#my cat is a counter-jumping asshole

[neuerswaist]

the cat yells at me to make him dinner -> i go make cat dinner -> halfway through i realise i should probably take the trash out -> i leave the cat dinner on the counter to take out the trash -> i realise i might as well clean the litterbox before taking out the trash -> oh no, now i gotta vacuum as well -> might as well pick up the cardboard pieces my cat has decorated my living room with -> might as well -> my cat yells at me because of dinner -> i still haven't taken the trash out

[radmista]

Maybe don't let your animal that steps in it's own feces dirt on the same table that you're preparing food?

[nighttimealone]

Would love to see more of wraith!simon x reader🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️ especially the sweeter dynamics of their relationship!! Maybe the various different parts of their relationship as wel

Wraith!Simon (pt.1)

Cw: Suggestive, fluff

If you have a habit of locking the bathroom door while showering, sorry, the little lock doesn’t stand a chance in Ghost’s breaching inside the bathroom, since he can just phase through the damn door. You’ll find yourself enjoying the warmth embrace of the cascading water until the steam outside the shower glass starts parting without any reason.

Or, there’s a reason—Ghost, staying invisible and interrupting your precious self-caring time.

“Simon?” You turn your head towards where you assume he’s standing and call out. “Told you so many times already, stop barging in while I’m showering, if you want to join, just say it.”

The only answer is the white noises of the shower ringing in the room. Bastard doesn’t feel like talking right now, you shrug nonchalantly, decide to go back and work the shampoo into your scalp, but the hand prints that start appearing on the steamy glass catch your attention.

One, two, three…the hand print crawls its way upwards, smearing the foggy glass door until it stops around the height of your eyes.

‘No’

Firm, without any space to argue with, your typical wraith partner and his grumpy black cat attitude.

“What do you mean no?”

He doesn’t answer this time. Okay then, back to showering.

Lilting the song you accidentally discovered and has been playing on repeat for days, you miss the swirling of the steam behind you, the heart he draws on the foggy glass, musing that he probably left you alone and finally granting you some privacy.

Well, totally miscalculated from your side. Cause a pair of hands rested on your hips the moment you turn off the shower, and a monstrous thing is poking at your inner thighs is impossible to ignore.

“Time to claim my reward.” his breath fanning on your ear, chest pressing against your back as he materialized himself.

Oh, You’re fucked, mentally and physically.

Keep a close eye on your shopping cart when you’re out to restock your groceries.

Detergent, teabags, a carton of milk…5 bags of crisps…

5 bags of crisps?

you lift your head from your shopping list and double check the stuffs in your cart to make sure you’re not hallucinating.

“Simon!” you hiss out a whisper as you put 3 bags of crisps back on the shelf, knowing he’s definitely lurking around you, and the sudden chill you feel with his approach proves that you’re correct yet again.

“2 bags of crisps, that’s all, Simon. you ate 5 bags of these this week already…and all the same flavor?!”

A grumble rumbles from behind, his own method of conveying his protest when he’s invisible.

“No, that won’t work on me anymore, Simon.”

Another grumble emanates after your words, this time more like a purr than a threatening bark from a wolf.

“You used the same trick last time.”

No response this time.

Well, he finally gave up. you resume pushing the cart towards the counter again. Too much crisps isn’t good for him, even though he’s a wraith, and a weird wraith that does exercises, and got caught using your ring-con, jumping like a monkey to collect coins in the middle of your living room one day you were back from a long day. (he didn’t talk to you for the next few days, and the air was extra cold)

Setting the items on the cash desk, you fumble your purse to fetch the wallet absentmindedly, waiting for the cashier to scan the products.

“A bottle of detergent…5 bags of paprika crisps…”

“Sorry?”

“5 bags of paprika crisps.”

The little…apologies, big asshole, and hell, he’s chuckling with that low tone now in triumph beside your ears.

“Cash or card?” The cashier’s skeptical voice snaps you out of trance.

“Cash…”

Next time, watch your six when you’re strolling towards the counter, maybe you’ll finally spot the floating bags of crisps making their way back from the shelf into your cart.

Drank too much water before going to bed…your eyes flutter open as your bladder calling for help and wakes you from your peaceful slumber, hinting you to make your way towards the washroom.

“Bloody hell!” You nearly shout when you spot the massive man few steps away from you, and scares all of your lingering sleepiness away.

There goes your wraith, standing tall and imposing…at the end of your bed, basking in the moonlight that seeps through the curtains and glowing in a blue-white light. Thank goodness you didn’t wet your pants.

“Why aren’t you in the bed?!” you pat the empty spot of the mattress beside you.

“Feeling like going on a short walk.”

“In our bedroom? at 3 a.m.?”

“Any issues?” with the skull mask covering the upper part of his face , you’re unable to see his expression clearly, but you know he’s raising an eyebrow with the ‘you’re the one who’s being weird’ face.

Okay, a wraith being active at 3, valid.

“Just don’t stand at the foot of my bed next time, alright?”

You shake your head in disbelief, sluggishly dragging your legs to the washroom, and make it back to your shared bed again minutes later.

Good, he’s on the bed now, no more shenanigans.

You lay down next to him, “Good night.” the mumble rolls off your tongue with grogginess, closing your eyes and ready to drift back to sleep again.

Ah, should set an alarm so you won’t oversleep and arrive at work too late once more.

The last bit of the sober part of your brain saves you from the predicament before you fully fall asleep, so you reluctantly open your eyes, arm reach out blindly to fetch your phone.

“Holy hell for the love of—“

“You didn’t day I couldn’t stand beside the head of the bed.”

The smirk playing on his lips is infuriating, but attracting as hell too, gracing his ruggedly handsome features so good that you forget about your anger for a brief moment, till his amused laughters escaping his lips and drag you back to reality.

You’ll kick him out of this house, you swear.

[mugglebornmarvelite]

Golden Retriever, Black Cat

Paring: TASM!Peter Parker x Fem!Reader (Golden Retriever energy x Black Cat energy)

Summary: Based on this request + a lewd comment that a guy made about me in a skirt when I was 16. 

Word Count: Roughly 1.6k 

Warnings: Fluff, comfort, some cursing, mentions of jumping bones, a misogynistic comment from a co-worker 

Author’s Note: Just a cutesy little story for you. If you have a specific idea in mind that you would like for me to work on, please let me know :)

Navigation

After getting home and slipping your shoes off, you huffed, immediately looking for Peter. Your Peter. 

You found him in the kitchen. Looking deliciously handsome as always, you wanted to jump his bones, almost forgetting about your annoyance.

You grumbled and greeted him with whispered words and a tight hug.

Noting that you were uncharacteristically quiet, he gave you a small smile. “Hi, bug. How was your day?”

That’s all you need to hear to go off on a tangent.

“And then,” you said, throwing your hands up, “this asshole, this fucking buffoon, had the audacity to tell me I didn’t know what I was talking about and procceded to mansplain the topic to me. Me!” You spun around, narrowing your eyes at him as though Peter was the one who had offended you. “Can you believe that? I’ve studied for years, and he spoke over me like I was some kid who didn't know the difference between a psychology term and a pizza topping. The nerve of that dickhead.”  

Peter leaned casually against the counter, his glasses slipping down his nose, and he rested them on the counter. He observed you with that soft, amused smile that made his brown doe eyes sparkle, listening to your every word. His arms were crossed, his posture relaxed, but you could see how his lips twitched as he held back a laugh.  

“Not at all, sweetheart,” he said, his voice warm and patient. “You’re always right. We should all be grateful to be in your presence.”  

You froze mid-pace and whirled around, narrowing your eyes at him. “Don’t patronize me, Parker,” you snapped, your voice sharp, like a hiss from a cat whose tail had been stepped on.  

Peter pushed off the counter, that damn grin still tugging at the corners of his mouth as he took a step closer. “I’m not,” he said with a soft chuckle, his voice dropping into something impossibly sweet. “I just think you’re perfect. My pretty girl.”  

Your cheeks flared with heat. Even in the middle of a rant, Peter knew how to both fluster you and ease your blood pressure. 

But you, being you, never liked to immediately give him the satisfaction of seeing you melt. It would only grow his massive ego.

You crossed your arms defensively, your cheeks puffing out in a soft pout. “Stop calling me that,” you muttered, eyes darting anywhere but his. You couldn’t handle the intensity of his gaze.  

“Why?” Peter tilted his head as he closed the space between you. His fingers, warm and gentle, tilted your chin up. Your resolve faltered as you looked into his warm brown eyes. “You are my pretty girl. My bug. My sweetheart.” His voice was teasing, but there was so much affection behind it that you couldn’t help but feel your defenses crumbling.  

“Ugh, you’re impossible,” you grumbled, turning your face away slightly to hide your smile from him. The last thing you wanted was for him to know that he was winning.  

Peter, of course, noticed anyway. He always did. That beautiful, beautiful fucker.

He laughed, that melodic sound that made your heart do summersaults, and pulled you into his arms. His big, warm hands settled against your back, pulling you close as he pressed a kiss to the top of your head. Your tried your hardest not to bury your face in his warm sweater. His scent. You didn’t know how much longer you could resist jumping on him.

“And you’re my favorite person,” he murmured against your hair, his voice so soft and steady it felt like a heartbeat in your chest. “Even when you’re grumpy.”  

“I’m not grumpy,” you muttered half-heartedly, the words losing all meaning as you melted into his embrace.  

“Whatever you say, bug,” Peter teased, squeezing you a little tighter. You rolled your eyes, but when he tilted your chin up again and kissed your forehead, all you could do was sigh.  

He melted off all of the anger from your body. Almost.

You were still annoyed by what the asshole said to you.

"I should have punched that sorry excuse for a human in the face for what he said to me when I was walking out." You whispered into his chest, not expecting him to hear you.

But your boyfriend had spidey senses.

Peter’s smile faltered, his brow furrowing in confusion. “What was that, bug?” His arms tightened around you slightly, the protective shift in his energy not lost on you.  

You pulled back just enough to meet his gaze, biting the inside of your cheek. You hated admitting when something bothered you, but Peter’s gentle yet intense stare made it impossible to brush him off.  

“What did he say?” Peter persisted, his voice low, almost dangerous.  

You tried to shrug it off, trying to mask your vulnerability under his scrutiny. “It’s nothing, Pete. I handled it. Told him off before I walked out. It doesn’t matter. I’m just being pissy.”  

But Peter didn’t let go. His hands remained firmly on your waist, and his eyes bore into yours, unyielding. “Bug,” he said, his voice quieter but no less intense. “That’s not ���nothing.’ What exactly did he say?”  

You hesitated, your heart thumping louder than your words. You knew how protective Peter could be. His love could feel like a force of nature when it came to you.  

“He said...” you trailed off, your voice dropping to a whisper. “He said I was only good for my ass in a skirt.”  

Peter’s entire demeanor changed in an instant. His body stiffened. The gentle, golden retriever energy that usually defined him shifted into something possessive and protective. His jaw tightened as he swallowed hard, his grip on you becoming more solid like he was anchoring you against the storm rising within him.  

The muscles in his arms flexing, but never to cause you pain. He stepped back, running his hand through his hair in frustration. “That’s not okay,” he muttered, pacing now, clearly worked up. “No one gets to talk to you like that. Not ever.”  

You crossed your arms, leaning against the counter, watching him pace. “What are you gonna do, swing by his office in the suit and web him to the wall?”  

“If I have to, yes,” Peter retorted without missing a beat. His voice was firm, his tone serious, and his golden retriever energy took on a new intensity. “He’s scum for disrespecting you like that, he’s lucky I wasn’t there.”  

You snorted, your cheeks warming at his protectiveness, though your sarcasm couldn’t help but bleed through. “You’re ridiculous, you know that? A total goofball. A clown. No! The whole damn circus, Pete.”  

Peter turned back to face you, his playful grin reappearing. “Maybe,” he said, stepping closer again, his hands cupping your face this time, his large, warm palms practically enveloping you. “But you’re my girl. No one gets to talk about you like that.”  

The softness in his voice made your sarcasm catch in your throat, and for a moment, you were simply still, surrendering to his care. You melted under his touch, your black cat energy momentarily vanishing in the face of his gentle love.  

“You’re too good for me, Parker,” you murmured, your eyes downcast.  

“Not true,” Peter said immediately, tilting your face so you couldn’t escape his gaze. “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. Life would lose all of its meaning without you.”  

You sighed, finally leaning into him, your grumpy exterior cracking more. “Fine,” you muttered. “But if you’re gonna be this annoyingly sweet, at least don’t stand there looking stupidly handsome.”  

Peter laughed, and you felt yourself soften even further. “You’re impossible,” he said, pulling you into another hug. His golden retriever warmth surrounded you once more, and all you could do was let yourself sink into the comfort of his arms.  

“And you love it,” you teased, your lips curling up into a grin.  

“Always,” Peter said, kissing the top of your head as he held you close, his love wrapping around you like the safest, warmest blanket you could ever imagine. 

Later that night, you were cooking dinner and Peter silently snuck up behind you, his arms wrapping around your waist as he rested his chin on top of your head.

You sighed, leaning back into him.

“What’re you making, bug?” he murmured, his voice low and soothing, easing away any leftover tension in your body.

“Spaghetti and meatballs,” you hummed as he pressed a soft kiss to the top of your head.

Everything felt perfectly calm for a moment, just the sound of bubbling sauce and the warmth of his embrace.

That peace didn’t last long. It never has since Peter Parker stumbled into your life.

Peter spun you around to face him in one swift motion, his hands sliding lower along your sides.

“That guy was a prick for saying that about you,” he said flatly.

Peter’s grin shifted to something more playful as he looked you up and down. His large, warm hands squeeze you through your yoga pants. “But I will say, because I can say, that your ass is lovely.”

Your cheeks instantly turned pink, and you swatted at him with the dish towel. “Pete!”

He laughed a carefree sound that made your heart flutter. “What? I’m just admiring the view. My view. My favorite view.”

You rolled your eyes, but despite the teasing, you couldn’t help the smile that crept onto your lips.

Peter Parker was going to be the death of you. Oh, but what a way to go out.

Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed!

If you'd like to be added to my taglist

Much love x

- Maeve

[puttingherinhistory]

Most people have absolutely no fucking empathy for the way it affects you to survive an abusive relationship. Most people have absolutely no fucking empathy for what the symptoms of PTSD do to you.

I had to work various food service and retail jobs right after I escaped a violently physically abusive relationship, and that mixes together just about as well as having to work a strenuous physical labor job right after having both your arms broken. But it was my only option if I wanted to pay the bills and keep food on the table.

Of course customers would get aggressive and hostile with me, of course customers would scream while their faces were red with rage and slam their fists on the counter or even try to physically threaten me. And of course given my very fresh and very untreated PTSD I'd freeze and/or fawn and break down afterwards. Even just moderate aggression like a raised voice or a forceful attitude could send me into freeze/fawn because my brain had just spent years being taught that even something as moderate as a raised voice or a forceful attitude meant I was in physical danger if I didn't back down.

And when my co-workers would witness me freeze up in front of a screaming hostile customer the reaction would range from anywhere from annoyance at how pathetic that was of me to later bragging to me about how much better they would have handled that because they're so much tougher and more assertive than me and needed to preen about that. Instead of even bothering to think about why I might be reacting the way I was or trying to empathize they could only jump on the opportunity to judge me as weak to make themselves feel better about themselves.

Or a friend of mine who I distanced myself from after I saw how she reacted to her sister's behavior after leaving an abusive relationship. Her sister was of course afraid of her abuser and afraid of confronting him about custody matters, and my friend would always talk about how frustrated she was with her sister for being "so childish and such a scaredy cat". She knew her sister had just been abused, but all she could do was judge her sister for being "weak" and get mad at her sister for her "weakness".

I have spent years in therapy and have regained a lot of my confidence and assertiveness that I'd lost from the abuse. But it still stings in all sorts of ways when I think of how people reacted to my behavior after I'd just escaped the abuse. How everyone's, and I mean everyone's, reaction to seeing me freeze or fawn or break down when I encountered aggression or hostility was to judge me as weak instead of having any understanding at all, and this includes people who knew I was fresh out of an abusive relationship.

If someone had just broken their arm and couldn't carry anything with their freshly broken arm, any normal decent human being's reaction would be to understand why they couldn't carry anything with a freshly broken arm, and any normal decent human being wouldn't expect them to. It's widely understood that if you judged them as pathetic and weak for not being able to carry anything with a freshly broken arm, and if you started preening about how you're so much stronger and better than them because you can carry things with your unbroken arm, that this makes you a colossal fucking asshole and a generally bad person.

Imagine if we could actually approach mental/emotional injuries, like PTSD from a physically violent relationship, with the same understanding.

[eris-snow]

8. 𝐒𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐅𝐨𝐫 𝐀 𝐆𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐭

Tags:bakugou x fem!reader, juxtaposition, detective bakugou, hacker bakugou, fluff in the midst of angst

There’s a light at the end of the tunnel. One must grasp it before the tunnel caves in.

January 6 20XX

You have to give Katsuki credit, because the dude was dedicated. Not only that, but he could do things that you found difficult with ease. Such as, well, talking to someone.

"Aizawa-sensei says that the foolscap was outdated from 10 years ago. Apparently, it was the same ones he used when he was in U.A. It spanned a good ten years, so at the very least, they haven't walked off the fuckin' earth and died yet." The ash blond announces, flopping on the ground next to you. It was the first day officially back from winter break, but Katsuki was as unfazed as ever.

Back when people were still being potty-trained, Katsuki was practising hours a day on the piano in between kindergarten and card trading with the guys. That's what made him the best, and half of you was glad to see that part of him was still the same.

Focus, you tell yourself. Now isn't the time to get distracted!

"They could be anywhere in the country. With my luck, anywhere in the world." You counter. "Or maybe the one with my condition has poofed out of existence—"

"Stop it with that," Katsuki knocks his knuckles against your forehead, making you reel back at the contact. "People stop writing for all sorts of reasons. They could have cracked the code, or had a fallout, who knows? Shut up and be optimistic. I can't afford you spiralling."

You make a face at him. "You've changed."

"I'd be an asshole if I didn't." He replies, not missing a beat.

You're still an asshole, you want to point out, but you hold your tongue. He's trying to help you, after all.

"Any idea of what course they were in?" You ask instead. "It'd be easier if it was a hero, high profile is good."

"There's a phone number on the paper—"

"That has been changed and is unavailable." You finish. "It's a dead end."

Katsuki huffs, folding his arms. "It's a lead."

You snort loudly, holding back your laughter. "You've changed a lot—"

"And you're an idiot." He refutes. "You can track a phone even after its number is changed. I can get a hold of the IMEI number—"

"What are the chances of someone keeping a phone for over a decade?" You scoff.

"What other chances do we have of finding these pieces of shit?" Katsuki counters.

Biting the inside of your cheek harshly, you sigh. He has a point.

—

February 20XX

The plan, unfortunately, did not work. Either someone had used the phone beyond repair, or it had already been destroyed.

Brilliant.

Katsuki lets out a growl of frustration. It took him a month to find out how to track this guy. A month. And yet you were no closer to finding these grown-ass men.

It was around that time that you started to bring newspapers of that time to the hall, scourging for any clues relating to that incident.

"If only we just knew what course this guy was in..." You mutter, consuming yourself with the papers.

Katsuki stands by the curtains with an unamused expression, hands full of yearbooks as he watches your eyes scan the papers with an immense amount of focus. He's come to know you for months at this point, and has started taking note of little things about you because the more he looks at you, the more he finds.

Like how you bite your lip whenever you're nervous, bite the inside of your cheek when you're irritated and tuck your hair behind your shoulder when you lie.

Like how terrible your piano playing is but you still continue, like how even though what you've been through is more mentally taxing than anything on the battlefield, you still—

It takes Katsuki a second that he's been staring at you for way longer than normal before he unceremoniously drops all the yearbooks on the ground with a loud thud.

You jump like a startled cat, glaring daggers at him as you scramble to get your newspapers away from him. "What the fuck, Bakugou."

His mouth coils into a pleased smirk. "Jokes on you, I'm going deaf. What was that?"

You groan, and it makes Katsuki's confidence ignite. There we go. This version of you, he can handle.

"What's the yearbooks for?" You ask instead, nearing the dusty stacks of bounded paper before flipping through them.

"I managed to round up the yearbooks from the people who still used this piece of foolscap when they were in school." Bakugou plops down on the ground with you. "It's just ten years. If we can go through every class and see if anyone has photo fucked with—"

"Photo fuck?"

"Has the same photo issues as you."

You raise an eyebrow. "Not one of your best works, Nickname Wonder."

"Whatever. Find someone with consistent photo issues throughout their time in U.A and we might be able to narrow it down."

"..."

"..."

"Seriously, photo fuck—"

"Shut it."

—

"Hey man, where are you going?" Eijiro bounds up to him like he'd shitted rainbows, and as much as he appreciates the ball of sunshine cramped into every cell in his friend, he did not want to deal with him now.

Still, he replied. "Training."

"Sick! I was just thinking of—"

"Not today." Katsuki picks up his duffle, checking the clock. "Meeting the nerd at Ground Beta. All Might wants to try something. Gotta run—"

"You've been real busy lately." Eijiro cuts off, blocking his path. "Look, me and the squad don't want to push, but...don't overwork yourself, okay?"

Katsuki almost snorts. Yeah right. Overworking himself was Izuku's job, not his. A tight schedule didn't mean a messy schedule. He'd planned enough time for sleep, eating, internship, training and hunting down people who may or may not exist.

He was being productive, not stressed.

" 'm not overworking myself," Katsuki mutters, sidestepping his red-haired friend as he walks out of the common rooms.

"Well, I'm here if you wanna talk things out!" Eijiro calls.

Katsuki gives a grunt as a response as he pushes the door open.

It's not like Eijiro would remember anyway.

—

The list of possible victims is done by the end of the week, and Katsuki takes the liberty to go for a slow walk around the school to hunt down his teachers and interrogate them. He'd like to say that he's made a good amount of progress, but Katsuki doesn't lie.

The entire procedure is pretty much a coin flip. He can confidently eliminate one or two, but can't ever be sure for the remaining. Were they just forgotten with time? Did they drop out? What if they went undercover?

A handful were even in the General Course, and getting in touch with those alumni was even more difficult.

"Look," Aizawa stares at him tiredly. He looks like he's on his 5th cup of coffee and that his eyebags can carry weights of lead. "I see you from Monday to Friday non-stop. I wish to be alone on a Saturday morning so I can mark your papers and get them back to you on Monday next week. So for God's sake, get out of my face."

"I'm trying to save someone." Katsuki prevents the door from closing with his foot, staring up at his teacher with raised eyebrows. "And from what I heard, heroes don't get breaks. Let me in, Sensei."

Aizawa squints at Katsuki. He may have lost his leg, and pretty much his quirk, but Katsuki's still sure that Aizawa kicks ass. All Aizawa had to do was say the word, and he'd get booted out.

Wouldn't be the first time.

Even so, his teacher lets him into his lair of unwashed coffee cups and Post-it notes wonderland. Katsuki doesn't bat an eye.

"Doesn't ring a bell." Aizawa shrugs, crossing names off.

"Nothing? Cause this guy was in your class." Katsuki yanks out a yearbook and slams it on the table, flipping to the bookmarked page.

On it, is a class photo of 17-year-old Aizawa surrounded by his classmates all those years ago.

"It's been a decade and a war," His teacher snaps. "Give me a break."

As his teacher's eyes survey the picture of his youth, Aizawa's finger hovers over one person's face.

"Oh, I remember him."

Katsuki's breath catches.

Aizawa-sensei trails his finger down to the names, circling the name of the face he'd pointed out that was streaked with blotchy ink.

Imasu Saito.

"He was one of the top students in our year, until his third year. Kept disappearing after class and even ditched. Dropped out right before graduation."

A thin thread circles the name, bright red just like his eyes.

This isn't just a throw-away line.

This was a lead.

"Tell me about him."

Surprised by the sudden interest, Aizawa continues. "I don't know. Last I checked, he was still living with his parents. Could be anywhere by now."

Heat burned in his throat. This could mean something. "Kenji Tanaka," Katsuki urges, iterating the name carefully "Did Saito...know Tanaka?"

Aizawa gives him an unamused expression. "Flattered to think you expect me to remember my classmates' names. And to answer your question, I wasn't even aware that there was a Kenji in my class. Now looking back, I doubt I ever interacted with him at all."

Katsuki groans, slamming his head on the table and sending paper scattering everywhere.

"Fuck humanity. This is what I get when I try to be a little fuckin' nice."

Well, a lead's a lead. Best to take advantage of it, no matter how small.

Aizawa raises an eyebrow, slides a hand to the mini-fridge and cracks a can of Red Bull.

He offers it to the blond wordlessly.

Katsuki swipes it from Aizawa's hand.

Best fuckin' teacher ever.

—

Katsuki shares his findings with you when he plops down in the hall later that evening, and you take turns to share yours.

"There's this guy that made headlines for one news issue." You show him the newspaper, and on it, he reads it out loud.

"20-Year-Old Claims The Existence Of The Non-Existent: The Hottest Flat Earther Theory."

Katsuki almost crumples the sandy paper in his hands. His mouth feels just as dry.

"Bullseye."

"Despite the catchy opening, it didn't do well. The news didn't stick, and there are no follow-ups in the issues before or after it." You push the paper down, causing Katsuki to look into your eyes. "This guy was—"

"Imasu Saito." Katsuki finishes, watching you nod in agreement. "A name. We have a name."

Katsuki looks at the decomposing tabloid, seeing gold. "Alright, spit it out. How did you even manage to find this? There were so many companies and articles—this isn't even from a big-name company. This could have taken years to uncover."

You wriggle your fingers together, shrugging. "Let's just say being invisible has its perks. And the internet. No one bats an eye towards me when I went through their archive."

"Their?"

"It's a long story."

Shrugging it off, Katsuki refocuses on their task. They have bigger fish to fry.

"We need an address." You tell him. "Do you have an address?"

Snorting, Katsuki gives you his most 'are you crazy' look. "Who do you think I am? God?"

"No, you're Katsuki Bakugou," Your eyes sear with confidence. Katsuki's felt that look somewhere. The pure, raw, doubtless look of trust behind those eyes.

He's definitely seen it somewhere before.

"You've risen from death and beat someone twice as powerful as you. You've bounced back from setback after setback. You're the winner of the Sports Festival and the top in Battle Simulation, and you've hacked into systems with firewalls so strong people on the other side of the screen think you have a Tech Quirk. You can find one measly address."

Well, when you put it like that, what is Katsuki supposed to say? Deny?

Puffing up his chest, he levels your gaze.

He can do this.

He can do this, and he will.

—

A week to the end of February, there's a text from Bakugou captioned "Look, at what I've got, you little shit."

On it, is an address of a residential apartment.

—

25 February 20XX

Katsuki could only get a permit to leave school on Friday, so it's the tail end of February when you leave school. It was only at this moment, did you allow excitement to swell in your chest. You're making progress. Much more progress than you had in years.

It was enough for you to start believing that there was hope for you after all.

And Katsuki was helping you.

Plugging the address in the GPS leads you both to your destination 30 minutes of U.A., and as you stand in front of a door with a fist raised, you glance at Katsuki.

He gives you a subtle nod.

Closing your eyes, you knock.

Please let him be home, please let him be home, please—

The door creaks open, and the door chain clinks as a lean man with lengthy limps peeks out. His eyes are cobalt blue, and when he looks at Katsuki, he squints.

"What do you want, kid?"

Wordlessly, Katsuki points to you, as if it explained everything.

All the trouble it took to find this stupid goon's house, led to one too-tall man that looked like he had survived a trainwreck.

Sunken eyes hollow, eyebags prominent, and body far too thin.

The man's orbs widen as he blinks rapidly, only just noticing your presence, even though you're standing right in front of him.

"Are you Isamu Saito?" Your voice is small, as if any louder would cause the floor to fall out from beneath you. "If so, I'd like to talk to you about this."

Rifling through your bag, you pull out the decade-year-old foolscap encapsulated in a file.

He just stands there, blinking, unflinching, mouth falling agape.

The door slams in your face.

At first you think that he wasn't who you'd assumed he was and that you had somehow gotten the wrong house.

But before the panic can sink in completely, you hear the door chain jingle as the door opens wide. The man's gaze of you is pitying, and he speaks directly to you for the first time.

"I'm Isamu Saito. Please, come inside."

.

.

.

8 Months, 2 Weeks, And 2 Days Until Time Of Death.

[writingsbychlo]

How do you think Az would react to his mate bringing home a stray puppy? He seems like a bit of a clean freak and we all know pets tend to make a mess....

personally I don’t think az would ever have a dog, he screams cat-person 😅 so I’ve answered this as she brings home a stray kitten!

az would definitely freak out at first, and insist it cannot stay. no matter how sad it makes his girlfriend, no matter how much she pouts, “it’s not staying!”

after a bit of back and forth about it, they agree it can stay for the night, and only because az refuses to let her wander back out into the night to start trying to find a shelter that’s open this late. and az freaks again when she washes it off in their bathtub and it scratches her while scrabbling. it scratches his carpets. and it sharpens it’s claws in his favourite armchair. it meows all night, and when it ‘makes biscuits�� on his chest, he wakes up with scratches. it comes back every time he gets rid of it. it leaves fur all over his pillow.

he gets hardly any sleep knowing it’s in the house, and he wants it gone. immediately.

he gets up early in the morning to get a box and get it ready to go. he finds a box, but now it’s pawing at his leg, meowing as he eats his breakfast, and he figures it’s hungry. he puts a tin of tuna down and it purrs as it eats. it makes az smile.

“you’re a loud eater.”

and it makes a mess everywhere. az is mad at it again. but then it jumps on in the kitchen counter, almost knocking over his coffee, and az is about to yell, until it bumps it’s head against his chin. he’s speechless. it does it again. he just scoffs. it does it a third time. before the fourth time he puts it back on the floor but doesn’t say anything else.

however, half an hour later when azriel makes to stand up, he doesn’t realise it literally just sat there next to him. he stands on its tail, and the sound it makes actually breaks his heart. it bolts away from him and he genuinely feels awful, because that was a deviating noise. his heart hurts.

it’s hiding under a chair and he has to tempt it out, and it scratches his hand. “guess I deserved that.” but he eventually gets it out. upside down in his arms, scratching its belly as he whispers that he’s sorry. it ‘makes biscuits’ in the air, and it makes az smile. eventually it starts purring.

az gives it a few more scratchies, but he can’t dare to leave it alone now. he just carries it. he gets his coffee and his book and sits in his favourite armchair to read. and he just puts the kitten on the arm. it sharpens its claws again but az just sighs now. “stop it… cat.”

and when it starts loudly locking itself – it’s asshole – right next to him until he’s cringing, “you’re a bad… cat. … what are you?”

and so he totally scoops it up and looks under it. and that’s when his girl wakes up and comes downstairs and asks him what the fuck he’s doing. “trying to decide if small-orange-bastard-boy is a fitting name by checking for a penis, obviously.”

“you can’t call a cat that!”

“I can call my cat whatever I want.”

“I think you’ll find it’s my— are we keeping it?!”

and az just smiles and shrugs. “I suppose. I realised how many boyfriend-points this gives me.”

“uh-huh.”

[aromanticannibal]

oo oo yes, i would like to hear more about...

ghost deku yee yee

Shinsou Hitoshi does not have curshes

and The Story of a Very Loved Kittycat!

!!!

Ok ghost deku is a sad one hehe. tw for suicide

Katsuki hands Aizawa his homework quietly, ignoring Kaminari's constant stream of words behind him. He can feel Izuku's presence around his shoulders, observing Aizawa's reactions as he looks at the short answers.  "Stay after class, Bakugou."  Told you you should have written better answers  I know, Katsuki thinks. He stands in front of Aizawa's desk as the last of his classmates clear out of the room, sending him thumbs ups and mouthing good luck at him half-heartedly. Aizawa glares at him, it’s unclear if it's intentional or not. He sighs.  "It's not like you to half-ass your assignments, Bakugou. What's going on," He asks.  Katsuki's only half surprised to not get scolded. The old man is soft, whether he likes it or not, almost three years of being taught by him made it obvious.  Katsuki doesn't answer. What the fuck is he supposed to say? I’m haunted by the ghost of my childhood best friend who killed himself because of me? Aizawa sighs again. "Listen, if the subject triggered you, it's fine, but I'll need you to go talk to the counselor again–"  "It's not that," Katsuki says.

second one is monoshin galore bc i love this ship but i don't ever write about it. title is very inaccurate given shinsou does very much have crushes.

"Okay, a boy then. Who is it!" Ashido asks, going back to the subject at hand. Hitoshi's brain tells him to not say anything and Hitoshi's heart tells him to shut the fuck up but he speaks anyway. "Blonde. Not Aoyama," He says, clarifying the second Aoyama starts gasping. He pouts.  "You're cute, but not my type," He tries to console, and Aoyama brightens up again. Ashido hums theatrically in thought.  "Kaminari?" "Same comment. He is very cute," He admits.  Kaminari is nice, but Hitoshi has more fun just chilling with him than anything else. Jirou sighs in what he identifies as relief and he mercifully ignores it.  "Uh, Ojirou," Uraraka chimes in. Hitoshi shakes his head. "He doesn't like me. He's cool I guess," He mumbles. Yaoyorozu frowns but doesn't say anything, in that distinct way Midoriya does when he thinks Hitoshi is saying stupid shit (except he does talk, the asshole).  "Bakugou?" Ashido says incredulously, and Hitoshi shakes his head, turning his nose up. "Hell no." Whatever he has with Midoriya is disgusting enough without me being included. Ashido sighs in real relief and Hagakure bursts out laughing from the corner she's tucked in.  "Wait, there's no more blondes in our class. Oh my God no," Ashido says, finally realizing she shouldn't have asked. Hitoshi smiles deviously (and lopsided, because there's no world in which he's not lopsided during Girl's Night with his nails painted bright yellow and a blonde lounging around his shoulders). 

last one is cat shinsou fic thats been lost in my wips forever, god help it .

Hitoshi jumps awake when he hears the sound of metal. He panics, wondering if someone got in the house, if a foster sibling lost control of their quirk, god what if his fosters had enough of him and are going to stab him–  He tries to get up only to fall back and slide off into the abyss – it turns out, wooden planks – before getting caught.  Right, he's a cat. He's at Aizawa's house. It's fine.  He looks up to see Aizawa with some chicken hanging from his mouth. He'd laugh but he's still coming down from his panic, and he isn't sure if cats can even laugh.  "Sorry, kitty. Didn't mean to scare you," Aizawa says, his mouth still full. He seems to remember about his chicken situation and actually eats it, putting Hitoshi on the dinner table and bending down to get what fell, a big spoon.  "I know we keep putting you on the tables and counters but when you're bigger, you can't do it anymore, alright?" Aizawa says half-heartedly. He still looks tired. Hitoshi wonders what hour it is, but he can't see the clock from where he is. He looks at what Aizawa's eating. Chicken soup, it seems, and Hitoshi almost drools at the smell. He didn't have chicken soup in so long. Hitoshi hesitantly gets closer to the soup, but Aizawa chuckles and picks him up.  "You can't eat that, there's garlic in it." 

[sebastiansgaycousin]

Sebastian Sallow and the Mystery of the Black Cat (O.G x Animagus!Reader x Sebastian Sallow)

Sebastian meets a cat who behaves like an asshole. He's a little bit dumb, very jealous and very, very much in love with his friends.

-

Reader can be read as cis or as a transman. Reader can also be read as any race. Also posted to my Ao3

Words: 3,026

The first time Sebastian saw the black cat, it had been in the potions classroom.

It was laying on top of the counter, next to the stove Sebastian was using. Amber eyes cracked ever so slightly open when Sebastian approached the potion station with an outstretched hand.

The black fur felt soft underneath his fingertips. Its coat was shiny and well kept. It had white socks on every foot except its back left paw. The one on the front right was up high compared to the others too. Soft, pink toe beans greeted Sebastian when the cat turned on its back. Sebastian rubbed underneath its chin, the cat purring appreciatively.

"Well, aren't you adorable? Are you professor Sharp's cat?" He said to the cat. The cat just purred in response, eyes closing. Sebastian chuckled and checked in with his potion. It was a batch of wiggenweld potions he made for the new fifth year, at his new friend's request. The batch was finished, glowing a neon green in the cauldron. Perfect. He started filling up the glass flasks with the liquid. Quickly, he realised he didn't have enough flasks.

The cat, who had been staring at the student for a while now, meowed. Sebastian booped its nose. "I'm going to pick up some more flasks. Can you keep an eye on my cauldron, little friend?" He asked. Something sparkled inside the honey coloured eyes. It meowed again and started licking its paw. Sebastian took it as a yes.

That was his mistake. The second he had his back turned to the cat, he heard the sound of glass breaking.

Sebastian quickly turned around to see if the cat was okay. The cat was very much alright. In fact, it was calmly sitting on the counter, looking down at the broken potion on the ground. It noticed Sebastian was looking. Its paw moved towards the next potion, softly pushing the flask to the edge of the counter. "Don't you dare do it," Sebastian whispered, loud enough for the cat to hear.

The mischievous eyes were locked with Sebastian's as the cat pushed the other potion off the desk too. A high pitched squeal left Sebastian's mouth as he rushed to the potion station. The cat jumped off and ran out of the classroom. "No, don't you dare run off you little bastard!" Sebastian exclaimed as he kneeled next to the puddle on the floor.

"Mister Sallow!" The door to Sharp's office swung open with quite a lot of force. It slammed against the stone next to it with a loud bang. The ex-auror took a second to assess the situation in front of him. Sebastian still sat on his knees next to the puddle, though fear was visible on his face. "Mister Sallow. Would you mind explaining to me what this is all about?" Sharp shot a piercing glare Sebastian's way.

"Sir, your cat - it threw my potion on the floor." Sebastian tried to explain.

Sharpe frowned at this. "Don't be ridiculous, Mister Sallow. I don't have a cat." He stated firmly. "Now, are you going to clean that up?"

The second time was while Sebastian was in the library. For once he was not sneaking in the restricted section. He was sitting at a table with his nose buried in his astronomy book. He felt how something warm jumped onto his lap. The Slytherin looked down to see the cat (who he had named Bastard since the potion incident) settle on his lap. It looked at Sebastian with a cocky look in its eyes.

The intensity of Bastard's stare was like a challenge. Sebastian couldn't figure out what it wanted or what it was going to do. Regrettably, he took too long as the black cat climbed onto the table and laid down on top of his homework.

Sebastian groaned.

"Please leave. I need to finish 20 inches on the discovery of Jupiter," he asked, trying to stay polite even though he had no reason to be. It was an animal, after all.

"Meow." The cat stated, factually. It got up and knocked his book off the table when it jumped off. It shot Sebastian a glare and Sebastian felt guilty for sending the cat away. Then, Bastard disappeared around the corner.

Sebastian wondered whose cat it was so he could tell them how rude Bastard was. With the amount of cats that had free reign to go wherever they pleased inside of the school, Sebastian doubted he’d ever find them. He groaned and bent over to pick up his book and saw that the paper had folded and one of the pages was torn at the top.

“Hey, Sebastian! I didn’t know you were studying here as well!” His new friend walked up to him and put his books down on the opposite side of the table. Then, he sat down with a heart warming smile on his face. Sebastian waved a little and put the book down on the table again.

“Hello there. I was trying to work on my paper for astronomy, but someone’s cat decided against that. Did you see it leave?” Sebastian asked. His friend frowned at the question.

“Cat? Sebastian, what are you talking about? I didn’t see anything,” He looked very worried at Sebastian. The latter was too stunned to speak. His friend took Sebastian’s hand. “Maybe you’re overworked. You should take a break! Let’s go to the Three Broomsticks to unwind a little.”

* 

The third time, it was in the Slytherin common room.

Bastard was laying next to Ominis on the couch, purring away. Ominis was reading a book and petting the cat at the same time, sitting close to the fire. Sebastian narrowed his eyes when he walked in and saw the scene in front of him.

“Ominis. What is that cat doing next to you?” He asked, sitting down on the other couch.

Ominis didn’t move to answer, fingers still going over the page. “He’s a cat, Sebastian. He doesn’t do much, besides sleeping the day away.” He said. The cat cracked open an eye to look at Sebastian, almost as if it heard and understood the conversation between the friends.

“Wait. Bastard is a male cat?” Sebastian blurted out the question using the nickname he’d given the cat. Ominous sighed and closed his book. He leaned over to place the object down on the table. The cat took this as a sign to climb onto his lap and make himself comfortable.

“You named him Bastard?”

“Yeah, the little shit has only ever thrown my items onto the floor. Including potions in the classroom, which wasn’t fun to explain to Sharp.”

Ominis chuckled at his friend. Sebastian wished he was the cat, he wanted to sleep on Ominis' lap, too. He ignored that thought and opted to simply glare daggers into the soft asshole currently purring at the way Ominis scratched behind his ears. Again, the cat appeared to look at him with a ton of cockiness in his amber eyes.

The battle for Ominis' attention was on.

*

The weeks after, Bastard started appearing more and more around Sebastian. The cat made Sebastian's life a hell in a way the wizard didn't think a cat was able to. Constantly breaking stuff, laying on top of items Sebastian needed to use and mostly just sticking to Ominis' side.

Sebastian couldn't believe it either, but he was jealous of a cat.

Then there was his friend. The prodigy had been there to listen to his complaints about the animal. They were very kind and considerate of Sebastian, who'd only been complaining lately. Even now, in the dorm.

"I don't understand it, really. What does that thing have that I don't?" He was laying on his back, head hanging over the edge as he burned a hole into Ominis' bed with his eyes. They'd been hanging out for a while now, on their rainy Saturday afternoon.

His handsome friend - who was practising some charms on his own bed - shrugged. "Whiskers? A tail? We could be here for a while if I need to list every single thing the cat has that you don't." He commented as he made an apple float in the air.

Sebastian groaned in frustration.

"Sebastian, calm down. You're jealous of a cat. Just confess your undying love to Ominis already, then you can be scratched behind your ears and be told you're a good boy too." The fifth year looked away from the floating apple, turning his head to look at Sebastian. Sebastian, meanwhile, flushed a deep scarlet.

"I don't know what you're talking about. And it sounds like you're thinking of a dog, not a cat."

"My point still stands. I really don't mind hearing you out, but it's painful to watch how much you're in love with Ominis," his friend paused to pluck the apple out of the air. Sebastian watched as he took a bite out of the apple and he felt something familiar stir in his stomach. The same feeling he got when he looked at Ominis. He filed the thought away in the furthest dusty cabinet in his brain. "Watching you deny your feelings is way more painful than the cruciatus curse. And I would know, since you cast it on me."

Sebastian groaned. "I told you I was sorry."

"I know, it was a joke. I like watching you squirm. Makes you look prettier." He replied. He got up and tossed the remains of his apple in the bin. "Anyway. I'm heading out, you're being boring. See you later!"

Sebastian watched his friend leave. A soft blush was present on his face. Did he just call Sebastian pretty? Purely out of instinct, Sebastian got up to chase them and ask about it. When he left the dorm room however, he was greeted by an empty hallway.

*

Truthfully. He'd only put his wand onto the floor next to him to tie his shoelaces again when something soft and dark rushed past him. Sebastian had looked up to see the cocky fucker peak just around the corner, his wand in Bastard's little mouth.

"Give it back." He commanded the cat. Bastard looked up at Sebastian, eyes yet again filled with mischief. The Slytherin was certain the cat understood him, especially since he was always challenging the human. Sebastian got back up and walked over.

Of course, Bastard had other plans and ran away. Sebastian cursed and ran after the cat. They ran through the corridors of Hogwarts, Sebastian focused on the white tip of Bastard's tail. If he was able to pay any attention, he'd have noticed the hallways were all abandoned.

Sebastian crashed into someone after coming around a corner. He was barely able to save himself and the person, who happened to be none other than his best friend. Holding Ominis tightly, he checked where Bastard went. He was sitting on a bench, looking at the two students with an amused look in his eyes. "Sorry Ominis," Sebastian said, eyes not leaving the amber eyes. "I was chasing Bastard, he took my wand."

Ominis appeared to be amused. "Oh, really now? A cat took your wand?" Sebastian wanted to punch and/or kiss the smugness off of Ominis’ beautiful face. Ominis had no reason to be smug either, it was not like he made the cat…

“Did you make the cat bother me?” The accusation came out a bit harsher than he had meant to. He was just so sick of the animal bothering him so much. And he wanted answers, too.

His best friend started laughing out loud. He didn’t say anything, just turned around and tried to find the cat with his wand. He eventually did and kneeled down in front of Bastard. Ominis took the wand from the jaws of the monster. “Thank you,” he said. He leaned down to kiss the top of Bastard’s hair. The cat purred and rubbed his head against Ominis’ cheek.

Sebastian’s wand was placed into his hand. Sebastian quietly thanked his friend, glad he didn’t have to get close to Bastard himself. “You owe me,” Ominis turned back to Sebastian with a grin on his face.

“Yeah yeah. Just tell me when I can do something for you,” Sebastian replied, rolling his eyes with a smile. He thought Ominis was joking. Ominis stepped closer to Sebastian.

“I know something,” Ominis stated, something indescribable on his face. Sebastian had never seen this expression on his friend’s face. It was a mix of determination and something else. It made Sebastian feel equal parts scared and attracted to his friend. Ominis took a step closer towards Sebastian, now standing in Sebastian’s personal space.

Was this still a joke? What was Ominis doing? Blood rushed to his face, turning him a nice scarlet red. He could smell Ominis now, it did things to Sebastian. Did it suddenly get hotter? “W-What do you propose?” He stuttered. He stuttered . Anne would probably laugh her ass off if Sebastian ever told her this.

Sebastian’s brain short-circuited when he felt Ominis’ lips on his own. Out of reflex more than anything, he took a step back; the kiss had been way too intense for Sebastian’s unprepared mind. He took the time to stare at his best friend, mouth wide open. Ominis now looked a bit insecure, toying with the sleeves of his robes a bit.

“Are you… Mocking me?” Sebastian asked, softly. Ominis’ eyes widened at the question, clearly confused.

“Sebastian. I’d never mock you with something like this. I’ve wanted this, I’ve wanted you for the longest time now,” Ominis confessed, making Sebastian feel dizzy with just his words. “I was too stupid to see you wanted me, too. Until he pointed it out to me.”

Sebastian folded his arms across his chest. “Explain. Now.” He gave his friend a stern look. “This doesn’t mean no, by the way. I just want to know who he is.”

His best friend smiled a little. “It’s our friend. He… Put things in perspective for me. How I feel about you, for example. He said it was obvious you were interested in me as well. I started noticing he was right, so I decided to take the leap with both of you.” Ominis’ explanation made sense. Sebastian decided he disliked that their friend read Ominis better than he himself did. Ominis had always been hard to read, Sebastian only started being able to read him better last year. And their friend knew him for less than a year and figured him out pretty quickly.

Sebastian blinked. “Wait. Both of you?” he asked.

He saw how Bastard jumped off the stone bench behind Ominis. Then, suddenly, their friend was standing behind Ominis, stretching out his limbs. Sebastian let out a high pitched squeal and jumped. Their friend chuckled softly and wrapped his arms around Ominis.

“He means you and me. Because, well, I like you both,” His soothing voice answered Sebastian’s question instead of Ominis. “Sorry, Seb. I haven’t been entirely honest to you. I’m an Animagus.”

Sebastian pointed at the boy. “You’re the one who keeps messing with me! I knew you understood the things we were saying!” He loudly exclaimed. He tried to ignore the feeling in his stomach at the sight of his friends standing in front of him like this. “How long have you known, Ominis?”

The memory of seeing Ominis and Bastard (in cat form) relaxing on the couch in the common room came to mind. It kind of pissed Sebastian off, if he was being honest. Ominis, ever perceptive of his friend’s behaviour, spoke up. “I’ve known for a few days. When he confessed his feelings for both of us to me. We were devising a plan to confess to you, though I didn’t know he was going to do it out of nowhere like this.”

Bastard let go of Ominis and moved to stand next to him. He reached for Sebastian’s hand and squeezed it tight. “I just couldn’t wait any longer. I want you two to be mine,” he stated, pretty eyes darting between his two friends. Sebastian’s blush returned to his face. He let himself be pulled closer by Bastard, his two friends now in his personal space. He watched as Bastard moved behind Ominis again and whispered something in Ominis’ ear, then kissed his cheek. Ominis’ cheeks turned a dusty pink as he blushed. It made Sebastian’s stomach flip.

A hand cupped Sebastian’s jaw. It slid up and behind his head, fingers weaving through his brown hair. It was Bastard (he really wasn’t going to let go of this nickname), who looked at him with the mischievous eyes Sebastian had come to know from his cat form. Honestly, how he didn’t put two and two together and figured it out quickly was beyond him. He didn’t have time to think as he saw Ominis lean in again.

This time, Sebastian was prepared for the kiss. Ominis’ lips were soft and gentle for no reason, but they were. They went beyond Sebastian's wildest dreams and suddenly it felt all too real. He closed his eyes and wrapped an arm around Ominis as they kissed. He felt another set of lips below his ear; they were a bit rougher, more chapped but pleasant nonetheless.

Eventually, Ominis pulled back for air. His lips were red and swollen and he looked soft. His guard was fully down now. It warmed Sebastian’s heart. Then, Bastard kissed him, but only briefly. He smirked and appeared to be satisfied with himself.

Sebastian sighed. “Fine. If Bastard stops throwing my stuff off surfaces, I’ll be yours.”

The Animagus laughed. “Aw, you’re really going to keep using that nickname for me? And we only just got together, sweetcheeks.”

Sebastian cringed at that nickname. “Shut up, before I change my mind.”

Again, Bastard laughed and Ominis chuckled too. Sebastian rolled his eyes and rested his head on Ominis' shoulder, blowing air into Bastard's neck. It was the happiest he had felt in a few years and silently, he really didn't mind his new lover's prankis if it ended up like this.

[thebelovedmuse]

Copycat

Fandom: Be Kind My Neighbor

Summary: People are disappearing in Baths and you make the mistake of being caught out after dark.

Content: Violence, swearing, Female!Reader, no pairings, but Rarold is pathetic in this if you like your men like a wet cat.

🌽🌽🌽🌽🌽🌽🌽

The sun is barely peaking over the horizon as you increase the speed of your pedaling. You didn't mean to stay out so late biking the trails and honestly you were a bit lost. You know with the rumors swirling about a serial killer in Baths that you shouldn't stay out after dark, especially out in the woods. Suddenly your world spins as you feel yourself flying off your bike, crashing into the dirt and gravel. You look over to see your bike, it's front tire twisted, a large stick between the spokes. You start to pick yourself up, wondering how you even managed to do that when you feel a force push you back down. You feel a hand grab your arm and begin to drag you across the path. You stumble trying to pull away and get your feet under you when you finally take in who it was.

"Rarold?!"

Of course it had to be Rarold. The two of you were not on good terms since the time he over heard you make a comment in the diner soon after his wife went missing. Something about making yourself disappear too if you had to be married to him...

"Fucking bitch..." Rarold says. You recall him saying something similar to your remark that night in the diner. He continues to pull you along, muttering. You catch "barn" and "Kevin" before deciding you were done with whatever the hell this was. You dig your heals into the ground in an attempt to throw him off balance. Unfortunately he counters you, whipping his arm forward and sending you flying. You land face first next to him as he stands there, looking down at you and snickering.

"FUCK OFF RAROLD," you screech. Its now or never, in one swift motion you pull the pocket knife from your back pocket and slam it into Rarold's boot. He screams and you pray he ends up a few toes shorter after this experience. You feel dirt hit your face as he begins to run. You're fairly surprised at how quickly he can still haul ass with a limp.

You pick yourself up off the ground, now covered in dirt as a sense of rage washes over you. You weren't just going to let this asshole go, you begin to head in the direction you last saw him. You find yourself soon coming upon a clearing. An old abandoned barn.

As you walk along the back wall of the barn you see the silhouette of a figure and realize you caught up to Rarold. You notice the empty oil drums next to you and decide to pull a little trick you learned working at the local haunted house, scaring teens. A loud bang lets out as your fist connects with the side of the drum. You see the figure nearly jump out of its skin and scurry around the corner. You roll your eyes and mutter in disgust, "Rarold you little bitch."

You're surprised to hear a car door slam and the sound of the engine start up. You run around the corner to see that Rarold had hopped into his truck, the sounds of screeching as he quickly pulls away. You watch as the headlights disappear up the winding road, he's gone now. You accept that you're stuck hitchhiking back to town and you begin to walk along the side of the road.

[unreal-unearthing]

My parents used to complain all the time about their cat (to be clear, they LOVE this cat, this was just one thing she does that annoys them to no end) jumping on the island counter. She only did it when they did were in the kitchen, and for ages they were convinced she was being an asshole, flagrantly disobeying their rule about counters.

And then one day I pointed out to them that the first thing my parents do when they get home is sit across from each other at this kitchen island and talk. My dad sits on one of the stools and my mom stands on the opposite side, leaning over so their faces are about level while they chat. And the cat, I pointed out, was trying to sit in such a way, on the counter, that she was about level with their faces. She was just trying to be a part of their conversation, of their little ritual across the counter. It still pisses my dad off but now my mom finds it kinda endearing.

Anyway I love cats.

Trying

[wolfprincesszola]

Echoes of 50 Chapter 1

As always, check the TWs and CWs in the masterlist. This is probably one of my favorite chapters though and along with it, one of my favorite songs by Gracie Abrams. I hope you enjoy <3. ——————– Now Playing: Close to You by Gracie Abrams

<Masterlist>

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Logan had a schedule he stuck to. He liked being punctual. He liked planning everything down to the T. He liked living in the most optimal way.

6:30 AM. Wake up and get ready for work. 7:30 AM. Head out of the apartment and walk to the nearby coffee shop. 7:45 AM. Order his regular: a caffè mocha. 7:50 AM. Get his order and walk the rest of the way to his work. 8:00 AM. Arrive at work on the dot. 12:00 PM. Take a lunch break. 12:30 PM. Go back to work. 4:30 PM. Walk home. 5:00 PM. Arrive at home and prepare dinner. 5:30 PM. Eat dinner and research. 9:30 PM. Get ready for bed. 10:00 PM. Mandatory cuddles with his cat Luna with no blue light. 10:30 PM. Sleep.

Repeat. Day after day. Week after week. Month after month.

He liked the consistency. What that meant was that Logan had almost never missed a day of work in his life besides the day he had seen the orange-suited man and that Logan had never been late to work. That was his life.

Work. Research. Sleep. Work. Research. Sleep. Work. Research. Sleep. Work. Research. Sleep.

Logan didn’t mind it. He enjoyed the schedule.

What he did mind was his schedule being interrupted on a sunny Thursday morning by the most gorgeous man he had ever laid his eyes upon.

To think it all started with an order of a simple caffè mocha. Logan had arrived into the coffee shop to be greeted with the barista he saw everyday. Roman Prince.

Around this time every day, there was always no one around. Too early for anyone to be getting coffee in a local small business without a drive-through.

“Logan. As on time as ever.”

“Ah, Microsoft Nerd! As on time as ever. Caffè mocha, is it?” Roman grinned at the man, “I’ll have it prepared in just one moment.”

Logan rolled his eyes at the man dashing around–more dramatically than need be–to prepare a simple order.

“You would think that after three years of me coming here every day at the exact same time that you’d have my order before I even got here, Roman.”

“Ah, then how would I be able to converse with you, Calculator Watch?” Roman chuckled mischievously, “You know how much I love to talk to people.”

“Then you must know how much I abhor socialization.” Logan huffed, placing the correct amount for the coffee on the counter. $5.24 exactly.

“I never got why that is.” Roman shrugged before capping Logan’s coffee. “You must absolutely have a miserable life.”

“I’m sure whatever you categorize as a ‘miserable’ life would be absolute blissful for me. I’ll be off, Roman. I urge you to have my order ready before I come, seeing as you usually are not doing anything when I arrive.”

“You know I won’t do that.” Roman kept a smile on his face as he handed the coffee cup to Logan. Logan lifted his coffee cup in thanks as he turned on his heel and began to walk away. Roman didn’t deserve a retort back for that.

“Asshole. Won’t even give the greatest Prince in all the lands a proper farewell.”

“I heard that!” Logan remarked. He didn’t miss Roman’s playful laugh.

Logan’s walk towards the front door was interrupted by someone slamming into him and hot liquid splashing on his chest. “Hey Ro. I didn’t see the people who wanted me to deliver these and it’s cold outside-”

Logan yelped, jumping back as he felt the hot coffee soaking into the newly-pressed collared shirt he was wearing. He couldn’t help the involuntary “fuck” that escaped his mouth.

“Oh no…Logan, don’t be upset at Pat. Don’t be upset. Don’t be upset. Don’t be upset.” Roman’s thoughts rang in Logan’s mind.

“Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to do that. Let me get you a napkin.” A man’s voice spoke up with panicked kindness as he rushed to grab something for Logan. Logan blinked once before staring at the man who had bumped into him. His heart skipped a beat.

The man was, to say the least, unique. His glasses matched Logan’s frames. A light gray cardigan hung on his shoulders as he wore a light blue polo shirt. Besides that, he had the most mesmerizing eyes Logan had ever seen. If Logan wasn’t careful, he could drown in their bewitchment. Logan had always detested the color brown, but somehow, it didn’t matter that the man’s eyes were brown because they were brown like the espresso grounds and dark chocolate Roman used to make Logan’s coffee. They were the brown that Logan found beauty in. Freckles adorned the man’s face, scattered around as if an artist had splattered paint onto his face. The arbitrary placement of his freckles on his face made no sense to Logan and yet he found himself entranced, wanting to count every freckle that adorned this man’s face.

“Yikes. That’s an angry face if I’ve ever seen one.”

Roman’s thoughts pulled Logan back into reality where he saw the man trying to carefully pat Logan’s stained shirt with napkins. The man’s glabella scrunched up with a fear that Logan would snap at him. So Logan didn’t. Even if he was upset over his shirt. Even if he knew he was now going to be late for work. Even if he was slightly annoyed. Logan would not get angry. And he didn’t.

Instead, Logan took a deep breath and looked at the man sincerely. “Are you alright?”

The man blinked in surprise, his glabella and his shoulders relaxing. “Uh, yeah. Are you?”

“I’ll be fine. What’s your name?” Logan asked as he pulled the man up to stop trying to wipe the coffee stains away. It would just have to be dry cleaned.

“He’s not mad?”

“You’re not mad?” The man looked up at Logan warily.

“I’m not. Really.” Logan looked to see what had been knocked over. A tray was strewn on the floor with two cups of spilled coffee. He leaned down to grab the tray and handed it to the man, “My name is Logan Sanders. You are?” “Patton Morris.”

Patton. Logan etched it into his brain, letting it spread across it like a primary-school rumor on the playground. He allowed the name to take over his entire thoughts and kept it hidden for safety in the back of his mind, forever knowing he’d be able to access it anytime he saw Patton.

“These orders must not be too important, Roman, if you are sitting around watching us instead of remaking them.” Logan called out to the barista. That seemed to make Roman jump as he began to remake the two drinks, no longer watching the interaction with burning curiosity.

“I’m so sorry.” Patton exhaled, “It’s my first day and it’s bean one of those days-”

“It’s alright, Patton. Mistakes happen…” Logan trailed off before processing what Patton had said, “Did you just make a coffee pun?”

“Oh, no. Pat, don’t make another pun. He hates those.”

“I make puns when I’m nervous.” Patton squeaked.

“Alright then.” Logan blinked as he grabbed the two empty cups on the ground, “Why don’t you go ahead and grab the mop to clean this up? I’ll help you.”

“There’s absolutely no way he just brushed it off. Logan, you hate it when I make jokes! What is this treatment?”

Logan ignored Roman’s complaints.

“Don’t you have work, Egghead?” Roman chirped up as he finished brewing both cups needed.

“That can wait.” Logan cleared his throat as he looked to see that his coffee had also fallen in the process of being knocked over by Patton. He did not want to admit the main reason he was doing all this was because of Patton.

“I java mop now!” Patton chirped up as he walked in with a mop, getting ready to mop the ground.

“Another pun.” Logan stared at Patton before allowing him to mop the floor. Once it was cleaned, Logan turned to Roman to ask for another cup of caffè mocha.

“Now what is going on with you now, Logan?”

Logan really wanted Roman’s thoughts to shut up.

“Coming right up, Specs.” Roman winked at the man before turning away. Logan turned to Patton.

“I feel awful for spilling this on you. Surely I can do something for you. I'll do whatever beans necessary to fix your shirt.”

Logan ignored the pun. “There’s no need, Patton. I will just be on my way home after this to change my shirt before heading off to work.”

“Ah yes, the slave of capitalism.” Patton remarked, “The damn government back at it again, amirite?”

Well, fuck. Prettiest man Logan had ever laid eyes on, and hated the government just like him? Logan was screwed to say the least.

“Yes, you are correct in that aspect, but I must urge that there is no need to pay me back.”

“Let me at least pay for your dry-cleaning then.” Patton seemed uneasy to see Logan let the incident go, so Logan gave in and sighed.

“Alright, fine. Usually, my dry-cleaning bill is $5 per dress shirt. You can pay me by tipping your employer, Roman, that amount.”

Roman gave an indignant noise, but a look from Logan shut him up before he could protest.

“I’m not going to make my friend tip me, you ass.”

“Here’s your coffee, Book Germ.” Roman scoffed as he gave the new cup to Logan. Logan sipped it and nodded towards the two of them.

“Have a brew-tiful day, Logan!”

“See you tomorrow, same time.” Roman called out.

Before Logan left the building though, he caught Roman’s last few thoughts.

“I wonder if Logan felt pity because he could hear what Patton was thinking.”

Now that Logan had thought about it, he hadn’t heard Patton’s thoughts once throughout the entire process. He had no idea what Patton was thinking through the entirety of their interaction.

Maybe Patton was the start to the answers Logan was looking for.

Logan would have to come to the coffee shop more often, if that was the case. To assess Patton’s importance to Logan’s research.

…and maybe also to see him more in general.

[briamichellewrites]

45

Bria was home after four months on the road. Despite playing for thousands of people and meeting her fans, she was still lonely at the end of the day. She used alcohol to help her get through everything, though she hid it from everyone. On top of meeting her fans, she also had photo shoots and interviews. She missed her cats the most. Mike was also on tour with the band. He wondered how she was doing by herself, especially since she was nervous before leaving.

Her tour received positive reviews from critics. She interacted with her audience and had nonstop energy, which she and her fans threw back and forth with each other. It was as if she was born to perform. Her album was getting hype and people wanted it to be nominated for a Grammy. Neither Mike nor Brad knew about her drinking and she wanted to keep it that way.

When she returned home, the house was empty. Save for her cats who welcomed her home. Meow. You’re home! We missed you, human! She missed them, too. It was good to be home! She picked Cream up. Cookies and Bon Jovi followed her to her room with her stuff. After putting Cream on the floor, they watched her put her stuff away. The cats got up on the bed and looked inside her suitcase. There was a lot of human stuff in there.

She had her dirty clothes washed before they were packed. All she had to do was put them away. Cream accidentally got tangled up in her underwear. Meow. Human, help! She went over and untangled her. Thank you! She jumped when she heard a funny sound. What was that? Bria found her phone and looked at the text message that was sent to her.

Yes, I’m home. I was going to start making dinner if you wanted to come over. I won’t charge you haha. – Bria

Bradley replied he was on his way after getting the address. She texted BP to let him know. He joked about her stealing his friend. She replied jokingly calling him an asshole before putting her phone down. They didn’t have much food in the refrigerator since they needed to go grocery shopping. She would do that the next day. Since she was in the kitchen, the cats demanded food.

While she was gone, they had a neighbor come in twice a day and feed them. She offered a lot of money, but the neighbor declined. Instead, she just asked her to bring something back for her. She loved cats but never had any of her own, so she was more than happy to help out. After dispersing the food, she heard the doorbell ringing. That was probably Bradley. She got up and went to the front door. Yes, it was. They greeted each other while she let him in.

“I hope you like cats.”

“How many do you have?”

“Three.”

She pointed them out. They were all different breeds. Bon Jovi, Cookies and Cream. They all looked up at the stranger. What was she making? She was trying to figure that out. Was he a vegan or vegetarian? No, he was not. That made things a lot easier! He laughed. She decided to just make a soup with leftover vegetables and chicken stock. He questioned if she liked to cook.

She loved cooking, especially for other people! Her favorite thing to eat was salmon, though she was having trouble finding it at the store. Were her friends vegetarian or vegan? Two of them were. She had to be creative with what she could make. He watched her cook, as the cats roamed in and out. Something smelled good, but they couldn’t see what it was. It was probably human food they couldn’t eat. Cream meowed because she wanted to see what she was making.

She was too small to jump up on the counter. Her claws caught ahold of her pants and she climbed up. She was about to take one of the cut-up vegetables, but she was caught and put back on the floor. They didn’t want cat hair in their food. She grumbled before going out to the living room. Bradley laughed at her. Did they have separate personalities? Yes.

“Bon Jovi and Cookies are the ones who will demand attention. We lived with my friend, Mike for a while. They would go in and bug him until he acknowledged their presence. Bon Jovi is the most vocal. She has tantrums when she doesn’t get her way.”

“What does she do? Just lie on the floor and meow?”

“Pretty much. It’s mostly over food but it’s also because we’re not worshipping the ground she walks on twenty-four-seven”, she joked.

Meow! That’s not true, human! Bon Jovi had to proclaim her innocence. Her human was disparaging her good name by spreading lies and misinformation. She had a reputation to uphold and defend. After cutting up the vegetables and adding in lettuce, she put her salad on the counter. She then found leftover salmon hidden in the freezer.

She put it on the stove to heat up wrapped in aluminum foil, before setting the timer for eight minutes. Every so often, she flipped them over to evenly distribute the heat. The cats had gone back to playing in the living room. Cream was playing with Bon Jovi’s tail. She pretended it was a snake slithering around. I got you! She pounced on it and grabbed it with her paws. It slipped out, so she pounced again. Bon Jovi didn’t mind because she was just playing around, as kittens were known to do.

Haha, you two have fun. I love you. - BP

Bradley was enjoying the spontaneous date. He felt he was getting to know her better and seeing who she was. She is the most incredible woman you will ever meet. He remembered Brad saying that about her. Why was she selling herself on dates? Who decided that? Her manager did. She just agreed to do it. Her manager was selling her? Yeah.

“You need to be represented by a new manager. They shouldn’t be doing that. Do you want to do it?”

“Yeah, it’s a good way to meet people. It’s not about the money.”

“Oh, yeah. I never thought that. You can do a lot better than selling yourself.”

She would talk to Brad about it when he got home. The meal was delicious! Brad was a very lucky guy! After putting their dishes away and cleaning up, they went to the living room. Even though she was the girlfriend of a close friend, he wanted to kiss her. When he did, he felt her lips on his. What were the rules between her and Brad? While he was gone, she was allowed to be with whoever she wanted.

That included hookups. She just had to be honest with him. So, he wouldn’t mind if they went upstairs? No, he wouldn’t. They got up and he followed her up to the bedroom. He closed the door behind them. After going to the bed, he kissed her and pulled her in closer. He took off his shirt before laying her down on the bed and getting on top. She wasn’t a virgin because he could tell she knew what to expect. They slowly removed their clothes and tossed them on the floor.

He was just going to be a hookup. At the moment, she was not thinking about that. Being with him would not cure her loneliness. Neither would the men who paid her money to take her out on dates. They would eventually leave her to go home to their wives or girlfriends. The only person she would ever have was herself.

@zoeykaytesmom @feelingsofaithless @alina-dixon @fiickle-nia @boricuacherry-blog

[homelander-rp-blog]

She's taller than him when she's perched up on the counter, John's eyes unintentionally is drawn to her long, beautiful legs before she makes a grasp at his jaw, tilting his head up, his adam apple bobbing when he swallows, doesn't move a muscle, her touch sends a shiver down his spine, making him arch his back subtly Jesus just don't hump her now! and that's when he notices he's hard as a nail in his pants, awkwardly moves his legs to cover it. "well.. my daddy didn't raise a rude maniac.. he did raise a maniac but with manners" flashes a fond smile "if ain't a woman then what are you, kitten? Satan's spawn?" and throwing random sarcasms is what he's excellent at whenever he feels nervous or in danger, his tongue darts out to wet his lips, try not to play it as a salacious act "I'm afraid there's not a story in there, sweetheart. just me being an idiot for my entire life.. but girls like a marred man, no?" shit, he isn't sure if he's flirting right now or just babbling, it's been ages and he feels he's getting dry down there-

Finally, she lets go of him to eat, thank God, John tries to reel his thought to somewhere which doesn't involve her but can't help it, idly thinking if she was wearing a mini skirt, from his place he could take a peak- bites his tongue not to blurt a 'bet you got other interesting things under the belt, too' but stops himself a moment before ruining this peace "ah, such a pity.. wish I could give you my enemy's soul instead but guess I'm the first idiot handing over his own soul to you, eh?" he's only joking, no one likes to live in this world for so long "it does.. I just gonna hope mine won't be thrown to the deep level of hell, but, if hell is full of hot chicks, I wouldn't mind being thrown around" he gives a meaningful wink, raises his beer bottle for her "to my lil' demon's health then!" and goes up only to choke on the drink, coughs it out with a breathless laugh "who?! you?! you wanna.." placing the glass back on the counter, he pushes his empty plate away to prop up his foot on the counter, chair tilting back so he can look right at her face when they talk "you wanna run a ranch? didn't know it was between the options too. didn't peg you as a country girl" but then John notices the obvious change in her feature, how she talks about her family and gripping the counter too hard that her knuckles turn white, the blonde man is quick to shoot out of his chair, both hands wrapping gently around Eris' bony wrists "hey now.. hey" and tries to make her focus on him instead, a cloud of darkness covering over her always so bright eyes, John cups the side of her face, an act of instinct "yeah.. family can be bad sometimes.. God knows my own daddy used to beat me, and I wished for his death sometimes.." he grimaces, blue eyes looking sad "but not all of them are.. I uh.. my mom, she's a lovely woman. I think she'll like you if you two meet." chewing inside his cheek, his mind jumps to different branches to change the mood "look, we ever make it out alive, I'm gonna take you to my family's ranch, good? we got all types of animals in there.. uh.. goats, sheep! I'll even get you a cat, an orange one"

Their peaceful moment won't take long when a knock at the door interrupts them, John frown at the closed door "I don't expect anyone at this hour.." sure, Kevin is gonna visit him today but it's not the time "I swear if it's that kid from the upper floor.." looking around, he picks one of kitchen's knives and cautiously approaches the main entrance, his heart beating so loud in his ears "who's this?"

But no answer.

John opens the door, only a small gap to take a look at the visitor and gets hit in the face when whoever was behind, kicks it down. "it's from the Don, asshole!" two buff man rushing inside, and the first one kicks him right in his face, sending the knife in his hand flying across the floor "my fucking nose!" and there are blood everywhere. John tries to shield his head when they beat him. I should have known it, that pig sent his men for me! which will end up with him in the hospital, bad ending. John just hopes Eris gets her soul at the end, he wasn't someone to make a promise and break it.

"maybe the cat would like me for that very reason. A ginger one would be cute, or even a black cat, spook all the kids in the area." she smirked in amusement over the idea. "virgin demon, you're so funny." but she did laugh, that was a small achievement, she could probably have got him a gold medal for that one. either way those little berries popped into her mouth so easily, she loved the crunch of them fresh from the fridge. grapes were something she'd once dreamed of tasting. "when i say last time i was around it just means that it's been some time... but time works differently down there."

There was a pause, a way that she stared at him, her head slowly tilting, like she was learning every small fact in what he said, judging his soul and not his being but that wicked little smirk was everything and more. that smirk was what some people would sin for, even the holiest of men. "i think you'd look fantastic strapped to a chair, John." she remarked firstly with all the amusement trapped in the curl of her lips. "Oh, so you find me gorgeous?" Eris quipped onto that quickly. "Also, what's to say that I don't enjoy old you? I like the way you... view things, and I like the way you cook." with another swift motion she'd put another grape to her lips and crunched into it's skin, a soft hum of appreciation. "Meow." she played into the joke, but she was the luckiest black cat you could wish for.

"I've seen them, I like them.." she spoke a little softer, and without warning reached across, some of that smoke she moved in followed her and the surprisingly gentle way she reached her hand to run across the skin of his arm but it was her eyes that traced where she knew his scars to be. "They remind me of my own." she admitted. Glamour was a fantastic thing, it meant she could appear however she liked and most demons picked to look like someone they'd known or idolized in their life, Eris chose to be exactly as she was. Exactly as she'd been as a human, but her scars.... they reminded her so brutally of her death. "No need to apologies, I'm not much of a lady." Oh but she was, better than most. She flitted again, that is what she called the motion where she'd disperse, flitting. This time she was perched before him on the counter surface, one leg crossed over the other and bobbing up and down. Eris reached to take his chin, like he'd made him look at her days prior, she did the same to him. "I do like your scars John, they give you character, they tell me stories and I like the stories." Perhaps that was the nicest extension of humanity she could offer him on that.

"Bon patie!" she copied, this humming delight took her, it was the most content the demon looked when she was eating. " I've got a lot of souls under my belt..." she was truthful with that, but her eyes glued to him, trying to decipher his reaction and sometimes it was like Eris was studying his soul for response. "Souls give me power... that is how we rise up. I think humans believe we eat souls? That isn't it, it's sort of like... the more that belong to us, the more power we're granted, that type of thing. Some demons the lower level kind, they don't have the resolve to do what is required. Let's say you're summoned and someone wishes someone dead, you can take their soul in exchange for the chore you'd do for them, that's how it starts on the low levels and some can't do it. They are the weak, incapable. They are the ones I'd send to the pits, the hot coals, does that make... some sort of sense?"

She seemed happy in those moments but she had appreciation for food, especially when he'd cooked and it was still hot. "Why don't I run the ranch? I like animals, more than people. People are.." she pulled a face but it didn't last long before her eyes filled with utter darkness. If it was John's turn to study her, he'd find bitterness and hatred, a lack of mercy to their existence. "If my line continued I wish them plague and hunger, I would beg my highest for their damnation and revel in the glory of watching it. and I, do not beg for anything." there was no pause, no hesitation. She didn't know that she was digging her fingernails so firmly into the way that it was chipping beneath her grip, the tips of her fingers turning white from the pressure. "I hope they live in fear of my name."

[here2bbtstrash]

look down on me like that - 9 (explicit)

genre: slow burn enemies to lovers hatefucking coworkers au, smut, angst

pairing: yoongi x reader

summary: your asshole coworker min yoongi has made it his personal mission to ruin your life.

word count: 16k 🙈

contains: explicit sexual content 👀 literally jumps immediately into it (well.... you'll see 🤭) so buckle up!!! also features: hotel drama, reader being v dumb in classic reader fashion but she gets there, a whole lotta tension and angst and misplaced anger, some new friends!!! and yes they're 3 idols see if you can figure out who 🤪, erotic bed sharing and handholding lmfao, probably the most drinking that has happened in a chapter yet (which is saying a lot honestly), of course the GRAMMY RESULTS.... oh yeah and yoongi in glasses, yoongi in a suit, yoongi playing piano, yoongi almost getting in a fight, yoongi rapping, yoongi WEARING CAT EARS (yes these are all warnings!!!!!! 😩) - ok and here are ur smut specific warnings: semi-public sex (mile high club anyone ✈️), cunnilingus, fingering, sex dreams, nipple play, dirty talk, reader has a voice kink 🥴, clit stim, unprotected sex AGAIN 💀, she squirts again don't @ me lmao, aaaaand some lovely mouth/throat fuckin 🫡

A/N: i feel like i have nothing to say that isn't just overwhelming gratitude to you all for being here 🥺 so i'll keep it short!!! sit back and get comfy bc this one's a lot, here we go y'all..... you ready?? 💜

A/N 2: as of 5/27, this chapter has been updated to remove the instances of anti-asian discrimination. i want to expressly state how sorry i am to those who were hurt or otherwise upset by the original content. please know that i mean it when i say i am fully committed to listening and doing better moving forward. 💜

an eternal thank you to @haliiimede and @monimonimoon for their help betaing!!!

read on AO3!

chapter eight | masterlist | chapter ten

~*~

You don’t know how you let Yoongi talk you into this.

You honestly can’t remember, at least not right now, not with your ass perched on the edge of the sink counter and his hands making quick work to tug your sweats and underwear down and off, one ankle at a time.

The place is cleaner than any airplane bathroom you’ve ever been in, and certainly much less cramped. First class really spares no expense, you’ve learned. It’s an upgrade Yoongi made for both of you at the check-in counter unprompted, his only explanation mumbled into the rim of his iced Americano once you’d settled at a table in the fancy lounge: “Economy seats fuck my back up, and I figured if I left you behind you’d push me into LA traffic at your first opportunity.”

You might still do it, if only because he’s managed to convince you to do this again. Weren’t you supposed to be mad at him?

“I’m starting to think you have a bathroom fetish,” you murmur, not quite managing to keep your voice steady. Your fingers rake through Yoongi’s long dark hair as he situates himself properly on his knees between your legs, his hands pressing your thighs to spread you wider.

“Are you complaining?” he grunts back, and you lose the ability to form a coherent response as he leans in and traces his tongue up your folds.

You nearly bang your head on the mirror with the way your spine instinctively arches at the feeling, your hips tilting up for as much of his mouth as you can get.

“Shit,” you hiss as he starts to fuck the muscle of his tongue into your entrance, his thumb swiping up through your wetness before settling into rough circles over your clit. “Why are you so fucking good at this?”

Once he’s thoroughly tasted you, Yoongi quickly replaces his tongue with his fingers, flexing against your front wall at a brutal pace, like he’s realized you can’t take too long in here. His lips close around your clit as his tongue laps over it in thick strokes, and your hips circle hungrily, grinding on him.

“That’s it,” he pulls off just enough to gasp. “Ride my face. Wanna make you come so I can fuck this tight little pussy.” Just the rough tone of his voice is nearly enough to send you over the edge.

When his lips and tongue return to your cunt, you don’t hold back.

You fist the hand tangled in his hair, your other palm smacking flat to the counter for balance as you throw a leg over his shoulder, and you swear you can hear him laughing while you press your heel into his back to pull him even closer. His mouth is warm and wet and divine, the way he licks and sucks at your throbbing clit overwhelming. He strokes his fingers deftly into your g-spot, working up enough arousal that it’s started to run down the crux of your thighs. You roll your hips again and gasp at the way his tongue drags just right over you.

“Oh god, Yoongi,” you groan, squeezing your eyes shut, too lost in it to worry about being quiet. You can feel it as he keeps his tongue laid out flat for you to use as you please. Everything in you pulls tight as you rut yourself against his face in time to the building pressure worked up in your core by his unrelenting fingers. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, I’m gonna—”

The plane dips sharply, and you lurch upright with a gasp as your eyes snap open. There’s a few more seconds of shuddering bumps, and then you seem to find clear skies again.

Your heart hammers in your chest as you sit back and try to steady your breathing, the world slowly coming into focus: the TV screen in front of you, your purse tucked into the shelf beneath it, beige privacy walls surrounding you on all sides.

Fuck. You lean forward, letting your head drop between your knees as reality sinks in. You’re not in the bathroom. You’re in your stupid first-class seat. It was a dream. A fucking airplane sex dream.

Panic carves through you like a knife as questions bubble up in your mind: What if you said something in your sleep? Did Yoongi hear you? Is he sitting on the other side of the wall with that fucking smirk on his face, endlessly smug in the knowledge that he haunts you even in your dreams?

Immediately convinced that he is, you can’t help yourself. You press your hands flat to the divider between you and just barely lift out of your seat so you can peek over it.

But Yoongi looks entirely unchanged from the last time you saw him several hours earlier: he’s got his headphones on and is slouched over his laptop, frowning down at the screen, thoroughly engrossed in work.

Just as you’re breathing a sigh of relief, he glances up, and your eyes widen.

“Can I help you?” he grunts, not even bothering to pull his headphones off. You don’t think it’s a double entendre, but you don’t want to entertain him long enough to find out.

“No,” you snap, and then you slump back down to the safety of your seat, slamming the controller on the wall until you’re fully horizontal. You tug the provided headphones over your ears, hoping they might block out your racing thoughts as you desperately try to ignore the dull ache between your legs.

~*~

Getting any more sleep proves to be an impossible task, your mind too keyed up at the possibility of another airplane bathroom dream. By the time you make it through the rest of the flight, and customs, and the car ride to your hotel, you’re nearly delirious with exhaustion, and your body is thoroughly confused about what fucking time it is, though your phone says it’s apparently the middle of the night.

Your brain feels like it’s been in a blender, your reaction time so slowed that, standing at the hotel check-in counter, it takes you several seconds to process the words leaving the front desk agent’s mouth.

She must be able to read the dumbfounded look on your face, because she repeats herself. “King bed executive suite for three nights?”

“Um, no,” you finally manage to stammer, and though he makes no discernible noise of reaction, it’s like you can feel Yoongi smirking over your shoulder. “No, we need— I booked a room with two queens.”

The agent purses her lips slightly, then shakes her head as she stares down at her computer. “Mm, I’m seeing in the system that we have you down for one king.”

Your exhaustion steamrolls over whatever professionality you might normally have while conducting a business transaction. “I don’t care what your fucking system says, it’s wrong. That’s not what I booked.” Scrolling through your phone for a few seconds, you manage to dig up the email, and you’re almost more compelled to show it to Yoongi, just to make sure he’s well aware— you did not fuck this up.

“See, two queens,” you reiterate helplessly as you extend the receipt on your phone toward the agent.

She tuts once, her eyes barely glancing over at your phone before returning to her computer screen. “Unfortunately, it doesn’t seem like we have any availability to switch you. Given the Grammys are on Sunday, this is quite a busy weekend for us.”

You set your phone on the counter and try to keep your breathing steady, to remain calm despite the overwhelmed panic starting to rise in your chest.

“About that,” you say, doing your best to speak in an even voice. “We wanted to keep a low profile, but my… associate here is actually a nominee. For Song of the Year?” You hate that it comes out more like a question as your gaze flits to Yoongi for the briefest of seconds, then back to the front desk agent. “So, really, if there’s anything at all you could do, we would appreciate it.”

There’s a pause as she regards you for a moment, her lips pressed into a tight smile, and then she speaks again. “I really do apologize, but a mistake on your part does not constitute an emergency on ours. No matter who the accommodation is for.”

It takes a second for your jetlag-addled brain to process the words, and their direct contrast to the forced sunny expression on her face. If you were in a better state of mind you might be able to take a breath, state your case more calmly, or figure out some other alternative, but instead all you can manage is a knee jerk reaction.

Because you can’t be in a room with Min Yoongi and only one bed.

“Are you fucking kiddin—”

“Hey.” 

A hand pressed to your bicep nearly makes you jump out of your skin. Despite every cell in your body urging you to lunge over the counter, you don’t fight it when Yoongi pulls you back a few paces, giving enough room for him to take your place at the counter.

“It’s fine,” he mutters over his shoulder.

It feels like your heart is beating a mile a minute, enough that you can hardly keep up with the soft apology he concedes to the agent. She hands him the room keys without another word, that same fake smile still plastered over her face. With one last nasty look over your shoulder, you follow Yoongi toward the elevators, dragging your suitcase along behind you.

Practically seething, you can barely manage to wait until the doors slide shut before you pounce.

“Look, I don’t know what you think is about to happen here, but I did not fucking book a single bed room.”

“It’s fine,” he sighs wearily, eyes fixed on the overhead number as it counts up to your floor. “I just want to sleep. Whatever that was about to turn into wasn’t worth the trouble.”

The doors slide open with a soft chime, and you storm after him down the hall to your room as he continues, pressing the key to the reader and pushing the door open. “Besides, I've stayed here before, and I know these suites have couches.” He holds the door and gestures for you to enter first, and you do.

He's not wrong: there’s a small living room area with a sofa, a desk, and a television mounted into a wall that effectively separates it from the bedroom on the other side, though there isn’t actually a door. The bathroom is immediately to your left as you step inside.

“So,” Yoongi says simply as the door shuts behind him. “I'll take the couch. All good.”

Of fucking course.

The rational part of your brain knows that he has done nothing to upset you. He's been quiet and polite on your long day of travel, and is treating you simply as if you were business acquaintances. It all makes perfect sense, given that you told him your night at his apartment couldn’t mean anything. He's done everything you’ve asked of him, really.

And yet it’s all of it: your stupid sex dream, the lingering bad taste of your encounter with the hotel agent, and the fact that Yoongi can’t seem to even fathom the idea of sharing a bed with you, not here and certainly not at his apartment. Everything has you simmering with a sudden vicious, unreasonable anger.

“Do whatever you want,” you snap as Yoongi sets his suitcase down on the floor of the living room. “I don’t give a shit.”

The rage burns like acid in your gut as you move through your night routine in the bathroom, and it’s only worsened by the knowledge that your alarm will be going off in just a few hours, and you’ll have to drag yourself through a long day of press and prep for Sunday. And that Yoongi will be there, through all of it, just like he’s on the other side of the door right now, inescapably and overwhelmingly present.

It doesn’t make sense to you how he can somehow manage to be too distant and too close at the same time. As you spit toothpaste into the sink, you wonder why the fuck you ever agreed to go on this stupid trip.

~*~

You don’t think you manage more than ten minutes of sleep the whole night. Despite exhaustion weighing heavy in your limbs, you toss and turn and kick at the blankets, too frustrated by all the confusing feelings churned up inside of you to be able to slip into any kind of real rest.

When you glance at the clock for the millionth time, it’s now only thirty minutes until your alarm is due to go off. With a sigh, you decide to give up.

Your mind is already racing with the schedule for the day, and you go over it a million times in your head as you shower and dress and apply your makeup. When you emerge from the bathroom already entirely put together, Yoongi is on the couch blinking blearily at his phone, clearly having just woken up.

“The car will be here at seven,” you call over your shoulder without a second glance back at him.

He grunts his acknowledgement, and after a few moments you hear the sound of the bathroom door sliding shut again. You dig your work laptop out of your purse to double-check everything, and before you know it you’re sucked into confirming specifics and answering emails, and you completely lose track of time.

The sound of Yoongi clearing his throat snaps you back to reality, and you shut your laptop as you glance up to find him standing in the threshold of the bedroom. He’s dressed nicely for his many interviews, in a sky-blue button-down, and you have to blink twice as you take in his appearance.

“You wear glasses?”

The warm lamplight of the bedroom reflects off his lenses as he shrugs. “I don’t like to. But I forgot my contacts.”

“We can stop for some on the way to your fitting,” you answer, adding it to your mental to-do list. The reminder of your booked itinerary is enough to get you to your feet, one arm wrapped around your laptop to press it close to your chest. Trying to remember what else you need to do to get ready proves impossible as Yoongi steps closer, and then you hear him laugh softly under his breath.

“Wow, glasses? Really?”

“What?”

“You have that look on your face,” he says simply, and you can feel an embarrassed heat creep up your neck. You hate that after all this time, he can still read you like a book.

You swallow hard. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He continues to close the distance between you, and you take a reflexive step backward, only for your thighs to bump against the mattress behind you. “Would’ve worn these more often if I knew they’d get you all flustered.”

You attempt to argue that you’re not flustered, but the words die on your tongue with the realization of how close Yoongi is to you now. His eyes are fixed pointedly on your mouth. “I—” you try again, your voice breaking slightly. “I’m not—”

The sharp buzz of your phone vibrating on the nightstand makes both of you start, and it’s like you can think clearly again when Yoongi steps back to give you room to grab it. You thumb open the text with one hand as you shove your laptop into your purse with the other. “They’re downstairs.”

Yoongi doesn’t say anything else to you until you’re in the car, crawling through Los Angeles traffic. “Remind me what all we’re doing today?”

You stare out the windshield, not wanting to meet his gaze as you recount the schedule that’s permanently seared into your brain. “You have press interviews in Studio City all morning until one. We’ll pick up lunch— and we can grab you some contacts, too— and then you have a fitting in Beverly Hills at two. After that, your boss wants us to tour the office out here and take a few meetings with the team, so that’ll be the rest of the afternoon. And then I guess whenever we’re done with that, the label execs want to take us to dinner after.”

He’s silent for long enough that you’re forced to glance over at him, wondering if he was even paying attention. There’s a small smile on his face, but it doesn’t quite read as smug. You don’t know what to make of it.

“Huh,” Yoongi finally remarks.

“What?” you snap in response, probably a little harsher than he deserves, but you haven’t had coffee yet.

“Nothing,” he says innocently. “It’s just funny, compared to when you first started.” He crosses his arms over his chest, shifting back slightly in his seat. “I remember when you couldn’t even use Outlook.”

You narrow your eyes in his direction. “I guess people change.”

“Guess so.”

The day passes in a hectic blur, and though ostensibly all of your scheduled engagements are meant to be about Yoongi, you find yourself just as busy as he is, if not moreso.

His press interviews run long because of course they do, and you’re forced to drop him at his fitting while you run out to pick up lunch and contacts— and most importantly, more coffee, which you desperately require to survive the rest of the day.

You’re admittedly thankful for the extra tasks. Even if you do feel dead on your feet, it’s still preferable to sitting around and watching Yoongi try on a suit. You can easily recall firsthand how deadly the image is, and putting off that suffering until the real thing tomorrow is perfectly fine, as far as you’re concerned.

The coffee gives you just enough of a caffeine boost to power through your afternoon meetings, reviewing branding strategies and opportunities for collaborative promotions with the label’s overseas team. Your heart sinks a little when you go through the marketing summary slides prepared by Jungkook, not a single detail out of place, and you try to shove thoughts of him to the back of your mind so you can focus on the work.

At dinner, it’s all you can do to not fall asleep over your extremely overpriced sashimi. Yoongi’s been pulled away to the far side of the table for what you can only assume are deeply boring conversations with the Los Angeles production team. Thankfully, your side is a bit more lively.

“Matthew,” the A&R rep who you’re pretty sure introduced herself as Tiffany stage-whispers. You realize she’s speaking to the tall and ridiculously built guy seated next to you when her gaze flits up to him, and then she resumes poring over the extensive drink menu. “Can we get sake bombs?”

“Why are you asking me?” Matthew responds, and you look over to see his face scrunched up in confusion.

“You’re in finance! I need you to tell me that I can get white-girl wasted on the label’s dime tonight.”

He sighs for a moment, like he’s trying to think. “I don’t… actually know if we’re allowed to reimburse that.” Tiffany’s lower lip trembles, dangerously adorable, and he exhales as if he’s been defeated. “Fuck it. I’ll cover it out of pocket if we can’t.”

“God, I love you,” she breathes, chasing the comment with a throaty laugh and quickly flagging down a server to order. “Can we please do thr— Vernon, baby, how old are you?”

The intern seated next to her blinks slowly. “Twenty four?” You’re pretty sure those are his first words of the evening.

“Huh. Your skincare’s doing wonders,” Tiffany shakes her head disbelievingly. “Four sake bombs, please?”

They arrive in an instant, and Tiffany smiles proudly to herself as she balances her shot glass on a pair of chopsticks laid across the top of her beer. You follow Matthew and Vernon’s lead as they set their drinks up to mirror hers.

“To Matthew’s wallet,” Tiffany toasts solemnly. “The only thing bigger than his tits.”

As if in hearty agreement, Matthew bangs his fist against the table so hard it makes everyone in a five foot radius flinch, and all four of your shot glasses plummet into the awaiting beers beneath them.

“Kanpai, motherfuckers!” Tiffany cackles, and you throw your drinks back in perfect sync.

The rowdiness of your corner is too loud to be ignored, and your stomach twists slightly as you set your empty glass down only to catch Yoongi staring from across the table. When your eyes meet his, he quickly lowers his gaze and adjusts his glasses, his mouth pulling into a flat line.

You turn back to your new friends as Tiffany finishes her own drink. As if she just witnessed the silent exchange, she leans toward you.

“So,” she drops her voice a little lower, “What’s it like working with Suga?”

Doing your best to keep your face neutral, you inhale deeply, wondering where to begin, or what would even be workplace-appropriate to say. The jetlag makes your mind move that much slower. “It’s—”

“Oh my god,” she immediately interrupts you. “You’re sleeping with him.”

Vernon nearly spits the last swallow of his drink back out.

“Tiffany,” Matthew interjects, sounding exhausted, like this is a regular occurrence. “Don’t fucking say that to someone you just met.”

“I mean,” you concede, your lips loosened by the warm rush of alcohol. “She’s not wrong.”

Matthews eyes widen, and he purses his lips for a long pause before he finally speaks. “Shiiiiiit, okay. Alright then.”

You sigh, slumping to rest your cheek in your hand, so exhausted that you can barely stay upright. “I don’t know if ‘sleeping with’ is the right term. It’s just a… mistake that we’ve made. A few times. Several, I guess.”

“I bet he’s even richer than Matthew,” Tiffany says, awestruck, clearly more to herself than to you.

“If it’s a mistake, why do you keep making it?” Vernon asks bluntly.

“Damn, Vernon with the deep cut,” Matthew remarks, and you shake your head.

“I don’t know,” you murmur, your words running together slightly. “I’m just trying not to think about it, at least not while we’re on this stupid work trip.”

All three of them nod like they understand, and then Tiffany leans in again. “Let me guess: there’s only one bed in the hotel room.”

“Please ignore her.” Matthew sounds as tired as you feel.

“Yes!” you exclaim, your anger from the night before temporarily reigniting. “The hotel fucked our room up, and the lady wouldn’t fix it because she was a fucking bitch—”

“Naturally,” Vernon interjects.

“And even though we only have one bed, he chose to take the couch. Like, that’s where we’re at.”

“That’s sweet,” Tiffany murmurs, and you make a face.

“Is it?”

“He’s being respectful. I bet he doesn’t wanna make you feel uncomfortable, or like… pressured. ‘Cause sleeping with somebody is a world of difference from… sleeping with them, you know?”

You roll your eyes. “Or he wants to be as far away from me as possible, even while sleeping.”

“If I was the one nominated for a Grammy, I’d make you take the couch,” Vernon scoffs around a piece of edamame.

“Right?” Matthew chimes in. “Ain’t no way I’m getting good sleep on a hotel couch. Them things are like fuckin’ cement blocks.”

A yawn escapes you before you can manage to stifle it, and you press a hand to your mouth, suddenly overwhelmed from exhaustion as well as the conversation. You scoot your chair back from the table to stand and politely excuse yourself to the restroom.

“You gotta cool it with that shit, Tiff,” you hear Matthew mutter as you depart.

Your mind swims while you traverse the long back hallways of this bougie restaurant. It’s almost laughable now, but you really never thought to give Yoongi the benefit of the doubt for sleeping on the couch— not here, and not at his apartment.

You’re still so used to expecting the worst from him that you’ve just assumed the intention is laced into his every action. Even the nice things have felt like a cause for concern, like a reason to keep your guard up, small gestures meant to distract you so he can get the upper hand, somehow. It’s hard to shake the idea that he’s your enemy, even after everything that’s happened.

And yet you can’t help wondering if Tiffany is right. Is Yoongi really just being… respectful? And if so: what does he want? And how does he feel? You’re torn between wanting to know and hoping you never find out.

A voice saying your name drags you out of your thoughts. You turn back just shy of the restroom door, unable to stop another yawn from slipping out, and you bring a hand to your mouth to hide it. Your eyes widen as your brain works on a delay to process the familiar voice, then the sky-blue shirt and the dark framed glasses. It distantly occurs to you that Yoongi has you all alone in this fancy hallway.

You blink a few times, willing the weight of sleepiness out of your eyes, then finally respond with the first thing you can think of. “I’m not fucking you in the bathroom, Yoongi.”

He blinks right back at you, clearly not expecting that. “I… wasn’t asking you to.”

“What do you want then?” you snap, crossing your arms over your chest.

“I—” he sighs, and you can’t help but wonder if he suddenly regrets coming after you. “You’re tired.”

“Yes, because I barely fucking slept. And?”

You tell yourself that you’re just imagining the way his voice has softened slightly. “Dinner’s over. We don’t have to stay. They’ll get it.”

“I’m having fun,” you retort. “I made friends.”

“I saw,” he remarks, not quite able to hide his smirk.

“So please, don’t cut your boring producer conversation short on my behalf,” you continue dryly.

Yoongi rolls his eyes, to your surprise. “Yeah, it’s brutal. I’d much rather be sleeping.” He quirks an eyebrow. “Or doing sake bombs.”

The question rushes out before you can second guess if it’s a good idea to ask. “How did you sleep? On the couch?”

Yoongi shrugs, then rubs a hand at the back of his neck, making a face as if you’ve put him on the spot. “Like shit.”

You nod, your gaze dropping to the carpeted floor. “Well, I mean. Maybe it would make more sense if, uh—”

“’Scuse me—” a new voice causes your head to snap up again, and you take a step away from Yoongi as Tiffany slips between the two of you, moving quickly toward the women’s restroom.

“Sorry love, I have to break the seal!” she calls over her shoulder before the door slams shut.

The interruption is enough to make you swallow your suggestion, and Yoongi reaches into his pocket for his phone.

“I’ll call a car, because I’m tired,” he murmurs defensively. “You’re welcome to get your own later, if you want to stay out—”

“I don’t,” you say firmly. “It’s fine. Just tell me when the car’s here.” Before Yoongi can so much as respond, you shoulder the bathroom door open and fast-walk to the safety of a stall.

After breaking your own seal, you make your way out to a sink, and you’re a little taken aback to find Tiffany still there waiting for you. She’s hovering over the mirror, blotting at her forehead with a paper towel.

“I wanted to apologize if I came on too strong,” she says softly as you turn on the tap. “Matthew says my mind-reading abilities can be intimidating to people who don’t know me well.”

You can’t help but laugh. “It’s cool. You remind me of my best friend.”

“The highest honor there is,” she says with a knowing nod. When she turns to fully face you, shifting to rest her hip on the sink as you dry your hands, you have a feeling there’s more coming.

“So, can I be honest?”

“Go ahead,” you say, suddenly a little nervous.

“I know I just met both of you today, but— the way Suga was looking at you? Girl. He’s not taking the couch because he wants to.”

You smile politely at her reflection, and her eyes narrow. “I know you don’t believe me, and you don’t have to. Matthew doesn’t believe that he’s in love with me either, but we both have Leo Moons, so obviously we’re each waiting for the other person to cave first.” She shrugs, nonchalant. “Which is fine for us, but all I’m saying is, if you want something, there’s really nothing wrong with asking for it.”

The urge to shut her down is strong. It’s slightly unnerving to feel like a relative stranger is peering into your soul. “You make it sound easy,” you murmur with a dry laugh. “I don’t think bed-sharing is part of our… arrangement.”

Tiffany preens a little more in the mirror, deftly flipping her curtain of dark hair over one shoulder. “Maybe it’s not supposed to be, but trust me on this one. He won’t say no. And if he does, I owe you a sake bomb.”

A genuine smile blooms across your face, and it only widens when she holds up her pinky finger. You lock yours around it for a single shake. “Deal.”

Arm-in-arm with Tiffany, you return to your corner of the table, where she entertains you by bullying Matthew into buying another round of drinks while he groans about burning a hole in his pocket.

“If it helps,” you giggle, “I’m about to head out. So make it three instead of four.”

“Thank god,” Matthew breathes a sigh of relief. “This girl is so damn expensive.”

Tiffany pauses with a spoonful of matcha gelato— also ordered on Matthew’s dime— halfway to her mouth. “I literally have a Leo stellium, what the fuck do you expect?”

While they continue to bicker, your gaze floats down the table. You wonder if Tiffany’s mind-reading powers might be catching as your eyes land on Yoongi just in time for him to look up from his phone and meet your gaze. He nods his head once toward the entrance, and you nod back.

A shoulder bumps into yours, and you turn to see Tiffany subtly shoot you a thumbs-up. “Fighting!” she murmurs under her breath, and you laugh as you get to your feet and bid everyone goodnight.

Yoongi holds the door of the restaurant for you to exit first, then follows you into the large black car waiting for you on the curb.

The drive back to the hotel gives you just enough time to immediately talk yourself out of Tiffany’s suggestion. The thought of asking for what you want feels like a trap, like displaying weakness to the one person who could hit you hardest. Besides, what if she misread Yoongi entirely? She doesn’t know him at all, and has no idea of the way things are between you. It’s a terrible idea, you decide.

So you find yourself right where you were the night before, like a bad dream you can’t wake up from: face washed, teeth brushed, tossing and turning in a bed far too large for one person. You can feel your final thread of resistance snap clean in half as you angrily kick the blankets off, then get to your feet and storm into the living room.

Yoongi is still up, peering down at his phone screen on the couch, his glasses deposited atop the coffee table.

“You’re being stupid,” you huff, and he glances up, clearly not expecting the interruption.

“I am?”

“You’re going to the Grammys tomorrow,” you say, as if that will explain anything.

“So are you,” Yoongi counters.

“Well yeah, but nobody’s going to give a shit about me.”

“I’d argue that’s also true for me,” he murmurs dryly, then squints at you. “Sorry, why am I stupid?”

“Because you’re going to sleep terribly on this couch.”

Yoongi nods once. “Probably, yes.”

You sigh, because of course he’s going to drag this out of you. “And the bed is perfectly big enough for two people. We wouldn’t even be touching or anything. So…” Fuck, saying what you want is hard. “Can you just… stop being stupid?”

There’s a flash of recognition in his eyes, and you’re surprised when that trademark cocky smirk doesn’t spread across his face. If anything, he just seems hesitant as he slowly sits up. “You’re sure?”

You fold your arms across your chest, suddenly feeling exposed like this, standing in front of him in only your thin sleep clothes. “Please don’t make me say it again.”

The corner of Yoongi’s mouth just barely pulls up, so slight you could be imagining it. “I’ll be there in a sec.”

In the bedroom, you leave the lamp at the empty side of the bed switched on, then crawl back under the sheets on your side. Heat blooms in your face as you press your cheek to the cool pillowcase, purposefully facing out, then reach one arm up to turn off your own bedside lamp.

True to his word, a few minutes later you hear the unmistakable sound of Yoongi’s steps across the carpet, then feel the shift of the mattress as he slips into bed on his side. He fumbles on the nightstand with what must be his glasses and his phone, and then you hear the click of the light, and the room disappears into darkness.

There’s a rustle and a sigh as he makes himself comfortable, and you were right: the two of you can easily share the bed without touching, plenty of space on the mattress between you.

Even so, having him closer is somehow… better. Comforting. You try not to dwell too much on it.

Flipping over onto your back, you stare up at the infinite black of the ceiling above you, your eyes already starting to weigh heavy. You don’t know where the question comes from, or why you ask it.

“Are you nervous?”

When he answers, Yoongi sounds half-asleep, too. “About what?”

“The Grammys?”

“Oh.” There’s a stirring sound, and then he speaks, like he’s just remembered you can’t see him shrugging. “I don’t know. A little.”

The only reply you’re capable of is a soft hum, and now you really can’t keep your eyes open. You curl up on your side again, cheek smushing into the pillow, and your consciousness whirs up one last coherent thought before you fully slip under: What else would he be nervous about?

~*~

You wake up to the warm glow of morning beneath your eyelids, and when you blink them open, the room is lit soft, dappled in sunlight that has managed to sneak between the thick hotel curtains. It’s warm in this bed too, and comfortable, and you sigh quietly to yourself as you stir a little under the covers. With a stifled yawn, you move to turn onto your back, and it’s only when you meet a gentle resistance that you realize why you’re so warm.

Yoongi must just be waking up too, because you immediately feel his body start at the realization that he pulled you close at some point during the night: an arm thrown over your waist, his hips pressed flush against yours.

“Fuck,” he mutters, his voice low and rough with sleep. “Sorry.” As the mattress starts to shift behind you, you respond on pure physical instinct and close your hand around Yoongi’s wrist.

“Stay.” The word comes out hoarse, barely more than a whisper.

Yoongi’s response is a soft grunt, and a bolt of panic quickens your pulse. You’re suddenly worried he might not want to stay, that he might even laugh at you for thinking you could have it like this, wrapped in his arms and waking up slowly. The furthest thing from hatred— and isn’t that what this is supposed to be?

But then his grip tightens to pull you that much closer, and he wordlessly presses his face into the crook of your neck. Your heart flutters in your chest, sweet and terrified. The heat of his breath over your skin makes you lean into him instinctively, and when your hips tilt, you can feel the unmistakable bulge of his clothed cock against your ass.

“God,” Yoongi groans. The deep gravel of his voice is enough to tighten your nipples beneath your tank top. “You make me so fucking hard. Dreamt about fucking you in this bed.”

“We woke up early,” you murmur. “So. There’s time.”

He grunts a low note in response. You can already feel the thin material of your sleep shorts growing wet between your legs as you slowly grind your hips back on him. 

Yoongi’s hand slips up your body, fingertips dragging over the fabric of your top until his palm is pressed to the column of your throat. You inhale softly, your head tipping up to allow him better access. His grip just barely tightens, and when he speaks in your ear, you can hear the smile around his words. “Tell me what you want.”

“Want you to fuck me, Yoongi,” you breathe. “In this bed.”

When you repeat his words back to him, Yoongi exhales a laugh, and then you feel him press a kiss to the hinge of your jaw. Something melts open inside of you at the brush of his lips, a sudden rush of an emotion you haven’t felt in a very long time. Something you certainly never expected to feel with Min fucking Yoongi, of all people.

He releases his hold on your throat, and his hand makes short work of slipping the straps of your tank top off your shoulders, then yanking the loose fabric down to expose your tits. You shiver a little at the morning air against your bare skin.

Yoongi’s palm closes around one of your breasts, lazily massaging it, and you rut your ass back on him with a small whimper. The heat of his mouth trails more kisses up your neck, and then his deep voice is in your ear again.

“Did you sleep okay?” He pairs the question with his thumb dragging circles over the stiff bud of your nipple, earning another soft noise from you.

“Y-yeah,” you manage to respond. “Better than the first night.”

He hums against the shell of your ear, the timbre of his rough voice setting every last one of your nerve endings alight. Overcome with desire, you can barely focus on his words as his hand traces along your waist to slip down the back of your shorts.

“Me too. So much better than the fucking couch.”

Two of his fingers tease over your slit, and he huffs a disbelieving laugh at how wet he finds you, how turned on you already are. When he swipes between your folds to circle at your entrance, you can hear your own slickness, chased with a soft noise of appreciation that escapes Yoongi’s mouth as he plunges both digits into your pussy. You can’t help but moan, too.

He could easily make you come just like this, but you want him too much.

“Yoongi,” you murmur, twisting slightly to reach a hand behind you. You trace down the hard muscles of his stomach, apparent even through the thin fabric of his t-shirt, until your palm drags along the thick outline of his cock straining beneath his boxer briefs. He’s so hard that he pulses under your touch, and you’re sure he must be able to feel the way your pussy flutters at the thought of this cock filling you up.

“Needy,” he purrs, his mouth against your neck.

“Shut up,” you answer automatically, not quite able to keep your voice steady with the way he’s fucking his fingers into you.

But Yoongi doesn’t torment you— you only have to give his clothed length one slow pump before his hands are pushing your shorts over your legs, like he can’t get them off fast enough. You kick them the rest of the way off while he works his boxers down, and then you arch back as his cock starts to tease your pussy lips apart.

He slips easily through your folds, painting you both in a mixture of pre-cum and arousal as he grinds himself over the whole of your slit. You bite back a moan when the head of his dick rubs up to your clit, smearing wetness there in steady strokes that make you gasp and writhe.

“Can I go raw again?” he asks so softly in your ear, and your cunt throbs as you whimper your consent.

It’s impossible to keep quiet now, not with how perfectly his cock pushes into you, stretching you open to take him. You press your face into the pillow to slightly muffle your sounds, and you can hear Yoongi groan behind you.

“Fuck,” he hisses roughly. “You’re ruining me. I may never be able to go back to condoms.”

“Yoongi,” you whine as he sheathes himself fully with a grunt of effort, giving you a few moments to adjust before he moves. “If you keep fucking talking in my ear with your morning voice like that—” your own voice breaks off mid-sentence as he drags his cock out just to fuck it back into you, and you have to take a breath before trying again. “I’m gonna come in five seconds.”

When he presses his mouth to your shoulder, you can feel the smirk on his lips. “Is that right?” The low rumble of his question buzzes through you, and your walls tighten around him in response. “You like it that much?”

You can barely remember how to form words with the way he’s started to thrust, the head of his cock sparking hot pleasure each time he rubs himself over the ridges of your front wall. “What if I do?”

Yoongi hums into the crook of your neck, purposefully drawing the sound out to make a shiver run up your spine, and you can’t help moaning. His hand slips between your thighs to nudge them apart, and you’re easily pliant for him, spreading yourself at his guidance so his fingers can find your clit.

“I’d tell you how fucking good you look like this,” he murmurs against your skin. “How well you take my cock.” You roll your hips in time with his strokes, and his free arm slips between your shoulder and the bed to wrap around your chest, giving him leverage to fuck you harder.

“Oh my god.” You nearly choke on your words as he pounds into you, unrelenting now, and your fingertips claw desperately at the pillow beneath your head.

“Pussy’s always so fucking tight, shit,” he groans. “Should’ve just done this the whole weekend. Don’t know how I even let you leave the room.”

Your feet flex helplessly against the bedsheets as Yoongi’s hand rubs a steadily building pressure into your core that threatens to overflow. His fingers move in tight circles over your clit like he knows your body well— which, you guess, he does. The thought of him keeping you here all weekend, tangled up in these sheets, fucking you senseless and making you come again and again and again is dizzying, enough to make your pussy start to pulse around his length.

“Yoongi,” you gasp. “Fuck, fuck, you’re gonna make me come.”

His lips brush over your shoulder, his voice stilted by how roughly he’s fucking into you. “Yeah, come on this cock. Make a mess for me.”

The pleasure is so overwhelming you almost want to squirm away from it, but then his fingers press your clit just right to snap a final thread and send you over the edge. Your thighs shake violently as your climax rips through you, and a rush of fluid squirts out of your cunt to coat the length of his dick and soak a wet spot into the sheets.

Yoongi groans unabashedly at the sight, still fucking you through the waves of your orgasm, his thrusts slowing as if to hold off his own end while your pussy keeps shuddering around him.

You take your time coming all the way down, lost in how good it feels, and then you slump back against the pillow with a ragged sigh, your head swimming. “Holy shit.”

His throbbing-hard cock is still clenched inside your heat, and the bed shifts when he gently pulls out. Dazed, you turn over to watch him as he kneels up on the bed next to you, his knees sinking soft divots into the mattress, and starts to slowly pump himself.

And fuck. He looks so good like this: long hair mussed from sex and sleep, with a half-awake look of concentration on his face, his tongue toying at the corner of his mouth and the muscles of his arm flexing with every stroke. Watching him get himself off has only gotten hotter since you saw it the first time, and you didn’t think that was possible.

It feels like it takes all the effort you have left in your body, but you manage to sit up and turn to face him. In one assured move, you reach down to grab his wrist and pull his hand off his cock.

Yoongi whines a little at the realization of what you’re doing, and he leans back to give you full access as you settle yourself on all fours in front of him.

“Oh fuck yeah, please suck me off.”

“Please?” you laugh, pausing to glance up at him. “Who taught you manners?”

“That fucking mouth did,” he growls, and it’s punctuated with a relieved moan as you drag your tongue up his shaft. One of his hands tangles in your hair while you lick the heady taste of yourself off his cock, then breathe deep through your nose so you can swallow him down.

Yoongi’s breath comes in ragged pants as you hollow your cheeks around him and start to bob your head, letting his tip rub against the back of your throat on every pass. You feel his fingers in your hair tighten, and his hips shove up to match your strokes, like he’s already close to coming undone.

This thick cock weighs heavy and familiar on your tongue, warm like the rays of morning sun that have reached far enough into the room to wash over the bedsheets now. Drool spills out from the seal of your lips around Yoongi’s shaft, and the sound of him fucking your mouth is obscene, pornographic as it floats up to the ceiling.

“God,” Yoongi gasps. “Gonna come down your pretty fucking throat.”

And it’s funny— once, this would have made you feel powerful, in control, like the person with the upper hand. The winner. But in this moment, it occurs to you that you don’t really give a shit about winning anymore. Now his words just make you hum and suppress a smile around his cock in your mouth. When you notice the way his thighs tremble in response, you keep going, vibrating his length while you sink as far down as you can take it.

The hand in your hair releases, and then his palm just barely brushes over the bulge of his cock in your throat as if in admiration. Eyes rolling back, you let your jaw slacken and swallow hard on the stretch of him there.

“Jesus, fuck,” he groans, and then he’s coming, and the throb of him in your mouth still feels like a reward. You pull back a little to keep from gagging as he paints fat ropes of cum into the tight clutch of your throat. Sucking firmly around him through spasm after spasm, you swallow it all down greedily until you feel him going soft on your tongue. 

You finally pull off with a wet pop, dazed and laughing as you roll over and collapse into a heap against the mattress, thoroughly spent.

“Okay,” Yoongi manages to say on an exhale, though you can hear he’s still short of breath, too. You glance up to see him raking a hand through his hair, looking fucked out of his mind. “I’m ready to go win a Grammy now.”

There’s just enough time for each of you to shower and get dressed before a whole team of people arrive for Yoongi: stylists, hair and makeup, and most importantly, coffee delivery. Yoongi blinks wide-eyed at you as you press the largest iced Americano you could find in downtown Los Angeles into his hands, and then you step back to let everyone get to work.

Meanwhile, you spend the next few hours in a rush of attempting to get yourself ready, all while double-checking the schedule, answering emails on the fly from your phone, and trying desperately to ignore the anxiety that’s started to hum in the pit of your stomach.

Once your hair and makeup are as decent as you can get them, you slip the black dress you packed for tonight— a rental, because buying a black tie dress was absolutely out of your price range— off the hanger and step carefully into it. Watching yourself in the mirror, you reach behind you for the zipper only to realize you can’t quite manage to pull it up past the small of your back.

Fuck. You didn’t even think about the fact that Jimin helped you zip this thing up when you tried it on initially, during a night at your place where you split two bottles of wine and he performed his own personal critique of all your dress rental options. This was the only one he’d liked.

With a nervous sigh, you head for the bathroom door, figuring that you’ll be able to subtly grab the attention of one of Yoongi’s many stylists to help.

But when you slowly slide the door open, one hand pressing the fabric of your dress in place over your chest, you realize the room has fallen quiet. As you lean across the threshold, you see why: everyone is gone.

Except for Yoongi, who glances up from where he’s sunk into the couch, scrolling aimlessly on his phone.

“Where is everyone?” you snap, probably a little harsher than you need to be.

He frowns like he doesn’t understand the question. “They… left? Because they were done? I don’t know if you’ve heard, but there’s a big awards show tonight. Means the stylists are pretty booked today.”

Yoongi gets to his feet to cross the room, and you fumble awkwardly, trying to keep your dress up. He’s fully put together now in a well-fitted suit and tie, and with his long hair styled and subtle makeup applied to enhance his features, he looks… good. Too good. Deadly. You can’t quite manage to maintain eye contact, and find yourself staring dumbly at the floor instead.

His voice softens slightly as he steps in close to you. “What’s wrong? Does it not fit?”

“It fucking better,” you mutter. “I just… can’t reach the zipper.”

“Are you asking for my help?”

Your gaze flits up to meet his, and you’re a little surprised by his question. “There’s nobody else here,” you retort, stubborn.

When he blinks evenly back at you, like he’s waiting for something, you realize he’s not going to make this easy. Fucking hell. Another tense moment passes, and he just blinks again.

“Yes,” you finally give in with a frustrated sigh. “Will you please help me, Yoongi?”

“Turn around,” he murmurs, and you do.

His hand slides over the small of your back, and then he slowly starts to ease the zipper up. You don’t dare move a muscle until he’s done, and it’s only once he buttons the closure at the top that you breathe a serious sigh of relief. The dress fits like a glove.

You attempt to compose yourself enough to thank him, but the words get stuck in your throat when you feel the heat of his breath against your skin.

His low voice resonates in the quiet of the room as he leans in. “Was that so hard?”

You turn your head as if to argue, but then there’s a split second where you feel his lips brush over your neck, just below your ear. So slight it could’ve been an accident.

“Thanks,” you manage to choke out, and then you slip away from him to get your heels from the bedroom and try to remember how to breathe. You do your best to ignore the fact that your hands are shaking as you pull your shoes on, then pause in front of the full-length mirror on the wardrobe, giving yourself a final once-over.

As you smooth your hands down the black velvet fabric and turn to the side, you glance up to find Yoongi hovering in the threshold, watching you.

“That dress,” he remarks, sounding a little dazed. You have to fight to keep the smile off your face when he trails off, unable to say more— you didn’t think it was possible to make Min Yoongi speechless. It’s not a bad feeling.

And you do like this dress, even though you could never actually afford it. It’s simple but elegant, a sleeveless column style with a plunging neckline and a slit that reaches your mid-thigh. Nothing groundbreaking, but it sticks to your curves like water and makes you feel somewhat more like a person who belongs at a fancy awards show.

“Jimin picked it,” you respond, and you hear Yoongi exhale a laugh.

“He has good taste.”

You turn toward him as your hidden smile pulls into a smirk. “Well, I’m not dressed up for you,” you chide, and you revel in the way his face drops briefly in surprise before he’s able to conceal it. “I’m trying to meet Kendrick.”

“Is that right?”

“Uh-huh.”

You’re thankful that you purposefully padded your schedule with extra time, because you lose nearly every last minute of it stuck in the gridlock of Los Angeles traffic on the night of a huge event.

By the time you make it to the venue, you’re practically nauseous from all the stopping and starting and crawling of the car, and Yoongi looks equally bad, though you suspect his condition might be more anxiety-related.

As it turns out, the Grammys are a lot less glamorous when you’re only mildly famous, at least by American standards. The two of you are shepherded by security to another ‘lane’ of the red carpet and warned not to stop as you make your way into the building. You observe from afar while A-list celebrities pass in a blur, flashbulbs pop bright enough to blind you, and chatter is drowned out by the sound of fans screaming and the clamor of reporters trying to grab the biggest names for an interview.

“I’m so glad I’m not that fucking famous,” Yoongi scoffs, though he doesn’t quite manage to hide the nerves in his voice.

“Come on,” you murmur once you get inside, nodding toward a pop-up bar in a far corner of the lobby. “Take the edge off. And I’m gonna need alcohol if I have to sit through a fucking three-hour show.”

You down your drinks quickly, only a few minutes shy of the time by which you have to be in your seats, and you return from tossing the empties in the trash to see Yoongi eyeing a piano pushed against the far wall, clearly for show. He takes a seat, glancing around as if in fear of getting yelled at, then gently pushes up the key lid.

“Ooh, do Wine!” you tease with a laugh as you drop onto the bench beside him, but he actually does start to play, one foot pressing down on a pedal to keep the sound soft. His fingers alight over the keys, and the song he plucks out is beautiful. It’s a melody that almost feels nostalgic to you, even though you know you’ve never heard it before.

“What is this?” you ask, and he keeps playing as he responds.

“Do you know Sakamoto?”

You hum a no as you shake your head.

His eyes narrow slightly. “Remind me how you work in the music industry?”

A smile plays at your lips, and you roll your eyes. “Shut up. You know I’m a fraud.”

Yoongi doesn’t miss a note when he glances up to meet your gaze. “Are you?”

It’s only now that you realize how close he is: the two of you are basically sitting hip to hip, shoulder to shoulder. For a moment, you forget about the Grammys, forget that anyone else is even in the room.

“Excuse me!” A voice snaps you out of the moment, and you scoot away from Yoongi so quickly you nearly topple off the bench. “That’s not meant to be played, and we need everyone to head to their seats, please!” Your face flushes with an embarrassed heat, and Yoongi lifts a hand apologetically as he covers the keys back up.

You stick close to his side so as not to lose him in the large crowd of people. “Bet they’ll let you play whatever piano you want once you have one of those dumb little trophies,” you mutter under your breath, and Yoongi really laughs, like he wasn’t expecting the comment.

Another thing you didn’t necessarily anticipate: the Grammys are fucking long. You knew it would be over three hours, but you realize you severely underestimated how long that time would feel. While the performances are incredible (and you have to dig your nails into the cushion of your seat to keep from squealing when you spot Lil Nas X a few rows in front of you), there’s plenty of filler between them, and it feels a lot drier when you’re physically in the room for it. Even the commercial breaks are far too short for you to have enough time to actually run to the restroom or get another drink.

You’re also starving. “I hate that they don’t serve food at these things,” you hiss to Yoongi during a break, but it’s late enough in the night now that he’s barely speaking, apart from the occasional monotone grunt. 

Though you’ve been waiting for it all evening, you still don’t quite know if you’re ready when the host starts to run down the list of nominees for Song of the Year.

As he’s only credited as a writer, they don’t actually say Yoongi’s pseudonym, but pride still squeezes tight in your chest when you see “Suga” spelled out across the on-stage monitors beneath the name of the song.

They get through all the titles in what seems like less than a second, and your heart feels like it might give out as an anticipatory silence settles over the crowd. The host fumbles with getting the envelope open, and you’re so tense, you flinch hard at an unexpected brush of contact.

You glance down, and it takes a moment for your brain to process what’s happened. He’s not looking at you, hasn’t said anything, but Yoongi has nevertheless reached over to grab your hand. His long fingers lace through yours, gripping surprisingly tight, and the skin of his palm is warm and dry. It’s like your brain short-circuits for a moment as you stare stupidly at your joined hands, and he gives yours a single nervous squeeze.

“And the Grammy goes to…”

You look over at him, still dumbfounded, and then you hear them call a song that isn’t his.

Your heart sinks as you watch Yoongi blink up at the screen, his mouth pulled into a flat line. You realize belatedly you’re supposed to be clapping, but his hand is still clasped in yours. And you don’t want to pull away from him.

But then he moves first, untwining his hand from yours and bringing it up to rake through his hair with a disbelieving laugh. A little delayed, you both join in the applause as the winner makes their way to the stage. You can’t even process who it is.

You have no idea what to say to console him, so you don’t say anything at all.

Thankfully the category is one of the last of the night, so you only have to sit through a few more rounds of acceptance speeches and watching other people’s dreams come true before you can finally get to your feet. You feel like you can’t leave fast enough as you’re herded out of the stadium and into another car to depart for the afterparty.

There’s a heavy silence in the backseat that feels like a chasm between you as you crawl through Los Angeles traffic.

You realize there’s a bottle of champagne tucked into an ice bucket behind the front seat— a thoughtful touch from the label execs, you assume. Yoongi spots it at the same time you do, and he immediately reaches for it. With a grunt of effort, he pops the cork, a little bit of excess foam dribbling onto the floor of the car.

He raises his eyebrows at you, then brings the bottle right to his mouth for a long drink. Longer than long. You watch his adam’s apple jump in his throat as he swallows several times.

“Alright, chill the fuck out,” you snap after a few seconds, reaching over to grab it from him. “At least eat something first.”

“It’s my consolation prize,” Yoongi quips, but he lets you wrest the champagne from his hands without resisting. You take a thorough swig yourself, then recork the bottle and drop it back in the bucket. “Such a good little admin,” he purrs, and you try to convince yourself there isn’t a hint of venom in his words.

The car pulls to a stop at the designated hotel, and you climb out after Yoongi. Upon making it inside, the two of you peel off in different directions: him for the bar, and you to find anything that remotely resembles food. You keep glancing over at him from across the room as it fills with more and more people, nervous to take your eyes off him for too long, unsure of what he might do. Every time you find him again, it seems like he’s downing another glass of whiskey, drinking like the fucking world is ending.

Meanwhile, you’re struggling to find anything that isn’t kale, quinoa, or… whatever grain-free bread is. With a frustrated sigh, you finally decide to give up. If Yoongi wants to drink on an empty stomach until he gets alcohol poisoning, you figure that’s his fucking problem.

When you shove your way through the crowd back toward him, you find that he’s been pulled into a conversation with a bunch of older men you can only assume to be local industry reps. As you get close enough to make out their words, you quickly understand why he has such a sour look on his face.

“Song of the Year, huh? You know we can cross-reference the nominees and figure out if you’re full of shit, right?”

Yoongi grimaces politely into his drink as he throws it back, but you have no problem cutting in. “You’re actually speaking to an incredibly accomplished producer and songwriter,” you retort without thinking. “He has over 100 KOMCA credits.” You don’t miss the smirk Yoongi tries to conceal behind the rim of his glass.

“KOMCA?” Another one of them speaks up, the question paired with a harsh laugh. “Never heard of it. That anything like payola?”

“Wild that anyone can just buy their way into the industry these days.” The first man shakes his head, eyes scanning Yoongi up and down as if the tailoring of his suit tells him everything he needs to know. “Guess that’s the way the world works now. Never had to struggle a day in your life, huh?”

Your response is immediate and far too loud. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

A loud laugh ripples through all of the men, clearly more excited about evoking a reaction than the gravity of their claims. “Wow, man,” the one who spoke first chortles, clapping Yoongi hard on the shoulder. “Looks like you need to control your girl.”

Your heart thuds in your chest as you watch Yoongi shrug off the guy’s hand to set his empty glass down on the closest table. He moves slowly, deliberately taking a long pause before correcting them. “This is actually my assistant.” His voice is laced with a deadly calm you know well.

“Assistant?” A third pipes up, acting as if he’s never heard the word before. “Huh. You know, back in my day we just called them secretaries. Or mistresses.”

Yoongi moves so fast you barely have time to process it, lunging forward and shoving the guy in the chest with enough force that he stumbles backwards into his shitty friends. “What the fuck!” one of them shouts, purposefully loud, and you can hear a ripple of shock roll through the crowd, can see heads turning to look your way in alarm.

“No, no, nope,” you immediately mutter. “This is not fucking happening.”

Yoongi is already taking another step toward the group, and you tighten a hand hard around his bicep. “We’re leaving.”

When he whips around to face you, the mixture of anger and pain reflected in his dark eyes is so overwhelming, it hits you like a truck. You try to force yourself to stay calm, because at least one of you has to be.

“Come on, Yoongi,” you say, letting your voice soften. “Fuck this place. I need some real food.” Your eyes search his, pleading. For a moment, you can’t help but wonder if you’re staring down an enemy or a friend.

But then you see the fight go out of him as he nods, and you breathe a silent sigh of relief.

Shifting the hand on his arm to press firmly to the center of his back, you guide him in front of you and wind through the packed room of people until you make your way outside again.

Fate does you one good turn by leaving an empty cab out front, and you push Yoongi into the backseat, then slide in next to him. You lean forward to greet the driver, doing your best to smile politely and act composed, like you didn’t just almost get into a fight at the Grammys afterparty.

“Can you take us to Koreatown, please?”

~*~

The cab drops you off outside a strip of bars and restaurants, lit up with neon signs in both English and Korean. To his credit, Yoongi seems more subdued as he follows you out of the car wordlessly, but you allow him a little more time to cool off in silence. You wander somewhat aimlessly, attempting to shake off your lingering anxiety in the warm evening air, until you stumble upon a food truck parked at the end of the block. Your eyes go wide at the posted signage.

“What do you think?” you ask as you turn to Yoongi, and he shrugs, like he really doesn’t care. Perfect. You’ve never had a problem a gamja hot dog couldn’t fix.

Securing one for each of you, you nod Yoongi toward a small group of tables set up at the curb to sit down. Once seated, you immediately drown your hot dog in ketchup and mustard, and you can hear him scoff before taking the bottles from you to do the same. Admittedly, you must look fairly ridiculous eating fried street food in full black tie, but you’re far too hungry to give a fuck right now.

It’s perfection from the first bite, crispy and hot, the batter studded with potato pieces and the inside loaded with cheese.

You’re also too hungry to bother making conversation at first, but after a few more bites you glance over at Yoongi, and your heart sinks all over again. You really do feel bad, and then the words are leaving your mouth before you can stop them.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur with your mouth full. “That you didn’t win.”

He makes a face as he chews. “We already agreed I wouldn’t have been happy even if I won, right? So it doesn’t really matter.”

You roll your eyes, unconvinced. “It’s okay to have feelings, you know. You’re allowed to be upset.”

Yoongi just shrugs, but he can’t quite meet your gaze. “It’s whatever.” You take another bite as he continues. “If I’m gonna win a Grammy, I want it to be for something that’s all mine anyway.”

The sentence surprises you, and you blink back at him. “You’re going to release your own stuff?”

As if he instantly regrets bringing it up, his face reddens a little, his expression twisting into an unsure grimace. “Ahh… I don’t know, probably not. People know me as a producer. I don’t know that anyone would actually listen to it.”

“I would,” you say without even really thinking, and his eyes widen. “You know,” you continue quickly, adopting a fake-serious tone. “Since I work in the music industry. Strictly business.”

A small smile plays at the corner of his mouth, and you find yourself relieved to see it. “I appreciate that.”

You’re also desperately curious, wondering if he’ll say more about his own music, but he goes quiet again. Given the night he’s had, you don’t exactly want to push it.

Taking the final bite of your hot dog and mourning the loss, you stack your skewer and paper tray on top of Yoongi’s, then get to your feet to toss them in the nearest trash can. When you return to the table, you smack your palms decisively against it.

“Come on. I think the circumstances call for some binge drinking.”

Your first stop is tucked into two seats at a neighboring dive bar, alive and roaring with enough ambient conversation that you have to speak fairly loudly to be heard over the noise. The bar in the center of the room is wrapped around a small open kitchen, where you watch the line cooks hustle to steam, grill, and fry what seems like a never-ending rush of food orders.

You and Yoongi stick to soju, pouring each other shot after shot. On the first one, he tilts his full glass toward you, and you knock yours against it.

“To losing,” he toasts, and you can’t help laughing as you tip your head back to drink. He’s smirking as he swallows his down, then pours you another. “Hey, maybe Jungkook will throw me a commiseration party when we get back.”

You grimace automatically at the name as you take the bottle from him to fill his glass up, and Yoongi doesn’t miss it. “Trouble in paradise?”

With a roll of your eyes, you determine that you need to be drunker for this. You take your shot, then instantly hold your glass out for Yoongi to pour another before he even gets to his. He obliges, and you throw it back immediately. The bottom of your glass hits the bar with a loud thud.

“I kinda… freaked out on him. Right before we left.”

Yoongi’s eyebrow lifts, questioning, as he drinks. “Any reason?” he prompts when he’s finished.

“Yes,” you answer stubbornly, tapping at the rim of your empty glass. He fills you up again, and you return the favor to finish the bottle. Yoongi motions to the bartender for another as you down your shot and steel yourself.

“You don’t have to tell me,” he offers.

“Don’t you want to hear that you were right?”

He shrugs like he can’t argue. “I mean, always.”

“Well for one, he asked if anything was going on between you and me.” You glance over to see Yoongi’s eyes widen slightly as he drinks. “I said no.”

“Uh huh.”

“And then he was like, ‘Good, I’m glad I don’t have to tell you to raise your standards.’”

Yoongi is clearly trying to keep his expression neutral, but it’s a losing battle. You can see the way his shoulders are starting to shake, and then he finally caves in, his palm smacking flat against the bar as he really laughs. “Wow,” he eventually recovers enough to huff, and you reach for the fresh soju bottle that’s been dropped off. “He really just said it.”

“Mm-hmm,” you intone, filling his glass and then handing the bottle back. Yoongi’s still chuckling a little as he pours your drink before taking his own, and you continue. “And then, I don’t know, there was some other stuff, and I was just like… oh fuck.”

“Because you realized he’s in love with you.”

You sigh dejectedly into your soju. “I’m so stupid.”

“Nah,” Yoongi shakes his head, reaching for your glass once you’ve emptied it again. “You wanted to avoid an inconvenient truth. Just makes you human.”

There’s a pause as you take the bottle to pour his drink, and then his next words nearly make you choke as you throw back yours. “You should date Jungkook.”

You’re sure you must look entirely dumbfounded as you stare at him. “What?”

“What?” he retorts, like he hasn’t said anything shocking. “He’d be good for you.”

For a long moment, neither of you speak as you regard him. You finally shake your head, nudging your empty glass toward him until he gets the memo. “Don’t say shit like that,” you mutter under your breath, and you’re not sure if he hears it over the din of the bar.

“Besides,” you continue as you snatch the soju out of his hands to pour his drink, “I’ve tried dating a coworker before. It’s a bad idea.”

“Sounds like a good story.”

“It’s not, really,” you murmur, staring down at the liquid in your glass. “My last job I was a waitress.”

“Mm,” Yoongi interrupts with a hum as he takes his shot. “Waitress. I was close.”

You pour him another, mostly to keep him quiet. “Yeah yeah, you’re very fucking perceptive. Anyway, I dated another server for a couple years. He ended up cheating on me with one of the hostesses, but I was honestly kinda tired of him, so I was glad to end it.” You hear Yoongi snort a little at your fairly heartless admission. “But then I walked in on them fucking in the walk-in, and it put me in a bad mood. Long story short, I ended up throwing a drink on a customer and they had to let me go.”

“Christ,” he laughs, pausing for a moment to fully take in your words. “And now you’re a pain in my ass.”

You roll your eyes as you motion for another soju bottle. “Correct.”

“Sounds like your ex was an idiot.” You glance over to find Yoongi already looking at you. “I mean, in the walk-in is just… nasty.”

“That’s what I said!” Your mouth pulls up at the corners as you try to suppress a giggle. “I don’t think we can really judge anybody though.”

Yoongi blinks, staring blankly into the middle distance. “That conference room trash can condom still haunts me.”

With a loud laugh, you bury your face in your hands, and you can feel your cheeks burning from alcohol and embarrassment. You peer between your fingers as Yoongi sets down a fresh shot for you, and you gladly take it.

“People are stupid,” he remarks wisely. “That’s why I don’t date.” You quirk an eyebrow as he passes you the bottle.

“What, a prize like you?” you deadpan. “You just fuck people in bar bathrooms like a well-adjusted human?”

“Yeah,” he admits with a shrug. “So. Wanna check this one out?”

Your mouth drops open in disbelief, and you immediately smack him on the arm. He nearly spills his drink from laughter, and you can’t keep yourself from laughing a little, too. “I already gave it to you this morning, you freak.”

“Come on,” Yoongi’s voice is teasing, and he bumps his shoulder against yours when he leans in closer. “I had a hard night.”

Pouring him another drink is your only distraction, and you do it with the utmost focus. “This dress is a rental.”

“I can pay for it.” The heat of his breath ghosts over your collarbone as he answers. You shove the bottle hard into his chest, and he takes the cue to fill your glass again, still smirking as he pulls away.

“First,” you say, sounding more confident than you feel, especially with the way your pulse has started to quicken. Your expression is deadly serious as you turn to stare into Yoongi’s eyes and he stares right back. “You have to prove that you can keep up.”

When you swallow your shot easily to punctuate the dare, a look flashes over Yoongi’s face like he’s impressed, and then he follows your lead.

After a few more bottles, the bar is so crowded and so loud that you can hardly hear yourselves think, and you stumble out of it and into the next place you see, and then the next, and then the next. All bets are off tonight, and you’re not about to tell Yoongi that he can’t get fucking trashed considering he just lost at the fucking Grammys. You figure you’ll be able to sleep off your hangovers on the stupidly long flight home tomorrow.

With each stop, Yoongi’s mood seems to improve a little. He eventually drinks enough that his suit jacket and tie come off, and they end up draped over your shoulders, despite your loud protests that you don’t need any more responsibilities. With the sleeves of his white button-down pushed up, it gets increasingly hard to divert your attention away from his hands and the muscles in his forearms, especially as you get progressively drunker and drunker.

Yoongi’s palm brushes over the small of your back as you make your way out of the last place, his touch warm even through the velvet of your dress.

“I know it was your personal nightmare,” he murmurs, words slurring together slightly, “but I really am glad you came on this trip. I mean it,” he insists when you shoot him a look. “I would be fucking insufferable if I was alone tonight. And I definitely would’ve punched that label guy in the face.”

You exhale a laugh and nearly fall over in your heels, and Yoongi’s hand slips to your waist to keep you upright. “He deserved it.” You lean into him, not entirely for balance, and you can feel it when he shrugs.

“Sorry you didn’t get to meet Kendrick.”

The glow of the various open-late establishments and the glitter of the pavement under your feet are all beautiful, especially in your current state, and the night air is still and warm. As you approach the next building and are met with the dull thud of music, your eyes go wide.

“Oh, I just figured out how you can make it up to me.”

The noraebang is surprisingly busy given that it’s a Sunday night, but you’re still able to book a room, and you giggle your thanks as Yoongi opens his wallet to pay the hourly rate like it’s nothing. The two of you work your way through more bottles of beer and soju, and when you start up the karaoke and teasingly pick the HEIZE song he produced, you’re surprised that he actually joins you.

Yoongi must be able to read the expression on your face, because he smirks mid-song. “Let the record show that I am actually a very fun drunk.”

And he is. You sing dramatically and loudly, not caring if you hit the notes, jumping and dancing and occasionally dropping passionately to your knees before dissolving into laughter. At first you monopolize the controller, but after you force a third Kendrick song on him Yoongi gestures for it, and you begrudgingly hand it over.

Crossing the room, you kneel down to dig through the provided box of props, immediately spotting and slipping on a cat-eared headband. You glance up at the screen, eyes widening as you realize he’s searching through Epik High songs. “Do Love Love Love!”

When you look back at him, Yoongi is squinting at you, laughing a little at your new set of ears. “What the fuck do you know about Epik High?”

“What do you mean what the fuck do I know?” you snap back. “I love them! I should be asking you that question, Mr. ‘I don’t listen to music’!”

His mouth pulls into a grin, his tongue toying at the inside of his cheek. “I have a few exceptions, alright?”

Still knelt down, you flop sideways onto the floor when he selects Born Hater. “Ugh, I’m too drunk to say that many words.”

“I got this,” Yoongi reassures you, flipping his microphone coolly with one hand as he gets to his feet. You can’t help giggling dumbly from your spot on the ground as you drunkenly prop your feet on the booth and reach up to pull your high heels off.

If there’s one thing tonight has taught you, it’s that Yoongi has a really good voice, even raw and live and drunk as hell. You don’t know why it surprises you, but it does. To you, performing seems like a different world from writing and producing tracks, but he does it just as effortlessly, with no trace of the anxiety you’ve seen grip him in a crowded room. The passion in the way he growls and gasps out lyrics, even just in the way he moves, it’s all undeniable and exhilarating to watch. He raps like he has nothing left to lose, mouth pulled into a snarl, occasionally reaching up to push his sweaty hair back off his forehead.

You can only gaze up at him, awestruck, wondering how many different versions of Min Yoongi you have left to discover until you hit the bottom.

The two of you trade the controller back and forth until every bottle on the table is empty, until the words blur on the screen, until Yoongi flops over to lay down in the booth with his head hanging off the edge, clearly exhausted. “No more,” he groans. “I’m so tired. And so drunk.”

Hovering above him, you pry the controller from his grip with a smile, slipping the cat ears onto his head for an even exchange. And then you get an idea.

“Last song!” you assure him as you type, and he groans even louder when Cat & Dog starts to play.

“God, this song is terrible,” Yoongi complains, but you’re singing too loud to care about his critiques.

With a severe amount of effort, he pulls himself to a sitting position, and you kneel down in front of him, miming cat paws with your hands and wiggling your hips. “I didn’t know you were into petplay,” he deadpans, and you stick your tongue out, determined not to let him ruin your fun.

You get to your feet and turn toward the screen as the second chorus finishes, yelling over your shoulder, “This is my favorite part!”

“Feel like Cinderella naega byeonae—”

When Yoongi’s voice suddenly reverberates from the other microphone, you almost drop yours. You whip around in complete disbelief. He’s on his feet and moving towards you as he continues the rap verse, the inarguable best part, with a renewed cocky energy. And you have to admit, he’s putting Yeonjun to shame.

“What the fuck!” you practically scream, but he just keeps going.

Seized by full-body drunk laughter, you stumble forward and nearly fall over, knocking into his chest. Though Yoongi’s reflexes are a little delayed, he still manages to right you without missing a word, one arm hooking around your waist. You swallow hard as you suddenly find yourself intimately close to the broad sweep of his collarbone, exposed between the top buttons of his shirt that came undone at some point during your debaucherous evening.

Fumbling for your microphone, you make it back to reality in time for the final chorus, only to fall entirely to pieces when Yoongi starts barking at full volume to match the outro. You can’t take it, and he’s not fast enough to keep you upright, so you drop straight down to the floor on hands and knees, laughing so hard it feels like your lungs might give out.

The microphone rolls dejectedly out of your grasp as you flop over onto your back, and you scrub your hands down your face, trying desperately to catch your breath as the song fades out.

“That was the best thing I’ve ever seen in my whole life,” you mumble into your palms. You uncover your face to look up at Yoongi, only to find him laughing down at you, still wearing the fucking cat headband. “I thought you hated that song.”

He rolls his eyes despite his smile. “Yeah, well, it was also stuck in my head for like a week after you played it that one night.”

You sit up with a dramatic glare. “Oh, you mean the night you stole my fucking keys?”

A proud smirk flickers over his mouth. “You know, I am sorry about that. Or at least sorry I couldn’t see the look on your face when you realized.” He tosses his microphone onto the booth bench next to his abandoned suit jacket, then reaches down with both hands to pull you to your feet. It belatedly occurs to you that you might’ve left his tie at the last bar, but you’re too drunk to give it another thought.

“I hate you so much,” you say, though you can’t quite keep your expression serious. “Fuck, I should’ve taken a video. Could’ve used it for blackmail.”

Yoongi’s voice is lower when he speaks again, and you’re suddenly very aware of how close to you he is, the fact that his hands are still closed over yours. “Guess you’re the only one who’ll ever know.”

“Mmm,” you hum, swaying a little where you stand. His palms slip to your waist to keep you steady as you blink up at him, and your hands flatten against his chest, your fingertips tracing over the buttons of his shirt. “You look good in cat ears.”

“Shut up,” Yoongi murmurs, and then his mouth is on yours.

Your hands reach up to tangle in his long dark hair, knocking the headband to the floor, and with the amount of alcohol currently coursing through your system, you don’t have a single inhibition left in you. You kiss Yoongi like you can’t fucking breathe without him.

He pulls you as close as he can, until your bodies are flush all the way down, and you don’t ever want it to be any other way. You want it just like this, sucking and nibbling at his bottom lip until his tongue licks your mouth open and you groan into him. Just like this: his palms moving down to grab your ass unapologetically, your grip on his hair tightening, even your teeth knocking together with how drunk and desperate you are for each other. Just like this: two stupid, wildly flawed humans in black tie attire, making out in a Ktown noraebang at two in the morning on a Monday.

The sound of the door opening might as well be a gunshot for how loud it feels, and you just barely manage to jump apart as an employee pokes their head in.

“Hey, we’re closing in five.”

You don’t realize you’re not breathing until you hear the door click shut again, and your gasp for air quickly turns into an overwhelmed, embarrassed laugh. Yoongi groans drunkenly, running a hand through his hair, then sighs out a long exhale, like he’s trying to calm down.

“Come on,” you giggle, still close enough to tug playfully at one of his belt loops. “Let’s get out of here.”

Thankfully a cab is still easy to flag down even this late. The two of you manage to pour yourselves into the backseat and give the driver the name of the hotel. It’s not a terribly long drive, and you watch wide-eyed out the window as the sprawl of Los Angeles rushes by, painted in neon glow and the amber wash of streetlights.

Yoongi slumps against you, and he goes quiet for so long you think he might be asleep. When he finally shifts again, he presses his face into your shoulder with a noise of discomfort, and you’re suddenly worried he might be silent for a very different reason.

“Yoongi,” you murmur, trying to keep your voice low. “Don’t puke in the cab.”

“Stupid,” he responds, and you figure he must not be doing that bad if he can still talk.

You run your fingers through the soft, dark strands of his hair, admiring the texture, the way it’s nearly long enough now to graze his shoulders. “What’s stupid?”

“I’m—” he tries, but the car dips over a pothole, and he’s talking so quietly you lose the rest.

“You’re what?”

It’s quiet for a moment, save for the click of the turn signal.

“In love with you.”

His words stun you where you sit, and you have no idea what to do, say, think. You just keep twining your fingers through his hair, like you’re stuck on auto-pilot, distantly aware that every alarm bell in your inebriated brain is going off. It feels like way too much to try and process any of it right now. It feels like a trap.

“We can talk about this tomorrow,” you finally answer. Yoongi just stays slumped against you, and he doesn’t say another word.

The cab drops you off at the hotel, and it’s quiet between the two of you as you get him up to the room. You feel like you’re watching yourself from a distance, and it’s like your brain isn’t processing any of this as really happening, as if to keep you from thinking too hard about the big picture. From what it all could mean.

In the bathroom, you stand over the sink as you lend Yoongi your makeup remover and you both brush your teeth.

“Contacts,” you remind him through a mouthful of toothpaste when he spits out the last of his, and he nods sleepily.

“You don’t have to… administrate me all the time,” Yoongi slurs as he carefully slips one lens and then the other out of his eyes.

You spit out your own toothpaste, then sigh as you rinse the sink clean. “Well, you’re very drunk, and it’s my fault.”

“It was fun,” he says quietly, fumbling the case closed.

“It was,” you echo. “Really.” 

The bathroom door is half-open on its sliding track, and you glance up in the mirror to see Yoongi hovering in the threshold, looking back at you as you wipe away stray traces of mascara from under your eyes. You think he’s going to leave, but then he steps in behind you again, and you feel his hand slide up the small of your back to ease the zipper of your dress open.

Something in your heart twists as you stare down at the marble counter, and you can already tell this isn’t meant to be flirtatious. That thought is confirmed when you finally look up, only to find yourself left entirely alone.

With a small sigh, you slide the bathroom door shut, then flip the switch to turn on the fan. The white noise still doesn’t feel like enough, so you run the shower as well, then grab a plastic water bottle from the counter to chug. You retreat into the far corner with your phone, scrolling until you find the name of the only person who can possibly help you right now.

“Hey babe,” Jimin answers on the third ring. “I’m at rehearsal so I really can’t chat. You good?”

“Yoongi said he loves me,” you answer immediately, and the reality of it hits you impossibly hard as soon as you say it out loud.

“Uh-oh.”

“But,” you lean back until your head knocks against the wall. “He’s drunk as shit. I— we are drunk as shit.”

There’s a pause, and you swear you hear Jimin laugh a little under his breath. “He really said it, huh?”

“Yes, Jimin,” you groan. “In love.”

“And?”

You grimace at the flippant response from your supposed best friend. “What do you mean and?! What the fuck am I supposed to do?”

“Well, that depends,” Jimin starts.

“On?” you snap, impatient.

“Have you realized you’re in love with him yet? ‘Cause if I have to hear you babble on about this man for another week without piecing it together, I really might lose it.”

His words actually make your stomach churn. “Jimin!”

“I—” he sounds like he’s preparing to explain himself, but then he pauses, and his voice is quieter when he speaks again. “Fuck, I’m getting yelled at. I gotta go. Call me tomorrow.”

You want to scream at him to stay, to help, that he can’t just unravel you like this and then leave you to figure it out for yourself. “Mochi, I’m on the fucking plane tomorrow—”

“I’ll come over when you get home!” Jimin interrupts. “And then you can tell me the entire story of you two finally figuring out how to be normal humans with feelings.” You scoff at his biting remark, but he’s already talking over you. “You’re smart, you got this, I love you!”

You hear him blow a dramatic kiss into the speaker, and then the line goes dead.

The world spins around you as you stare helplessly at the silent black screen of your phone, and you can’t shove it all down anymore. It’s overwhelming, all of the things that you’re feeling in this moment, so much so that you can’t even identify what you feel. It’s just a giant, tangled mess, in your brain and in your heart. The tears spill out like you’ve been holding them in for weeks, hard and fast, until you can scarcely catch your breath. You scrub at the first few that roll down your cheeks, but they continue relentlessly, and you eventually give up and just let it all pour out.

You don’t know how long you stay like that, crying on the bathroom floor. You can’t even really explain why you’re crying, except that everything inside of you feels like too much to handle.

There’s a dull ache in your head by the time you finally manage to cry yourself dry, and then you peel yourself off the floor to slip out of your dress and shut off the shower. You pull on the tank top and sleep shorts you’d grabbed earlier from the bedroom, trying to avoid your swollen face in the mirror as you turn the lights out and shut the door behind you.

Yoongi has left the lamp on your bedside on, and you immediately flip it off to plunge the room into darkness, not wanting him to see you like this. He stirs slightly when you slip under the covers, and you can feel the mattress shift as he turns over.

Like it’s the most natural thing in the world, his arm slides over your stomach to pull your body flush to his, and his lips brush at the join of your neck and shoulder. As confusing as it should be, there’s something about the weight of him pressed into you that relaxes you, even through your current haze of emotion. You allow yourself to sink back against him, to breathe deeper, though your inhales are still a little shaky.

Yoongi’s rough voice in your ear pulls you up from the edge of sleep. “Did I fuck everything up?”

You sniff softly, and your own reply is barely more than a whisper. “No, Yoongi, it’s okay. Let’s just sleep."

As you hear him settle in beside you again, you make a promise that you’ll deal with the fallout tomorrow. You’ll figure out how you really feel, and how he does, and what you want, and what the hell you’re supposed to do about it all. But tonight, you just want this: to lay here with Yoongi and pretend your entire world isn’t about to change when you wake up.

chapter eight | masterlist | chapter ten

A/N: oh hiiiiii, super secret bonus author's note down here!!! just wanted to share that, now that we're officially through the grammys, that means we are down to just two more chapters left in the series!!! i held off confirming the full length of LDOMLT until we got to this point (and honestly i could've easily split this into two chapters but i am NICE and i did not give you the WORST CLIFFHANGER OF ALL TIME LMAO) - but now i'm sure. chapter 11 will be the final one. gonna do my best to get 10 and 11 up before end of year, or by very early 2023 at the latest!!! and thank u, as always, for reading 💜💜💜

[bi-bard]

Misdiagnosis - James Wilson Imagine (House M.D)

Title: Misdiagnosis

Pairing: James Wilson X Reader

Word Count: 1,108 words

Warning(s): none that I'm aware of

Summary: [Season 4, Episode 9] After discovering he had misdiagnosed a patient, Wilson is left in a spiral of thoughts. (Y/n) tries to pull him out of it.

Author's Note: A while ago, I had a House MD OC. I deleted it because I wasn't happy with it. The planning was shaky, and I didn't really like the OC's storyline. So, I went back, I replanned it, and now we have a better House MD OC that I am much happier with. I hope you enjoy it as much as I do.

FIND MORE OF THIS OC BY CLICKING HERE

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It wasn't common that Greg voiced his concerns to me.

Even when he did, he was never clear about them. He acted like he didn't care and was just making jokes about other people's misery. I could usually see through it.

So, when he came in joking about how James was going to be sued by a patient because the patient was going to live, I understood what he was saying.

"And why did you tell that patient that they had a solid case," I asked, folding my hands together and resting my chin on them.

He dramatically scoffed. "You think it's me?"

"You have very weird ways of intervening when you think someone is being stupid," I shrugged. "Plus, no lawyer would actually tell him that he had an actual case because he was going to live."

House sighed and plopped onto the chair on the other side of my desk.

"Now, why did you do that?"

"Because Wilson was being an idiot," he explained.

"More detail, please."

"He was going to pay that man because he gave that man good news."

"And now, you're here because you want me to go get him to agree with you?"

"Use your psychologist babble."

"You can't only acknowledge my job when you need me to do something."

"I can if I'm asking you to help our friend avoid becoming self-destructive."

"Self-destructive?"

"You won't know for sure unless you talk to him."

Greg pushed himself out of the chair and walked out of my office. I let out a huff and shook my head. He knew exactly how to get under my skin. Asshole.

I found myself outside James's office a little while later. I sighed before knocking on the door. He pulled the door open.

"How did one of you learn to knock and the other one sometimes climbs across to my balcony," James asked.

I just shrugged. He motioned for me to walk in. I took a moment to look out at the balcony once I had.

"You could put tinfoil along the top," I said. James had his eyebrows furrowed when I looked at him. "Like when you have a cat that keeps jumping onto your counter. You put tinfoil along the top and something about the noise spooks them."

"Are you comparing your brother to a cat?"

"It's probably the nicest thing I've compared him to."

James laughed and shook his head, going to walk back to his desk.

"Were you really going to pay a patient for giving him good news," I asked.

He paused, looking at me for a moment before speaking, "House sent you here?"

"He said you were becoming self-destructive," I replied. "Not that I really believe him, but I was very curious-"

"It was 6,000 dollars-"

"Why?" my eyes went wide.

"I... I gave him six months to live," he explained. "He needed the money after he sold his house. He had a trip to Venice planned! I... I wanted to help him."

"This is about the false positive patient?"

"Yes!"

I sighed. "Okay..."

"Don't psychoanalyze me."

"Your guilt surrounding your patients is unhealthy-"

"(Y/n)!"

"Listen to me," I stepped forward and leaned on the desk. "I can't say why, but I think you're feeling unnecessary guilt around events that aren't your fault."

"I gave that man the wrong diagnosis-"

"Because of a false positive," I replied. "At the end of the day, medicine is a field with very little control. I think your guilt is an attempt to control what you can't."

He didn't respond to that.

"I should know... I deal with the human psyche," I shrugged. "Even more variables than the physical body."

He raised an eyebrow at me.

"Wrong diagnoses happen," I continued. "Sometimes they're completely out of our control. And sometimes they work out for the better, sometimes they don't. This last patient was one of the good outcomes, no matter how that man sees it. You cannot control the actions of another person when they believe that they are facing the end of their life or how they choose to handle learning that they aren't. You are not responsible for that. You are responsible for giving that man the correct diagnosis. That's it."

James continued looking at me for a moment before sighing and responding, "I see why Cuddy hired you."

"She does better with two voices of reason than one."

He grinned at me. I pushed myself back, so I was standing up straight again.

"So, do I still have to worry about you becoming self-destructive," I asked.

He scoffed. "I'm not the self-destructive one in your life."

"Yeah, but you're more willing to let people help you," I replied.

I opened my arms and waved him over. He raised an eyebrow at me. I just waved him over again.

He walked over and let me pull him into a hug.

"You're doing a good job, James," I muttered. "I promise."

"Thanks," he mumbled before stepping back and grinning at me. "You have no idea how much hearing that means to me."

I don't think I could've formed a good response to that statement. I don't know if there was one. Saying something like "you're welcome" risked the chance of looking egotistical. Trying to shrug it off could've looked ungrateful. No response felt like it was good enough.

I didn't have to worry about that for long.

I barely had a moment to overthink my response before James leaned over and pressed his lips to mine.

I leaned back a few seconds later out of complete shock.

"I... I'm sorry," he said immediately. "I... I don't know why I did that-"

"It's okay," I stopped him. I started walking toward the door. "Really, it's fine. Just fine. I just... I have a lot of work to do. This was meant to be a quick visit. I'll... I'll see you later."

"(Y/n)-"

"I'll see you later," I repeated before leaving and closing the door behind me.

I looked around, feeling like everyone knew what happened or could easily figure it out by looking at me. I shook my head. Spotlight effect. I knew that.

"Shit," I muttered to myself before running my hands over my face and starting to walk back to my office.

It wasn't that the kiss was bad. It was the exact opposite. It was perfect. That was the problem.

It felt like years of friendship were teetering very delicately on a rope and whatever happened in James's office tried to push it off. And I couldn't tell if I would've been upset but that idea or not.

And that terrified me.

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