a bit at times. Because people without coffee were grouchy. You could
relate though; you were one of those people.
But there were perks: for example that pretty guy with the
leather jacket and the skateboard. He was a delicious perk and since you laid
eyes on him, you wondered what he felt like.
You were woken from your daydreaming when a girl from your
math class sauntered in and demanded you served her and if you weren’t going to
pay attention to the customers you should just go home.
She was your least favorite kind of customer.
However, as much as you wanted to spit in her drink—you did
not want to get fired. So you pleasantly handed it over to her and tended to
the next customer. You heard people talking about you. You were a scholarship
student—you had no money, that’s why you were working.
The trust fund babies didn’t like that you were in their
school. You didn’t fit in.
Not that you cared. You would be more pleasant to be hired
when you applied having worked hard to where you got—instead of being given
everything you wanted.
It’s not like you were Cinderella. You had to work harder
to get the things you wanted. So what? You felt better owning your shit when
you worked for it.
But you had to admit—you wished you didn’t have to work so
hard. Because it would nice to have free time.
And maybe learn the name of that pretty guy that came
Zayn was a lazy student. He absorbed a lot of information
but he didn’t pay attention a lot in class. For example, he was sleeping when
his professor spoke his name. “Mr. Malik, am I boring you?” He asked.
“Huh?” Zayn said quickly shaking his head as he lifted his
head from his arm on the desk.
“Am I boring you?” He repeated slowly drawing all attention
to the boy in leather at the back of the room. Zayn thought he was through with
this back in high school.
“No, sir,” he said quietly.
“Please sleep at home,” he ordered and paced back in front
of the board. Zayn rolled his eyes and sighed as he scribbled a few words down
on the paper in front of him.
You had the prettiest
brown eyes I’d ever seen. I didn’t know where to look, and that’s how I ended
up gazing into your eyes for the entire transaction. I wanted to look somewhere
else—maybe where the edges of your lips met your cheeks because I still don’t
know if you have dimples or not. Maybe I should have looked at your hands
because when you handed me my change your fingers were so soft and delicate I
should have looked down to see how dainty they were. But that’s okay I guess.
Because if I was going to get lost somewhere, I’m glad it was your eyes…I just
hope I can find my way back some time and get a chance to look at all the other
things I did not see.
He didn’t really like it. He thought it needed a lot of
work, but it was a start he supposed. The professor dismissed the class passing
back papers just as people filed out the door.
“Zayn, stay a moment, would you?” The professor asked
again. People whispered. Because they figured Zayn didn’t do the assignment again.
He’d only ever missed one assignment. And that’s because he was up all night
writing and forgot to set his alarm. He passed it in late, knowing he would
receive a zero but he wanted feedback on it anyway.
Zayn sat back and felt around in his pocket for the lighter
and cigarette he planned on smoking on the way to his next class.
He watched as his professor held a paper that was stained
with coffee and ink blots across the pages. “You spilled your coffee on it,” he
stated. Zayn nodded.
“I’m sorry, but I didn’t have time to print it again—it
would have been late. And I can’t really afford another late paper,” he
needlessly reminded his professor.
He nodded. “This was excellent,” he said quietly. “The best
I’ve read in years,” he said. “You pay attention in class,” he stated again.
Zayn nodded. “Of course, sir,” he said quietly.
“Then why do you sleep?” He asked.
“I write,” Zayn stated simply. “I don’t sleep much at
night. The best inspiration is at night,” he explained. His professor looked at
“What do you write?” He wondered.
Zayn bit his lip. “Prose mostly…sometimes poems,” he
“That assignment you passed in late—was that because you
were up all night?” He asked. Zayn nodded. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I know the policy,” he said quietly. “I didn’t think you
would make an exception for me,” Zayn shrugged.
His professor tilted his head. “If you’re comfortable
enough, I would love to read some of what you write. You can think of it as
extra credit; I’d like for you to have an A in this class, Zayn. You are very
talented.” Zayn smiled gently because there’s nothing like someone telling him
he’s talented when he thinks he’s just absolute shit.
You were working in the library too, and you liked working
here too because you were surrounded by books and had time in between helping
and stacking to do your own work. A small compensation for the endless hours
you needed to work.
You yawned as you sleepily paged through your textbook
looking through your notes to solve the math problem when you saw the dark
haired guy from the coffee shop. He strolled in, skateboard in hand, leather
jacket tossed over his shoulder along with his bag. He looked dangerous and you
couldn’t help but be attracted to him. Because while he looked dangerous, you
really didn’t think he was.
You kept your eyes on him as he worked at a table near your
desk and you wanted to know everything that was going through his head. You stared
at him dreamily as he worked hoping he would need help finding a book, but
instead he played with his phone for a few moments before he started to sleep
on the table.
Sadly, you looked down at your work until a freshman asked
you for help finding the reference section.
Zayn swore he smelled you in his dream. You smelled like
coffee and he wondered if that was becoming his new favorite scent.
One of my favorite
things in the world is coffee, so I hope you smell like coffee, it would only
make sense. Because that would make you my favorite thing too.
He sat up slowly looking over to find you at the help desk
and he wished with all his heart that he needed help.
You were unbelievably pretty and all those things he didn’t
get to stare at before were his for ogling. You looked exhausted and he
realized how late it was and he wondered how you worked so much and why you
would need to.
It dawned on him that maybe you weren’t rich like everyone else
He bit his lip, longing to speak to you as his head spun
lines of poems that would never be finished. Thoughts filtered with thoughts of
you and he wondered when he would be brave enough to tell you his name.
“I’m not working with him,” a girl snapped at your
professor. “I’m not ruining my grade because he can’t keep his eyes open,” she
glared at him. “I don’t even know why he goes here, he doesn’t even do his work
on time and yet you all pass him on,” she announced.
His professor kept his lips close while she ranted. He
found it ironic because he knew that Zayn worked much harder—she spent most of
her weekends partying and wasting Mummy and Daddy’s money.
Zayn just stared off thinking about his coffee girl.
He wanted to write a book about her—the first chapter would
just be about her eyes. He wanted to write about what she was like, but he was
worried he would get it wrong. That was the problem with Zayn. He was so shy he
took forever to get to know someone and then was often wrong about who he
thought someone should be.
But you seemed different and he would be lying if he said
he didn’t pray he was wrong because with all his heart he hoped that you were
exactly as he imagined: perfect, kind, sweet, and just a gentle soul that would
appreciate his poetic heart.
Apologetically, his professor asked if Zayn would mind
working alone. He would give him extra time on it since he wouldn’t be paired
with anyone. “Why does he get extra time?” She snapped.
“Because he wasn’t rude to me or anyone else in the class,”
his professor said quietly.
“His presence is rude,” she grumbled under her breath. Zayn
wished his pen was a dagger because he would have thrown it at her by now.
So he figured he would write her a nasty poem later and
then throw it to the wind.
People flitted in and out of the shop quickly. It was
midterms so lots of caffeine was needed by all the students. Including you…but
you had to wait until the tide died down.
You seemed to breathe as customers finally left and you
felt like crying a little because you needed to study but your shift wasn’t
even half over.
You opened your textbook, placing it on the front counter
and you read the words from the page.
The bell tinged and you wanted to cry again. But then you
smelled cigarette smoke and he cleared his throat before he spoke. “M’sure you’re
busy, but I’d like to buy you a cup of coffee,” he whispered. “Or whatever you
You smiled softly at him and he swore his heart was flying.
There would be endless poems about your smile alone tonight and perhaps the
word you spoke next.
“Yes,” you said softly. “Coffee.”
He smiled happily. “You’re not scared of me,” he said
“Why would I be scared of you?” You wondered.
“Oh, let me count the ways,” he smirked. “I wear leather,
people judge too quickly, they think I’m useless and will never amount to
anything,” he shrugged as you made his coffee—same as last time, but you didn’t
need a reminder, and neither did Zayn because he was so grateful you remembered.
You thought about him too. The thought of that would also make it into his
“Well, I’m not very judgmental…” you murmured. “And most
people avoid me like the plague. Like poverty is a contagious illness,” you
rolled your eyes and smirked gently.
“Is that why you work so much?” He wondered. Though he
already kind of figured.
You nodded shyly. “Unfortunately.”
He frowned. “Well, you’re very lovely and I don’t care—I
would love to treat you on a bunch of different dates,” he offered with a
You bit your lip. “Oh, wow,” you mouthed when he looked
down at the textbook you were reading.
“Keats,” he muttered.
“It’s an elective,” you murmured. “I’m absolute rubbish at
English and it’s got me all stressed out about my exam tomorrow,” you
Zayn smiled. “Well, bird, lucky for you, I’m a fan of
Keats, and I would love to help you,” he said and wrote on the back of his
receipt. “Consider it date number one,” he suggested from the threshold of the
shop before he laid his skateboard down and zoomed off down the road, almost
floating away with thoughts of you.
He liked how you wore sweats and no makeup. He would have
suggested it, but he didn’t want to sound bossy. Your hair was still damp and
he wanted to run his fingers through it, but he didn’t want to be weird. It was
constant battle and he’s pretty sure he was going to write about the battle of
his mouth to speak and kiss you all at once.
There was too much to do and not enough time.
So he spoke more and explained to you everything he knew
about Keats and gave you some tips for reading poems and whatever you might be
forced to do during your exam tomorrow. You kept yawning and he offered to
drive you home but you said it was fine, you were used to staying up late.
Well, apparently not that late, because you were sleeping
as Zayn read you a poem stopping every so often to explain the symbols behind
it. Zayn had never seen anything so deliriously beautiful.
His angel sleeping on the floor. He would have written
about you for ages. Gently he shook you. “Bird, come lay in my bed,” he
offered. You were exhausted and said nothing. So he lifted you delicately into
his arms and cradled you to his room. Covering you with his blanket he left you
sleeping and returned to the couch where he spent the better part of the night
filling his notebook with lines of you.
“You should have made me sleep on the couch,” you said
softly as you placed a coffee mug in his hands. Nothing made him happier than
to wake up to the sight of you in his apartment looking awfully domestic so
early in the morning.
“S’okay, you looked sleepy.”
You bit your lip. “I um…I didn’t read a lot, but I thought
your pen was going to stab you in the eye…do you, write about me?” You
He swallowed and set his mug down on the coffee table. “Yeah,”
“Why?” You wondered. He smirked. Only you would say “Why?”
and not “Are you a creep?”
“Well, you struck inspiration in me that first day you made
my coffee,” he said. “You’ve been stuck in my head ever since.”
“Then why are you considered a bad boy?” You wondered. “I’ve
never met a bad boy that writes.”
“Bad boys are people too,” he said quietly. “And you should
date a writer,” he said cheekily.
“Oh really?” You blushed. “And why is that?”
“Because writers will have really good wedding vows, and
they never forget important dates in your life because they write everything
down, we like heartfelt and cheap gifts that are cliché and romantic, and they
can help you study for English finals at the very least,” he murmured the
You sucked your lip into your mouth. “You really wanna date
me?” You wondered.
He nodded. “Quite desperately, actually,” he admitted.
You blushed shyly. “But I’m poor,” you muttered.
“Again, love, that means nothing,” he said coming closer to
you on the sofa. “At the very least it just means I get to pamper you for all I’m
worth,” he murmured.
You blushed. “You’re supposed to break my heart,” you said
Zayn removed your coffee cup from your fingers and inched
closer to you still. “Oh darling, but aren’t I?” He whispered and closed the
distance between your lips and his.