#(you know. The Horrors. you know which Horrors) | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

thesvnandthemooon · 2 days ago

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𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐮𝐬 𝐦𝐞𝐚, 𝐜𝐮𝐥𝐩𝐚 𝐭𝐮𝐚

= my hand, your fault

18+ MINORS DNI

a/n: turned out a bit darker than expected so please read the warnings carefully. based on this request (sorry it took so long — also i just realized it says enemies to lovers as well which i completely forgot about IM SO SORRY 💔 hope you like this anyway); the Y/N x natasha interactions here are limited but that’ll change in part 2 — i promise

ˣ ˣ ˣ = flashback starts/ends

summary: fem!reader villain Y/N x Natasha Romanoff

warnings: trauma bonding, smut (oral, n receiving; fingering, n receiving), graphic violence (maiming), blood, body horror, mentions of scalpels, emotional/mental torture, stalking; my first attempt at psychological horror (or something similar at least); there’s the possibility i forgot something so be careful while reading

word count: 8k

part 1, part 2

✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷

Each step down the stairs makes Natasha's head pound harder. Her hand slides along the railing, the polished metal smooth and cold beneath her palm. If she wasn't running late already, she'd stop to lean her forehead against it. A particularly nasty headache has been plaguing her for hours — days, at this point.

She doesn't know what's causing it. It comes and goes as it pleases. It stays however long it wants to. Not even the handful of painkillers she swallowed earlier, all stolen from Bruce's secret stash of prescription drugs, helped.

Her footsteps are quiet and calculated when she enters the meeting room. Her attempt at sneaking inside unnoticed falls flat. Heads turn, all of them, and she offers a short nod in return. If it hadn't been for Tony insisting she come down and look at this, she'd have stayed in her room.

It's unusual behavior. Even when sick, her last option is to crawl into her bed and rot there. Natasha was conditioned to always keep going — even if it leads to her last breath. She'd bleed out like a pig before quitting a fight. It's what she was taught, it's what her body pushes her to do. Every person on the team has a story about Natasha refusing to back down even when things got rough.

With her back against the wall, she closes her eyes. Not something she'd allow herself, but considering she feels like her head is about to explode, she tells herself she has no choice.

"Alright", Tony says. Swallowing a sigh, she opens her eyes and watches him pull up a webcam feed via his holographic interface. "Here's what we're dealing with. Times Square, 3am last night."

Something about it unsettles her immediately. The SHIELD symbol, upside down and burning. Natasha frowns as she tries to figure out what it's made of — wood? Plastic? She isn't sure, thanks to the feed being grainy. But that's not what causes her to stop. The interrupting piece of footage is.

She'd recognize that room anywhere. She feels that same cold sensation she had back then claw its way down her spine yet another time.

"Where is this?", Steve asks, leaning in. Natasha feels bile rise in her throat. "It's choppy. Who gave you this footage?"

Nausea and an elevated heartbeat don't pair well. Natasha whips around and leaves before her reaction becomes obvious to anyone else. Her headache has turned into a stabbing pain, one that is so bad she presses the heel of her hand to her forehead. By the time she reaches the bathroom, her hoodie is drenched in cold sweat.

She refuses to look at the contents she evicted from her stomach. She flushes with a shaky hand, then turns around to face the mirror. Eyes downcast, she washes her hands and rinses her mouth with cold water until her lips turn numb and prickly, like they're filled with thousands of tiny needles.

Her hand slips from the doorknob. Her head is swimming in a mixture of pain and confusion. The second she's back in her room, she grabs her laptop and opens SHIELD's register of current and retired members.

Before she can click on the search box, the screen goes black. Then, letters. White against a black backdrop.

Still looking for me?

She slams her laptop shut so hard the screen shatters.

. . .

— 5 weeks earlier —

The clock on her nightstand is one minute late.

Natasha's blinks the fuzziness in her mind away and slowly sits up. Bedsheets pool around her bare waist, crisp and white and ironed. Outside, it smells like late summer. A rain storm hit New York last night — the air is wafting in through the window, and it's bringing along the smell of raindrops coming in contact with the freshly mowed lawn surrounding the Compound.

It should be 6 am. She can hear the alarm Tony installed to wake everyone up at the same time. Instead, the little black alarm clock on her nightstand reads 5:59 am.

She doesn't feel the relief others do when they wake up on a Sunday morning like this one. Instead, her body complains about every movement she makes. Her eyes, however, are still trained on the clock. The moment she reaches out to grab it, it suddenly shows the right time again.

Her hand freezes midair. She hesitates for a split second, then she grabs the clock anyway. When turning it in her hands and inspecting it from all sides, it seems normal. No device attached, no chip, nothing. The clock corrected itself. Not gradually, or believably. It's like someone flipped a switch.

Natasha sets the clock back down on her nightstand. To the team, she's the 'paranoid' one already — a title she not-so-proudly shares with Bruce Banner. This isn't something she can mention to anyone.

She glances at the clock one last time — 6:01 am, as it should be — then she gets up. The floor is warm beneath her feet, curtesy of the underfloor heating Tony insisted on installing. Inside her bathroom, it smells like jasmine and the perfume she uses.

Even the loofah doesn't scrub away the bad feeling sticking to her skin. It's like the world tilted just the tiniest bit overnight, and now, everything seems to be slightly off. Misplaced.

Downstairs, she's called into the meeting room. It's way too busy for a Sunday. She's still rubbing her hair dry with a towel, her eyebrows raised as Clint nods at her.

"What's the fuss?", she asks, squeezing the ends of her hair. Water drips onto the hardwood floors.

"SHIELD", he mutters. He crosses his arms in front of his chest and lifts his chin. "We, uhm...there's been this thing. Tony will explain."

"It's bad?"

"Let's just say I should've retired when I had the chance."

Natasha nods and leans against the wall. Quietly, secretly, she agrees. He should've retired. Only few people are self-destructive enough to continue doing whatever this is supposed to be. She's one of them, unfortunately. Ruining herself in order to do her job is ingrained into every fibre of her being, and that's not something retirement would change. She'd find a different outlet. In a twisted way, this is safer.

When the holographic interface lights up, she lifts her head. Tony has pulled up a file — nothing else. A SHIELD file, she recognizes that detail immediately — but she's never seen anything like this before.

Apparently, neither have the others. Thor gestures at the hologram with the pencil he's been chewing on.

"What's special about that?", he asks, using his fingernail to remove a piece of wood stuck between his teeth. "That's a file."

"This is Danny Frost's file", Tony corrects him. Natasha pauses. "Don't see anything unusual?"

The entire room goes silent at the sound of Danny's name. Natasha remembers every detail, from his death to the accusations to the events that nearly destroyed SHIELD. And nearly destroyed her as well.

It had been a brutal scene. SHIELD agents are resilient. Body horror of all kinds — dismemberment, slit throats, gouged out eyes — isn't new to them. They're all used to bloodbaths. Yet, this was enough to make four people throw up.

To this day, she doesn't know the full story. She remembers pieces — blood, scalpels, you. Her hands were shaking. The light was flickering. Dozens of little details, but not enough give her an answer. There are two versions of you in her head, and she isn't sure which one was real.

Tony zooms into the file, enlarging the picture in the upper right corner. It should be Danny's face in the picture, all professional and in his SHIELD uniform. She knows he had perfectly white teeth. They'd been scattered everywhere across the room.

His picture, with the barely-there smile, is gone. The entire room is staring at a scalpel instead. Natasha could recognize it anywhere.

"Wow", Clint says. "That's why you called us here?"

"This is a threat", Tony immediately says, pointing at the scalpel. "This was put on SHIELD's doorstep, basically. I know you're trying to retire, but even you should remember what went down all those years ago."

"I do", Clint says, irritated. "I was there. I cleaned up the mess. Natasha, she-"

Her head whips around, eyes flickering from Tony to Clint and back again. They both stare back, and once she realizes she unconsciously slipped her hand into her pocket to reach for her pocket knife, she slowly pulls it out again.

"You're being ridiculous", she says, lowering her hand. "It's a scalpel."

"You remember what it was used for, don't you?"

"There was no proof", she says, voice low and controlled despite the irritation bubbling up in her. Despite it all, she's being defensive. "Those were baseless accusations. Those very accusations started a ripple effect. It almost destroyed SHIELD. This could be an attempt at confusing everyone."

Tony shakes his head and closes the file just to open another one. Pictures of the crime scene appear, translucent yet sickeningly clear. Medbay, treatment room 6 — location of Danny's death.

Murder, Natasha quietly corrects herself. But even that word fails to convey just how disturbing it all had been. It hadn't just been a death. It'd been a destruction, performed with surgical precision. A desecration. Only during her time in the Red Room had she seen something like it.

"Look at the damage", Tony says, using a pen to point at the remainders of what should've been a human corpse. "All of this — done with a scalpel. I know you're a bit of a masochist, Romanoff, but you can't be defending this."

She stares at the hologram, jaw clenched and eyes stubborn. Behind her eyes, she feels a throbbing pain. Faint as of now.

It's been years since she last saw you. Years since she swore herself to never fall for this — you — ever again. To never engage in this relationship that almost killed you both.

Even then, she spent way too long trying to locate you. She wanted answers. She thought she'd never get those, as she assumed you were dead. Suicide, maybe. Or killed by someone seeking revenge. It'd been the only reason why she managed to stay sane.

Natasha didn't want you to be dead. She just needed you to be, so she could breathe again.

"I'm not defending anything", she says. Her voice — controlled and even before — is now wavering. The desperation to cling to this idea of being free in at least one sense is pathetic, and she knows it. She doesn't feel like she has a choice, though. "Fury said so as well. There was no proof."

"He did", Clint confirms. Everyone else, listening silently, now turns toward him. "But aside from that, he also searched every continent for Y/N. There's no place they didn't turn upside down to find her. There's gotta be a reason for that."

"Fury's paranoid", she shoots back. "Everyone knows that."

"Oh, I'm sorry", Tony says, turning the hologram off with a swipe of his fingers, "you're much more rational, of course. Let's trust your judgment."

Natasha's face hardens in an instant. They're all aware of her connection to you — Steve, Tony, Clint especially. He had a front row seat during everything that went down after Danny's death. It's always been obvious they believe that connection never ended. Natasha doesn't form meaningless, surface-level relationships. Either you make it all the way to the core of her soul, or you're never let in at all.

Before the entire thing, Fury used to describe you as a parasite. You wormed your way into every target and sucked the life out of it, whether that'd been a person or a computer system. You knew your way into the most vulnerable aspects of any target, human or not. Natasha was never a target, but she got a similar treatment. The only difference was that you'd put the label 'love' on it.

Nobody believed her when she said she's over it. They knew it's hard to restore what you aim for.

"I was close to her", she says, doing her best not to snap at them. "Yes, I know what I'm talking about. You don't. You knew her on a surface level."

"Thank god", Tony retorts. "That woman was twisted. She ruined your life, Romanoff. How can you still defend her?"

Natasha doesn't respond. Her jaw is clenched, her eyes drifting from Tony to the floor. She remembers every little detail about you — how you'd pick flowers with bloodstained fingers, how you'd clean scalpels and then lean in to kiss her goodnight. You were unpredictable, charming in a way that threw everyone off. You effortlessly got people to love you, and that included the team. Even Tony, who's now standing there and running his mouth like a man who wants to get into a fight, once adored you.

With time, that idea of you shifted for everyone else. They saw your chaos, but never your warmth or the intimacy you so readily provided. You were manipulative, and at that you might've even exceeded Natasha. She knows she probably fell victim to you as well; she just doesn't know whether that was a constant or not. But the good outweighed the bad, at least at the time it did.

"I appreciate the concern, Stark", she says, stepping away from the wall. "You can't ruin something that never had a chance to begin with."

He frowns, giving her a quick once-over. Assessing her is more than difficult. He isn't sure anyone's succeeded at it so far — except from you, maybe, and not even that is certain.

"You won't be able to avoid this", he says slowly. "Fury has ordered an investigation. It'll only be a matter of time before we find out more."

"No", she says. "It won't be. We all know that."

They do, in one way or another. Admitting that you're powerless is hard, however, so even beginning to think they might be nothing but feathers in the wind seems impossible.

The door to the meeting room falls shut behind her. She hears the draw of a scalpel with every step she takes.

. . .

At night, SHIELD's hallways feel more like a maze than a structure Natasha got to memorize over the years.

Silence, apart from the gentle hissing of the air vents. Her boots pad over tiles which are still covered in wet footprints. The overhead lights are dimmed and the air is warm from the day.

She should've left two hours ago, but after falling asleep at her desk, she needed more time to finish working on the file Fury handed her this morning. That this happened in the first place was concerning enough — Natasha doesn't nod off. Ever. She had coffee as well, black and no sugar, but even caffeine didn't manage to keep her awake.

She rounds a corner, her eyes immediately tracking down the motion sensor light at the other end of the hallway. It flickers for a second, then dies again. Her eyebrows furrow, but she doesn't stop. She keeps walking even when the smell hits her.

Antiseptic, sharp and sterile like an operating table. But that's not what caught her attention — the cleaning staff regularly uses antiseptic. It's the perfume entangled in it that makes her stomach coil. She'd recognize the musky perfume you loved anywhere. And even though this isn't the exact scent, it's still cold enough to throw her off.

She still knows when she smelled it the last time. The night before Danny's death, after you'd slept together on the couch in your apartment. It clung to your skin like old blood stains cling to concrete. Even sweating for an hour straight didn't manage to weaken the smell.

Before her mind can take her into dangerous territory, she forces herself to snap out of it. Your apartment had been miles away. The perfume you used got discontinued shortly after she secretly declared you dead. It's the remnants of exhaustion that are playing tricks on her.

The elevator door slides open before she can press the button. As she steps inside, she also steps into a cloud of your perfume.

Natasha freezes in the middle of the elevator. The door slides shut, the lights flicker, and the enclosed space starts moving. Moving smoothly at first — passing floors, humming quietly, carrying her all the way down into the garage. Then, it stutters. It shakes. It comes to a halt so sudden it makes her stumble.

Her hand reaches out to steady herself against the wall, but instead of meeting stainless steel, it presses right against a warm, moving chest.

She looks up. You look right back at her.

Bloodied hands. A cold smile. The tiniest flicker of amusement, one she memorized like her favorite lullaby.

"It's been a while", you murmur. You don't stop staring, even she tries shoving you away. Even when her fingers curl into the fabric of your shirt, when the proximity is making her heart pound in her ears.

The elevator fades. Natasha fades with it. She finds herself backed into the corner of your kitchen, one hand braced on the surface and the other gripping your shirt. Her head is leaning against your shoulder. Your hand is between her legs, making broken moans spill out of her. Apart from the muffled squelching sounds, it's completely silent.

It smells like blood. Her body tenses as something washes over her — relief, fear, longing. A mix of it all, probably. Before she can lean into the feeling too much, she's staring at the mirror inside the elevator. Behind her, the door has opened. A hallway, pitch black and filled with the humming of the air vents, reminds her to step outside.

Somehow, without thinking much, she makes it to her car. At this point, she's running on instincts and reflexes. She buckles up, pulls out of the parking lot, leaves the garage. It's almost 3am, the roads are abandoned out here, and she's never felt less secure in driving than she does right now.

Her hands are still shaking when she reaches the gate in front of the Compound. She's trying to avoid the mess she's feeling — all the grief, the anger swimming back to the surface. The unanswered questions and the quiet desperation that's been plaguing her since you disappeared.

As she makes her way into the building and up the stairs, the thoughts only get louder, more insistent. The urge to start looking is strong, yet she doesn't even know what to look for. She didn't find you back then, and she wouldn't be able to find you this time, either.

You'd always been good at disappearing. Natasha never asked where you went, or what you did. In hindsight, she probably should've. But she doesn't know whether that would've changed anything, and that might be the worst part. It seemed unconditional at the time. It was unconditional until it wasn't.

She unzips her jacket, folds it and puts it aside. She doesn't smell it. She knows your perfume is still lingering on the fabric.

Another shower. The water is hot enough to turn her skin red. She scrubs herself with the loofah until she's raw, then she dries off and gets out of the shower. Her eyes get stuck on the mirror, fogged up and spanning across half the wall.

Two words, written into the condensation of the glass.

Missed me?

She blinks. The words disappear, just like that. A breath leaves her heaving chest, and she takes a step backwards before finally turning around. The door falls shut and she locks it.

Natasha isn't paranoid. She's just overly cautious. But the line in between is blurry.

. . .

ˣ ˣ ˣ

Natasha can feel him in her vicinity. It's not just instinct — it's routine.

They don't share a workspace. They're not even in the same department. She's in Tactical Operations and Espionage & Intelligence. Danny, however, is working his way up in the PsyOps ranks. Yet, she sees him whenever she's in her office. He approaches her whenever he runs into her. She's not scared; not of a man with a muscle percentage below 30%. His presence alone is unsettling, anyway.

He hovers, and watches, and scrutinizes. It's part of his job. His responsibilities, however, don't include analyzing coworkers. Especially not Natasha.

You could tell something in his brain clicked the first time you saw them interact. At that point in time, you didn't know what it was or how to categorize it. But you could tell he had an interest in her. You could see through his act. You saw past the white teeth and the fake smiles, past the polished badge he carried with pride. You were able to because you weren't too different from him.

'Strategist with a god complex' is what Fury once said during a meeting. He was mumbling, sorting files. Too tired and distracted to keep himself in check, he'd uttered the words that'd end up deciding Frost's fate.

You could tell Danny thought he was being subtle. To others, that might've be true — but you spent too long perfecting your own public persona to not see right through his. You started keeping tabs on him months ago, just to be safe. So far, he hasn't disappointed you.

12 am, Natasha's rarely occupied desk. He walks past her office. His excuse is always the same: reaching the break room on the other end of the hallway. His department has a break room, too. He doesn't visit it nearly as much.

8 pm, another trip past her desk. He doesn't know you've had access to the security cameras for a while now. You're in your office, Natasha standing behind you. Her hands rest on your shoulders.

She's not nearly as concerned as she should be. She tells herself you're just worried, because that's what you told her.

"Every day", you say, clicking to the live feed of the camera a couple feet further down the hall. "He's not even trying to hide it."

"You shouldn't worry", she says, squeezing your shoulders. "He's harmless."

You go quiet for a long moment. Danny is in front of the water fountain, leaning over and tilting his head to catch water with his open mouth. He lets go and straightens up. A feeling of disgust hits you when he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

"It doesn't matter whether he's harmless." You turn off the computer and turn around. Natasha frowns slightly. "Are you naive?"

"What?" She shakes her head. "It does matter. He's peculiar, but looking at his job, that doesn't surprise me."

"That's your excuse?", you continue. "'Peculiar'? I thought you were smarter than this, angel. Take a look at his file. Don't just skim it. Examine it. There's a reason people like us choose this kind of career."

Natasha knows you have a point. No ordinary person enters a business like yours. What she doesn't know, however, is that you weren't including her when you said "people like us." That detail slid past her with such ease it even baffles you. Because, in the end, there are things that differentiate her from you and Danny.

"I don't check the files of coworkers", she finally says. Your eyebrows rise with both sympathy and amusement. "There's a line, Y/N."

"Right", you say slowly, getting up from your chair. "Why are you lying?"

Your eyes have always been intense. It's one of the things that drew Natasha in the moment you met. Right off the bat, you were talking. Charming her, seducing her, all while being subtle about it. You slept together almost immediately, like it was an inevitability instead of a choice.

She felt a lot of things when it happened. You felt something — and that something was enough to let her stay. The look in your eyes never changed, though. Not for anyone else, and not for her, either. In this moment, she wonders what about them ever managed to lure her in.

"There's nothing we can do about it", she says, trying to distract you. It doesn't work, but you let her believe otherwise. She sees through it. "He's a valuable asset. Even if he does pose a threat, SHIELD will dismiss it. They've done it before. If nothing has happened, there's nothing they can do."

You study her for another second, contemplating quietly. Your hand reaches out, brushes her side, pulls her closer. She exhales and wraps her arms around your neck.

"Look at you", you whisper. Your hand curves her waist and dips lower. "Too trusting after all. To think I had hope for you."

Natasha shakes her head. She plays with the baby hairs at the back of your neck, wrapping them around her finger and smoothing them out.

"It's not trust."

"No. You're still naive."

She tilts her head. You're both aware that Natasha is a stranger to naivety. But you'd keep telling her this, no matter if she'd ever end up believing your words. Unfortunately for her, she would. It'd never be her fault.

You lean in and kiss her. Your nose bumps hers, your hands squeeze and rub her sides. It's brief, but you hope it's enough to keep Danny at bay. He did seem startled when walking past the open door, after all.

ˣ ˣ ˣ

With each night that passes, Natasha's sleep gets worse.

It creeps in slowly. She's used to nightmares, sure — but this is different. Even asleep, she's restless. She wakes up with the blanket and pillows on the floor, the sheets messy and an unfamiliar scent clinging to them.

Dreams are half-remembered. When she wakes up, she's disoriented for the first few seconds. Her head hurts, her vision swims. Every morning, she feels worse. She's never felt fully rested, but she's never been this tired either. It's the kind of exhaustion that stretches way beyond the physical.

A touch to her shoulder is what makes her wake up from a confusing dream. Her face is pressed into something soft and warm and moist. For a moment, she's too dazed to realize that everything about it is unfamiliar.

When she does finally open her eyes, she sees the blood-soaked pillow she's been resting her head on.

Her heart jumps in her chest as she immediately enters panic mode. Her hand darts under the pillow to reach for the knife she hides there. All she feels are soaked sheets.

It takes everything in her to calm down, even if her heart is still trying to escape her ribcage. A nosebleed, she tells herself, feeling her face. Completely dry and clean. I need to clean up.

Slowly, she scoots out of bed. The floor is cold beneath her feet, despite the underfloor heating. She makes her way into the bathroom and grabs a trash bag. She avoids looking in the mirror — no matter what she'd see, it'd only make things worse.

Natasha returns to her bedroom. Her eyes immediately zero in on the pillow. It's still in its place, right where she left it. Except now, it's spotless.

Something warm brushes her shoulder, like fingertips. She jumps around, getting into position immediately, but there's nothing there. It's just her room — empty, silent, minimalistic. An empty vase on her dresser, a blank wall behind it.

She forces herself to relax, but deep down, she can feel how tense she still is.

Nothing in life has ever been certain for Natasha. The only thing she allowed herself to rely on were her senses. Now, even those seem to be betraying her.

. . .

ˣ ˣ ˣ

"This is it?", you ask, glancing up at the tower. Avengers Tower, formerly known as Stark Tower. You're familiar with both, obviously.

"He's humble, huh?"

You look at Natasha. Her eyes dart lower, staring at the lipstick you're wearing. Pat Mcgrath — your favorite brand. You've never said it out loud, but you wear it often enough for her to know.

"He's a billionaire", you say simply. Your hand squeezes hers, and you start approaching the entrance. "You know what I think about that."

Her lips quirk into a fleeting smile. Inside the lobby, the receptionist greets you before returning to his crossword puzzle. He's chewing on the end of his pen, which is now starting to splinter.

Walking past, all you do is throw a quick glance at the newspaper. His thumb drums against the edge of a grid spanner. You smell cigarettes and deodorant.

"14 down, Hervey Cleckley", you say. Natasha looks at you, but you've already continued walking. "This is why humanity is doomed."

You press the button next to the elevator and watch it light up in blue. The machinery hums as it moves to your location on the first floor.

"It's a crossword puzzle", she says. You both step into the elevator, and you turn around to lean against the wall. With your hand holding hers, you tug her right against your chest. "There are bigger issues, unfortunately."

"He's part of the issue", you reply. You lean in and peck her lips. "Your friends. I can assume they won't disappoint?"

Natasha studies you. Her free hand reaches up to brush some smudged lipstick from the corner of your mouth. She knows you'll be watching, judging, mentally picking them apart until they're nothing but their individual pieces.

The worst part is that she's letting you. She wants you there, after all. Even if she knows better. You're polite and friendly, sarcastic and intelligent. You're charismatic. But beneath all of that, there's so much more. An iron fist in a velvet glove.

"Don't expect too much", she says right as the elevator comes to a halt. "I've given up on trying to make you like someone."

"Smart girl", you mumble, only slightly taunting. "Might save you some energy."

Natasha shakes her head. Once she reaches the door at the end of the hallway, she uses her keycard to unlock it. It opens automatically, revealing a living space with multiple people in it.

You know all of them. Tony, behind the bar and poking Bruce with a toothpick. Thor, toying with his hammer and putting it on someone's phone. Steve and Clint, now looking up to greet you.

"Hey", Clint says. He knows you. He's met you. He can't say he likes you. "Nice dress."

"Barton", you reply. "How are the kids?"

His face hardens slightly, but he puts on a polite smile. That you even know about his kids is concerning enough — he's only told the people that are closest to him, and you haven't made it that far yet. His first instinct is to put his kids in a bunker before you can keep keep reminding him he has something to lose.

"They're good", he says evasively. "Work's treating you well?"

"Same old."

"Look at that", Tony says, grabbing a stack of whiskey glasses. "Romanoff brought someone over. Didn't think I'd see the day."

"Stark", you say, quickly scanning him. He raises his eyebrows and pours himself a glass of whiskey. "More charming than your file suggested."

He lets out a laugh, but Natasha squeezes your hand twice. You turn your head just enough to kiss her temple — and silence her —, then you make your way to the couches standing around two coffee tables.

The others join soon, as well. You can tell they're uncomfortable. Avoiding eye contact, but having plenty of it which each other. Downing whiskey like it's water. Clearing throats and gripping their drinks, but also trying to stay nice.

Only Thor doesn't seem to care. He's dug out a six pack of beer and is now trying to get you to chug it with him.

"Winner gets a prize", he says, trying to push a bottle into your hand. "We'll hunt a hog and slaughter it. Have you ever tried the innards?"

You quirk your eyebrows at him. "Can't say I've had the pleasure."

"Ah, it's no pleasure. Chewy and hard."

Your lips twitch into a smile and you shake your head. Your arm is wrapped around Natasha's shoulder, and you lift your free hand to hold the whiskey glass to her lips and tip it.

"Sounds like an experience", you say, studying the Norse god. "I like you. You don't pretend to be civilized. And you're far less tense than everyone else. No wonder there's a bar on every floor here."

Tony gives you a long look. He was about to pour himself another whiskey, and now that you said that, he makes more of a show of it than necessary.

"Tense? Us?" He nods and lifts the glass to take a quick sip. "Well. Don't take this the wrong way, but if something explodes, I'm blaming you."

"Relax, Stark. I only blow up the things I don't like."

"That's reassuring", Steve mumbles. Natasha glances at him, then at you again.

She doesn't know what she expected. She never expected you and the others to become best friends — not by a long shot. Even at SHIELD, you keep to yourself. There are few people you associate and socialize with. She doesn't remember you ever uttering the word 'friend'.

"Rogers", you say, like you were waiting for him to pipe into the conversation. "Captain America. Are you proud of that title?"

He pauses, a little taken aback. Everyone else is staring as well. Nobody expected a direct confrontation, after all.

Natasha notices Bruce nudge Clint a few times. One is nervous, the other more tense than the bowstring he's so skilled at using. You don't have to look at her to squeeze the part of her ribcage that's right beneath her breast.

"What I do isn't about pride", Steve says after a beat, his eyes fixed on yours. "If it were, I wouldn't be standing here today."

"What's it about, then? Self righteousness? Your conscience? Morality is so boring. Don't you ever get tired of it?"

He briefly sucks on his teeth in order to keep himself controlled. Natasha knows him well enough to see that you're about to make the impossible happen — get Steve up in arms about something. She knows it's not easy to make him snap, because she's tried before just for the fun of it.

"Having a conscience is boring?", he asks, eyebrows raised.

"You're putting words in my mouth", you reply, smiling. The heel of your high heels taps against the hardwood floor. "I've heard a lot about you. Frozen in ice for almost 70 years. How does one adapt to societal change that rapidly?"

One by one, you dissect them. Undress them publicly, make them question their own beliefs. The only one spared is Natasha — you keep her by your side, kiss her cheek every now and then, tap her side. Everyone else falls victim to your interrogation concealed as curiosity.

They're Natasha's friends, after all. Curiosity is natural. You want to know them for a multitude of reasons.

But beneath every question is a tripwire. If they are aware of its existence, they don't let you notice. If they aren't, they did exactly what you expected — show that, even in a room full of superheroes and American legends, you have the upper hand.

ˣ ˣ ˣ

. . .

It's hazy, hot, a little confusing.

Natasha's hands tangle in their hair. Her back arches off the bed. She doesn't remember the last time she was in this position, but her body knows exactly what to do. Tugging hard, she lets out a breathless moan.

Someone is between her thighs, two fingers slowly pumping in and out of her. A nose nudges her clit. The air around her is buzzing with something she can't quite place. But she knows the scent, the voice, the feeling in itself. She's been here before.

Her thighs tremble, the heels of her feet digging into the mattress. Her red hair is fanned out on the pillow. Sweat trickles down her chest and between her breasts, running over a scar.

The scar stings. It's fresh. She can't recall where she got it.

Natasha grips the strands of hair tighter and keeps herself from cursing. She shouldn't curse. She remembers how much you liked it, though.

You. Something about the realization makes her heart trip. Her grasp weakens and she tries to force her eyes open, but all she sees is darkness. She can't seem to open her eyes. She's stuck — she's not sure where, but she can't leave.

It all feels off. She hears sounds that shouldn't be heard. Dripping, burning, whispering. Her heart races in her chest. Your voice, nothing but a hum against her skin.

She should've known it's you. No other sexual partner has ever delivered this kind of precision. The way you're thrusting your fingers into her is almost rude.

"Y/N", she moans, her thighs clenching around your head. "Where- where were you?"

No reply. You use her lower belly as a pillow for your forehead, still fucking into her at a fast pace. It smells like sex, sweat, blood, perfume. You moan against her, teeth grazing her skin and breath hot against it.

The rhythm of it is off. It feels like you're switching positions every few seconds. Like multiple realities are crashing, like her own brain is battling for control over what information it processes versus produces.

Then, she wakes up. Not gradually, not slowly. It's violent and sudden and the shame floods her at the same time as the grief does. The bed is still empty, after all. All she's left with are white sheets, aching thighs and the urge to throw up. The disorientation is bad enough to make her lie back down.

One arm over her eyes, she tries to calm down. Her heart is still thudding against her ribs, but at least the dizziness has stopped. The panic has subsided, if only a little. If only it weren't for her phone buzzing on the nightstand next to her.

Natasha hesitates before rolling over. She grabs her phone, unlocks it, and sees the message in her notifications.

Anonymous. One picture attached.

She doesn't want to click on it. In the end, she does anyway. What appears on the screen is a picture of her, sleeping, just minutes ago. Red hair tousled, lips slightly parted.

The picture was clearly taken from the window. Nobody entered her room. She can even see the slight reflection of the glass. But none of this makes her situation better.

Panicking but convincing herself she's still in control, she starts tapping the screen frantically to delete the picture and block the messenger. But her phone glitches violently — the screen flickers, random lines appear, the brightness changes.

Then, it goes dark. When it comes to life again, the message is gone. It's like it never existed.

Her stomach turns. Before she can feel sick enough to throw up, she gets out of bed and hurries into the bathroom. The cold water she splashes her face with doesn't help — her cheeks are hot and flushed anyway.

There is no proof she's alive, Natasha tells herself. Anyone could've sent that.

However, she does realize the circumstances are odd. Getting a picture like that right after having a wet dream about you would be an odd coincidence. And Natasha knows you're not one for coincidences. Everything is strategic, planned. It has to be, otherwise your cover could easily be blown.

She also knows that something like this would be right up your alley. It's intimate, silently violent, way too personal for comfort. Natasha keeps things secret — always has, always will. You were a secret once, too. That didn't stop you from staking your claim.

No one ever understood her darkness like you did. She adored that once. Now, it terrifies her more than anything else ever could. Because every story, every confession, every fear could now be used against her.

Her sanity is slipping, but she knows one thing — it will be used against her. It already has.

. . .

ˣ ˣ ˣ

You don't tell Natasha. You're almost certain she knows. It doesn't help with your antipathy towards Danny.

He doesn't stop hovering around Natasha, not even when you leave a note on his desk. In fact, it only gets worse.

It didn't take long for you to catch on to his plan. Days after he started — digging into her past in the Red Room, quietly filing reports, even watching her through internal SHIELD channels — you realized that this wasn't innocent interest. Even that would've been to set you off. No, it wasn't interest; it was an analysis.

You weren't sure what his plan is and, truthfully, still aren't. You know he's part of the PsyOps team. You also know he's one of the most talented psychiatrists SHIELD ever recruited. He must've seen something in Natasha that he liked, which you can't exactly blame him for. His decision to target her, and pick her apart for fun and research, is something you blame him for, though.

The very first thing you noticed him do was take notes. They were brief, clinical, way too plain for someone like Natasha. They dehumanized her entirely. To him, she wasn't Natasha — she was a subject.

Subject shows signs of survivor's guilt.

Subject has a low to moderate susceptibility for manipulation.

Risk of subject: high. Reward: high.

You'd copied and kept every file. You'd logged every single action of his. You'd kept an eye on him, for weeks, until he went too far.

Natasha isn't vulnerable, or helpless. She can defend herself better than almost everyone you know. In the end, what you did wasn't about protection. There was more to it. But when he started getting too close — recording her during work (she knew), asking her invasive questions about her past (she stayed professional), attempting to put beta-blockers into her drinks (she found out immediately) — you knew something had to happen.

You didn't want there to be an explosion. Watching people unravel themselves is much more interesting. You started by leaving notes on his desk. Mostly things he'd said in the privacy of his own home, when alone with his friends or fiancée. You started mentioning seemingly mundane tidbits of information, like his fiancées severe shellfish allergy. It didn't stop him.

Dead flowers followed. Scalpel blades. A picture of his own hallway, at night. The licorice he almost choked on as a kid. In his locker, in the pockets of his jacket, in his lunch that he stores in a plastic container.

He seems to slow down for a week. Then, he doubles down.

You have no choice. The pig's heart is still warm when you leave it in his locker, vacuum-sealed and labeled 'profile this'.

You knew he'd freak out. You didn't expect him to have the guts to corner you in a hallway one night after his shift, though. You know he's approaching by listening to his footsteps alone. They're louder than other people's, slightly off beat, a little squeaky in the aftersound.

"Agent Frost", you mumble, flipping through a few files. "I'm on my way home."

"I know it was you."

You give him a brief glance over the shoulder. He's trying to corner you, but you're not budging. There certainly are more intimidating things in your life than the guy who uses whitening strips on his veneers every week.

"You'll have to be more specific. I do a lot around here."

He rolls his eyes and lifts his phone. You don't miss how he hesitates for a brief second, his hand twitching backwards just an inch.

"This", he says impatiently, shoving the picture of the pig's heart into your face. "I still haven't gotten the smell out of my locker."

"You usually store intestines in a fridge", you say, giving the picture an unimpressed glance. "They spoil quicker this way."

The psychiatrist pauses, still holding the phone. He slowly locks it and puts it into his pocket, but his eyes — wary, slightly panicked even — never waver from yours. He knows it was you who did this. You left a pretty obvious clue when ramming a scalpel into his front door.

"You're pathetic. Avoiding confrontation is people-pleasing behavior", he says, stepping closer. You get an unfortunate whiff of his aftershave. "A deep rooted fear of upsetting others. Didn't peg you as the type."

"If this is what you classify as 'avoiding confrontation', I'd rethink my career choices."

"Don't talk to me about career choices. You're the one who-"

"Listen", you say lowly, finally turning around to face him fully. "I know what you've been doing. You're not slick. You've been warned multiple times, and you ignored it over and over again. So here's my advice: stay away from Natasha."

He stares at you, unmoving and maybe even unbreathing. His hand forms a fist, only briefly. He knows he'd lose, though.

"Baseless accusations", he spits. "Don't start something you can't finish."

He'd regret his words once he feels his teeth being cut out of his mouth. The scalpel is in your pocket already, blade sharp and handle engraved.

"Stay away from her", you repeat, not breaking eye contact. "Find someone else to analyze. Don't touch her."

Danny shifts and tugs at the lapel of his shirt. Once ironed and smooth, now wrinkled from a long day at work. You spot a tomato sauce stain on his sleeve.

"Maybe I should analyze you", he counters, his voice suddenly regaining some kind of confidence. Like a light switch flipped, his attitude changed. "I know more about your past than you think, Y/L/N. Not as clean as Romanoff hopes it'd be."

"I have nothing to hide, Doctor", you say. You step closer and smell his coffee breath. "My file is clean."

He gives you a smile. Barely there, cold, detached — or at least that's what he was aiming for. The result is pathetic, so much so you're tempted to offer him lessons. At least he made an effort, though, and for that you applaud him.

"I never mentioned your file, did I?"

You're not sure what he tried to achieve with this piece of information, but it doesn't work. He thinks he has the upper hand. That he's smarter. It's nothing but an act of desperation, disguised as control. Your lips twitch into a smile. His own smile fades.

"That's cute", you say, tilting your head and studying him. "You're threatening me?"

"I'd be careful", he snaps. "They have no idea. Romanoff doesn't know either. I have a lot of dirt on you."

You lift your eyebrows. He's slightly more red in the face. He's blinking rapidly. He's slightly out of breath, despite only standing. He poked the bear, it backfired, and now he's trying to keep it together.

"I told you to stay away from her."

"Or what?" He lets out a laugh and drags his hand down his face. "I didn't do anything. I just paid attention to a coworker. A friend. That's not a crime. But you, on the other hand..."

Memories flash behind your eyes. It's not just one memory — it's multiple. In different locations, with months or even years between. You can't say you regret any of it. You're not scared of Danny, either. He's a joke, always has been. You're not worried.

But he's getting close to Natasha. He's been targeting her. Your idea of love, if you're even capable of it, is twisted; but that doesn't make it any less real. You feel the results of it just like everyone else.

Power, territory, protection, violence. It's delicious.

"You want to tell on me?", you mock. "Is this preschool? Did your mom forget to iron your shirt?"

He stares at you, breathing more heavily by the second. Somewhere down the hallway, a door opens. He doesn't bat an eye at the idea of a coworker possibly overhearing your conversation, and neither do you.

"You'll see", Danny says, wiping the sweat off his forehead. "She doesn't even know what you are."

You smile. "Neither do you."

(He will end up dead.)

ˣ ˣ ˣ

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dippers-doodles · 3 days ago

Text

Kate wraps Yelena up, blanket and all, and holds her.

The thing Kate was never prepared for when she thought she wanted to be an Avenger, was how things feel after the chaos. After fighting for your life or the lives of so many innocent people, against horrors that are unimaginable until you’re face to face with them.

Because when you’re alone in your home, after the sun sets and the world quiets, it’s all you can see. There’s no real escape, not distraction loud enough to push the images out of your mind - the screams and the way people sound when they’re hurt or dying.

It’s something Kate is getting used to, for better or worse, but today was different. Today was…

“It’s okay,” Yelena breathes into her neck and Kate tries to take a breath only to feel it hitch in her throat. The first indication that she’s crying.

Yelena moves them slowly through the apartment, never letting her go as they make their way towards the couch and she slowly guides them to sit. “I’m here, солнышко.” Yelena’s hands press hard into her shoulders as she rubs them. “So are you, we’re okay.”

Kate crumbles even more. “I did my best,” she cries. “I tried so hard to save him. I tried…”

“I know, I know you did. Of course you did.” Yelena shifts up onto her knees to be a little bit taller than Kate, which lets her cradle Kate’s head in her hands and kiss her forehead. “You saved so many, Kate. So many, I saw you leading them out of that building. You did well.”

- - -

From @xkatebishop’s fic don't give away the end (the one thing that stays mine)! Most of the scenes in this fic are a bit too spicy for me to draw but check the rating on the fic

(Very grateful for a bunch of artists and fic writers deciding to drop a bunch of content rn which got me excited enough to pull out of art block! I’ll likely do more stuff)

#my art #fan art #bishova #fanfic rec

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mingtinysworld · 1 day ago

Text

Roommate!Ateez finding your toy

Warnings: mentions of sex toys, dirty talk, suggestive

A/n: so…this was inspired by my mom seeing my dildo…I was very embarrassed😭 I had forgotten to put it away and she was there while I was gone and so she for sure saw it ughhh

Hongjoong

Hongjoong has impeccable manners. He would never let himself into someone else’s room without permission, except this time. It’s really an emergency. He can’t find the batteries for his lamp and he knows you have some stashed into your room. You’re not home but it wouldn’t hurt to look for just a few minutes right?

He twists the knob, walking in slowly as if he’s about to get caught doing something illegal. He goes straight to your desk, where the batteries would most likely be. The top drawer is just a bunch of random things, a combination of post its, hair ties, and nail polish. Second drawer, more random things. Clearly you don’t have a thing for organization.

Third drawer…he opens it and closes it again with an open mouth. He looks around comically as if he’s being watched, and then slowly opens it up again. His eyes fix upon a hot pink dildo. He can’t help but snort out a laugh. Of course you would have a hot pink dildo. Clearly you were in a rush, not even having it put in the package. After another second of staring at it, he smirks as a thought comes to him.

You open the door to the apartment, winded from the seemingly thousands of stairs. You immediately head to your room, seeking the calm of a familiar space. As you walk in, you scream in terror, dropping your phone on the floor with a clang.

“WHAT THE FUCK” You yell out, as you see Hongjoong casually lounging on your bed. “WHAT are you doing-” you stop short as you see what’s in his hand. It’s your dildo. Your dildo. What. The. Fuck.

“Hey love, I just saw this in your drawer and I was curious.” Deciding to ignore the fact that he was snooping in your drawer, you walk closer to where he is. “This was an unexpected surprise. Lovely surprise though.”

You’re at a loss for words, like all the air has been sucker punched out of you. He laughs at your incredulous face, beckoning you toward him with a hooked finger. He gets close to your face and makes you shiver with his breath tickling your ear.

“Show me how you use it.”

Seonghwa

“Yes, yes it’s in my room! I can get it.” You and Seonghwa are about to have your weekly game night together, which consists of countless card and board games, which usually end up with some bout of violence due to the competitive spirit that you both possess.

The two of you near your door, and as you enter the room Seonghwa stops right in front of it. “You can come in you know. It’s not forbidden.” You laugh at his hesitant face. He laughs himself and follows you inside. You look through the shelves for monopoly, a favorite of yours. “Aha! There it is.” You explain in triumph. You turn around beaming at Seonghwa, but your smile fades as you follow his line of sight.

He’s staring at your bed, which to your horror, has your vibrator that you forgot to stash away this morning. You let out a yelp of surprise and stumble towards the toy, snatching it off the bed and throwing it haphazardly under the desk. The small burst of energy has you feeling out of breath, and you can feel your face getting redder by the second.

You risk a look at Seonghwa, expecting to find a disgusted expression on his beautiful face. However, he has an easy grin on, looking at you with suppressed laughter. “It’s ok Y/n, don’t be embarrassed. It’s not like it’s illegal.” He says.

“Yeah but-” He interrupts you mid sentence. “Sweetheart, it’s ok, I promise.” You slightly melt at his tone, and your cheeks heat up at him calling you sweetheart. “Alright.” You say while avoiding eye contact.

Yunho

You can hear Yunho with his friends in the living room, yelling at the screen, playing their game intensely. They’ve been going at it for a while, so your privacy and alone time was basically guaranteed, so you took advantage of that to um…take care of your business.

After a very pleasurable hour and a half, you stand up to put away your toys. Right at that moment, there’s a knock at your door. You panic and shuffle around frantically while shouting out. “Yeah??”

“Can I come in?” You hear the voice of Yunho, muffled from the noises outside. Amidst your panic, it’s almost like you can’t control what comes out of your mouth. “Yeah!” You yell, and then quickly realize what you said before yelling once more, but saying no this time. However, it’s too late, and Yunho is already entering your room and he stops in his tracks when he sees you.

You, standing in the middle of the room, one hand holding a dildo and the other a vibrator. He chokes on his own saliva, coughing, while his eyes are as big as saucers. You’re still frozen like a statue, unmoving. Clearly, your fight or flight is broken.

You giggle nervously, and fling the toys onto the bed behind you, standing in front to cover the view. Yunho has turned so red, all the way to the tips of his ears. He looks so flustered that you kind of feel bad.

“I-I’m sorry Yunho I didn’t mean to- I mean oh god I’m sorry. This is so incredibly humiliating.” You ramble. He laughs breathily, almost like sighing. “It’s ok! I shouldn’t have come in, it’s fine it’s fine. I’ll leave you to…whatever…I- ok yes goodbye!” He leaves just as fast as he came in, while you stare in mortification.

Yeosang

Yeosang left practice as a sweaty mess, he just couldn’t wait to get in the shower and rinse off all the exhaustion. As soon as he got home, he went to the bathroom and locked it behind himself, stripping his clothes and putting them in a neat pile. He pulls the shower curtain aside and almost falls backwards.

Sticking to the wall, is a dildo.

Yeosang is so taken aback that his mouth is just wide open in shock, unsure what to do. He realizes there’s not much he can do, he just has to deal with it and take his much needed shower. He gets in, and tries his best to ignore the very obvious erection hanging on the wall. As he lathers up his hair, he can’t help but sneak wary glances down to the object as if it’s going to attack him.

After a tense fifteen minutes of showering, Yeosang leaves the bathroom with his new change of clothes. You and him make eye contact as he comes into the living room and he looks so incredibly nervous. You’re reading your rom com on the couch and he takes a seat, turning on a random tv show.

While you’re reading, you look at him from the corner of your eyes, and you notice how twitchy and nervous he is, but you choose to ignore it. It’s probably just typical Yeosang. You turn to the next page when you hear Yeosang blurt out a bunch of words.

“Youhaveyourdildohangingontheshowerwallstill” he says in a rush, while avoiding looking at you completely. The blood drains from your face at the realization that you left your toy in there, and you physically facepalm yourself.

“Oh my god, Yeosang I’m SO sorry.” You apologize earnestly.

“It’s ok!” He squeaks out, ears turning red.

San

“San!” You call out for him. It doesn’t even take him more than a minute before he’s there.

“Hey what’s up?” His face looks kind and open and you melt a little inside.

“I really need your help. I need to save this file but I can’t for the life of me figure it out.” You say, letting out a frustrated grumble. He chuckles, and asks you to move aside. He quickly saves the file and looks at you triumphantly. “Easy as a cupcake.”

You can’t help but laugh. “That’s not a saying.” He just shrugs and keeps smiling. “Anyways, are you up for doing a puzzle?” You ask him.

“Oh hell yeah let’s do it.” He opens your drawer, thinking that’s where the puzzle is, but instead opens the drawer. You flinch and slam it shut, but it’s too late. He already saw it.

He smirks at you and you want to wipe it off his face immediately. “You know ~ I could help you with something else.” He steps toward you and you take a step back, the back of your knees hitting the bed. You sharply inhale, speechless. What got into him?

“Cat got your tongue?” He drags a hand down your waist, pulling you against him. “This will be way more fun than a puzzle, I promise. Much more…stimulating.” He says with a glint in his eye.

Mingi

Mingi looks at the clock hanging on the living room wall, showing that it’s nearing 9am. Your classes start at 10 and he hasn’t heard a peep from you. You’re always on top of things, never late, so he can’t help but worry a bit. He waits ten more minutes, until he can’t anymore. He walks to your room, trying to listen for any signs of you being awake.

He knocks on the door, and no response. He knocks again, this time calling out your name. You must still be asleep. He gently cracks open the door, seeing your soft sleeping form. You’re spread out comfortably, looking content. He eyes you fondly, thinking of how adorable you look, but then he sees your nightstand, and what’s on it.

He accidentally lets out a snort, trying to muffle his laughter the best he can. Your vibrator is in plain sight and even though it’s nothing crazy, Mingi and his little boy brain can’t help but be immature. He doesn’t know why it’s so funny but it is. And he decides that this is the perfect opportunity to tease you.

He practically yells, “Good morning Sunshine!!” You jolt from your deep sleep at his loud voice, hand holding your heart in fright. “Mingi oh my god.” You say, breathing heavily as if you ran a marathon.

“You were gonna be late to class, you’re welcome.” He says with a smug smile. Then his eyebrows raise. “I see you were a little preoccupied last night.” Your face is confused, wondering what he means by that. Then your head whips to your left, seeing what you left out on the nightstand.

You scramble out of bed and run towards Mingi, ushering him out of your room in a panic. “Get out get out get out.” He lets you push him out while he laughs deep from his belly. Your face is reddening as you think of what he saw and groan loudly.

“I’m never talking to you ever again.” You say, while he laughs even harder.

Wooyoung

The doorbell rings and Wooyoung jumps to his feet, opening the door. There’s a delivery man, who looks exhausted from the heat.

“Delivery for Y/n L/n.” He says.

“That’s my roommate, thank you!” Wooyoung says, grabbing the small box from the man. He closes the door and heads back to the couch. Ever since you two have become roommates, you’ve been a mystery to him. He knows practically nothing about you, and you’re not the social type in the slightest. He’s so curious about everything about you, so he feels the obligation to open your package, just for research purposes of course. He shouldn’t, but he’s going to anyways.

He rips the cardboard apart, and what emerges from the box surprises him. In the best way possible. It’s a vibrator. A very fancy vibrator mind you. He smiles in victory, as if he’s uncovered your greatest secret. He takes out the package from the box and waits for you to get home.

You get home from work and walk into the apartment, no signs of life whatsoever. The light is off, the air undisturbed. You shrug your coat off and walk to the bathroom to freshen up. You look at your tired face, wincing at the dark circles underneath your eyes. You splash some cold water onto you and turn to leave. You open the door and yelp in surprise.

Wooyoung is blocking your way out of the bathroom, leaning on the wood frame, almost seductively. His hand is hidden behind his back, and he brings it up slowly, revealing your package that you were waiting for.

“Wooyoung, w-what are you doing with that? How did you…” you trail off, shocked. Why on earth would he open your package? You’re so embarrassed and can’t help but think of the many ways that you could run away right now.

“Oh don’t be embarrassed princess. I just wanted to get to know more about you.” He speaks casually, so relaxed that it unnerves you. “Would you like my help?” He asks with a glint in his eye.

“Uh um what d-do you mean?” You ask uncertainly.

He steps closer, caging you in with his arms. “You know exactly what I mean.” He whispers.

Jongho

Jongho was in charge of making dinner tonight. He doesn’t consider himself the best chef but he can make a pretty damn good steak, and that’s what he was making. You could smell the enticing scent of the meat in your room, making your mouth water. You’re determined to finish this essay however, before going to dinner. You hear two brief knocks at your door, and Jongho comes in.

“Hey roomie, dinner’s ready!” He announces. He comes over to stand next to you at your desk, looking at your screen. You groan and stretch out your back. “Come on, you’re working too hard. You deserve a break.” He says, gently lifting your hands from the keyboard. You take a look at him and then at the computer and sigh. “Alright.” He gives you a big smile and stands you up.

As the two of you start heading out, you pass by your bed, where you see the dildo that you accidentally left out. Your eyes widen and you’re filled with panic and try to distract and steer Jongho as far away from your bed as possible. You find his eyes and mentally will him to only look at you. But luck isn’t with you today.

Jongho sees what’s on your bed and you look at him with eyes full of fear, awaiting his reaction. But his face doesn’t show even a single twitch. He’s completely unaffected. You can’t help a nervous laugh escaping you and slap a hand over your mouth.

“Oh god this is humiliating.” You groan into your hand.

Jongho simply shrugs, moving to walk out of the room. “Eh it’s fine.” You’re baffled by his nonchalance, but are relieved.

As you both sit down for dinner, you notice his ears, turning a shade of bright pink. He tried to put on an air of indifference but his ears betrayed him. You smirk to yourself and just keep eating.

Masterlist

#ateez #mingtinysworld #ateez smut #ateez x reader #ateez fic #ateez fanfic #ateez headcanons

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ianouireid · 2 days ago

Text

Not-So-Alone Time

“Self-care leads to cuddling on the couch with your boyfriend.”

pairing: mid-seasons!spencer x dark-purple!reader

cw: fluff, mint chip ice cream (i’m not sorry), one or two cuss words, subtle dislike of awesome music

wc: 1.2k

a/n: lying is the most fun a girl can have without taking her clothes off was playing while writing btw :p

You didn’t hear the front door open. The only reason you knew Spencer was back was the slight toe of converse coming into your view.

You were sat on the floor, gliding black polish over your toe nails while Panic! At The Disco played from the silver, beetle shaped CD player perched on the windowsill a few feet away.

Today was a day for pampering, you decided. Work had been tiring recently — dealing with white-supremist assholes and whiny women who somehow managed to find every little thing to nitpick about literally all day. Your shift was quite literally the worst it’s ever been, so it was a justified pamper night.

You started by taking the longest and hottest shower you could muster up (sorry water bill, self care was due), then you shamelessly scooped mint chip ice cream into a bowl and called it dinner, because you were an adult and could do that without being yelled at to have “actual food” first. Yay adult-ism?

You planned to finish your self care routine — painted toes included, — and listen to every CD you had until you eventually passed out on your couch, wrapped in fuzzy blankets and dulcet 2000s punk teenager music.

Dream night for you, maybe not for your boyfriend. In your defense, you thought he would still be stuck in Colorado for the night, working on… well, whatever case they were working on this time.

It wasn’t that Spencer wasn’t about self expression — because please do trust that he expresses himself in the nerdiest, most scientific way he ever possibly could — but it was your music that he wasn’t sure of.

He was happy whenever you were happy, but so god help him your music was an acquired taste, especially compared to his classical mixes that he claimed prevented obsessive behavior.

The lyrics were just so obscene and… sad? He didn’t quite understand that it wasn’t always necessarily the words but more so the overall vibe of the song that you enjoyed.

But that’s whatever. You were on the path of training him to appreciate sad teenager culture, despite neither of you being teenagers, or sad — the latter only happened periodically.

“Hi lovey,” You smile, looking up at him from your spot on the shaggy rug before stretching to hit the pause button on the CD player. He looked so worn out, hair shooting every which way and subtle bags forming under his eyes. He still had that gentle smile on his face though, the one that never left when you were around.

“Hello,” He mumbles softly, taking a seat next to you and plucking the black nail polish bottle from your hands before taking over your job. You’ve taught him well.

“How was work?” You continued, watching his careful precision of the paint covered brush swiping over the nail on your pinky toe.

“Work was work. Angry underdog getting revenge, you know, the usual.” He shrugs, dipping for more pigment. He never got into too much detail when telling you about cases because 1.) you didn’t care for real gore, and 2.) he didn’t want to tell you all the real gore. Your horror movies were more than enough, he felt.

“Well as long as you were safe, that’s all that matters to me.” You smile, looking across at him as he caps the polish and moves your legs to stretch fully across his lap. The corners of his lips twitch up, before he’s leaning towards you and pressing a gentle kiss to your lips. He pulls away before you get the chance to really savor it.

“I’m always safe. Just for you.” He responds with a small reassuring smile, letting out a quiet sigh as he rests his back against the couch, probably being the first chance he’s gotten to fully relax. However, you both know he’d risk his own well being if it meant keeping the rest of his team or random civilians safe. You know because you’ve gotten multiple phone calls from SSA Aaron Hotchner informing you that he’s been injured. Various accounts of them.

“Did you eat?” He randomly asks, but him worrying about your wellbeing wasn’t a foreign concept.

“Does ice cream count?”

“No, ice cream doesn’t have proper nutrition and balanced macronutrients to fit the form of a proper meal.”

“So I have to cook?” You groan slightly, not meaning to.

“No, I haven’t eaten either so we’ll order takeout. Thai?” He asks.

“I love Thai.” You smile as your stomach growls subtly. You shift the tiniest bit so you’re at a better position to card your hands through his hair for the first — not close to last — time this evening as he pulls out his phone and dials the number for the only Thai place that you both mutually hold appreciation for.

He orders your food, having your order memorized already, while you twirled and brushed through his brown locks with your fingers. Your favorite pastime, one could argue.

The phone was turned off with a small click, being set on the floor next to his thigh. He glanced over at you — and if you looked close enough, you could see the hint of mischief in his eyes. Before you had time to dwell on it, he was lunging forward, sending your back to the ground with a thud and him laying on top.

“Spencer what on earth are you doing?” You chuckle, wrapping your arms around his torso gratefully.

“Loving you.” He mumbles into your neck where his face was buried. Hands were braced on your back.

“Well I'm glad you’re loving me then.” You whisper, pressing a soft kiss to the crown of his head before leaning your head back all the way and enjoying the peace of being smothered on the floor by your genius boyfriend.

You laid in silence until a knock from the door sounded throughout the apartment, sending Spencer to his feet and walking away while you sat up and climbed into the corner of the couch. You reached for the remote as the scent of Thai food wafted towards you — along with your boyfriend.

“How about Cursed?” You suggest as he sets the containers down on the coffee table, taking a seat next to you. He gives you a short glance, shaking his head with a smile while dishing out the food.

“Again?” He chuckles, casting you a teasing look.

“Okay… Apollo 13 tonight, Cursed tomorrow?” You try again, to which he nods with a smile. He leans back with his serving of food, handing you your own before you cuddle up closer to him. You eat your scrumptious dinner while watching his choice of movie, holding the moments you get with him very close to your heart.

An hour later, your plates were abandoned on the table and he was passed out with his head on top of your own. You shifted your eyes to check if he was really sleeping, before reaching for the remote and switching it to Cursed. You would watch whatever movie or show he wanted to, until he was asleep. This was the time for your choice of media, because there wasn’t room for him to complain. You would’ve turned it off in a heartbeat if he asked you too, though.

You were only able to make it 17 minutes in before eventually dozing off and nuzzling closer to the warmth next to you.

If you had to pick a moment to live in forever, it would be ones like these. Ones where you got to love each other loudly without the confinements of the world getting in between you.

#ianouireid #spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid fluff #criminal minds #criminal minds fluff #dr spencer reid #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid x gn!reader #spencer reid one shot #criminal minds one shot

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drafts-and-delusions · 3 days ago

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Kitchen Catastrophe

Tags: jinu saja x gn!reader, established relationship, domestic fluff, comedic fluff, failed cooking attempt my guy needed his own fluff fic

It was your day off. That meant sleeping in, cocooned under the covers, no alarms, no obligations, and absolutely no kitchen-related emergencies before noon.

At least, that was the plan.

You woke up to the faint, rhythmic sound of something being slammed against something else, paired with the unmistakable smell of burnt toast.

Groggy, you sat up. The bedroom door was cracked open; wisps of smoke curled in like it was a low-budget horror film. And through the haze, you heard a voice from the kitchen–muffled, frustrated, and unmistakably familiar.

“Okay... okay. So it says to flip the pancake when it starts bubbling. But this thing is already bubbling, and I think that’s oil. Is oil supposed to bubble? Is this a sign? Is the pan cursed?”

A pause. Then the deadpan voice of a YouTube tutorial, “...and that’s how you know it’s done.”

Jinu cursed softly. The pan hissed in defiance.

You wrapped the blanket around your shoulders like a cape and shuffled out to the kitchen. What you saw was impressive.

Your boyfriend stood at the stove, flour smudged across his cheek, a singed pancake sagging on a spatula, and your apron tied around his waist like battle armor. It said “Kiss the Cook,” which felt increasingly ironic by the second.

“Morning,” you croaked, your voice still heavy with sleep.

He spun around. “You weren’t supposed to be awake yet!”

“I smelled fire,” you said flatly.

“I wanted to surprise you,” he muttered, lifting the pancake like it was evidence. “Breakfast in bed. I even watched three different tutorials for this. I had tabs open. I had hope.”

You looked at the stove. Then back at him. “Why is there a rice cooker open? And, were you making eggs in a wok?”

Jinu shifted his weight; he was still clutching the spatula like he was prepared to defend his cooking with force. “The video said to keep pancakes warm in a low-heat place; the rice cooker seemed low-heat enough.” He pointed at the wok, which contained what might have once been eggs. “That pan was already hot, so I thought ‘efficiency’?”

You set the blanket on a chair and turned the stove off. First things first. “Efficiency is not using every appliance in one recipe.”

He sighed. Flour puffed from his hair. “In my defense, in my time, we just had fire and a pot. I am out of my depth.”

You snorted and went to grab two mugs from the cabinet. “Coffee?”

“Please. I need to feel capable of something.”

While the machine sputtered to life, Jinu scraped the poor pancake into the trash. He hovered over the rice cooker, hesitated, then closed it like he was sealing in the evidence.

You placed a mug in his hands. “Rule one: if the tutorial says medium heat, set it to medium. Don’t guess what medium feels like.”

He took a sip and sighed. “Rule noted.” His eyes flicked up to yours, sheepish but warm. “I did get strawberries ready. They survived.”

You spotted them. Washed, hulled, perfectly red, sitting on a plate like tiny edible trophies. “That’s actually perfect.”

Jinu brightened. “Really?”

“Really.” You speared one on a fork and held it out to him. He took a bite, and juice dripped down his chin as he laughed. The sound was lighter than the smoke still curling out of the open window.

“New plan,” you said. “Strawberries, coffee, and delivery pancakes. We eat them in bed while pretending you made everything.”

He wrapped an arm around your waist, relaxing into the idea. “I will tell everyone I made the syrup myself.”

“And I’ll nod like a supportive partner,” you teased, resting your forehead against his. “Deal?”

“Deal.” He kissed you; it tasted like sugar and burnt batter, which somehow made it even sweeter. “Next day off, supervised cooking lessons?”

You tugged at the apron’s bow and started walking him toward the hallway. “Only if you promise not to fight the toaster.”

“No promises,” he said with a crooked smile. “But I’ll fight it with love.”

The fire alarm stayed mercifully silent as you both returned to the bedroom. blankets, coffee, half a plate of strawberries, and another inside joke waiting to be made.

#join the pride #jinu saja #jinu saja fluff #jinu saja x reader #saja boys #kpdh #kpop demon hunters

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kentjstarrettofficial · 1 day ago

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You know what this reminds me of?

Sometimes people see cryptids, often called "Atmospheric Beasts" or "Space Animals" (though they need not be from space), which they describe as airborne, invertebrate-seeming organisms.

This concept first emerged in fiction with The Horror of the Heights, by Arthur Conan Doyle, and is still seen today as recently as Jordan Peele's Nope.

In Cryptozoology, we have examples such as the uberpredator, Crawfordsville Monster:

...later revealed to be a flock of birds, distorted by the then-recent implementation of new electric lights, to UFOs that seem just a little too organic and molluscian/cnidarian to be mechanical:

To the "Rods" craze of the 90's-2010's, which turned out to be an optical illusion caused by slowing down footage of nocturnal insects:

Notable proponents of this idea included Charles Fort, who said:

"It seems no more incredible that up in the seemingly unoccupied sky there should be hosts of living things than that the seeming blank of the ocean should swarm with life."

As well as Ivan Sanderson, who coined the term Cryptozoology. He wrote a book on the subject titled Uninvited Visitors: A Biologist Looks At UFOs, which is a great companion piece to They Live in the Sky! by Trevor James Constable, which is a delightfully manic piece on the subject.

More seriously, Carl Sagan advocated that Hydrogen-based lifeforms might exist in the clouds of gas giants like Jupiter and Saturn, and famously proposed this in his book Cosmos and the television adaptation of the same name:

Which in turn influenced science fiction writers like Alice B. Sheldon, who placed atmospheric beasts in her novel Up The Walls of the World. The Tyreeans, which inhabit a planet identical to Saturn, look like this:

Arthur Clarke followed closely, with A Meeting with Medusa.

If this has any relevance to anyone, my novel Jackie And Craig also features atmospheric beasts in the form of Rods, with more atmospheric beasts cut out thanks to length/pacing reason. I include a little evaluation of Rod Biology here, for anyone interested in my unassuming first novel.

Neobaeothele Anomalopteros – Skyfish or ‘Rods.’ Though Anomalopteros is the most common species, as least fourteen to sixteen distinct ones are known from the S.S.C. records.

Skyfish belong to the same phylum of animals as our timeline’s velvet worms. Onychophorans are a group of animals most biologists believe represent an archaic common ancestor of arthropods and mollusks, and are known to have evolved in our timeline about 500 million years ago. If this is the point of divergence in the timeline that skyfish evolved in, it would make them one of the oldest species of animals known (and from one of the most divergent parallel earths). Skyfish are very similar to their terrestrial velvet worm cousins, their primary physical differences being electrosensitivity, bioluminescence and the ability to fly.

Though skyfish possess wings, their purpose is primarily directional. Propulsion is achieved in the same fashion as squids and other cephalopods, siphoning air through a central fissure that runs through the whole body and jetting it out an orifice in the back.

Skyfish indicate the electrical intensity of their surroundings by way of coloration, glowing up and down the spectrum of light as their proximity to certain currents/frequencies grows more powerful. In our world, skyfish can be seen crowding around powerlines and light-bulbs; drawing energy from them and sometimes causing power outages in more rural areas. At least seven car crashes on record were caused by swarms of skyfish overwhelming vehicles, seeking lights for nourishment.

Beyond this, most Neobaeotheles are harmless to humans. With the exception of a transparent, leech-like species that consumes mammalian blood known to swamps and wetlands and a parasitic, flesh-burrowing species (only native to central Asia and the Australian Outback, and only active once every ten years, like cicadas), skyfish pose little threat beyond showing up in the backgrounds of family photos and home movies. In timelines like Jikungah, skyfish form the basis of the foodchain. Almost all predators subsist upon them, as clusters of them are drawn and farmed by Ultraterrestrials like Jykunne. Skyfish are edible to humans as well, and are a culinary staple in very isolated, primitive communities. In remote, isolated parts of Eastern Europe and Madagascar, skyfish are served in various pork and rice dishes. In Bolivia skyfish are often dried into jerky, and various Hong Kong Black Markets serve a type of ‘glow-soup’ with skyfish farmed directly through gateways. An obscure cookbook from thirteenth century Japan describes a recipe for ‘sunworm teriyaki.’

Flying sculptures by André Heller, 1986

#kentjstarrett #kjs #authorsoftumblr #cryptozoology #Atmospheric Beasts #Space Animals #Rods #UFOs #Paranormal #Youtube #Jackie and Craig

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swanimagines · 3 days ago

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Oooo hii long time no request!!😅😅

If it’s okay, can I please request a oneshot (or imagine, whichever works best for you!!) with Morpheus x fem!human!reader where she is Alex Burgess and Paul’s Granddaughter, and she’s visiting her Grandparents after years of moving away, and even though she has been told ever since she was a kid to stay away from the basement, her curiosity gets the best of her and she goes down there anyways, happening upon a locked up Morpheus. I’m sure he’d be skeptical to trust her, knowing that she’s one, a human, and two, a Burgess, but when she starts actively trying to free him, he starts (gradually) to change his mind about her, especially when she manages to get him out of the fishbowl-like-cage he was locked in. Maybe he wants to repay her for helping to free him, and he shows her the Dreaming and they get (romantically) closer the longer she stays there?? Whatever you think!!💜💜💜

A/N: Fun to have filled your request again, it's been like 5 years since you last sent me something haha :D Also just a reminder, this request is oneshot sized so it doesn't even qualify as a ficlet/imagine request, which means I didn't really choose to make this a oneshot, the size of the request demands a oneshot. Just a reminder for anyone who may see this and misunderstand how do different request types work.

Also a little extra note because I'm sorry if it feels like I cut the corners too much, I know I stress the "detailed plot for a oneshot please" but your request unfortunately is far too detailed for a oneshot and if I wrote this JUST as you requested, a oneshot wouldn't be enough, at least not with my writing skills. And I'm not built for longfics so :/ I had to cut corners from some things that would need a looooong buildup for it to feel in character. I hope that's fine and you won't be too disappointed.

THE MAN IN THE CELLAR

Summers were the best time of the year, honestly. Getting away from your busy life, responsibilities and duties you had when you were born into a respectable family.

But during summers, your grandparents took you to stay with them at their manor, away from the city’s grime and everything you loathed. At certain things, city life could be fun, convenient and vivid, but you had always preferred the countryside, and the big manor your grandfathers owned was a perfect place for that.

The manor had its mysteries, like every old building had. The cellar in particular had been off limits for you since you were a child, your grandfather Alex had explained that his father had been a cruel man, backed up with your granddad Paul. And that the cellar had old relics, demonic artefacts, you’d better not see. And for years, you accepted that — you had read about your great-grandfather Roderick Burgess and the horrors he was rumoured on doing. You had tried to be curious about it when you were younger and asked your grandfather how was his father in real life, but he always avoided the topic and refused from telling more than what you could read from old articles.

It had been a long time since those times now, and you were already a young woman who was kind of expected to find a husband and establish a family soon, but your grandparents never poked you with questions like that, thankfully. You sometimes wondered how you were living in 21st century while constantly being asked about whether you’ve already found a man, but you always managed to brush it off.

This summer was a little different from past ones. Grandfather Alex had been irritated somehow, and constantly visited the cellar when he and Paul thought you weren’t watching them. If it was truly full of “demonic artefacts” your great-grandfather left behind, why was he so eager to look through them, constantly? And why he was snappy every time he came back up?

And one day, you heard him mutter to granddad Paul, “He’s never giving up. He’d be there for an eternity rather than just promise he won’t hurt us.”

Paul sighed. “Maybe we should let him out, Alex and just… trust him. It’s just not worth it to fear for our own safety, you have seen what keeping him prisoner has–”

“And risk our lives? Risk our daughter’s life? Her family’s life? What if he wants revenge and wants to wipe all of us Burgesses off the face of the Earth? How could I let him out, when I know we may wake up the next morning to find our own granddaughter–”

Creak.

They stopped talking and you cursed at stepping on that one plank you always knew to avoid when you were a child and tried to sneak to the snack jar. But you sighed and stepped forward, trying to pretend you hadn’t heard anything, plastering a smile on your face.

Both of them looked at you with wide eyes, and you frowned, trying your hardest to look puzzled. “What?”

Your grandfather pursed his lips together and waved at your granddad, who started pushing him forward and they both smiled at you. “Nothing. Good night, sweetie.”

You watched at them go towards the elevator, and glanced back to the cellar door. Well, now it intrigued you more than ever, and you also happened to know the passcode… so maybe you should just take a small peek.

You shouldn’t, you knew that. But maybe… just a peek.

At night, you waited until you were sure your grandparents had fallen asleep, before you quietly exited the guest bedroom and tiptoed downstairs. You barely even breathed as you typed in the passcode, slightly flinching at every beep it made. But you somehow got it right on first try, and slipped in, before you were stopped on your tracks again once you heard two voices chatting to each other.

“He’s been here for decades and has never even tried to escape, why the fuss?” a man asked and the woman smacked her lips.

“Have you even seen the news articles about the time boss’s father was still alive?”

The man sighed. “Stories often bend around enough to be something completely different from what they started from. If I started out a rumour about you that you like to keep a garden, in a few decades it would have turned into your daughter being a serial killer who buries her victims into your garden.”

You took two careful steps forward, and finally saw… a man. Sitting naked in a large glass ball.

What the hell?

You stared at him, not even blinking.

Why did your grandparents have a naked man as a prisoner in their cellar?

It was just absurd. If someone had told you this was the reason why you weren’t allowed to go to the cellar, you would have laughed for an hour about that thought, mocked the person for being delusional. Your grandparents were the last people to keep a human being a prisoner and have guards to watch over him.

But here you were, looking at the very proof they had done that exact thing.

—-—-

You started visiting the cellar every night after that. Something in him just drew you there every single night, and it wasn’t long before you started learning the patterns of the guards, when one of them fetched something to eat for both of them, the bathroom breaks, the moment the male guard felt like he can slack for a few minutes when the female one didn’t see…

You had found a place for yourself in the corner, there was a space, a dent in the shadows you could squeeze yourself into when guards passed you, and they never noticed.

You didn’t know if that man inside the glass ball noticed you either, as he always just sat there looking at his feet, never looking around, seeming like he never even slept. He just sat there in that same position, night after night.

You weren’t sure when you started feeling like it actually wasn’t a human. You remembered reading news articles about your great-grandfather having a demon trapped in his cellar, was this the demon?

But he didn’t feel like a demon.

But… on the other hand, isn’t that what demons are supposed to be? Trick people into thinking they aren’t demons so they’d open the gates to be possessed?

But the longer you thought of it, the longer you just couldn’t help the thought. You had to get that man out of there. Something wasn’t right, and he needed to get out.

So, you began planning how you’d get past the guards, break the sigils, break the glass. You knew any of that wouldn’t be easy, but you set your mind to it.

—-—-

It took weeks. Maybe a month or two, you lost count. In any case, your summer vacation was almost over when you finally, finally managed to switch the pills they used to stay awake to strong sleeping pills, and soon both guards snored loudly on their desks, which encouraged you to finally move from the dent and sneak past them.

The man didn’t look at you, didn’t even acknowledge you. You didn’t even know if he saw you. Was the glass a two-way mirror? You frowned, before you knocked on the glass to get his attention.

Still no effect. He was ignoring you on purpose.

Well, that wasn’t a wonder honestly, he had been imprisoned for God knows how long, he had probably lost all hope at this point.

You glanced back at the guards. Still out cold, so you snuck back and started digging through their drawers for a key, a wrench, a crowbar… something you could use to open the glass ball as you recognised the glass type, it definitely wouldn’t shatter even if you slammed it with a sledgehammer. But there was nothing there, which made you groan out of frustration.

Then, you remembered the sigils. You looked down on them for a moment before you snatched the water bottle from the other guard and marched back to the glass ball, pouring water on the sigils and rubbed it around with your foot. The sigils smudged away, but there wasn’t any magical wave or a whiplash you expected, which made you drop the bottle in frustration.

At least the man now looked at your shoe, that had turned faint yellow from rubbing it against the paint. He was probably disappointed too.

“I’m sorry, I don’t know how to get you out,” you murmured against the glass. “I… I’ve been watching you for weeks now. I just… I just have this feeling you need to get out. I don’t know why, but I just can’t get it out of my head. I think you—”

You were interrupted as you heard your name being called from upstairs by your grandfather, which made you flinch and the man looked up. You sighed, closing your eyes. “I’m sorry.”

Then, you sprinted away, pretending you were merely getting a glass of water before your grandfather could make his way downstairs, smile at him and claim everything is fine and you definitely weren’t trying to get the naked man in his cellar out.

But you still knew that you didn’t know how to forget and give up, when there was clearly nothing you could do.

—-—-

Next morning, you woke up to your grandfather shouting. “What do you mean he has disappeared?!”

“I don’t know, boss! We both fell asleep—”

“Fell asleep? You mean to say you forgot—”

“No, we took them, but somehow we still fell asleep! Maybe the sigils had weakened over the years and he managed to enchant us!”

You sat up slowly, listening to the ruckus. People pacing, running around.

He had escaped?

You let out a disbelieving breath, you had succeeded? Breaking the circle had worked?

Apparently that was exactly what happened.

—-—-

A few weeks later, you dreamed. For the first time in your life, you had a dream. A beautiful, neverending field with golden straws of rye spread around you and in the middle of it all stood a tree. And under that tree, stood a man in a long black cape. You recognised him immediately.

“You’re… here,” you mumbled, and he smiled softly.

“Yes. You freed me.”

You blinked. “How? I mean, obviously the sigils… but how did you get away without anyone noticing?”

He turned his eyes away from you, looking around the field. “I created a portal here, to my realm.”

You flinched slightly. “So… do you mean to say you are a demon after all?”

He chuckled. “This is not Hell. I am Morpheus, the Lord of Dreams. Children know me as the Sandman.”

You frowned. “Sandman?”

He hummed. “I was planning on cursing Alexander Burgess with eternal nightmares, but you being his granddaughter changed my mind. I do not wish to bestow such grief over you after this gift you gave me.”

You blinked. “…Thank you.”

He turned his eyes on you again. “You came to see me every night. You plotted on my escape for weeks. And for that, I am eternally grateful. The world order is restored, much because of you.”

You felt yourself blush and turned your head away from him. “I just did what I knew was right.”

He hummed again. “I wish to show you my realm. I know you have never visited here, as you were born when I was already imprisoned.”

You looked around again, and the field had shifted, replaced by a small town and a castle. “What is this place?”

He started walking slowly, prompting you to follow. “It’s The Dreaming. You will visit here every night in your dreams. Your dreams will be affected by what you went through during daytime.”

You opened your mouth, then closed it again. You didn’t know what to say to that. You felt his eyes on you, and you glanced at him shyly. “Will I see you every night?”

His mouth parted slightly before he frowned. “I do not usually appear into mortal dreams unless there is something I need to see.”

Your shoulders sagged slightly. “Oh.”

He was quiet for a moment. “But I may make an exception with you. I may not be able to appear every night, but I would like to meet with you any time I am able to.”

You brightened up instantly. “Really?”

He smiled softly again and hummed. You smiled at him widely, feeling a flutter in your chest, unaware Morpheus felt a flutter in his own chest too when looking at you smiling.

This could become something beautiful.

Requests are open! FANDOM LIST | PROMPT LIST(S) | RULES (READ!!!)

#morpheus x reader #morpheus #dream of the endless x reader #the sandman x reader #the sandman #dream of the endless #morpheus x y/n #morpheus x you #female reader #reader insert #romantic

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scuderia-eunoia · 2 days ago

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meetcute moment | KA12 blurb

─── MEETCUTE BLURB! in which you, a pastry fiend, decides to indulge your sweet desires and buy yourself a few baked treats. however, things quickly go south when you run—literally—into a problem in the form of a tall, curly headed mop. WC: 0.6k NOTES: new layout, who dis?! anyway— this is actually going to be a part of a longer kimi fic that i've been working on, but i thought that it was too cute of a moment to leave in the drafts as i continue writing the rest of the story. so, have this very short (but hopefully very adorable) blurb of a meetcute moment with kimi. if you think about it, this serves as a sneak peek, as well ;). anyway, enjoy!

YOU'VE BECOME A constant visitor of this bakery nearby. It makes some pretty good breakfast buns, and it reminds you of a similar joint you and your grandmother used to frequent back home. It's quite the ancient establishment, with an interior design that is so obviously well beyond its years. Somehow, its old aesthetic adds to its charm.

After several minutes of being torn between this beautifully baked apple pie or another ten pieces of your old reliable crinkles, you pay the kind old lady who usually mans the bakery the fee and begin walking outside. You've gathered quite the haul today: three full loaves, two separate bags full of breakfast and dinner buns, a few pieces of this new croissant that the old lady recommended to you, and then some. It amassed a total of three, moderately heavy, slightly unstable, shaky paper bags that you had to carry all the way back home. But the weight of them all was nothing compared to the bliss of sweet delight you were going to indulge in once you got home.

You've almost lost yourself in the haze of your baked delusions when you get rudely shoved back into reality when, as if the universe had told you to snap out of your stupid trance, you bump into someone. The collision sends you falling back and your precious sweet delights flying out of their paper confinements; You could only watch in horror as your three loaved musketeers defied the laws of gravity for a split second, before flopping onto the concrete.

You don't even know what to say. You're panicking— you think of the crinkles, and your heart sinks— until you realize, it wasn't completely your fault.

You dust yourself down, prepare yourself to start screaming at whatever blind man decided to bump into you and ruin your tower of pastries—

“Scusa,” you heard a voice say, and you looked up.

A man with curly hair and really, really pretty eyes is staring down at you with so much pity, it was almost like you were some beggar and he was the reigning king of the road giving you a few scraps.

You weren't a native, so you didn't understand the language of the locals— but according to some books on Italian language that you read on the airport a week ago, scusa was an informal way of apologizing and saying sorry.

You didn't really know what to say— not because you didn't want to, but because you couldn't. Your accent would give you away, but given as you were pretty much rising to your feet whilst staring at this Italian stranger with a look as if he'd grown two extra heads, you figured that your cover was blown long ago.

You nodded stiffly at him, as you began collecting your fallen pastries from the ground.

The curly headed mop is persistent, though. He does what a socially awkward introvert navigating a foreign country's worst fear is: helping you.

He leaned down, picked up the farther pieces of bread and crinkles and semi-flattened croissants, rose back up, and handed them to you. You take them without a word. You're speechless. If you even breathe an inch too close to his Italian face, God knows what might happen.

Just when you're about to begin saying "thanks" in English because you've just about given up trying to explain you're a foreigner, Mister Mop (you've settled on calling him that) commits yet another unthinkable act: speaking directly to you.

Except this time, it's in English— a language you understand.

“You’re a foreigner, aren’t you?” he asked.

You blinked a few times, like your eyes were trying to get used to the blur of this kind Italian stranger who has been nothing but kind to you these past five minutes.

“Yeah, I am,” you replied. Your pastries are safely back in your arms, and surprisingly, they’re organized in a neater order than before. Sweet.

#kimi antonelli x reader #kimi antonelli x you #kimi antonelli imagine #formula 1 x reader #formula 1 x you #formula 1 imagine #f1 x reader #f1 x you #f1 imagine #formula one x reader #formula one x you #formula one imagine #ka12 #formula 1 blurb #f1 blurb #formula 1 drabble #f1 drabble

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werezmastarbucks · 3 days ago

Text

cat. pt3

cat. masterlist

cat!yoongi + f!reader

in which you can't walk past a little black cat, crying for help from inside a carton box, drowning in the rain. months later, after the two of you have adjusted to each other well, the cat disappears. but? not completely.

word count: 9508

music

warnings / tags: cat!yoongi displaying cat!sentient behaviour. mostly fluff. what the fuck have i written here. let's see: ah, NIHILISTIC EXISTENTIALISM. sorry for this. lots of cursing. touching butt. bipedal social horror.

They must have heard about what happened to Yoongi.

There is no other way.

You see four cats, running towards you through the alley, even under the small, unpleasant drizzle that betrays the shit spring weather.

One ginger (Jimin), one grey and striped (Tae), a big brown one with short fur, and a beautiful, domestic looking lush cat with long fur. If you hadn't seen it in the street before, you'd think he doesn't belong to the gang. Maybe Malsoon grooms him. Maybe it's your job now that you have their brother. Maybe you should've thought about it earlier. Again, this human bias, forgetting that the street suffering didn't end when Ren got a home and changed his name.

The three cats run to you in their little cat stride, while the brown one walks unhurridely behind them. A leader, having their back. His tail goes up once he sees you. You squat on the ground, reaching out for the ginger head that has both ears bitten through. Whatever that fight was about, Ren won.

You pat the cat on the head. They never mobbed you like that. Seoul street cats, they are too cool to express affection and need openly, unless they are in real danger. Jimin rubs against you with his whole slender, cat body, reminding you of the simpler days too much. You pat his butt several times.

"Ren is okay", you say to them. The brown cat sits down at the respectful distance. You can't not humanize them now; the process is irreversible. Now you are deluded that they are actually humans first, trapped in cats bodies. Your brain knows it's the other way around. You can't stop seeing intelligence in brown cat's eyes.

"That's why you're all here, right? He just fell on his elbow, but he is okay. You can come round", you say, then think. "Not too often though. He is very jealous".

You can't stop yourself from touching the pretty long-haired cat and fluffing his back. He sneaks away from your hand. There's a sound of a fight coming from down the street: loud meows. The brown cat is on his legs first, then the others follow. They scatter around.

"I will bring you guys the wet food!" you yell after them, "We don't need it anymore!"

A neighbour passes you by with a pitying look. You sit on the ground, trying to talk to a wall.

You gather yourself up and turn onto the main road where the light shop is always open. Morning or night, no matter the weather, even on national holidays, her shop is open. Malsoon must not have any family at all. And lonely people do strange things. It's more common than people think. You find yourself slightly flustered as you see her on her little chair, with a cup of coffee in her hand, feet crossed on the ground. You bow.

"How's work?" she asks. Grandma had woven herself into your life. She knows your schedule, more or less, and where you work, and how you live. You chit chat with her all the time. Never thought it invasive or weird. She is always alone, but looks dignified and relaxed. Her shop is always clean, always lit. You don't want someone like her to be the crazy old hag peeping into people's windows.

"Okay. I am getting a promotion", you smile. Grandma is sincerely glad: she raises her eyebrows, keeping the cup at her mouth.

"Wonderful. You can get another cat!"

You chuckle with all your chest.

"My first one might not like it".

She huffs with a laugh. You suck the air in and suck it up.

"So... My boyfriend said hi to you this morning? I hope he wasn't being weird".

Malsoon nods several times.

"Oh, he was. I was passing by the street from the market. And he waved at me from the window, and then hopped out bare-footed", she says it, not complaining, but with a grin.

"He is definitely bonkers, but very pretty. If only I were ninety years younger..."

You laugh out, scratching your neck. She takes your direct stare like a champ. In fact, it's you who begins to feel uneasy.

"Yeah, he... isn't from Seoul".

"Oh? Where from?"

"Mmm, Ilsan".

The old woman finishes her coffee.

"Yes, I heard they're all bad in the head in Ilsan".

She nods her chin and dismisses you with a smile.

You have nothing else to do but leave. Lingering just a second more, you decide to write it off as usual age-related peculiarity. You come home slightly stooping.

Yoongi is snoozing on the couch, a bright copy of "Myths of India" lying on the floor next to his hanging hand. The hurt arm on his chest, elbow up. Your eyes wander through the kitchen first: the counter is cleared of the swabs, medication and sanitizer. Instead, a thrashed pack of painkillers attracts your suspicion, and you kick off your shoes and walk there to count how many he's taken.

Yoongi sleeps light; as soon as you enter, he already starts waking up. He yawns wide, a sight of pure unemployed bliss. Then looks at you with misty eyes. His fingers start kneading the air, searching for the book.

"I had a dream about Vishnu chasing me in a car", he complains. You click your tongue.

"PTSD. Saw your friends. And grandma".

"Yeah?" he sits up and stretches so sweetly. Some people have the ability to eat in a way that makes you want to eat something, too. Yoongi usually stretches so nice that it makes you want to hop into bed and doze off.

"What'd she say?"

He walks slowly around the living room, monitors everything, finds everything intact and okay, then pivots towards you.

"Either you or she is lying".

He stops.

"Huh?"

"She said she was passing by, not staring through the window. That you waved at her, not the other way around. She also saw you jump out of the window".

His sleepy mouth opens in shock.

"Why would she do that?"

Then he narrows his eyes.

"You believe me, right?"

You are inclined to. In his simple innocence, the lack of understanding what was so wrong this morning, he might not have a reason to make up unnecessary bullshit. You nod. Yoongi takes it as a signal and starts walking again.

"Don't leave any pills like that without a pack. Medication shouldn't be exposed to sunlight", you say.

"There's no sun today", he chimes and then poses himself behind you, and hangs from you, arms around your waist, chin on your shoulder. You remember how you used to carry him around the room sometimes, keeping him in your arms, when you wanted the cuddle. Yoongi would always try to get away, he didn't like to be held and carried at all.

You put the painkillers away and move slowly, held back by his weight. He moves his feet reluctantly, limping slightly, stuck to you like a leaf.

"What are the others' names?"

"Which ones did you see?" he booms into your ear. "You smell like smoke".

"Coworkers smoked while we waited for the bus. I saw the lush one, pretty long-haired cat with those huge eyes..."

He sighs, almost annoyed.

"Jin".

"And I saw Jimin and Tae as well. Jimin really likes being pet".

Yoongi says nothing.

"And there was also the alpha, I guess, big brown guy, also pretty", you puff, "all cats are pretty..."

"Joon. He is the leader. Now I realize it's kinda funny. Six dudes commanded around by the biggest one".

You smirk and waddle towards the fridge. Asking him to get off you is useless. He will get tired of it in a minute anyway.

"There's two more. Kookie is very shy and almost never shows up during the day. He is scared of people".

"Did they hurt him?"

"No, he is just young. And Hoba, he is very skinny".

"What colours are they?"

"Kookie is black like me. Hoba is light brown, almost ginger".

He lets go when he starts smelling food. Yoongi is intricately interested in cooking but you're afraid to let him do it yet. Grabbed the knife at the sharp end once. He only watches for now, and while you're away, eats what's prepared. You are so fucking happy he wasn't a dog because a human-sized dog with functioning thumbs would eat everything edible in a day.

"How did you all meet?"

"Some of us were born together. I've known Joon forever. Maybe we are brothers, we don't know".

"What happened to your mother?"

He shrugs. Assumes his usual position at the kitchen counter and waits.

"I barely remember her. Maybe she left, or died. We moved into this neighbourhood when I was little".

You put food in two plates and watch that he uses the fork right. He knows perfectly well how everything works, but sometimes just flings it for no reason. Like he is protesting the human existence. Like he refuses to let go of his catness. That's quite understandable. Every day you want to have that conversation with him. When the final understanding hits. When he realizes the whole ontology of him. That there's probably no going back. You want him to know that he won't be alone. But you don't even know how to begin. Instead, you remove the tips of his hair from his mouth, and he jerks his head. Once he finishes his dinner, he leaves the plate on the table and you hiss at him. Every time you imitate cat sounds, Yoongi glares at you like you've said something racist. But he does put the plate into the sink, again, because he knows the rules. It's just that he deems himself above it all. He bends his knees and gets behind you again, shoving his face above your plate and trying to nick the food away from your fork.

After dinner, at almost the end of the day, you want nothing more than to get into bed with your cat and watch a movie and listen to his low humming. But you force yourself up from the couch where he lounges, a book in front of his eyes, head on your lap.

"I am leaving in an hour".

His whole body lifts up.

"Where to?"

"I've been skipping gym ever since you turned. I haven't been there for almost three weeks. I need to go", you confess. Yoongi eyes you up and down.

"You've been to work just today".

"Yeah, there are places except work".

He shakes his head.

"No".

You wave him away.

"I gotta go. I pay each month. What's the point of it if I skip".

"Take me with you then".

"I can't", you walk into bedroom in search of your workout clothes. Last time you've been to gym, the whole life was different. Now, you've been creating excuses for friends for almost a month. I'm not feeling well. I am tired after work. I need to help grandma. Yoongi is vomiting. Anything, to stay with him, because he was adapting. Readapting. Now, that he seems fine, maybe it's time to try and put your own life back on track. Even though there's no track left, probably.

"Why-y?" he screams from the living room.

"It's one subscription per person. You can't just walk into gym if you're not a member".

He groans. You suddenly go back to his dream he'd told you about.

"How are you feeling?"

"Betrayed, neglected, unloved", he replies. You pack the sports bag and ravage through the wardrobe in search of your running shoes.

"Don't you think you should spend more time with me now? I am", he shakes the book in the air when you emerge again, "not just a body, I am a spirit that's been travelling through the worlds only to end up at your place".

You walk over to the couch. He knows what you'll do. His arm elbows you in the stomach as you reach for the book.

"You read too much", you try to yank it away from him. Unfortunately, Yoongi's cat brain cannot be separated from his human brain. He takes it as an invitation to a playfight. And again, against the grrr who used to be just a meow meow, it ends in inevitable failure for you.

Yoongi hooks your legs with his foot and flips you onto the couch, kneeling above you, and attacks with his teeth on the neck like he is really about to tear your to pieces.

He adjusts his biting strength really well: it hurts just enough to make you wiggle, but not enough to actually get scared. His frantic breath fans on your cheek as he drinks up your yell, the animal grunt growing at the base of his neck. Having lost the claws, he actually became safer. Because the cat attacked the same way, only didn't realize what dangerous weapons it had at the tips of the fingers. Toes. Whatever.

"Stay with me", Yoongi flops on top of you, knocking all air out, and your mouth swings open.

"Heavy", you mouth with all the remaining breath you have, "heavy".

He waits a second more and then lifts himself up on one arm.

"It's just for two hours".

His face smoothens up. Eyes widen and become lighter.

"Oh. Two?"

He hops off and stands up, stretching, his fingers sticking apart.

"I thought you'd be gone all night again".

"What kinda gym you thought it was?"

"Bitch, I read books on philosophy. Not your boring human establishments system. I'll go take a nap".

Completely satisfied, he goes into the bedroom and falls on the bed. You jump up quickly, trying to get away before he changes his mind.

🐾⋆ 🐾⋆ 🐾⋆

"Do you want to meet my friends?"

"The one who plays volleyball, and the one who called me a cutie?"

"Chaewon and Soyoon, yes".

Yoongi looks at you folding his shirt and then takes another one, tries, and finds it too boring, so he makes a triangle out of it. Then picks it up and shoves in the drawer shapeless. You wince at this debauchery.

"She had it bad for me".

"Soyoon?"

"Yeah".

"Everybody did. Everybody was head over heels with you".

He sighs almost busily. Smooth lock over his eye. You take pleasure in brushing his hair. It's still nowhere close to the ecstasy that Yoongi experiences as soon as the hairbrush touches him.

He gives you a curious side-eye.

"Really?"

"People adore cats. And you're a very pretty cat".

"I was".

"I was trying to soften it".

The laundry folding has become obsolete with him. He takes every piece of clothing you fold, unfolds it and shoves it wherever into the wardrobe. He loses interest in it quickly, too. He sits on the bed, his butt on the clothes pile like he is trying to hijack your attention. He finds with displeasure, even when the damn phone is away, you are always taken by something.

"People adore cats?" he grimaces like you've almost offended him. "That's the first time I hear about this".

"You kidding? Why do you think there's so many cat videos on the internet? And cat musicals? Meow meow meow meow songs?"

His eyes dart around the room as his brain computes. His hands lay on his lap. You try to pull your top from under him, but he doesn't budge.

"Makes no sense. If people love cats that much..." he stares through space. He is building the architecture of his own philosophy. It's fascinating. He theorizes, imagines things. He builds logic chains. If... then... books that he reads are doing something dangerous to him.

"First of all, no thanks", he rubs his eye, "second, why are there so many stray cats then?"

You sigh.

"Cause... a human's adoration doesn't always translate into actual care".

The tip of his nose goes up, and his brows go down.

"Human... you cared about me".

"Stop saying it in the past tense. I care about you. Most people do love cats for real. It's just, it's expensive first of all. Also, not everybody is ready to commit. Then also, some people don't have time".

He still keeps that disgusted expression on his face like he doesn't buy it. You wonder if what you said warps his perception of you. You never slapped him, even when he misbehaved. Never not paid attention. But then again, you are lonely. You like animals more than you like people. And you found Yoongi to be everything you needed to complete your life. You're sure you can call yourself a responsible owner.

"What do we tell them? Chaewon and the..."

"Soyoon. That's a good question. Yoongi, move".

He makes it look like he is about to comply, and instead spreads his hands and lies down, covering all washed clothes, eyes never leaving your face. As if saying, fuck you and your laundry. Our laundry. You click the tongue agains the roof of your mouth in disbelief.

"Why are you being a cunt?"

"I'm not. Should we tell them I am Yoongi?"

"I think we keep the name. It's pointless for you to pretend you have a different name every time you see them. It should be... mostly truth, with a little bit of lies".

"Why, you think your friends will think you're crazy?" he asks in the same tone with which he berates you for adjusting to the society. Being liked? Being accepted? Bullshit that nobody needs. You kneel on the bed and yank a shirt from under the small of his back where it doesn't press down too tightly.

"Should I remind you what happens to those who claim cats turn to people?"

His sharp eyes move to the ceiling. He is especially pale today, making them look black. Yoongi desperately needs some sun. For some reason you're sure if you tell him that, he will revolt.

"You know, you should start helping me", you say, a little tired. Eyes move back to you. "Around the house and in general. I can't do it all alone".

Yoongi rolls his eyes, then, his body, letting you gather the laundry.

He gets on his stomach and moves his feet in the air. Takes a pillow from under the blanket and nuzzles his face into it, quiet, like he is thinking.

"So, people love cats", he says, his voice muffled, "and kick them out into the street and stone them to death".

You look at the back of his soft head, rocking to the sides as if he is trying to leave and impression of his face on the pillow.

"And people love each other. And put each other into psycho houses when they hear something they don't like".

You don't want to be cruel when you say,

"They also sometimes kill living things for no reason at all".

Yoongi crooks his neck and looks at you.

"I know that".

His eyes are dark. You don't want to turn him into a misanthrope. One of you is already enough. Kim Minho somehow lingers with you even though technically it's been closed and avenged.

"What makes you different? Or are you waiting for a moment to kill me?"

It hurts like he clawed your face in. You don't even know what to say at first.

"There are so many people, bad and good ones exist. You know that".

You sit down on the bed, deeply distraught. Yoongi kicks his knees in the air, gathering himself up. He swings his arms and grabs the remaining clothes, all in one hug.

"Why would I kill you", you mutter. Yoongi tries to form a ball. Then opens the wardrobe door and shoves it all inside, making the room look clean in an instant.

"I love you so much".

You almost say it to yourself first. He sits down next to you, his touch quota drained and ready to be filled. He makes sure to press his hip against yours.

"Humans are really gross, inside and outside".

"You're one of them now".

"Nah, I can be whatever I want to be", he says, more energetically.

"Which book told you that?"

He reads through your home library scarily rapidly. He usually spends around two days on a medium sized book. Just reads all day, sometimes falls asleep, then wakes up and continues reading.

"The billboard next to the market".

"Aah".

"I don't like it when you sulk like this", Yoongi pinches your cheek and pulls it. "Makes me think we're screwed".

The thing is, you're drained.

"We're not. We just need to create a realistic legend and come clean about the cat, so that we won't have to lie too much in the future".

You finally snap, your eyes focusing again. You could use a holiday.

"Are you absolutely sure your friends won't understand?"

It makes you think. The two girls you know from college are nowhere near to the childhood friends who would know you through and through. You would trust them to get you home after a night out, when you're drunk and lost a shoe. But you don't have faith in their... readiness to accept the world the way it is? Or you don't want to share Yoongi with them?

"It takes a very specific type of person to believe that".

"You did".

"I still wake up in the middle of the night", you say. His hand drops from your face as he watches you. "Search for my little black cat. My brain is still trying to cope but hasn't accepted it completely. Thing like that breaks the structure of the Universe. You know? If this is possible, then what else?"

"Reincarnation?" he asks, without missing a beat. You stop in your tracks, a little puzzled.

"Uh, I don't know".

You don't want to soak in it. You'd messaged the girls as soon as he displayed interest. You have plans for the night. Tomorrow's Sunday, which means freedom. You don't want to wallow in this sticky substance of painful truths. You don't want the cat who was never meant to be faced with all this crap in the first place, - don't want him to have to go through all the same anthropological disappointments. And you are losing this. It's slipping through your fingers; you see by his face he has already been loaded with it. There's already some dark thoughts brewing inside his skull.

As he tilts his head, he loses his human features, staring right into you. And you realize you two are pondering about very different things at the moment.

You don't have to dress Yoongi - he dresses up himself. And he is. Fucking. Cute.

He likes his wide jeans which make him waddle like he's a bandit cat, the baddest of them all. On his belt, he hangs the little monkey that bobs every time he takes a step. He has a cool almost blank sweatshirt with only a tiny logo on the right side of the chest, that looks suspiciously similar to his own version of a drawing of a cat. He points to his chest:

"I was this", then, to his hip, at the monkey, "and now I am this".

"Damn, it's a good point", you push the monkey with your finger and make it jump, "Sometimes I forget I am an ape".

He hangs the faux metal pearls around his neck, and you groom his hair back a little. You've begged him to gather them into a half-bun, he would look like he eats girls for dinner. He refused. So, you settled with squashing his hair with styling gel. At some point, he has started to look like you pulled him by miracle, and not the other way around. His sneakers have beige stripes and look nineties. He tilts his shoulder, bending one knee, like you tell him to.

"If you ever want to help me out and earn some money, we'll get you into a modelling agency", you say, almost with a grudge. Yoongi bares his upper teeth and it can't spoil the vision.

At first, he holds your hand firmly while you travel through the city; sitting with one knee up on the bus, poking his lip: a habit he picked up from you. Some girls stare at him once, twice, then bring their heads together and whisper. Yoongi clocks them and doesn't know to look away; he burns them until all three of them go red in faces and scoot back into the other side of the bus.

"So... when you were calling me pretty..." he gazes at you questioningly.

"You know a man's best quality?" you grumble and can't hold back. You still move the strands of his hair here and there, behind the ear, and on it.

"Humility".

He cocks an eyebrow.

"I thought it was strength".

"No".

He likes the city center, and hates it at the same time. He sniffs furiously around even though he knows he can't smell too many things clearly. All the sounds of the evening, warm Seoul: the honking, the loud screams, laughter, clicking of the heels, booming of the trains, squeal of electricity and hiss of car tires - makes him turn his head. He doesn't feel scared, but isn't peaceful, either. The problem seems to be, every thing attracts his attention, and it exhausts him. He rakes his hair in the first purely human motion you've seen him do.

"Loud?"

"Mmm?"

He is distracted, fingers barely closed around your palm, all the way to the bar when you're meeting Chaewon and Soyoon. And you think that maybe he will choose something else, and someone else once he learns how big the world is. This might be the first time in his metaphysically short-long life when he has perceived the center of Seoul. So many incredibly pretty girls around, with their hair long and gleaming like his long gone fur; you see his eyes following them, round mouth opened slightly, cat brain demanding that he chases, and touches.

By the time you make it to the bar, your hand clutches his palm almost aggressively, but in reality it's more of despair. You sit at the table where the girls greet you, and you look at them as if for the first time. Whitened out teeth and glimmering necklaces, small faces and surprised, charming smiles. You think for some reason that you would lose to them. Yoongi is completely overwhelmed with the vertical world: he drinks their facial expressions, lets them shake his hand and closely observes their palms wrapped around his wrist, and how they bow slightly to him, and the way their postures say they are just a tiny bit nervous. Out of animal volition, he rounds his eyes when they do, and adjusts his voice intonation to theirs. The cat is completely emotionally horny for new people. He will know new people. It was your idea. And he will see there are more fascinating people than you.

So, when it's time to put the legend into flesh, you are more than ready to act out your part.

"So... have you met the cat?" Soyoon asks, her eyes darting between you and Yoongi, "how crazy is that, you and him have the same name?"

"He, uh, yeah, he met him", you utter, moving your fork around the plate. No hunger at all, none. You know Yoongi is seething inside because you have coached him five times not to steal bites from the fork if it's not in his hand.

"Yoongi the cat has been run over with a car", Yoongi delivers bluntly and quietly.

They both go mute. Chaewon is especially numb for a second. They both stop blinking.

"That's how we met", he moves his shoulder against yours, "I tried to save him, but..."

You press your lips together and look at your plate. Soyoon gasps.

"y/n, is that why you've been... avoiding us? For a month? Oh my god, why didn't you tell us?"

You begin crying even before it's your cue. Tears just cascade by themselves and run down your chin and drip into the club sandwich.

"I couldn't... come to terms with it", you wipe your nose with the side of your palm. Chaewon's trembling hand reaches for you across the table with a napkin, and you think, shit, your brain has been completely cooked. How could you sit here and imagine your only two friends, good friends, good girls, trying to steal him? They have never given you any reason to believe they are capable of this.

You still cry though. Because, in part, Yoongi the cat has died. Yoongi the human nods slowly, his hand tap-tap-tapping you on the back. He comes across as a little cold to them: you see Chaewon glare at him shortly.

"How, uh, have you tried to... help him?"

Soyoon's eyes glisten with tears. She is looking at you in what people call total empathy. She is feeling the pain.

"I'm a vet", he says, "unfortunately I have to see things like that all the time. And... often there's nothing I can do".

He is so good at lying it's scary. His voice sounds smooth and steady, he doesn't sound like he's reciting it. What he isn't wonderful at, is imitating human compassion. His large hand beats on your back mechanically, he doesn't control the force so it looks like he thinks you're choking. You move your shoulder to signal him to stop. His hand curls into an uneven fist and falls to his lap.

"I'm so sorry, y/n..." Chaewon mutters.

"We should've met at home", Soyoon adds, "it's so uncomfortable here. y/n, do you want me to take you to the bathroom?"

Yoongi finally breaks.

"You go together, too?"

Soyoon dabs her nose with another napkin and looks at him.

"Usually, yes".

Yoongi turns to you with his whole body and a silent accusation in his eyes. You are fucking exhausted. You constantly need to perform at least two or three operations when he is in public. You bring your hand down and pinch his thigh sharply.

"Ow!"

You burst harder into tears, refusing to do anything anymore.

Chaewon ends up dragging you to the bathroom by your elbow, and Soyoon follows you two, leaving Yoongi completely alone at the table. You see him turned in the chair, watching you three go, curiosity and indignation on his face.

You're scared he will be gone once you return, but it's just so tiring.

You collapse on the draped little bench in the women's room, and Chaewon shoves another napkin into your hands.

"Has he at least helped you cope?" she asks softly. You furiously nod.

"He's just super blunt", you say, "he's from Ilsan".

Soyoon stands at the mirror, her upper lip trembling. Her black mascara gathering under her eyes. You're sure your makeup is screwed completely.

"Poor little... little furry... innocent..." she gulps, and it makes you cry fucking harder. All the cosmic horror. The suspicion. The usual horror. The frustration. The weight of responsibility. Even the excitement. Leaking out of you.

"Little baby..."

She turns and holds herself up on the sink. Chaewon squats comfortably in her high heels, her pretty round knees stuck together.

"It is definitely the wrong time to bring it up", she says. She isn't crying, but Chaewon doesn't cry at all. You believe the sadness in her eyes.

"But he is very fucking handsome".

You nod in agreement.

"Guess all doctors are a little weird", her stare crawls up to Soyoon for support. "Even animal doctors".

The girls prove to be really perceptive and really protective of you. They pick up on Yoongi's uncanny from just that? You might be screwed after all.

You consider calling it off and telling them the truth. And still can't. Not yet, at least. Let them mourn the cat first. A little lies and a lot of truth. There's no cat anymore. Not really.

You wash your face in the sink and it feels like you wash off all beauty. What was this cool top for, with cleavage, together with flare pants and new sneakers. It feels grey. Soyoon always has her make up kit with her and she gives it to you, so together you touch up your faces. It doesn't satisfy you. Chaewon places her hand on your back with a completely different kind of message from Yoongi.

"Did you get rid of his toys?" she whispers carefully. You stare at the three of you in the mirror. "If you keep them lying around, you know, they will hurt you a lot".

You nod. Lots of truth.

"I put them away into the cloakroom".

"Do you want us to come round and take them away? We can donate them to a shelter".

Soyoon's face lights up at her friend's words.

"You should get another pet. Immediately".

Your eyes grow at that.

"Don't take it the wrong way. Another little life will help you. Yeah, Yoongi, the cat, is gone, it's horrible. And right now you need to hold something alive against your chest for a while".

It's a really good piece of advice. In fact, you agree with her. In fact, you already do it, but there's no way to tell her, and so you smirk involuntarily, bringing your head down.

"Yoongi actually heals it well. I know he doesn't look it", you say, "but he's strangely good at it".

"Whatever helps", Soyoon quits it politely. You finally dry your eyes. You take their hands and go back into the bar room, hoping to see his black sweatshirt covering the table, and you sigh huge relief when you do.

Yoongi is busy privatizing your food. The fork is in his hand. Chaewon's eyebrows go up, and Yoongi looks at you, chewing.

"Cried everything out?" he sighs deeper than he wants to let on. He studies your face carefully, before looking away.

"Let's drink", you say.

That's one thing everybody can happily agree on. The girls exchange glances, in hopes the alcohol will help them crack this case. You forget Yoongi had never drunk in his entire life.

He watches you closely and brings his glass to the center above the table, and is unimpressed when a little bit of soju splashes onto his palm upon impact. Yoongi licks it off his palm, the simple motion making his jaws sharp, and Soyoon experiences something of a sexual awakening. You don't give a shit anymore. You're two glasses down and need to keep an eye on him. Pretending to kiss him on the cheek, you bring your mouth to his ear and see his neck tense hard, because Yoongi has been coached not to purr in public.

"Don't drink too fast".

The first ever gulp of alcohol made him feel all kinds of things. He wanted to gag, but four seconds down, his expression changed to deeply impressed. You imagine all street cats are easily getting drunk on evening gas emissions or fish scent from the market. It suits him. His eyes almost bulged out onto his forehead, which even made Chaewon chuckle.

"You should be in their ad".

"I never tried it before".

Soyoon chokes on her drink.

"What'd you mean? You never drank before?"

"Not soju", you help, "he's from Ilsan".

It's an incredibly stupid thing to say, so you just down the next one and leave her hanging. Yoongi gets tipsy after the first glass; you tried to water it down with lemonade and not make it weird for the girls, so you only filled it half-way under their intense stare. After the third, you grab his hand under the table, and when he turns to you, he looks drunk. Properly, dangerously drunk. His eyes stop being sharp; he looks like a housecat. The tips of his pink lips pulled down in a capricious expression, chin dimpled, heavy lids half-way closed. People of art would characterize it as a well-fed tiger stare.

"To y/n's promotion", Chaewon offers, and raises her glass.

"Mm", he goes, and you hope that if there's one thing left in his head, it's the last, the most important thing you told him before you left the house: remember, you're not a cat. You're a human.

"Money. We love... we love money", he slurrs. Soyoon shrugs like she can't argue with it.

"Does a vet earn a lot?" she asks once she downs the glass. Yoongi drinks in small gulps under your watchful eye, then you push your plate towards him, and he doesn't refuse.

"Enough", he says, "to be cool".

They both chuckle.

"My sister's dog has got sick", Soyoon continues, "it keep coughing this yellow goo..."

"Nice. Hope it dies", he bites into a small piece of the sandwich and then realizes the table fell silent. Your hand touches your nose, then rubs your eyebrow, you kind of gave up. Yoongi blinks three times exactly, then pushes the sandwich behind his cheek.

"Dogs are literally worst. No?"

He looks quite helpless.

"No", you say tiredly, "they are man's best friend".

"Then what the fuck am I?" he raises his voice, and people at the other table look.

"Man".

He pauses, then looks at the girls.

"O-oh. Right. I love dogs".

Chaewon's face is distorted into a grimace of readiness.

"Fuck you, man. What is wrong with you?"

"I am so m-drunk", he says, surprised. He can't stop chewing the sandwich.

"That's enough for you then", you take his glass and drink it to the bottom, throwing your head back. Chaewon and Soyoon look at you with wondering expression.

"Look. He is... kinda psychopathic".

"Uh-what?!"

Yoongi swallows the sandwich and bites again.

"Not in the killing people and dogs way", you muster. You slurr a little too, but thankfully you have experience in this. You are fully in control of what you're saying at least.

"In the confusing people's cues way. His frontal lobe", your finger taps on his forehead, and Yoongi jerks his head.

"Is not developed. He often doesn't care about what he says".

"I also have Tourette".

"No, that was a lie for the shop assistant".

He leans back on the chair.

"I can't cope with your improvisations". And rubs his by now numb face with both hands.

"I'm not sure what's happening", Soyoon says. The air becomes uncomfortable. You suddenly hear the song that is playing in the bar in this ringing silence. Yoongi hiccups the way he sneezes: out of place-cutely and quietly.

"They are both fucking drunk", Chaewon says darkly and sucks the air through her teeth. The refusal to accept the absurd saves you both. You're glad you didn't tell them anything. They tell themselves you're weird because you're grieving, and Yoongi is weird because he is drunk. Everybody has quirks. That's the same thing you told yourself about grandma Malsoon.

In ten minutes the conversation is back to normal. You control Yoongi under the table, squeezing and letting go of his hand. Drunk, he becomes quiet and contemplative. He only opens his mouth again to ask,

"How can you literally kiss someone with strawberry skies? I swear I read a lot of books by now", his finger pricks his arched eyebrow, "and I still struggle with abstract things".

You listen to what he is complaining about: the song. Some people dance in between tables already: it's late.

"It's not abstract", smart and less drunk Chaewon says, "it's just... hyperbolization".

"Metaphor", you help. Soyoon coos, looking at him:

"You have blueberry eyes".

"y/n says I have sharp night eyes".

Soyoon whistles quietly.

"She's fucking right".

The girl rests her head on her fist with a sigh, staring at him.

"It was a compliment, just say thank you", you advise. The glass rolls in your palm. You think maybe it's your last, too. You have a huge cat to bring home tonight. And he manages to be swaying even sitting down.

Instead of saying thank you, Yoongi turns his head and looks at you directly, searching for something. Again, the supernova sparks. Something is happening. You remember those epiphanies a brain goes through when very drunk and very young. Some deep gospels birth themselves as the braincells die. He ignores the sighing Soyoon and Chaewon that tries to keep the conversation going. Just stares at you, eyes blinking, lips parted. Simplicity steps through his facade. His eyes crawl all over your face, each feature at a time. Thankfully, he doesn't say anything, just ruminates, shocked by his own thoughts. You'd pay him to know what he is thinking about.

"Well", Chaewon confesses, "this has been the stangest evening in a while".

She outstretches her hand to Yoongi, and he bows to try and sniff it, and you almost punch him in the shoulder. She tragically thinks he was about to kiss it, and jerks it back.

"So... yeah".

She loads barely alive Soyoon into the taxi. Then turns to you.

"You'll be okay?"

Yoongi is instantly taken by the noise of the street. People walk in pairs and threes, like sea waves, threatening to yank him away. Something falls from the sky; either rain, or piss, or beer. The hair around his ears stands up as he watches the world function chaotically. The neon lights of the narrow streets flickering in his dark eyes.

"y/n?"

You nod at her.

"Yeah. We'll walk a little, he needs air. Me, too".

Chaewon is not convinced but she reckons you're an adult. She gives you a hug, a strong one, unusually strong, and you hug her back. For dealing with Yoongi tonight and keeping it civil even though he really tried to wreck everything.

"Let's meet again", you suggest, "when he's settled in Seoul".

"You know, I don't think it's Ilsan, y/n".

You chuckle into her shoulder. Her eyes watch Yoongi cautiously.

"But I get you".

Yoongi looks back.

"Stop it, let's go".

His hand tugs you on the back of your top, then slides, and he notices he can hook his finger into the belt loop of your pants.

"I get you", she repeats. Once the weight of Soyoon is off her, you notice Chaewon is also drunk. Also perplexed and fascinated with the boy you have.

"He's been a dick all evening", she mutters, her hand still around your shoulders. Yoongi pulls you in his direction.

"And the only thing I keep thinking about is that his hair is slightly wavy".

You snort into her and hug her again.

"Stop!" he snaps clearly. Yoongi is running on empty, confused why his usual domestic final tone doesn't work on you. Chaewon lets go of you and gets inside the car.

"Text me when you get home safely", she says. And closes the door. Yoongi replies,

"Mind your own fucking business", but thankfully she can't hear him. You turn to him. Hot mess. He closes and opens his eyes, showing the grudge. The chain on his neck glistens with red, then green, of the traffic light nearby.

"You did relatively well for someone who's been human for a month".

"You did badly", he responds, right into your face, a breath of soju and raspberry lemonade. "You didn't even notice what happened".

"What happened?"

"It keeps coming in waves", he says, refusing to lower his voice, and it doesn't matter. It's Hongdae: let him scream that he's an alien from Pluto, nobody gives a shit.

"My brain readjusts itself in portions, like a computer program. I got more human tonight, and you didn't notice".

"Is that why you were staring at me?"

Your eyes are way too dry and heavy to care. You just know you need to keep him close.

"No", he spits out. His face is too close and it's fine.

"Then why?"

"You're not hearing what I say, right?"

"Yoongi", you hollow out. The word becoming somewhat sacred and maddening to you. "You sit on my bed, consume my space and say words like 'reincarnation' with the tongue that doesn't have hooks anymore. I am. Uprooted. If it seems like I don't care, it's because I'm burnt out".

He keeps quiet, watches your mouth move and lowers his eyes further.

You are like two towers of Pisa, so funny to the random people around, heads meeting at the tilt.

"I am a nobody", he mutters. Selfish little catboy. He knows nothing else.

"I was a nobody and I still am a nobody".

"You are Min Yoongi", you respond. His head against your shoulder moves sideways.

"It's just words. Like Ren Lotus. Just sounds. I have no human ID. No hobbies. No interests. No place".

It pierces you like an arrow. His drunk weight tilts dangerously, and you tap him up, begging not to fall. Yoongi balances himself on his two feet, stands up again.

"You're not a nobody. You're my favourite", you say firmly. Your finger points to his face, and his eyes don't snap at it, they stay focused on you.

"Does it mean anything at all?"

"You're never drinking again, fucking bricks", you breathe out. "Nothing means anything, there's just you and me", you wrap your hands around his neck. And the hands of the Camus-possessed feline-turned-bipedal disaster get straight to your butt.

Nothing quite breaks the tension like that.

"Yoongi!"

His name is like rainbow in between your teeth, reflecting all kinds of emotions.

He is about to fall asleep. You feel by the weight of the head on your shoulder again, and by now his body starts slowly drooping onto you. His human body begins to shut down, part by part: head, shoulders, knees, brain. Only palms knead your ass out of an unkillable pre-installed cat instinct. When you feel love - bake.

"You used to let me sleep on your butt", he slurrs so badly that you have to make out his words, "and now we sleep dressed as if I don't know what you look like".

Then he falls. You fall with him: right on the dirty asphalt of Wausan-ro. His whole body crashes on you, and you hit your tailbone on the hard ground, one foot bent painfully under him.

He is out.

Several people approach and offer help; you shove your phone into someone's hand, asking them to call a taxi to your address. You crawl from under him, keeping his head up and on your lap.

"Is he okay?" someone asks with laughter.

"He is drifting into nihilistic existentionalism, what do you think?" you roar, angry. The face turns from amused to scared, "I don't want him to be jaded and depressed like all of you stupid losers!"

Someone coughs.

"I want him to be happy and dumb again!"

You cry again, in the taxi, too. The driver helps you heave Yoongi into the car and warns that if he vomits you both get kicked out immediately.

Yoongi sleeps his bothersome cat dreams all the way home, and the kind man stops the car right at the entrance of the building and then helps carry him home. You pay him double.

You two place him on the couch. You take off Yoongi's chain and the monkey from his belt, thinking that the monkey will want to sleep in the jacket's pocket, fuck knows why. Why don't we accommodate all the fucking animals in this house. You turn Yoongi's head to the side, thinking he might choke in his sleep. His hurt arm twitches in his sleep, which is a good sign, assumedly? He used to run from his dreams, thrashing all limbs around, and now only moves the elbow. You shove your hand under his sweatshirt to check his temperature, and your palm feels his warm, soft stomach. He feels okay, but you can't make yourself leave, his words boring holes in your head.

Finally, you dash into the bathroom. This is the strongest sleep he's had; doesn't wake up when you drop the plastic toner bottle on the floor, and then open and close the door. You check him again before retreating into the bedroom and collapsing on the bed.

You cry again, squeezing the last of it out, into your pillow, and then move onto the second one, that Yoongi now normally occupies. Supposed to occupy: his head is more often on the mattress, a bit lower. You meant to close the curtains, you recall after the body has already killed the switch. The only light in the street is the faint golden glint of the Wang Light Shop. You wish you could share it with someone, even if just one person. My little lovely cat turned into a big lovely human, and I am scared he is going to suffer greatly. Who did this to him? Yoongi begins snoring from the living room.

🐾⋆ 🐾⋆ 🐾⋆

You're jerked awake in the morning, almost by the hair.

He is shaking your shoulder, knees making the mattress cave in and wobble.

"My head hurts", he says, even before you open both eyes. You wince. Your hand reaches for him out of habit and you catch air when Yoongi pivots.

"Do I take the same painkiller?"

"Yes", you mumble.

"How many pills?"

"Take one at first".

"What if it doesn't help?"

Your mouth is glued half-shut by the poisonous saliva of yet another hangover. You try to move your head away, but the light is everywhere.

"Close the curtains", you plead in whisper.

"Are you sick?"

Yoongi means to get his answer through touch, the language most familiar to him, and his hand wraps around your throat for a moment.

"Take one pillow", you blurt.

"What?"

"I mean pill. Curtains. Please".

He jumps off the bed with too much energy for someone who's gotten drunk for the first time yesterday, and now has headache. First, Yoongi closes the curtains and brings cool, sacred dusk into the room. Then walks into the kitchen, and you hear the shuffle of medication packs. Hiss of water, he drinks tap water again!! You're pressed down under the blanket and dizziness, you can't move your tongue. It can't only be alcohol; last night you weren't black-out drunk. It must be the deeper exhaustion, the chasm.

Yoongi returns, his feet sliding on the floor quietly, as usual, and crawls into bed.

He lies behind you at first, then tries to crawl over, sees there's no space, and tucks himself against your back.

"Do you remember last night?" he asks suddenly.

"Mmm, no", you lie. One-syllable words. Why do you feel so much worse than him?!

"Good. I was saying all kinds of embarrassing things. I thought it would never end".

"You fell. Asleep in the street", you say.

"I know".

You sprawl yourself on the back with force, and the picture of the room returns. You rub your face.

"You are too well-spoken for your condition. You're supposed to feel like shit", you complain. You don't see him; can't move eyeballs. You feel his warmth at your side. His hand is back at your ribs, fingers tugging at the fabric of your shirt timidly.

"I guess I am superhuman".

You grab a handful of his hair like a needy child, to ground yourself. You can't express how relieved you feel to hear his usual wavy, deep voice. Yoongi hums.

"Scratch".

"Fuck off..."

He sniffs through his nose, and the stream of air hits your side.

"I am joking".

He does something he's been doing for a while, in his desire to learn to live like you: scratches you back. His fingers run across your stomach, curled, on top of the shirt. You make a mental note to tell him humans prefer back rubs.

You wake up for the second time the natural way, Yoongi taking almost all bed. His legs and arms are spread in the shape of a star, and his pink mouth, open just enough so that you can hear the soft breath coming in and out. Hungover cat. You've never seen anything like that before.

He painfully bites his lip, all forehead creased, as he is trying to crack this puzzle.

"I feel sick".

The pale palm on the side of his head, fingers sorting through the greased up, gelled hair from yesterday. The idea of chasing him into the bathroom and washing his hair, as usual, makes you feel pleased. You like everything to do with his hair, because is the only part of him that's left, that de-stresses you instantly.

You get through the fridge with one eye open. Your head booms. Thankfully, there's still some spicy tom yam left, so you warm it up in the microwave (Yoongi feels so bad that he doesn't even stand with his nose on the other side, eyes observing the plate spinning slowly) and pour into two portions.

"Spicy food", you teach, "helps with hangover".

Yoongi looks at you weird. When you talk, he looks at your mouth moving. And when you do something, he doesn't look at your hands anymore, but instead, right into your face. It's unsettling.

After late breakfast, energy is low again. He hangs over the tub, sitting on the floor; once he took off his home shirt, you discovered an already dry set of narrow cuts on the back of his shoulder: abrasion he didn't tell you about, from the fall. You choose not to comment on it, although your nostrils flare, and once your fingers touch the skin, all his back muscles twitch and move. He coughs and changes the sitting hip and grumbles.

You wash his hair in warm water, face pinkish from the heat, and ruffle it up with the towel. Yoongi loves walking around with the towel on his head, like a turban, because it makes his head warm.

The day after getting very drunk and overcoming a mental breakdown is the type of human sweet pain that's one of the reasons the life is worth living. The heaviness in the limbs, slow liquid metal dragging through the veins; Yoongi feels it all, as well, and doesn't even question, just experiences this state quietly. You lie on the couch, head on the lap, then sit side by side, then head on the stomach. Keeping in one position is hard because limbs go numb.

On the second movie Yoongi falls asleep, his voice almost coarse from purring, and the small bones in your palm suddenly cramping with how long you've been grooming his head. You drift out, too, to the sound of Steve Rogers quietly walking around the Avengers Tower with the phone in his hand.

The third time you wake up, it's already dark. The laptop had gone black, which means the movie ended some time ago. Night rain drumming on the hollow windows from the outside. In the darkness of living room, hands slide under you and grab your back, and you are lifted in the air. You realize Yoongi has come to terms with carrying things and is maybe testing his strength. Your throat is a little dry, so it produces a dull, empty sound instead of a sigh, and you hold yourself against his shoulders as he takes you towards bedroom. Quiet steps. The kitty has grown so much that you don't feel your own weight pulling you to the ground, his arms pretty reliable: you should make him carry all the groceries and shopping.

Then it comes: bang! Double hit. You shriek in pain and writhe in his arms, as the doorframe attacks you on all sides. Your ankle bursts in bright ache, and the whole room booms as your temple collides with the wood.

"Sorry!"

For all his hatred to dogs, he himself still has poor spatial awareness, too. Yoongi spins in place, trying to hook your waist, and you cling to him like a monkey, still whining, because you can do nothing else while the sharp ankle bone hurts.

"Oh, sorry, sorry, I'm sorry".

He enters the bedroom and plops you on the bed, and you instantly fold, grabbing your foot. Verbal apologies do nothing for Yoongi, especially because you don't react, rocking back and forth. So he employs the soft headbutt, bumping into your thigh.

"It's okay", you breathe out finally, when the pain receeds. Nerve endings sometimes give a human the time of the day. You lie on your back, fingers rubbing the temple which hurts much less.

Yoongi takes your ankle and sits himself into an almost perfect ball at your feet. The shaded and layered darkness, curtains closed, makes you see him in blue hue; clean, fluffy dark hair on both sides of his face masking the eyes glistening.

"What do I do? Kiss it?"

You chuckle.

"You don't have to".

"You kiss when something hurts".

You nod to yourself. Yoongi's breath warms the skin, and then he licks it.

"No, that's not a kiss", you mumble.

"Huh?"

It gets very quiet. Pain is replaced with the murkier, stickier substance of shameful need. You feel small.

"You put your lips together. You know how I kiss your ear", you mutter, looking up.

Yoongi tries it and almost succeeds a normal, closed-mouthed kiss.

Before you can let go completely, the swings of sweet pleasure carry you to and fro. Yoongi keeps his face to your foot, the hair pleasant against the recently shaved skin.

Goosebumps.

Then, of course, catastrophe. Sorry. (I have to do it, bear with me): cat-astrophe.

The doorbell rings for the first time in months. Nobody really rings it; Soyoon and Chaewon don't have to, you usually come together. Yoongi knows the door code, and the delivery packages are left at the door with a silent notification on your phone. So, the ringbell sounds like a shrill cry throughout the apartment.

Yoongi jumps up, his back tense, eyes pointed through the open bedroom door.

"Wha-at?" he hoots curiously. After the ring, there's a rap on the door. Tap-tap-tap. Pause. Tap-tap-tap. Polite, but persistent. Then, another ring.

You get up, and the cat follows you close behind. You don't even have a peep hole, that's how outdated home visits are nowadays. The surprise, and the feeling of inevitable mountainous onset of bullshit makes you forget all caution. The time is midnight. The bell rings again.

You crack the door open and see, maybe, the most impressive kind of face; you have gotten used to Yoongi's elegant and cunning, doll-like beauty a little bit. This guy is also handsome, but in a different way. His eyes, symmetrical and elongated, stare down at you as he pushes the door open slowly and lets himself in. You try to hold the door with your body but fail: he is taller, bigger, stronger. Yoongi walks to the wall and clicks the light on, and you see this lean, cougar-faced, tanned stranger standing in front of you. His dark-brown hair is short, little upturned nose is carefully crafted, as if with a knife.

"Sorry", he says, and then looks at Yoongi. You notice he wears something that looks stolen and put together: wide working grey pants from the tire repair where Kim Minho works, no doubt. Plaid brown shirt that's buttoned wrong under his throat. And on his feet, a pair of worn old boots which you saw people on the market wear.

"Ren?" he says. He sounds so polite, the voice so controlled, like he is an intellectual. There's steady rumble to it. He cocks his head slightly to the side, then you see: he can't hold focus. He looks at you, then around the kitchen, then at Yoongi again, then at you. His nostrils moving, as he sniffs. But he is so guarded about it. Yoongi behind you has the grimace of disbelief on his face.

"...Joon?"

The big brown cat nods. Yoongi says, 'ongh', like someone punched him in the stomach.

taglist: @jajabro , @mar-lo-pap , @ryryvna , @kiki-zb , @angelfuzzy2 , @n33mesis

#yoongi x reader #yoongi imagine #yoongi x y/n #bts imagine

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