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itsonlydana · 3 months

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"I Didn't Know That I Was Starving Till I Tasted You" | hobbit

➛ pairing: Thranduil x fem!reader 👑

➛ When you get stood up by your date all you want to do is morph with the couch, eat ice cream and watch Pride & Prejudice. It's a shame your roommate/best friend Thranduil doesn't agree with those plans.

➛ warnings/tags: modern!au, roommate!au, friends-to-lovers, chef!thranduil, swf, kissing

➛ words: 9,3k

➛ an: sooo let's ignore that i said i wasn't writing anymore <3 i'm still not taking request but i have a few fics that i'll post over the next few weeks!

🌿 reposts and comments are appreciated, they motivate me a lot and keep me writing <3

The sound of keys turning in the lock sounds through your apartment before the door opens and closes, making you wince.

The piano music playing through the expensive stereo system is loud enough that you could blame your reaction for not reacting to it. After a brief moment, a deep voice echoes from the hallway, marked by an incredulous "Huh?" and followed by an urgent "What?" accompanied by hurried footsteps.

"Hello?! What– what are you still doing here? You should be dressed up and in a cab by now!"

Your roommate and best friend Thranduil rushes into the living room, you can see his tall figure out of your peripheral vision.

Not that it would change where he stands.

You don't bother to turn around and continue to hide between the mountain of pillows and blankets you had accumulated on the couch, watching the movie playing on the big screen in front of you.

"Uhh– Mister Bingley arrived from the North," you comment on the happenings of the Bennets' house, a spoonful of ice cream held to your mouth.

Thranduil steps closer, dropping his coat and a bag on the wing chair next to the couch. "What–"

Instead of answering his question, you let the ice cream melt on your tongue, mumbling a "5000 a year?" with a mouth full of chocolate.

"Talk to me, woman!"

"He's single!" you sigh happily and throw a dramatic hand in the air.

Before you can lower it again, Thranduil snaps and snatches your hand, cold fingers wrapping around your wrist and pulling you towards him. Finally, you look up to him and are confronted with your very baffled-looking best friend.

"If you don't tell me why you aren't on the way to the fabulous third date with Marcus-"

"Jake."

Thranduil rolls his eyes at the interruption: "Fine, why aren't you on the third date with Jake right now and instead sulk on the couch watching Pride & Prejudice again? I thought we promised to take a break from watching it anyway."

You push out your lower lip, pouting. "I'm not sulking," you say in a tone so drawn out it completely defiles your statement. Thranduil doesn't say anything, he just lets his gaze slowly wander over the blankets you are buried under, to the half-eaten ice cream bucket to the TV where the Bennet sisters are currently caught eavesdropping on their parents' conversation. He doesn't need words to express himself, the judgment is silent in words but loud in the raise of his dark eyebrow.

"Fine," you groan, admitting defeat. "He canceled."

Thranduil's gaze softens as he sits down next to you on the edge of the sofa and he slowly drops your hand from his grip. "He canceled," he repeats, eyes falling back to the ice cream.

"He canceled," you confirm with a sigh "Just like I predicted- so I don't know why I even bothered to dress up. I even bought that stupid dress just because he wanted to go out to this new fancy Italian place. He canceled and because I waited 15 minutes for him to not show up, standing outside - in the cold might I add- I think I am allowed to sulk a little!"

In the end, you had talked yourself into quite a rage and fall back into the pillows, your arms crossed in front of your chest. "And no, you said I should take a break from watching that movie but since you are not my mother I am allowed to watch whatever!"

You pierce him with a glare but only for a moment before you deflate.

"Sorry for getting all bitchy there," you shuffle around, hands searching for the remote to stop the movie.

"It's alright," Thranduil says and cocks his head. "Now that you are done, am I allowed to go after him and nail his balls to the ground for standing you up?"

A smile tugs on your lips as you shake your head. "No, you are not. I'm sure he has his reasons." The reason wasn't spelled out in the message but after hopping around in the dating scene for a while now, you know what ´I'm sorry but I don't think we really fit. You are a great person though!´ means.

It was nothing new, though it hurt the same as it did the first time.

"Well, unless there was a sudden death in his family I don't see a reason why he couldn't have canceled before the date," he huffs "-you know like a normal person would do"

You shrug your shoulders. "It's done now. Maybe it just wasn't supposed to happen."

"No, it wasn't. Not with a guy like him," Thranduil shakes his head, the long braid of silver blonde hair getting even more disheveled by the movement. "You deserve a man that doesn't cancel, doesn't let you stand outside in the cold!"

"Yes," you sigh again, staring wistfully at the TV "my Mister Darcy."

"He was literally the reason why Elizabeth ran out into the rain and cold," Thranduil responds deadpanned and you throw a pillow in his direction which he elegantly catches.

"I will not stand for this Darcy-hate! Ugh, you are such a bad friend," you whine, "I got stood up and you are making fun of one of the two people who have never let me down.. one person now that you decided to be a meanie!" You once again pout.

This time it works, a little too well because suddenly Thranduil looks at you with that one look of him, the one that breaks through every defense you could build up. He looks at you like you just told him you were dying, all the compassion he can find in his otherwise cold heart spilling out of his cerulean eyes that wander over your face.

"You know you have every right to feel sad about the date not happening," he says carefully, tilting his head slightly in a way that oozes pity, "You were looking forward to it, you even bought a dress for it. Let me cheer you up, I can cook something for you and we can watch a movie later or we can go out and drink until I have to hold your hair in the bathrooms." He smiles softly, sincere and it makes you want to jump up from the couch and hide in your room.

You two didn't do sincere; you bantered, you made jokes on behalf of the other and you most certainly did not comfort each other after a failed date. Your friendship needed lightheartedness, it thrived on sarcasm and arguments about everything and anything that came to your minds.

But the offer is tempting, especially the cooking part. Thranduil is a chef, working in his own restaurant; 'The Green Leaf' and he did a damn good job at it. Most nights, like this one, he comes home and cooks for you because apparently, Goldfish crackers were not as good for your diet as one part of the name misled you to believe and even though you made fun of Thranduils diet as well, fully vegan and with a distaste for anything that made life worth living like chocolate ice cream, he knew exactly how to whip up a meal that had you salivating.

You stare him down, weighing your options. Option one was to remain on the couch where you would shovel the ice cream down until you would inevitably get sick, watching Pride & Prejudice and mourning the never-happening and probably very boring date you would’ve had.

Option two would entail a doubtlessly very delicious meal as well as the possibility of getting drunk as fuck in a bar.

The choice comes easy.

"Okay," you agree and raise a pointed finger at him as a victorious grin spreads on his lips "But-" you wiggle the finger "you will not do this out of pity because I do not need pity from a man!"

Thranduil's grin only seems to grow, lightening up his eyes "No of course not. No pity here. I promise!" He stands up from the couch in a hurry, grabbing the bag he had left on the chair. When you don't move except to reach for the remote again, he shakes his head. "Leave Mr. Darcy for another day, you have to change!"

"Change?" you ask bewildered, looking around the apartment. "I thought you were going to cook here and not at the restaurant. Why would I need to change now?"

Thranduil scoffs, turning his back to you to walk towards the kitchen, his voice growing louder as it's accompanied by the sound of the fridge opening.

"Because I know you spent the entire day planning your outfit. You said you bought a new dress and I will not cook you an entire meal for you to sit there in your sweatpants!" he calls out and you throw your head against the couch with a groan that has Thranduil leaning out of the kitchen door

"You want the food, you follow the chef's orders," he copies the raised finger in your direction "Don't be a brat, get your butt off the couch and into your room before I have to spank you! I'll call you when you can come out."

The threat is met with you sticking your tongue out and one second thinking you could defy the order but that is until he fakes a quick step back into the room and you peel the blankets away squeaking "I'm moving! I'm moving!" while stumbling through the living room. "Jeez"

Despite knowing he would never hurt you the thought of Thranduil spanking you has you blushing a ridiculous amount and you don't turn around so he doesn't see it.

"But just so you know, I will wear the dress but only so I don't have to squeeze myself into it after dinner when we go out!" you yell over your shoulder instead and you swear you hear him chuckle before you slip into your room and close the door behind you.

The sweatpants land on your bed, followed by the sweater you had put on after getting the text message from Jack. You remain in your underwear, which you hadn't been bothered to change and stare at yourself in the mirror of your wardrobe. You are confronted with the blush the spanking comment had left on your cheeks and down your neck, and you scowl at the image.

He is your best friend and roommate.

Get a grip!

The dress you had bought for the date still hangs on the wardrobe door, a short, and black number that wasn't something you would normally wear but when you had stalked the Instagram Account for the place you would’ve eaten at today, nothing already existent in your closet had seemed fitting.

Staring at it now you question the length as well as the relatively deep front and back. After all, this was a normal dinner with your best friend, right? Yes, you would maybe leave for a club or bar after this and you had worn all kinds of clothes for a night out with Thranduil in your company but this dress had been bought for the sole reasons of looking sexy and with the hopes of getting lucky.

You shake the thoughts away and grab the hanger with the dress on.

This was a normal dinner with your best friend and this was just a dress. He had seen you in other skimpy clothes and literally any other form of dressed as well as undressed on several accidental occasions. There is no need to think this over and fall into an endless spiral of doubts.

With a nod to yourself for this mature thinking, wow, aren't you a well-functioning grown-up? – you slip the garment over your head, pinching and twisting the fabric until it sits to your satisfaction.

The hem barely covers your thighs, just doing enough so it wouldn't flash your bottom at the slightest movement but showing enough leg for you to feel powerful. The same was with the deep neckline. Bending forward was not an option, though it would draw eyes on you, hopefully.

You put the discarded jewelry back on again, a subtle choker necklace and a pair of more flashy earrings with - sadly fake- diamonds dangling and catching the light in them. The makeup is done quickly as well, some touches of a brush on your jawline, some lovely shade of lipstick on your lips, the movement of routine flows through your body with no need to really think about it.

After spraying some of your favorite perfume on your neck and behind your ears you wait.

Sitting on the edge of your bed you wait and you definitely don't think back to Thranduil's statement. No. Never.

Maybe a little bit.

Because when he calls out for you a fifteen-minute heads-up, you feel the blush coming back and the suspicion confirms itself at the last look in the mirror. You raise your head, challenging the woman in the mirror with an arch of the eyebrow before walking out the door and into what could only be described as a fever dream.

The living room is dark, the moss green curtains pulled closed except for a small gap where the afternoon sun filters through into the flat. The dining room table is clear from all the jackets, mail and stuff that accumulates throughout the day and week that are usually thrown on it and instead, there are candles.

Candles!

Candles in silver candleholders, like actual burning candles. Next to the expensive-looking candleholders is a vase filled with lavender, full and flourished purple flowers that fill the room with a soft and dizzying smell.

Suddenly you are very glad you are not in your sweats anymore, there is a heat rising in your body and setting your cheeks aflame.

Fidgeting with your hands you quietly step forward into the room to the kitchen, your eyes flittering from the table to the cleaned-up sofas and then you can see Thranduil rushing from the counter to the stove.

His back is turned to you, offering you a view of broad shoulders and arms flexing beneath the white shirt he had changed into, and even worse, the tight black pants he now wears, showing off his long legs and- you look a little higher, checking him out and blushing like it's a guilty pleasure.

Of course, the pants would show off his perfect arse as well.

You shouldn't stare.

No matter how magnificent the sight is.

And oh, it surely is magnificent.

You snap back into reality, take a lavender-filled breath, and walk into the kitchen.

It's a beautiful kitchen, not one of the reasons you had first checked out the apartment but one that had tipped the arguments for it in the end. And you are glad it did, because when you had taken roommate applications Thranduil simply waltzed into it, nodded and offered you the first year of rent with 25% on top of it if you would remove the pop-into-the-microwave-Lasagna from the freezer and never dared to buy something like that again.

His brisk and bold and sometimes very harsh attitude would've maybe frightened any other person off but you had seen the money, the prospect of a cook as a roommate and a handsome one at that, and had held out the contract with one hand while the other threw out the lasagna.

And look where that had brought you.

The kitchen is now filled with more vegetables than you have ever seen in one place that isn't a market, there is nearly always a pot with something ready for you on the stove and the fondest memories you have with Thranduil are baking Christmas cookies, throwing flour into each others faces so that your hair had been colored white like Thranduils, or you learning how to cut vegetables under his stern gaze because "No, you can not cut a carrot the same way you cut the bell pepper!"

Now here he is again, creating a memory that will never let you go.

You let your eyes wander over the stove, where one pot is cooking rice, the other has some onions caramelizing with garlic from the smell of it and Thranduil has one pan in his hand, throwing some cut tofu into the air while he brushes some oil onto white dough stretched into hand-sized bits.

He is fully in his element, maneuvering what seems like a three-course meal without any help or breaking a sweat. Setting down the pan with the tofu (hadn't that been a fun journey of convincing until you had let him cook that without any protest?) he wipes his hand on the towel thrown over his shoulder and turns to the cutting board on the kitchen island. He has even more flowers on the island, pink gerberas and white orchids stand next to his array of mint, basil and rosemary.

You have no idea what has gotten into him, there have never been this many flowers in your apartment except for the few ones some of your dates had bought you and even then they landed in the trash a couple of days later.

Sometimes Thranduil had even said he had confused them for some swept-in leaves after you asked him where the last bouquet went.

The man was truly an enigma.

"Smells good in here," you say and lean over the stove.

Thranduil clicks his tongue against his teeth. With a soft growl, he presses out a "Move," not sounding really annoyed but disturbed by you being in his way and with a giggle you move away to grant him free access to the pots.

"What is on the menu today, Chef?" you ask as you hop onto the island. No matter how much space Thranduil needs for cooking, he always leaves that one spot on the corner free for you to sit on.

"Tofu Tikka Masala you noisy girl," Thranduil doesn't turn around and for a minute you want him to see you, see the dress you have put on but then your gaze falls onto his back again and you blush.

Thank god, he didn't turn to find you checking him out, again.

"Couldn't you have waited until I told you the food is ready? Now I have you sitting around here, distracting me, even though I don't have a lot of time to begin with."

You know he is lying. He had told you more than once that you were a pleasure in the kitchen. Not at the stove but looking pretty sitting on your spot on the island and not touching a thing.

"Well, we could have ordered some pizza," you tease him, and he grunts. When he still doesn't turn around, you lean forward, a smirk on your lips. "Or we could have gone out to 'Oakenshields' and-" The rest of the sentence dies on your lips as Thranduil's whole body snaps around and you nearly squeak when he leans into your space.

Nose against nose, he stares you down, cerulean eyes holding yours without any playfulness in them. "You are on very thin ice," he says quietly and while you know he still doesn't mean it like that, you squirm under the gaze and sudden rush of adrenalin that his proximity is causing your head to swim.

"Yeah?" you ask breathlessly, sounding way too excited for your own good, and you try kicking him against his chin but he catches your leg before it hits him, and as soon as his hands grab the bare skin he lets go again, falling back like it had shocked him physically.

Cerulean eyes drop, leaving your face that suddenly goes up in flames and for a second you can see his breath hitch, his chest moving at the sharp inhale of air as he takes you in. The moment builds up, the atmosphere between you changes and charges with something and for this short, stopped moment in time you allow yourself to think:

'What if?'

Then a timer goes off, distant at first but growing louder when Thranduil's face shifts back to the usual calm facade that reflects not a thing of what is going on in his head. He sniffs, hiding behind his dark eyebrows when he lowers his head and pats you gently on your thighs.

"I'll rather perish than go to 'Oakenshields'," he rasps, the raw edge in his voice the only remnant showing that he was affected by whatever that had been between you.

Then he turns around and pushes the tray with dough into the oven.

He covers it up professionally with the joke, of course, because Thranduil Oropherion could never have been seen with feelings that go deeper than what any human would consider barely amiable.

Yes, he is your best friend and he makes an effort around you to not be the coldhearted asshole he is too, for example, Thorin Oakenshield, owner of the restaurant slash bar that the last critic had called a "serious opponent in the gourmet chef world".

Thranduil took the news so well that he had a furious meltdown of cooking for nearly 20 hours to create a menu that he would serve the critic to show him Thorin was not to put anywhere near him on a culinary level before he threatened to buy the paper the man was working for and fire him.

He only calmed down when he found out the critic had persisted to order his own wine choices and not the ones Thranduil had carefully paired with each course so he had decided that the man had no taste whatsoever and he couldn't give a shit about what he had said.

You had seen the irony in his statement and the state of him, tired, overworked, still behaving like a diva and you had just stifled a laugh and helped him clean the mess in the kitchen.

It was one of those moments that shows you he cares more than he leads on, about life, about people, about what the world thought of him but when it comes to love the man is as warm as deep diving naked in the antarctic would be.

He can be nice, living with him was pleasant and it got a whole lot more comfortable when you got to know each other better.

He makes jokes, he shows you how much he appreciates you through his food, you two watch movies together, go out, get drunk, get home and giggle when one of you trips on the doormat and after a few months he even lets you fall asleep on him when you came home crying because a date didn't go well.

You had seen him drive home in a frenzy when his mother had called him about his younger brother breaking his leg climbing trees, and he had another friend, Bard, with whom he had a friendly get-together every now and again; it was only the romance part he never talks about, never shows, never ever makes room for.

While you go out for dates- he works.

When you meet someone at the club you dance, you make out, you go home with someone else- Thranduil just ignores any woman or man who talks to him.

Thranduil's love life (if existent) is a mystery to you and that makes it even more confusing why he had looked at you the way he did just now. Why would he suddenly decide to buy flowers, to cook you an entire meal because you had been stood up and play-dress up?

Your brain is steaming with these thoughts by the time you catch up with reality again, a snap of fingers in front of your face pulls you back and you blink, slightly dazed. Thranduil stands next to you, body facing the cutting board in front of him but you can see him sneaking a peek towards you out of the corner of his eyes.

"Do you know what you want to do after dinner yet?" he asks, slicing some cilantro and parsley.

His long fingers wrap around the shiny knife elegantly, drawing your gaze in and keeping it locked onto the movement of him cutting a lemon in half and drizzling a few drops of juice into the bowl with the herbs.

You try not to stare at the few drops wetting his palm.

"We should go out," you say, voice wavering in between a question and a hoarse croak. You swallow and move your head before your eyes follow a few seconds later, blinking up at Thranduil. "There is this new rooftop bar- they opened a few days ago and are still baiting people in with the two-for-one drink offer."

Thranduil smirks, leaning his hip against the counter and wiping his hand on the towel. "Ah, yes, because that went so well the last time?" he inquires, eyebrow raised teasingly.

"I couldn't possibly know what you are talking about, Thranduil," you purse your lips, suppressing the smile just barely that threatens to spill out at the memory of the last time you went to a new bar, trying out the "new and never been done before"-drinks the small hipster bar had promised you and that'd ended up being the worst cocktails you ever had.

"You still owe me for the trousers I had to get dry-cleaned because you missy-" he half-threateningly holds out his pointy finger again, "you missed the toilet"

"You could have shoved me in the right direction!"

"Ah yes, blame the man that saved you from throwing up all over your date," Thranduil turns away again, adding coconut milk and chopped tomatoes into the pot with the garlic and onions.

"Occupational hazard of being my friend," you say, giving him the brightest and most dearest smile when he holds out a spoon he'd dipped into the curry, before leaning in and wrapping your lips around it, letting the flavors swirl over your tongue.

Then a low hum leaves your throat, a sound not only shocking you but also Thranduil by the looks of it.

By the look of him.

There is a sudden pink covering his face, right around his nose, showing off his prominent cheekbones in a way that lifts the gorgeous feature even more. It is such an unusual sight, Thranduil, blushing, that you are taken aback by it and the spoon slips out of your lips, nearly falling when Thranduil pulls it out of your mouth, clearing his throat suspiciously loud and rough that it sounds physically hurtful.

He steps back, hiding behind a "Good then?" that you can only agree to with a low "Yes" because– firstly you could never correct him on the taste of something he prepares, he knows your taste well enough to always get the spices perfectly adjusted to your preferences, and secondly your head is blissfully empty for any other answer.

The moment passes, gets drowned out by another timer going off, followed by Thranduil shifting into chef-mode as you endearingly call the shift in his demeanor into a controlled acrobat when he starts handling all those pants and pots, stirring here, tasting there, focusing on everything all at once with a concentration that nothing could penetrate.

You sit back and watch him with a soft smile, observing him as he pulls the bread out of the oven, and exchanges the tray with two dark green bowls out of the cabinets to warm them up in the leftover heat.

He moves with a grace that you surely could not copy, all of his long limbs knowing exactly when to push the rice away from the burner, ducking away when the steam of pouring the hot water into the sink would have given your face a free steaming and all that while looking extremely put together with his tight pant- braid! and white shirt he didn't even bother protecting with an apron like he always forces you to wear.

It's frustrating and attractive how much confidence he oozes in the kitchen. You wonder how the cooks managed to do their job without dropping to the floor and praising him like the godly being he seems to be.

He looks perfectly put together when he finishes plating up and ushers you back into the living room, where you are forced to sit down while he disappears into the kitchen and brings the plates and bowls, shaking off your offer to help every time you can barely start the question.

So you do what is expected of you and you wait, brushing off some hair of your dress- long silver blond strands that you twirl around your finger.

The kitchen light gets dimmed and Thranduil comes into the living room one last time, holding a bottle of wine in his hands that by the looks of it, and by that you mean expensive as fuck, must have been nicked from the restaurant.

He fills your glass, then his own and finally sits down on the other side of the table.

Before you can say something, he raises his glass, "To this evening."

You smile and raise your glass to his, "To Marcus-" Thranduil's eyebrow twitches but you only smile wider "Thank god he canceled, I much rather spend this night with good food and good company"

A deep chuckle accompanies the soft 'clink' of your glasses. You take a first sip, holding Thranduil's gaze over the rim and over the flicking fire of the candles that illuminate his face just right. The wine is smooth, and refreshing as it wets your suddenly dry throat.

You use the plate in front of you as an opportunity to look away without it feeling like you are fleeing from his gaze, even if the thought is heavy in your stomach.

"Everything looks delicious, Thranduil," you say, gesturing to the bowls with the rice and tofu tikka masala, the dough that turned out to be naan that he placed on a wooden board between the flowers and the candle.

Thranduil gives you an appreciative nod, grabbing a naan and ripping it apart. "I tried to make something that comes close to your planned meal of chocolate ice cream," there is a mocking tone in his voice, a drawl on the words chocolate ice cream that is the perfect mix between friendly teasing and his true disgust towards it.

You let out a giggle, following his example of dipping the naan into the curry. "Oh, you are so gracious for trying but we both know that ice cream is high above this. It doesn't even fall in the same food category to be able to compare. If you truly look at it, it's its own category"

"Never mind everything I have said, I've forgotten that I'm talking to the person who thinks a cup of coffee counts as an entire meal. How very stupid of me"

"Not everyone can start their morning looking like you do and have the energy to go out for a run and then cook breakfast," you shoot back, the realization of the compliment slipping out pours onto you when you see Thranduil's lips curve into a very self-satisfactory grin.

"So you are awake to notice," he leans back in his chair, popping another piece of the bread into his mouth and looking so smug that the urge to kick him is rising in you again. "You simply choose to act like you are non-responsive until you've had your coffee."

Instead of kicking him, you roll your eyes and fill your spoon with rice.

Yes, that was one way to put it.

The other would be that you are simply too scared you would say something very stupid and inappropriate when you watched him do his yoga in nothing but very tight pants while you sat on the couch and pretended to stare into empty space that just coincidently was very close to his arching form in front of the window.

"Yes, I live by the rule that coffee comes before any man."

"How rude, to consider me 'any' man," you want to say something but Thranduil is quicker to continue, shutting you up with that gorgeous smile, "Am I not the only man in your life right now who you don't leave on read after a while?"

"That is a very low bar to measure yourself with"

"Darling, those men you date offer nothing but low standards."

You nearly choke on the wine you'd reached for when Thranduil says these words, this term of endearment he casually throws into the sentence, far too confident to be a slip of tongue, far too soft to be meant as mocking.

He said it as if it had never not been there, as if it wasn't completely out of character. For a moment you consider reaching over the table to poke him, to make sure he is really here and not some (very accurate, word class if it truly was one) robotic imitation.

There is a glimmer of mischief in his eyes that only seems to twinkle brighter the longer you stare at him and you wonder if he feels like he has won the discussion or if he can hear your brain mulling over the 'darling'.

Either way, he doesn't comment on it further, not on this nor the matter of your dating.

Why he thought to do so in the first place was a mystery to you, another piece of the puzzle that was this evening. He had made comments about the men you were seeing before, subtle phrases made after glancing over to your screen and the conversations you were having, never really cruel but you wouldn't say that they were particularly nice either.

Sometimes when you came home from a night out, you never brought them back to your flat, Thranduil would simply raise an eyebrow, not saying anything and so much at the same time.

You dig back into your food and like always conversation flows naturally between you. Pushing the teasing and the sizzling of something warm in your stomach that you had felt in the kitchen away into the back of your mind you let yourself enjoy the moment, the comfort of sitting at the table, a nice dinner in front of you and the home-y feeling that was in the air.

Curry and naan fill your stomach as the wine settles in your head and laughter slips your tongue.

Empty plates get pushed aside, forgotten on the side of the table until later, making room for you to prop up one elbow and let your cheek rest in the palm of your hand as Thranduil talks about his newest ideas for his restaurant.

The candles flicker, coloring both your faces golden as the last bit of sunlight sneaks away from the tiny crack in the curtains.

After another glass of wine and some well-coordinated cleaning up, a hand-in-hand process of taking the plates into the kitchen where you load the dishwasher and Thranduil wipes down the pots and pans in the sink, Thranduil throws you out of the kitchen again.

You hop into the bathroom, spend a few minutes staring at yourself in the mirror and try to think about the outcome of this evening.

A few hours ago you had been ready to go out with someone else but right now, in the dim light that is too bright to conceal how flushed your cheeks are and too dark to be the glimmering sparkle in your eyes, there is not one thought wasted on any other guy.

It's a complicated feeling, being confronted with the crush you'd harbored on Thranduil for a while now and while it wasn't always easy to keep it at bay, it had been nowhere near as hard to keep your focus on the big fat label of 'friendship' that was the only thing ever to be between you.

Yes, you know that that label should hamper the want.. the need to kiss the ever-living daylight out of Thranduil when he stared at you across those flickering candles but who wouldn't want to do that to an attractive man showering you with attention he had given you today?

Any normal-thinking person would.

At least that is what you tell yourself, that these feelings are normal because he is attractive and not just because you are attracted to him.

Back in the living room, you fall onto the sofa, legs stretched and feet propped onto the small table in front of the couch, and fight the urge to cuddle into the pillows more than necessary. Any deeper and you would for sure fall asleep and with how your evening is going, that that would be a shame was an understatement.

"Thranduil?" you call out when another minute passes and the noises of washing up had quietened down and Thranduil still wasn't out of the kitchen again.

"One moment," his deep voice responds with a subtle grunt, "You can begin your search for a bar and please don't let it be the rooftop bar you mentioned earlier."

On another day you would have chosen a bar or even a club to go to, especially after your stomach did that traitorous summersault at the sound of his voice again.

Tonight, with your cozy little apartment smelling like fresh flowers and curry and your mind clinging onto a possessive and dangerous thought of 'What if..'´ you suddenly can't think of anything worse than going out with Thranduil.

Going out would mean that Thranduil's attention wouldn't be on you alone anymore.

"Thranduil?" you call out again, "Let's stay in and watch a movie."

"What?" He pops his head out of the kitchen and you giggle at the sight of soap bubbles on his nose as he wipes his hand over his surprised face. He rolls his eyes, lifting one arm, - oh god his sleeves are rolled up, exposing far too much skin and veiny arms for you to think clear- and wipes the soap away. "I thought you wanted to go out."

"No," you draw the word out, still hung up on the smooth-looking skin, "We talked about going out or watching a movie," shuffling your shoulders into the pillows you smile at him "and I think we should watch a movie. It has been a while since we did that."

Thranduils face softens and he cocks his head, "It has," he agrees, the tenderness in his eyes reaching his voice.

With Thranduil running his restaurant and your work demanding more of you there hadn't been a lot of time you had sat down and watched something together recently.

You still had your mornings full of nursing coffee and yoga and the evenings where you weren't on a date or Thranduil away on business you had gone out together.

The summer with all its warm and sunny days and bars filled with cool drinks and long evenings fading into soft blue nights had been fun- that didn't mean you didn't miss cuddling into a blanket on the couch and watching a movie with Thranduil where you spend the entire time making small comments only to annoy him.

"How about you sort out what movie you want to see and I'll fetch us a snack?" he proposes and you let out a hum. Thranduil starts to turn away, then halters, "And if you could find anything other than 'Pride and Prejudice' I would be very grateful."

You did, in fact, not search further for the movie that you had started earlier.

Something that Thranduil comments with a loud "God, please do not do this to me," when he reenters the living room.

Stubbornly, you shake your head, your finger dancing over the buttons on the remote control. "You won't know if you like it or not if you never stay to watch it through! What if this is your movie? You say you don't have a favorite movie, Thranduil- this could be it!" Your arms flare in the air, pointing the remote to the screen while you try your best to sound as motivational as you can under the skeptical raise of his eyebrow - though the corner of his lips twitch, betraying his amusement however hard he wants to look self-assured in his completely (unreasonable) hate for the movie you consider one of the best of all time.

It's only when he saunters closer that you see what he holds in his hands and it momentarily lets you forget the never-ending argument.

"Ice cream!"

He laughs deep and rough, always a bit darker and richer when he has drunk wine, his voice and tone taking on the velvety edge that clouds your mind just as much as the alcohol.

"That was much more enthusiastic than the reaction to the soufflé I made you a while back. Should I take offense? Is this your revenge for my dislike of this Darcy that you so obsess about?"

Sticking out your tongue you grab one of the two buckets he holds out to you, as Thranduil takes his place on the couch; always on the longer side where he could stretch out his long legs. "Do not disrespect the man of my dreams or I will buy the mac-just-add-milk-cheese," you open the lid of the carton box, reaching over to the table to place it there.

"You wouldn't dare!"

"Mhm, I wonder if they still have the ones that only need water?"

"Please just press play you vicious woman," Thranduil pokes his finger into your side, admitting defeat with a desperate sigh and opens his own box of ice cream. When he sees you staring at it, he rolls his eyes. "What now? Can't a man enjoy something sweet once in a while?"

"A man yes," you snort "But you-" you poke him as well, "you're always on me when I buy ice cream and now you eat.. what is that..?"

Leaning into his space you ignore how Thranduil swats at you gently like he wants to get rid of a fly "It's chocolate, no way! My, my, should I call your health insurance and warn them that we will need a checkup? Maybe a brain-"

"Goodness gracious!" Thranduil groans, a sound that reverberates through you as you are still leaning into him, one hand propped next to his thigh, "Will you shut up or do I have to do that for you?"

That does shut you up instantly.

Not a sound leaves your mouth - left wide open as if he had simply pressed paused on your whole body - and you slowly turn your head away from him and back to the screen.

Now, while he did shock you enough with his words to let the teasing about the ice cream slide back down your very much dry throat, you can't help it to at least attempt to have the last word.

To calm your racing heart if not to for the sudden lack of thoughts, "Only if you swear to watch the whole movie without talking shit about Mister Darcy"

"Half of it and a little bit of shit-talking?"

"All of it and none of that!"

"Just let me make my comments and I will buy you your ice cream next time."

You squint your eyes, challenging him to stay with the offer and consider if it's worth it.

You could easily buy your own snacks, you did it every day you went grocery shopping anyway but there was a satisfying pleasure in knowing that the great Thranduil, hater of all sweets, would not only pick out ice cream for you, but pay for it as well.

Maybe he would even throw in something else as well, if you agreed to him and let him make his jokes.

In the end, you were simply grateful that he was here, sitting on the couch to watch a movie he knows means a lot to you, despite his dislike for it, and maybe that was enough..

"Deal!"

Finally, you eagerly press play, allowing the soft piano music to fill the room a second time this day.

While you can't help but smile, muttering the words into the spoons full of ice cream, Thranduil is less mean than you thought he would be. In the beginning, you could see him rolling his eyes whenever Mr. Darcy came on screen - something you commented with a sigh and a giggle - but like you always predicted, he soon relaxed into the cushions.

His face softens, just like his comments, mouth corners turning up as he watches the discussion between Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth in the reading room.

In one particularly dramatic scene, you turn to Thranduil with wide eyes. "See? See? Mister Darcy is just misunderstood. He's so in love with Elizabeth, but he doesn't know how to express it properly."

Thranduil rolls his eyes playfully. "Oh, please. He just needs to learn how to be less insufferable."

You lean closer to him, your eyes sparkling with mischief. "You know, you could learn a thing or two from Darcy, Thranduil."

He scoffs. "Me? Like what?"

Despite the tone he lifts one arm so that you can really lean into his side and you follow the invitation. Drawing your legs up, ignoring that the hem of your dress rides up your thigh, you scoot into Thranduil's space and rest your back against the length of his chest. His arm remains on the headrest of the couch.

You grin. "How to sweep a girl off her feet. Be a little less aloof and a little more... passionate–" your voice wanders into a wistful sigh, words getting lost as you watch with bated breath as Mister Darcy helps Elizabeth into the carriage.

There is a deep rumble behind you, a hot exhale of breath hitting the back of your head and while it seems like Thranduil wants to say something, he remains silent.

When you slightly turn your head, you see him watching the screen with a look in his eyes that you can't pin point.

"Why exactly does he flex his hand like that?" Thranduil quizzes with what sounds like genuine interest and you nearly bounce off the couch in excitement.

"Okay so there are multiple ways that this could be interpreted, some think it represents his armor cracking because he has been so buttoned-up, closed-off all the time and now his muscles betray the character he is putting on," you start, the words tumbling out of your mouth fast and rushed now that Thranduil shows his interest "It's like he is unraveling slowly but surely."

"It's also the first time they touch," you add.

Thranduil cocks his head, "It is?"

The grin on your face grows wider and you nod enthusiastically. "Yes! It's the first time they touch and it's pure skin to skin contact which was totally scandalous in their time, hence the gloves and long sleeves. Imagine going on through your life with these walls built around you as a way to protect your heart and then there is this infuriating woman."

"I can't imagine," Thranduil throws in yet it's so quietly that you nearly miss it.

Nearly.

Your tongue trips over a few words as you continue speaking, caught on what Thranduil had said under his breath as if it had been meant for only him, "-well and she.. she is rebellious. She does not follow the etiquette of wearing gloves, she speaks her mind freely and she contradicts everything that you have been taught," you count on your fingers "And she must have been the first woman in a long time that has touched him like that, even if it's as simple as using his help getting into the carriage"

"Mhm," Thranduil raises the arm that isn't behind you and taps his lips. "And you find that moment important for their building romance?"

"Without a doubt in my mind."

"Alright."

And with that, the topic is dropped and you both return to watch the movie.

That is until Thranduil's arm drops lower.

At first, you think it could have been unintentional, physics and gravity and all that stuff being the reason that his arm fell or slipped from the headrest on your shoulders.

It happens, maybe it had been tiresome to leave it up there, stretched away at such an angle. That is what you tell yourself in the few seconds where his arm simply.. stays still.. but then his arm bends at the elbow and the movement is so slow, so careful that your brain has enough time to forget the movie and focus on how delicately wary his hand comes into contact with the naked skin of your arm.

At first, it's just his fingertips.

Trembling ever so slightly they ghost over your biceps, giving the impression that he is still unsure on how to proceed and you wait, trying your hardest not to flex your arm and maybe scare him away and it's the hardest thing - this kind of touch was rare.

The waiting and effort are worth every second of agonizing stillness because following the tips is the hot palm of his hand, curving around your upper arm and holding you.

Your senses are aflame like the candles, lavender clouding your mind, cold ice cream melting on your tongue as the rough skin of his fingertips trails over your arm in the smallest circles.

Reflecting on the previous conversation there is one sentiment burning its way through your body, bringing with it all the moments of today, his hands on your leg in the kitchen, the storm of emotions crackling through his eyes like thunder, splitting his facade like lightening, the way he had reacted on spoonfeeding you the curry, the tension.

This has to mean something.

This has to be something.

You make up your mind to confront him about it even before he opens his mouth for the next commentary again.

"Darcy sure has a fantastic way to show his love," his tone was dripping with sarcasm.

"Nothing screams more 'I love you' than separating the sister of the woman you love from your best friend because you think the family is far too poor and lacks social etiquette," he scoffs, seemingly being his normal self and you would have believed him if his eyes didn't dart towards you, hinting at a touch of nervousness in those cerulean seas which lack the usual confidence.

"Maybe he is unsure how to tell her that he loves her," you say, holding his gaze.

"Well, there are other ways than this," Thranduil says, pointing toward the screen where Darcy is now standing painfully awkward in Charlotte's home that Elizabeth visits.

While you know that he is trying to follow Elizabeths advice of simple conversation, Thranduil doesnt seem to make that connection.

"Why aren't you out and about flirting with women?" It is a slip of the tongue, led on by the teasing you are so used to yet it comes out far too soft, far too wobbly. Quickly you add to the question with what is half cough, half laugh: "Huh, I mean if you are so sure that Darcy is doing something wrong, you should be picking up women, right?"

Thranduil raises an eyebrow in confusion. He opens his mouth, slightly tilting his head. "What? Why should I do that?"

Now you wonder if he was more stupid than you thought or if you heavily missed him having a girlfriend. Or not a girlfriend, or a partner. Were you that ignorant? Did you miss anything he told you about his sexuality?

"I–" you stutter "I didn't want to pry. I´m sorry. I.. I'm just wondering why you never go out on dates"

"Oh," there is a solemn look on his face "Ah, I had hoped this wouldn't come up for a while longer," He pauses, glancing at the TV and a feeble smile has the corner of his mouth twitching.

You don't have to follow his gaze to know that Mister Darcy has just followed Elizabeth into the rain; the only scene Thranduil has ever watched with you.

Maybe you had been ignorant before but the resigned tone in his voice is loud and clear. "We don't have to talk about it!" you rush in, "Really. No need to converse. Let's just watch the movie alright?" Without thinking about it, your hand moves to his chest, a reflex to gently pat him that dies when you feel the hard thumping of his heart through his shirt.

"I could never date someone, let alone think about a woman the way I think about you."

There it was again, the casualness that had tainted the 'Darling' from earlier. You would have laughed, hell, it is already bubbling up your throat when the heaviness of his confession crashes down on you and all that leaves you is a choked sound and a sudden lack of air has you gasping.

The combination of both hurts but not enough to cover the flutter in your stomach.

"What?" you ask not because you didn't understand him, you had heard every word, every syllable clear and distinct, but because you can't believe that you had heard it.

Your hand still rests atop his chest, feeling the heartbeat- hard and fast.

The same way he suddenly pressed his mouth on yours.

It happens quickly, leaving no time for you to react how you want to react and the only thing you can do is gasp.

The kiss ends as swiftly as it has started at the sound yet Thranduil doesnt withdraw completely. His mouth hovers over yours, his breath ghosting over your dry lips. There was a question in it, the same that is in his eyes when you gather the courage to look up.

Thranduil wasn't this hesitant, he was efficient, confident and so fucking sure of himself that his lack of those qualities right now spoke just as much as the kiss itself.

In the background, you hear rain but all you feel is your mind clearing up like the sky after the downpour.

Without further hesitation, you nod and Thranduil lunges forward again, this time with enough force that you lose your balance - or maybe it was the feel of his lips on yours that prevented you from catching yourself as you fall backward and crash into the pillows.

As far as first kisses go, most of the ones you had with guys were significantly worse. They were usually awkward, sometimes even uncomfortable because you weren't yet attuned to each other, but you weren't kissing a strange guy in a bar here.

You were kissing Thranduil.

You had been friends for years, you had seen each other in the most embarrassing situations, he had probably been confronted with your unclothed body more often than others, and if there was one thing he had noticed, it was what disappointed you about your dates.

And while he kissed you silly and stupid you were happy about exactly this perceptiveness.

His hair falls around you like a curtain, his chest presses against yours and you get so used to the weight of his body on yours like it has never been different.

And you hope it will never be any different.

"Shit," Thranduil groans against your lips, and you open your eyes, smiling up at him in a daze.

"What?"

"Now-" he kisses you again "Now that we got this out of the way.." Another kiss, a soft bite on your lips and you are so fucking glad to know that no woman has experienced this from him in a while. You are getting addicted to his kisses fast "..can you please stop dating these assholes and let me take you out for a real dinner?"

You nod hastily and lift your head to catch his mouth again. You only let him go for another second, when the perfect place pops into your mind - the last thought for the rest of the evening probably.

"Let's go to 'Oakenshields'"

#thranduil x reader #thranduil x you #thranduil fanfiction #lord of the rings fanfiction #the hobbit fanfiction #lord of the rings x reader #lord of the rings x you #lotr x reader

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vivwritesfics · 1 month

Text

Jester Stole His Thorny Crown

Chapter Five

He never had a choice in his life. His dreams were nothing more that that. Dreams. But then he met a lounge singer at his brother club and everything changed.

Mafia!Au

1.6K

Series Masterlist

Her favourite days were the days that Arthur came to visit. She made him a drink as he sat at the bar, and leaned against it. "He didn't tell you he was getting lessons?" She asked as Arthur sipped his drink.

As soon as he put it in the bar, she took it from him and sipped. "You think Charles would tell me anything like that?"

She shrugged her shoulders. "I don't know him well enough to judge," she mumbled, letting her head fall into her hands. "Honestly, 'Thur, I don't think I want to get to know him well enough."

Arthur offered her a weak smile. "He'll get better, I promise," Arthur said, his fingers reaching out to touch her arm.

He pulled away and stood from the bar. "I've got to go," he said as he stretched.

"Work?" He nodded grimly and she walked around the bar to throw her arms around him. "Try to come back alive, okay?"

Arthur hugged her back. "I'll try."

He took his leave, walking out of the lounge and meeting his brother outside. Charles had refused to come in and now Arthur knew why. He was embarrassed.

When Arthur saw him, he wordlessly climbed into the car.

Back in the club, she walked over to the piano and sat herself down. She didn't play, not yet, instead letting her head fall into her hands.

This life wasn't the one she had envisioned for herself. Even when she was begging her mother to get her piano lessons, she never thought she'd be playing it for her career. She never thought she'd be performing almost every night in a lounge bar.

She never thought that lounge bar would be bought by a member of the Leclerc family.

She had moved to Monaco with the money her parents had left her after they had died. The lounge was supposed to be a temporary job, something to help her pay rent until she found her dream job, whatever that might have been.

Within the four weeks that she had been working at the lounge, it changed ownership. The young, cute guy came in and changed everything.

He redecorated, put in a newer, modern bar, new tables and lighting, and put in a new stage. He got rid of the stage and put in a brand new one, with these fancy lights.

Most of the performers were let go. Actually, every performer but her was let go. She didn't know why Arthur kept her on, but she was incredibly grateful.

She didn't know who Arthur was, didn't know who the Leclerc family was when she first started. Arthur didn't tell her right away. He waited until they were less boss and employee and more friends. When he told her, she didn't judge him. He had proven himself to be lovely and wonderful and she doubted he could hurt a fly.

But Arthur told her almost everything. Before she knew it, it had gone too far, and she knew more than she should have. There was no way she could have gotten out if she wanted to.

Until meeting Charles, Arthur was the only member of the Leclerc family that she really knew. After all he told her, she took time to research them. She found out that Lorenzo was the head of the family. He ran Monaco while trying to make his deceased father proud.

Charles was the ruthless, angry middle child. That was all she knew about him. Anybody who really, truly, knew what he did, well, they had a bullet in their heads.

Arthur was the protected little brother. He'd been on one job before, as far as she knew, and that was when he ended up with a bullet in his arm.

She couldn't help but be worried for her best friend when he left the lounge.

***

"Where are we?"

Arthur looked around at the surroundings as Charles put his car into park. The parking lot was empty, the Verstappen family nowhere to be seen. "We're headed there soon," Charles said. "I... I need to talk to you about something."

He'd never acted like this before. Arthur had never seen his brother, the brother that struck fear into the hearts of anyone that looked at him. "Are you dying?"

Charles glared. "Shut the fuck up. This is serious."

Arthur swallowed.

"Your pianist. How did you get her to like you?"

He let out a laugh as his brother's face went red. When Arthur had first introduced them, in a sense, he had a feeling that they would get along or that Charles would like her. It was a small feeling, and he certainly hadn't expected to be right.

"I can't believe this," she said. "I can't believe it. You have a crush on her! You actually have a crush on her!"

Charles's nostrils flared. "Shut up, I'm not a child," he growled.

Even Arthur was scared enough of his brother that he fell quiet. "I was just nice too her, okay? I didn't flash my guns and I didn't terrify her."

Charles simply grunted. He drove away once again, not speaking a word to his brother. The silence in the car was palpable. Arthur was almost too scared to breathe.

They got to the place where they were meeting the Verstappens. Max leaned against the car while Jos still sat inside. When Charles parked his Ferrari, he pushed away from the car and approached.

Charles and Arthur climbed out of the car. The older Leclerc took the hand that Max was offering him and shook. "Good to see you, mate," he said.

But he looked past Max, looking at Jos in his car. "Is he coming out or..."

"You got somewhere you wanna be, Leclerc?" Max asked with something of a giggle. But it wasn't a proper giggle, because future mafia bosses didn't giggle.

There was a minute where Jos didn't move. He stayed sitting in his car, looking forward. Charles often thought that, anybody who thought him to be terrifying clearly hadn't met Jos Verstappen.

When Jos climbed out of the car, Max returned to his fathers side and the meeting began.

It was the weirdest meeting Charles had ever attended. It was unclear whether Jos wanted to get out of Monaco or to kill them. He was angry, always angry, and he answered in mostly grunts.

Max did most of the talking. Charles walked them around, showed them what they needed to see in their warehouses. He wanted it over and done with as quickly as possible. He had a piano lesson to get to.

When they finally returned to the cars, Jos finally spoke up. "I thought I was to be meeting with Lorenzo," he said.

Arthur went to step forward, but Charles kept him behind. "Sorry, Verstappen, but Lorenzo had things he had to attend to." It wasn't a great excuse, but it was all Charles had. He had no idea what Lorenzo was doing, but he wasn't going to let Verstappen bully his way into a meeting with the head of the family.

Verstappen let out a breath. Wordlessly he climbed into his car. Before the door could shut, he snapped his fingers at Max, who climbed in after him.

Charles and Arthur waited until the Verstappen car had disappeared into the distance until they climbed into Charles' Ferrari. "I'm dropping you at maman's," he said.

"Why? Because it's close to the lounge?"

Charles didn't answer. He only sped up, driving expertly around other cars. When he got to their mothers apartment building, Charles quickly parked and gave Arthur five seconds to get out.

As soon as those five seconds were up he was speeding away again, heading to the lounge. There was maybe an hour before it opened for the night; he figured there was enough time for a lesson.

As he opened the door to the lounge, she was closing the lid of the piano. But, when she saw him, she stopped. "Mr Leclerc," she called. "Charles."

He opened his jacket, revealing no guns. "I come in peace," he called. "I thought we could have a piano lesson."

She nodded her head and he climbed onto the stage. He stripped off his jacket and sat beside her. "You you wanna try something a little more complicated?"

Charles copied her every note. For forty minutes he played at his best. She wouldn't admit she was impressed, she wasn't ready for that much conversation.

But, twenty minutes before the lounge was supposed to open, she stood up. "I'm really sorry, Charles, but we're gonna have to finish. I need to get dinner before we open."

Charles nodded, understanding. He stayed sitting at the piano for a minute more, still playing as she grabbed her jacket and went running out of the lounge. Charles wasn't going anywhere. He was going to stay and watch her performance.

When the rest of the staff started filing into the lounge, Charles stood from the piano. He wandered into the back office and took a seat at the desk. Arthurs desk. In front of him was a schedule.

It wasn't the staff schedule, but a schedule of the performers. And, for every night, there was one name on it.

Suddenly she was running into office. When she saw Charles, she stopped. "Charles I really need to get ready to go on stage."

"Arthur hasn't given you a night off."

"Well, who else do you think is going to perform here," she said as she pulled a black dress from her bag.

Charles clicked his knuckles as he stood up. He was going to have words with Arthur.

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roosterforme · 1 year

Text

Hands to Yourself | Rooster x Reader

Summary: Normally Bradley would encourage you to touch him as much as you want, but not when you've invited everyone you know over for a cookout.

Warnings: Smut and fluff

Length: 2500 words

Pairing: Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x Female Reader

This was written to accompany my series Is It Working For You? along with a bunch of my one-shots! (But it can be read on its own) Check my masterlist in my profile for the reading order!

You and Bradley had been engaged for just over a week when you invited everyone you knew over to the house for a cookout. The two of you had a lot to celebrate, including Bradley's big promotion to Lieutenant Commander and his return to work after his injury.

Bradley walked into the kitchen to find all of the food you were preparing for later that day. "Baby Girl, these people do not need anything fancy. We can just dump some beers in a cooler and serve them hot dogs."

"Sangria and marinated chicken isn't fancy, Roo." You rolled your eyes. You weren't about to invite people over for dinner and then toss a bag of chips at them. Even if it was just the usual crowd.

"Nat and I once ate sushi from a gas station, so really whatever you want to do is fine," he told you, and you couldn't help but laugh. "I'll be outside setting up."

He kissed your cheek as you continued to cut up fruit for the sangria, and you watched him walk into the dining room. He tapped out a few notes on the piano before heading outside. Then you watched him through the kitchen window while he played with Tramp and got the patio furniture cleaned up. God, he looked so good. You knew he was still struggling with his new scars and his body image since his injury, but just looking at him had you practically drooling.

Your period had ended, and you wondered if there would be time for a quickie once you finished up with all of the food. You rushed to get everything else ready. At least it was mostly things that needed to be grilled. You laughed and pulled out your I Love Meat apron for Bradley to wear while he was grilling.

You mixed all of the sangria pitchers and tried a sample of each one. "Delicious," you said out loud before pouring yourself a full glass and taking it outside. "Do you want a drink, Roo?" you asked, taking a long sip. "It's insanely hot out here!"

"Yeah, just some water, Sweetheart," he told you as he was cleaning the grill. You watched him in his gray tee and gym shorts, his biceps working hard as he scraped and scrubbed with the wire brush. You bit your lip as he swiped the back of his hand across his forehead. Even the sweaty spots on his shirt were doing something to you right now.

"What time is everyone coming?" you asked, finishing the rest of your drink in an attempt to keep yourself from touching him while he bent to pick up the propane tank.

"In about an hour," he said, grunting as he tightened the tank in place with his big hands. He really had no idea what he was doing right now, and you ran back inside to get him some water.

----------------------------------------

You put out some snacks while Bradley took a shower. You had been so tempted to join him in there, but everyone would be arriving shortly. You were a few sangrias deep at this point, and when your fiancé walked out sporting damp hair, a snug white tee shirt and gray chino shorts, you moaned.

"I know what that noise means," he said, eyeing you with a smirk.

You pressed your lips together. "Call everyone. Call them and cancel. Please?"

"Baby Girl," he whispered, and you felt like your head was swimming. The wine was mixing with your neediness, and you were reaching for him. As soon as you pulled him down for a kiss that lingered and got your fingers under the hem of his tee shirt, someone started knocking on the door.

"Let's pretend we're not home," you whispered against his lips. He chuckled and gave your butt a squeeze.

"I'll take care of you later, Sweetheart. After everyone leaves."

You pouted in the kitchen as he walked to the front door. You recognized Maverick's voice right away, and you had to act totally normal in front of him, pretending you weren't thinking about his godson naked and inside you.

Soon your kitchen was filled with all of the aviators along with Cam and Maria. Everyone started to filter out to the backyard with drinks in their hands, but you pulled Bradley to the side and kissed him again.

"You look so hot right now," you told him, running your hand along the front of his shirt before letting it trail down his scarred left arm. "Good Lord, Bradley."

"Is this because we haven't had sex in a few days?" he asked in that raspy voice that made your eyes flutter closed. "I'll lay you on our bed later and take care of you. Don't I always take care of you?" He kissed your forehead before he strode outside.

You whined and squeezed your thighs together, and then you poured another huge glass of sangria and went out to socialize. You talked to Cam and Maria for a while about work. Your lab was collaborating with their lab on an upcoming project, and you couldn't wait to see more of them every day outside of lunchtime. But you watched Bradley slip your apron over his head as he laughed with Payback, his big hands making quick work of tying it in place.

"Want me to grab you a beer, Angel?" Jake asked as he walked past you, and you must have told him yes, because soon you were drinking both your sangria and a beer. Bradley was preheating the grill now, and you had to press your lips together to keep from making a seriously needy noise as he squatted down on the ground to open the tank valves.

You finished both drinks and went to wrap your arms around his waist as soon as he stood up.

"Having fun?" he asked with a smile. The playlist you made was perfect, everyone was eating your snacks, and you could overhear pleasant conversations everywhere.

"I'd be having more fun if my hands were down your pants," you told him, and he choked on his sip of beer.

"Sweetheart," he gasped as he coughed. "Later." He turned away from you as Bob called his name, and you sighed as you started talking to Jake about his girl problems.

After a few minutes, you were still shaking your head at him and sneaking glances at Bradley through your tipsy haze. "Jacob, just be less of a fuckboy."

"I don't know how!" he replied, but you had to bite your lip, because now Bradley was standing with his hand on his hip while he grilled the chicken you had prepared along with some burgers and veggie burgers. "The two of you are absolutely disgusting. You know that, right?" Jake drawled once he saw where your focus had drifted.

"Mmm," you hummed in agreement before making a beeline toward Bradley. "You need anything, Roo?" you asked sweetly, slipping one hand inside the apron and stroking his belly before letting your hand glide lower. You watched him glance around to see if anyone was looking and you giggled.

------------------------------

Bradley grunted as your hand rubbed him through his shorts. "You need to knock it off," he whispered in as stern a voice as he could manage. Because God, your hand felt good on him right now. "Go find someone to talk to. I told you I will take care of everything you need later tonight."

You just whimpered. Your cheeks were flushed, and he knew you'd had a few drinks. He had honestly never seen you this poorly behaved before. Thank goodness he'd already locked you down with a ring, because this was delightful. He had to reach for your hand and remove it from inside the apron, because you were refusing to listen to him.

"What has gotten into you?" he asked, nodding at Fanboy when he asked if Bradley wanted another beer.

You looked up at him and licked your lips. "Sangria and lust. And hopefully you, soon."

Bradley tried his best not to laugh, so he pressed his lips together and nodded until he was able to speak. "You know we can't do that right now. Go talk to Nat."

He watched you pout and head away from him, your sundress swirling around your thighs. Great, now he was a little hard. He watched you conversing with his best friend, and he flipped the chicken before anything burned. Fanboy and Payback joined him at the grill and helped him get all of the food off when it was ready.

"Congrats again, Rooster," Fanboy said as he drank one of your fancy sangrias. "You two look so happy together. When's the wedding?"

Bradley glanced at you across the patio, and you were already looking at him. "We haven't made any solid plans yet. I'm hoping for this year though."

You winked at him, and he shook his head in response. He couldn't believe you. When he carried the grilled food to the table, and everyone started to dig in, he turned to face you. "Are you ready to behave now?" he asked you softly since everyone was gathered around the vicinity.

"No, I'm still feeling a certain way about how sexy you look today."

He heard Nat snicker and look at him over her shoulder. "The two of you are a serious problem," Nat told Bradley. "Plus, I am honestly shocked you found someone who can stand your personality and your looks."

Bradley sighed. He supposed he was lucky, but he still shook his head at you. "Eat something to soak up all of the alcohol you drank. I'm going to wash my hands." Bradley barely made it inside and to the laundry room sink before you slipped inside the room with him.

You closed the door and leaned against it, chewing on your bottom lip and eyeing him up and down. Bradley slowly dried his hands, taking a moment to wipe his brow with the paper towel before throwing it away.

"You're acting like a brat," he told you, but that just made you gasp. "You're being a bad girl."

"Oh my god," you moaned, and he knew he wasn't getting out of this room unless he took care of you. "I am so horny, Roo. I don't know what it is about you today! Or maybe it's because we're engaged, but I just... I can't...."

He smirked at you and nodded toward the washer and dryer. "Put your hands on top of the washing machine." He watched you do as you were told, and when he pressed the front of his body against your backside, you pushed back making him groan.

---------------------------

"Please," you whispered, and when Bradley's right hand reached up the front of your dress, you wiggled back against him.

"I can't believe you today," he growled next to your ear, his mustache brushing you softly. His fingers traced your slit through your underwear before he reached his entire hand down the front and circled your clit. "I told you to wait."

"I couldn't," you moaned. He worked his fingers through your wetness and he groaned. "Are you going to fuck me?"

"No," he said, sliding one finger inside you.

"Why not?" you asked as he held you snug against him and used a second finger to fill you up.

"Because that's what you want me to do."

You gasped as he started to pump his fingers into you, fucking you with his hand. His left forearm was wrapped around your breasts, and the veins bulging in the back of his hand had you feeling wild.

"Please, fuck me with your cock," you gasped, but he was grinding your clit with the heel of his hand now. He knew exactly what you liked.

"No." he told you again, his voice firm and unwavering as his breath teased your ear. "You know I'm never quick, and we only have a minute. And frankly, I don't think I should be rewarding this behavior."

"Ohhh," you moaned, and he hissed as your ass bumped him while he worked his fingers in and out.

"You're such a filthy little thing, Baby Girl. Gonna have my hands full for the rest of my life."

You were so close now, you were squeezing your eyes closed as the wave of tension inside you grew. "You asked me to marry you."

Bradley grunted. "Of course I did. I love you. Even when you act like a needy little princess."

You bit your lip and let your head fall back against his shoulder as he rubbed his thumb across your clit, making you clench around him.

"You cum for me right now, and later tonight, I'll spread you out on our bed and do you the way you deserve."

You were whining and gasping for air, your fingers bending against the top of the washing machine as you came. Your skin felt so hot from the combination of sangria and Bradley's attention. When he withdrew his fingers, he brought them up to your mouth, and you licked and sucked them clean.

"You better behave now," he threatened, grinding himself against your backside before leaving you alone in the laundry room.

------------------------------------

Bradley watched you make your way back outside on shaky legs. Nobody seemed any wiser; the two of you had been inside for less than ten minutes together. You looked at him as he took a bite of his burger, and the soft smile on your lips had him smirking back at you. You absolutely owned his heart and his body, but he still couldn't believe your behavior while you had company over.

As soon as everyone had finished eating and drinking and the sun had set, your friends started to leave. Bradley watched you saying goodbye to Coyote and Bob, the last two stragglers.

"Everyone's gone," you told him, standing under the strands of fairy lights that you had hung up outside.

Bradley just looked at you for a few seconds, your ring sparkling on your finger. "Go get in bed and wait for me," he said. Now his voice was deep and needy. He watched you smile and dash inside.

Bradley shook his head and cleaned up some of the food and dishes, making several trips into the kitchen. He decided he'd make you sweat for a few minutes, make sure you were even more worked up for him. He washed his hands and started to unbutton his shorts as he walked into the bedroom.

And there you were, curled up in bed with Tramp. Both of you were snoring softly, your cheeks still flushed from all the wine you'd had to drink. Bradley just watched you sleep for a moment before he sighed and walked around the bed. He gently extracted the worn out dog and set him down on his own bed. Then Bradley covered you up and kissed your forehead before he got himself ready to go to sleep next to you.

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Thanks for reading Roo and Baby Girl! I hope you liked this one where she was being a bit of a brat...

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#bradley rooster bradshaw x reader #rooster x you #rooster fanfic #rooster x female reader #top gun fanfiction #bradley bradshaw imagine #bradley bradshaw x female reader #bradley bradshaw x reader #bradley bradshaw fanfiction #rooster bradshaw x female reader #rooster x reader #bradley rooster x reader

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scuttlingcrab · 7 days

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A Devil's Lament

Summary: Raphael brings Tav to an abandoned chapel, hoping to complete one final task before he begins his conquests of the Hells.

Notes: I was inspired by my friend Mark Choi and his announcement of a new piano arrangement of "Down By The River." I desperately needed to see Raphael playing not just a piano, but a pipe organ. And what would suit the occasion? Our favourite Devil playing a song he had composed over a millenia ago, after he first lost the Crown of Karsus...

Link to my other work in the Devil's Archive.

(Image via certifieddilfenjoyer)

There once stood a magnificent chapel along the road to Baldur’s Gate. Mortals came from far and wide to bask in its glory, seek refuge from whatever sorrows afflicted them, and pray to the deity it was erected to honour. However, like most beautiful things on this plane, it was slowly worn down from one conflict after another, until it merely stood as a dilapidated relic of a time gone by.

On a particularly humid evening, nearly one year after the Elder Brain’s assault on Faerûn, Raphael found himself with Tav on the outskirts of the chapel, staring fondly at his old stomping grounds. No place was off limits when it came to his Devilish business, and the various religious structures scattered across the realms always proved to be the most lucrative. Raphael partook in his favourite game of hunting mortals in the very establishments they trusted, luring them into his traps with fanciful proposals of fortune and glory.

The Devil never settled on the weaker creatures unless there were no other alternatives, but it was the clerics and overly righteous he craved. There was nothing more joyous than watching their resolve slowly decay after his cunning verbiage and skillful charms got under their skins. Their potent souls were simply delectable, and worth all the time and effort to acquire them.

“So what are you planning?” Tav asked, stopping Raphael from reminiscing any further. “I thought you said we had no time to waste.”

“Walk with me, if you will, there is a final task I must complete before we are to continue.”

Raphael had already started on the path ahead and Tav quickly jogged to keep up, the stones crunching beneath her boots. He smiled to himself at the notion of her, the Hero of Baldur’s Gate, running after him.

As Raphael strode through the remains of the toppled structure, he searched for something far more valuable than the achievements of past meals. Raphael was after the heart and soul of the old chapel, the instrument responsible for the most beautiful sounds he had ever heard in his lifetime. The chapel’s pipe organ.

He heaved a sigh of relief to find the instrument still nestled at the far end of the rubble, under a canopy of overgrown trees. He had not been back since the fight against the Absolute, and in truth feared for the worst. Raphael would never let that spectacular creation suffer the same fate due to the failures of mortalkind, but he too had neglected it; spending the last few months muddled in the intricacies of reforging the Crown of Karsus.

The Devil had often argued with himself about whether or not to bring the pipe organ to the House of Hope. He had an idyllic place for it on his atelier balcony, overlooking the River Styx and barren wastelands of Avernus. But doing so would open him up to countless interruptions and he’d lose what he valued most: his precious solitude. He would never risk it.

“A marvel…” Raphael whispered, tilting his head up to admire the towering organ, the 3,000 golden pipes glistening in the darkness.

His eyes attentively moved across the pipes, carefully inspecting every surface for signs of damage. It was no secret that Raphael cherished the instrument, nearly as much as the Crown he had desired for over a millenia. It was Raphael’s own toy box, it could imitate nearly any orchestral instrument with just a few minute actions unnoticeable to the common mortal. The organ could do wonders above and beyond any grand piano, or even any symphony. With this tool, Raphael was his own maestro, having the power to freely weave his own melodies into existence and escape into the futures he so desperately desired.

“This hunk of junk? It’s practically falling apart.”

“I will not hear another peep from you.” Raphael hissed, turning to face Tav. He raised his finger threateningly towards her, as if scolding a small child.

Tav raised both of her hands apologetically, though there was still a hint of impishness in her smile as she took a step back.

“Sorry. Carry on then…”

Raphael sniffed sharply, in an attempt to keep his infernal flames at bay. As powerful and useful as that mortal was, she was a constant irritant; pushing Raphael closer and closer to his boiling point the more time he spent with her. And yet, they were inseparable since Tav had gifted the Crown to Raphael. Of all the creatures, in all the wretched planes, that little mouse had to be the one to fall into his claws, leaving a lasting effect on him.

He quickly redirected his attention to the pipe organ, brushing off the rotten twigs and dirt from the three keyboards. He snapped his fingers and a leather bench appeared, replacing the one that had broken long ago.

Raphael eagerly took his seat, lightly running his feet over the pedalboard to test it was still functional. He then prepared the various stops along the edges of the organ, choosing his intended octaves for the serenade to come.

After a few more minutes of fiddling with the organ, making sure all the divisionals were arranged accordingly, he was ready to begin.

With another snap of Raphael’s fingers, sheet music took shape before him. The chosen melody had been etched into his memory for a thousand years, yet he still brought out the yellowing sheets of paper whenever he dared to play it. Like the ruins surrounding him, the pages were close to deteriorating, slowly withering away at the edges.

The music notes were barely legible, the ink having faded a century or two earlier. Raphael dared not handle the pages by hand, as they would crumble at the slightest touch. Seeing the pages again were oddly comforting to the Devil, a sign of how far he has come. As painful as it was to revisit the meaning behind the music, the moment would always be part of Raphael, no matter how often he tried to consign it to oblivion.

The Devil took a deep breath and pressed his fingers against the keys. His exhale matched the roaring bellow that emerged from the pipes. Energy surged through his hands as he played the beginning of the piece, his feet moving to a completely different rhythm against the pedalboard. The low notes coming from his feet accompanied the lighter ones from his fingers, creating a flawless harmony.

The sounds of the pipe organ soon filled the air, echoing around him like lost ghosts wailing in the dark. It was haunting, exquisite, and a perfect representation of his internal strife. It was Raphael’s lament - the anguish, vexations, and seething hatred from all the years of his existence poured through his own spirit into the instrument. The reverberations from the pipes shook the trees above Raphael, causing the leaves to fall like snowflakes.

These same feelings had fuelled Raphael’s drive and ambition since he was a young Devil. He was discarded by Mephistopheles and left to rot in the deepest, darkest parts of the Hells; forced to suffer for a sin he had not committed. Raphael still found his way, against all odds, and survived every obstacle thrown at him. He learned how to rely only on himself, to play the game of the Hells, and quickly rise up the ranks by tipping the scales in his favour. He had ruthlessly betrayed allies and levelled entire cities, and he would do it a hundred times over if it meant he was closer to fulfilling his destiny of uniting the Nine Hells. He would show his father how powerful and capable he truly was.

As Raphael continued, he let himself get lost in the tempo, not questioning where his hands went next, which stops he pulled, or where his feet would take him. He soon found the keyboards were wet, had it begun to rain? He closed his eyes, a lump forming in his throat as decades worth of repressed emotions started to bubble to the top. He felt his fingers slip on a key, and then another, causing him to miss a few notes, but he quickly amended the mistake. He opened his eyes in fury, only to realise that he was crying. He clenched his jaw, causing the tears falling down his cheeks to quickly evaporate as his body sizzled in anger; resenting himself and the situation, always such a fool to let these fleeting emotions get the best of him.

He wasn't sure how long he had been playing, but his fingers throbbed as they continued to press against the keys. He wanted to continue, to replay the song again and again, to make sure it was perfect, but it was coming to its natural conclusion. He would need to leave it as is.

Raphael played the final notes, holding his fingers to the keys for an extra beat as the sounds slowly faded. He snapped his fingers and a small flame appeared in his hands. He lifted it up towards the music sheets and let the edges of the papers catch fire. The pages were devoured by the flames within a matter of seconds. Let the ashes of his lament stay within the ruins of the chapel.

“Gods…” Tav whispered, her voice choking with emotion. “Did you…?”

“I have never played that in front of another mortal. The first and last time you will ever hear such a piece.”

“It was remarkable.”

“I know.” Raphael responded, rising from the bench.

He flicked his wrist and the Crown of Karsus materialised before them. He caught reflections of himself in the Crown as he stared at it, his visage splitting into broken shards against the material of the relic. Different versions of Raphael stared back at him, as if from alternate timelines, offering a range of glimpses into his future. He smiled at the reflections and the thought of what he might look like donning the Crown, fighting against Zariel and her forces, in all his glory.

“It was a fitting farewell and one I had been looking forward to for a considerable amount of time. Now onto new beginnings, come.”

Tav didn’t wait for Raphael to create a portal, she jumped towards him, latching on to his arm. On previous occasions he would’ve shooed her away, like an irksome mosquito, but he let her stay clinging to him. Just this once, perhaps for his own comfort.

Tonight Raphael would write a different composition - one of celebration and conquest, that he would play throughout the decades to come, solidifying his reign.

#writing #bg3 raphael #raphael the cambion #baldurs gate 3 raphael #raphael baldur's gate 3 #raphael bg3 #bg3 #fanfic #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 fanfiction #raphael fanfic #raphael bg3 x reader #raphael x tav #raphael x reader #raphael #crown of karsus #bg3 tav #raphael bg3 x tav

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creatorisdumb · 1 month

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This song makes me think of WizardBrave and you’re not allowed to disagree

I imagine Brave in a concert hall for fancy people at a fancy event (bc he’s THAT good. Let me Gary Sue him) playing this song with his killer piano skills practically confessing his love for Wizard (Who is also at this event, somewhere in the crowd), but at the end of it Wizard wasn’t paying attention and instead realizing how gay he and Brave are, is talking to someone fuck like Cinnamon cookie while eating some expensive fancy ice cream.

He’s also singing about his silly little gay fantasies about Wizard or little gay memories he has of Wizard but trying to make it seem like he’s not actually talking about Wizard at all, only making it more obvious he is talking about Wizard but because Wizard isn’t paying attention he doesn’t get it and it sucks.

Anyways I love them so much they should kiss

#cookie run #shit post #cookie run ovenbreak #cookie run kingdom #wizard x gingerbrave #wizard cookie x gingerbrave #wizardbrave #gingerbrave #wizard cookie #Spotify

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foreverdolly · 2 years

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godspeed your love | protective austin!elvis x reader

this is part three of the 'my bestest girl' series. i highly recommend that you read part one and part two before reading this one.

summary: you and elvis are driving back to graceland after a show in arkansas, when something happens that terrifies you both. having been so close to losing you, elvis throws his original plans for a flashy romantic gesture out the window. he knows for certain that he can't live without you, and having been so close to it? he can't bear the thought.

pairings: austin!elvis x reader

word count: 6,282

warnings/notes: SMUT! in previous and upcoming chapters, elvis is a simp but what's new in this series, just a whole lot of tooth aching fluff, i'm so excited to post the next part- can't even tell ya.

masterlist | requests are currently closed!

Elvis never could stand driving in a car without the radio blasting. After the show, not caring how his hair ended up, he rolled the windows down, singing along to the song “Unchained Melody” by Les Baxter. You would think that after a long night of performing that the man would grow tired of using his voice, but he was no better than a songbird. After the song had ended and the radio announcer began playing something else, Elvis reached out, turning the volume down on the radio. “I would love to perform that song one day. Whatcha think?” He turned his head, looking at you out of the corner of his eye before turning back towards the dark road. It was a hot spring night in Arkansas, and the wind felt good on your cheeks. You had tried tucking your hair behind your ears to keep it out of your face, but had given up after the first ten minutes of the drive. Elvis kept looking over at you, his cheeks a soft pink as he admired your beauty. You always looked so well kept- always had. You were raised up on good Southern values, and always took extra care in your appearance. Even before you started dating Elvis, you had been the belle of your school, which was probably why the ebony haired boy was always stuck to your side like glue. He had been too scared to let you out of his sight, even with the title of “best friend”, he never did like other boys around you. Elvis thought you were absolutely gorgeous like this. Your hair mussed, your eyes alight with excitement and adventure. You were just as high on the adrenaline as he was after the show, him having you sit on the stairs of the stage after the last little incident from the Fairgrounds tour. You preferred being down in the crowd so that you could have a better viewpoint of your beau. Alas, Elvis was extra strict in his protection over you after everything that had happened.

“I think you’d sound wonderful, Elvis. Really! All it needs is a little more soul, and you’ve got plenty of that.” He smiled widely, lifting up in the seat so that he could get a good look at the rearview mirror to make sure that Scotty and Bill were following close behind. You turned your head too, searching for their headlights in the distance. Once he had made sure that his bandmates hadn’t gotten lost on one of the backroads, he turned back to face the empty road. “The building orchestra is beautiful, but I’d want to keep it a lil’ more simple. Just the piano- at least until the buildup of the song. If I sing it with enough heart, I don't need anythin’ fancy like that.” You nodded, leaning your head back against the cushioned headrest of his pink Cadillac. “A choir.” You hummed out, slipping your heels off so that you could tuck your feet underneath yourself, turning to face him with a wide grin. He sounded the best when he stuck to his roots. Even though you liked everything he ever sang, you felt like the Colonel was beginning to pull him in a new direction. He sounded godly when it was just him, Bill and Scotty- that rhythm guitar of Elvis’s shining through. His eyes quickly widened as he removed one of his hands from the wheel, snapping a few times before pointing at you excitedly. “I could give it more of a gospel feel. Jesus, baby! I’m marryin’ a genius.” You felt your cheeks flush a bright red, and you were quick to stare down at your lap. Even after the first night that the two of you had spent together, marriage had been something that had been discussed. Some would call the two of you crazy for moving so fast in your relationship. After knowing Elvis for so long, you knew what kind of a person he was. You were certain that he was the person for you, and he seemed even more convinced. He had been fully dedicated to you since day one.

You were one of the only people that truly understood Elvis down to his very core. You saw him, and loved him for who he was, not what he did. When you had first met him back in school, the most he had done with his musical career was win fifth place at the Mississippi Dairy Fair singing “Old Shep” when he was ten. The man never doubted your intentions with him, and you never doubted his either. He was in a hurry to wed you, and he let your parents know his intentions after he dropped you off at home one night. It had only been the second official date the two of you had been on together, and he had walked straight up to the door and shook your father’s hand. Your dad had been shocked by Elvis’s sudden formalities, having known the boy since he was in the eighth grade. “I’m dating your daughter with the intention of marriage, and I wanted to get your blessing, sir.” Though both your father and mother had been stunned into silence by his bluntness, they had happily agreed. There was no one else that your parents had ever imagined you ending up with, and same with Gladys and Vernon. Gladys had called you up that very same night, letting you know that her boy had told her the good news. Elvis still hadn’t proposed yet, and you supposed that it was because he wanted to make it special. He was the type of man that put value behind everything he did. He never half-assed anything. Even if it was just a random board game, he always made sure to win. Sometimes he’d take that attitude a little too far, having you help him cheat during the card games he played with family and friends.

Sometimes Elvis would drop hints that he would be popping the question soon, like right now. He liked to keep you on your toes though. Part of you felt like he was waiting until you moved in with him to finally ask you to be his wife. He had practically begged you to move to Graceland when he had first bought the house back in March, but your parents weren’t budging. No matter how many times you tried to explain to them that you wouldn’t be staying in the same room until marriage, they seemed to be against it. You weren’t married yet, so you weren’t allowed. Sleepovers every now and again seemed to be fine with them, especially whenever he was on the road. They knew that you would probably go crazy if you had to be without him for too long, and they respected that. Of course they didn’t know that the two of you had been sleeping in the same bed since the very beginning. You had lied and told them that the Colonel had gotten you a separate hotel room.

What they don’t know won’t hurt them.

You enjoyed spending the weekends at Graceland. Your parents hadn’t been too keen with the idea of it. You had promised to call them routinely in order to quell their nerves. After getting nightly calls from both you and Gladys, they seemed to quiet down and get used to it. Letting you live there full time, seven days a week, was pushing it with them though. Your mother and father weren’t budging. Even Elvis’s mother had tried to reason with them, going out to lunch with your mother in the hopes of buttering her up to the idea. “So. . . Have your parents had a change of heart about Graceland? They’re invited to come over just to see it. Maybe if they saw how many rooms there were they might change their minds.” Your boyfriend reached out blindly, his hand searching for yours in your lap. You gave him a quick squeeze when he intertwined your fingers. “No matter what I say or do, my mother won’t seem to change her mind on it. She’s bein’ difficult.” When was she not being difficult though? You tried to ignore the disappointed frown that pulled at the corners of Elvis’s lips, but failed in doing so. You rubbed your thumb against the back of his hand, moving in slow circles. He seemed to relax after that.

Out of the corner of your eye you noticed smoke curling up from over the hood of the car. You blinked a few times, wondering if it was perhaps just your mind playing tricks on you, but the smoke gradually began to thicken a bit. “Uh. . . Baby? Is it supposed to be foggy out right now?” Elvis turned to look at you like you were crazy. “It hasn’t rained or anythin’. I don’t see why there would be any fog out, why?” He squinted his eyes, trying hard to see exactly what you were looking at. His lips parted in shock when he finally noticed the grey cloud rising up from under the hood of the car. His blue eyes widened a bit before he groaned loudly. “I just want to get back home, god damn it!” He complained, pulling the car over.

For a second the both of you were fully convinced that it was just a mechanical problem. Your father’s car had smoked up like that before, after it had gotten overheated. Back then all he had to do was wait for a couple minutes before cranking the thing back up. He was able to get it back to a shop, and all they had to do was pour more fluid in it. Your parents, prior to Elvis insisting that he bought them a new car, had the same car for nearly nine years. This car was brand spankin’ new, so there was no way that there could be something seriously wrong with it. Right? Elvis sat up in the seat so that he could reach over into the back, reaching for a jug of liquid that you thought must be the same sort of fluid that your father had used. You listened to him muttering to himself, cursing his own luck. “We’re not even near a damn hotel, so Bill and Scotty are going to have to drive us all the way home to Memphis. As much as I hate to say it, I don’t think I can stand being in the car with those knuckleheads for two hours.” You agreed with him. Elvis loved horsing around just like any boy his age, maybe even more so. He was one of the funniest men you’ve ever met- but Scotty and Bill took it too far sometimes though. They were extremely loud, and the two of you could only take them in small doses. You prayed to the heavens that you both could get the thing started back up. You weren’t too far away from Tennessee, and you had promised your parents that you would call them in the morning after you had gotten back to Graceland.

Elvis kept rattling on, pushing your suitcases to the side so that he could search under the seats. “Where the hell is that damn coolant?” It was at that exact moment that the smoke began changing colors. Before your very eyes, what had once been a soft gray smoke soon turned into a thick black smog. Your heart began to pound loudly, panic soon seizing you. This wasn’t normal, was it? You were quick to reach out, turning the ignition off before it could get any worse, but it was too late. There was a soft popping noise from under the hood, and then an explosion so loud it made your ears ring. Elvis jumped so violently that his head hit the roof of the car, and he was quick to sit back down in the seat. Elvis yanked the door to the driver's side door open, hurling himself out onto the grass, his shoes slipping against the wet dirt as he tried to get over to your side. “Baby!” Never in your life had you ever heard him so panicked. You were frozen with fear as you saw the bright orange flames lapping up against the pink hood of the car, illuminating the pitch black backcountry road. “Y/N!” He screamed your name, yanking at the car door handle. It was the pure, unadulterated fear in his voice that snapped you out of whatever fear induced haze you had been in, and you were quick to reach out with shaky hands, trying to undo the lock. It kept slipping in your fingers, not budging. “T-The door is locked!” Elvis was crying now, his face twisted as he tried desperately to yank the door open, not having any leverage against the wet ground. You sucked in a deep breath, limbs feeling weak as you climbed over from the passenger seat to the drivers. You tried his door, but found that it must have locked automatically- some sort of newer safety feature with the fancy car. You were trapped. Both of the windows were open about halfway, but it wasn’t large enough for you to crawl through. “You’re going to be okay, darlin’. Okay? I’m gonna get you outta there.” It sounded like Elvis was hyperventilating, damn near talking to himself as a way to soothe his own panic.

Because he had to get you out. You had to be safe. He had been doing such a good job at ensuring your constant protection ever since that incident from a couple of months back. Hell, the man was so crazy about your safety that he called your house phone every night that you weren’t by his side, wanting to hear your voice and know that you got home from work safely. The cab of the vehicle was beginning to grow stiflingly hot, and the smoke was making it difficult for you to breathe. “E-Elvis! E-Elvis, honey. . . it’s gettin’ hard for me to breathe.” Your boyfriend had run to the side doors, yanking on them for dear life. Nothing. “I’m going to break the window, baby. I want you to scoot back on the opposite side as far as you can. Cover your face.” Your foot hit the gearshift as you frantically pushed your body against the hot side of the car, pulling your knees up to your chest so that you could bury your face into your skirt. Elvis searched the ground on his hands and knees, looking for a rock big enough that he could use. After about twenty seconds he found what he was looking for. He gripped the thing as hard as he could, rearing his arm back before bringing it down against the window as hard as he could muster. You jumped as you heard it crack, shaking like a leaf as you heard the fire roaring just beside your ear.

Were you about to die? Sure, you’d gotten yourself into trouble before, but never like this. The ebony haired boy ripped off his blazer, wrapping the fabric around his hand as he clawed at the broken glass, pushing it into the car so that you could safely climb through. “C-Come to me, baby. Come on, little one. I’ll pull you out.” Your hands got cut up by the shards of glass as you crawled over the leather seat, but you couldn’t even feel it with your adrenaline pumping the way that it was. Elvis’s hands were underneath your arms in the blink of an eye, and he yanked you so hard that the both of you fell to the grass. He clutched you to his chest with one arm, using his other to slide you both away from the car and into the forest-line behind you. He didn’t stop dragging the two of you backwards until the both of you were halfway into a bush. The man was shaking so hard that he was practically convulsing. Scotty and Bill showed up just thirty seconds later, having only been a mile behind the both of you. They had seen the fire from the top of the hill you two had been driving down, and had gunned it to get to the both of you. For a second all that the four of you could do was stare with wide eyes, both you and Elvis’s face stained with soot and tears. “How the hell did this happen?” Scotty asked when he shuffled over towards the both of you. He offered Elvis a hand, but he was too stunned to take it. Either that or he didn’t want to let go of you yet. He was holding you so tightly that it felt like your back might break, but you reveled in it. Elvis had saved your life. Elvis Aaron Presley had just saved your life.

“I don’t know, man. I-I really don’t know. It was runnin’ just fine the entire way to the show, and then it just burst into damn flames! S-She nearly died…” He trailed off, squeezing you a little tighter to him before he slowly relaxed his arms. The shock was beginning to wear off of the both of you, soon being replaced by horror. You both could have been gravely injured in all of that, but other than some scraps and bruises, the both of you had come out of it just fine. Sure, your lungs hurt from inhaling so much smoke, but you were sure that it would be better within the next couple of days. You weren’t sure how Elvis had been able to act as quickly as he did, especially given the level of panic he must have been feeling in the heat of the moment. You slowly stood up on shaky legs, completely barefoot and grass stained. Elvis looked even worse than you did. Even his hair had mud in it. He was quick to reach out for your hand once he had stood up, not even bothering to brush himself off before he pressed your small hand against his chest. His heart was still beating a mile a minute, his pulse pressing hard against your palm. “I never want to go through anythin’ like that again,” Scotty and Bill started walking back to the car, realizing that whatever Elvis was currently going through, he definitely didn’t want them hanging around and listening to his vulnerability. The second that they were far enough away his bottom lip began to quiver. “I-I thought you were gonna die.” His voice cracked as he tried to hold back the tears. “I’ve never felt like that in my entire life.” Your boyfriend didn’t break down very often, but when he did it was only around you. You were the only one permitted to see him like this.

“I thought I was gonna die too. . .” The fire was starting to die down, but you knew that the front seats were completely scorched by now. If you had been in that car just a minute more, there was no way you wouldn’t have been burned up by the fire. Either that or from smoke inhalation. Both of those possibilities would have been a horribly painful way to go, and the thought of Elvis having to see that happen to you? God, you had both been through something terribly traumatic. “Let’s get home, alright?” Graceland. Home. You wanted to go home and crawl into bed with Elvis and hold him as tightly as your bodies would allow. “Yeah, let’s do that honey.” Elvis started to walk to the car, but paused as he noticed that you weren’t wearing any shoes. He looked down at your dirt stained feet, biting down on his lower lip. Without saying a word he bent down, scooping you up into his arms so that he could carry you across the dirt and grass to the other car. He helped you inside, scooting in next to you in the back. “I’ll pay to have your car cleaned, Bill. Don’t mind the mess.” You two were absolutely filthy, and you were sure that the seats would look like a crime scene by the time that the two of you were back home. The boys brushed it off quickly, Scotty turning around in the passenger side seat to face the both of you. “It was already pretty filthy back there anyways, isn’t that right, Bill? After what the both of you went through, don’t even worry about it.”

Most people would be surprised to learn that Elvis was a very polite and well mannered person. He was raised in a Southern Christian household, and he upheld those values, even with all of his newfound fame. He might have been five seconds away from a mental breakdown, but that didn’t mean he didn’t value his friend’s belongings.

The four of you were only ten minutes into the drive, but your anxiety was mounting all over again. You weren’t sure how you were supposed to be in a car after everything that just happened. You had at least an hour and a half left into the drive, and you didn’t think you could mentally handle it. Elvis noticed your quivering, and was quick to look down at you, his eyes wide with worry. “B-Bill? Change of plans. The airport is about ten minutes from here. Can you drop us off?” The car plummeted into silence as the boys tried to grasp just what their bandmate was trying to say. “It’ll take you even longer to get home by plane than it would by car. Not to mention that your girl doesn’t have shoes. . .” Elvis shook his head, quickly turning down the offer. “I’ll make somethin’ happen. I can’t be in a car right now. My nerves are shot.” Your heart warmed as you realized that he was trying to blame this on his own feelings, and not yours. He knew how nervous you got about feeling like a burden or a bother. “I’m sorry, darlin. You’re okay with that, right?” He looked down at you, raising an eyebrow. For a second all you could do was smile at him, and he returned it, flashing you a knowing wink. You quickly nodded your head, excited to get the hell out of the car.

Elvis stuck to his word. He made it happen. He was able to buy a pair of shoes off of a woman the second that he had entered the airport. The price? An autograph and a five dollar bill. The shoes were slightly big on you, but you made it work. The front desk clerk was shocked to see the state that the two of you were in, but Elvis quickly gave her a condensed version of the story, and after pulling some strings behind the scenes, you two were seated on a plane within the hour. It was a miracle.

When you and Elvis finally arrived home, Gladys was already waiting up in the living room. “Mama? What in the hell are you doin’ awake at this hour?” Elvis asked as he shuffled in through the front door, his arm wrapped tightly around your waist. He had to hold you up, practically carrying you through the front door. You could barely keep your eyes open. “Elvis! Y/n! My babies!” She launched herself out of the chair she was perched in, wrapping her arms around the both of you in a hug that was so tight, you felt your upper back pop. “S-Satnin? You okay, momma? What’s got you actin’ like this?” Gladys was the type of woman that fell asleep around ten o’clock at night. She was a creature of habit. You hadn’t caught sight of a clock in the last three hours, but it had to be two in the morning. “I-I had a dream! About you two. Oh, it was awful. Something was wrong, and I wasn’t able to get to you in time. I told your daddy that it was an omen. I just. . . I just knew that somethin’ wasn’t right.” The second that Gladys had pulled away, both you and Elvis shot each other a look. ‘How did she know? No one had called her, had they?’ She rubbed her hands together nervously, looking at the state of you both. You two looked like absolute hammered shit. “What in sam hell happened to you?” The ebony haired male, at first, tried to play it off as simple car troubles. The roads were muddy, and the two of you got filthy. She wasn’t buying it for a skinny minute. She put her hands on her hips and tapped her foot impatiently on the ground. “Don’t you lie to me, boy.”

After giving you a quick glance he jumped into the story, explaining everything to her in detail. When he described how afraid for you he had been, the male teared up, unable to even put the horrific sight into words. “I could see the smoke building up in the car. I felt so helpless, mama. It was the worst thing that has ever happened to me. I don’t think I’ll be able to ride in a car for weeks.” And you didn’t think that you would be able to either. Being locked inside of that tiny space, hearing the fire crackling right by your ear and feeling the heat against your skin? It wasn’t something you think you’d ever be able to get over. Gladys held you in her arms as Elvis retold the story of the night's events, stroking your hair and placing kisses against your soot covered forehead. Finally, after Elvis was done, you turned your eyes up to look at him. It was obvious that he was overcome with emotion. Seeing you in that position, not knowing if he would be able to save you or not, had been a nightmare come true for him. “You kids are going to kill me one day. M-My heart just can’t take it.” Gladys grabbed onto your shirt, gripping you even tighter to her small, soft body. “It was a freak accident, mama. I don’t know of anybody that somethin’ like this has happened to.” She sniffled by your ear, slowly letting you go. You stood up a little straighter, moving to stand by Elvis’s side. His body was beginning to sag with exhaustion. “We’ll talk about this more in the mornin’, okay?” He reached down to take your arm in his, pulling you in the direction of the stairs. Gladys looked like she wanted to argue, but shuffled off in the direction of her and Vernon’s room.

Elvis took his time cleaning you off in the shower, his hands running over your body delicately, washing away the grime of the night. He was gentle with you, touching each and every inch of you. He even insisted on washing your hair for you, making sure that no soap got in your eyes. When he touched you like this it wasn’t sexual. It was almost like he wanted to make sure that you were really there with him. That you were real. Sometimes Elvis would just touch you to touch you. There didn’t have to be any real sexual intensions behind it, he merely enjoyed the feel of your skin. Loved your warmth and your natural scent. Elvis had been in love with you for years, and the fact that you were there with him, loving him back? Well, that was the greatest gift in the world. You returned the favor, grabbing the bar of strong smelling soap, rubbing it against your hands. Once there were enough suds, you took his arm in your small hands, deciding to start there.

Sometimes you thought that he might break, and it scared you.

He was a gentle soul with a big personality. He was the type of person that had a deeper way of thinking than most normal people, and it was that constant pondering that got you all shook up in the worst of ways. You were scared that he might get lost in there someday, and that you might not be there to pull him out of the raging waters of his own head. He looked at you like he had a thousand things he wanted to say, but he barely talked throughout the entire shower. He just stared and stared, his hands brushing over your shoulders and down your arms. His fingers pressed against the tender skin under your breasts, feeling the weight of them in his hands. And then he’d press his palm against the middle of your chest, searching for a heartbeat. You two stayed like that for a few minutes, the warm water running over both of your faces. His long eyelashes blinked against the droplets, fighting so that he didn’t have to close his eyes. He wanted to keep looking at you.

Wordlessly he pulled away from you and grabbed a towel, and instead of drying himself off first, he reached out for you, pulling you into his arms so that he could tenderly begin drying you. Only after you were completely dry and no longer shivering from the cold did he finally scrub the towel against his dark locks. “Are you alright?” You finally asked, reaching up to pull the towel away from his face. The plush yellow fabric was wrapped around the top of his head, his body still dripping wet, and he stared down at you through his thick lashes. His eyes were sad, his lips slightly pursed. “Yeah.” His voice wavered, and he cleared his throat before nodding. “Y-Yeah. I’m fine, baby. Just thinkin’.” When was Elvis not thinking? You merely nodded your head, grabbing the robe that Elvis had bought for you off of the back of the door and wrapping it around yourself. After tossing the towel down the dirty clothes shoot he opened up the door, padding across the carpet to his bedroom. He liked to keep it pitch black, the thick curtains already drawn shut. You squinted your eyes to see him through the dark, and slowly crawled into the bed. You could barely make out his form, but somehow he still managed to see you. He slipped the robe off of your shoulders before moving down to undo the knot at your waist. “I want to feel you tonight, baby. I won’t try nothin’.” Your parents would die if they knew that you had only ever slept with Elvis in his bed. His parents must have known that he didn’t have you sleeping in the spare bedroom upstairs, but thankfully they never mentioned it to your parents. If anything, they were nice enough to uphold the lie, saying you only ever stayed in the guest rooms during your time at Graceland. Elvis kept his word, pressing up against your naked body with his. Large hands moved against your stomach, then down your thigh, lightly gripping at your flesh. Finally he spoke up, sharing the thoughts that were plaguing him. He did this often. He had to sort through his feelings before he finally found the nerve to share something of a severely serious nature with you.

“I can’t live without you. I’ve always known that you would be the love of my life. Always been certain of it. Now that I’m with you though. . . I don’t think I can spend a single day without you.” You squeezed your eyes shut, shuddering out a breath. “I feel the same way.” You mumbled, rubbing your cheek against the arm that he had rested beneath your head. He pulled you even tighter against his front, your rear end pressed tightly against his pelvis. Like two pieces of a puzzle, you fit snug against him. “I mean. . . I-I wanted to do this a better way, baby. I had a whole plan, but I don’t think that I can wait any longer. I w-went to your house last week. You were out shopping with mama.” Your eyes shot open as you remembered how strange it was for Gladys to call you up, wanting you to help her pick out a new vacuum cleaner. You know how clingy the woman was, and she had told you that Elvis had made plans with the Colonel that day. You merely thought that she didn’t want to go out alone, and thought nothing of it.

Why would Elvis go to your house without telling you? You could only think of one reason. . . “You went to my house?” You mumbled, your lips brushing against his arm. Your face felt numb, and your hands shook as you gripped onto the pillow. He tightened his hold on you, pressing his forehead against the back of your head. You felt him nod, his nose nuzzling into your wet hair. “I had lunch with your daddy. I-I told him that. . . that I bought you a ring.” Your breath locked up in your throat. “O-Oh. . . Elvis.” Your heart began to pound in your throat. “I told him that I wanted you to live with me. That I wanted you to marry me, and be the mother of my children. I told him that fame wasn’t gonna change me none. T-That I will always love you. Stay true to you. Provide for you.” You couldn’t believe that this was all happening. You were in shock. He gave the back of your head a kiss before he sat up, untangling himself from you so that he could reach into his bedside table. You heard the drawer open and close, and slowly you sat up, turning to face in the direction of his voice. “I-I want to be able to see you.” You stuttered out, trying to fight off the tears that you were sure to soon shed. Wordlessly Elvis opened up the heavy curtains, moonlight pooling in. Finally, after what felt like an eternity of laying in the darkness, you were able to see him. Your pretty boy. His skin looked paler than normal in the moonlight, and his hair was so black it was practically obsidian. His eyes were pooling with emotion, but he looked so sure of the things that he was saying. The two of you were only twenty-one, but classmates of yours had gotten married far younger. You were ready.

He was gripping a velvet box in his hand, and he slowly eased himself back down into the bed, reaching out for you. You intertwined your fingers, looking down with wide eyes at the box. “I’ve loved you from the moment I first set eyes on you. A day hasn’t gone by that I haven’t thought about you- even just once. You’ve been my main source of strength, even through all of this recent craziness. You’ve always been there for me when I needed you most, Y/n. I want to grow old with you and make a life with you. I want you to take my last name. S-So. . .” He removed his hand from yours so that he could lift the lid of the box. It could have been a ring that he had gotten you from a gumball machine, you didn’t care. It was the way he spoke so softly to you, almost as if he was unsure of what your answer might be.

It was almost like Elvis still didn’t know how much you truly adored him. Despite the fame, he was still a man. A man that had been in love with the same girl since middle school. A man that still had to pinch himself, in fear that he might be dreaming.

The ring, even in the dim lighting, was gorgeous. The diamond itself was bigger than anything you’d seen before. Your lips parted as you tried hard to fully grasp the situation . You could tell that he was beginning to lose some of his bravery, finally being able to get a good look at you. “W-Will you do me the honor of becomin’ my wife?” For a second you just sat there, your arms limp at your sides as you stared up at his face. You felt like you were in a state of shock. This was a better proposal than you could have ever asked for. None of it was for show. There was nothing flashy, no clapping spectators or crying family members. It was just you and Elvis. It made you think about the first night the two of you had shared together, back in his old house in the projects. You reached out for him, wrapping your arms tightly around his shoulders, placing kiss after kiss on his neck. “Yes!” He melted as he heard your answer, his tense muscles relaxing as he realized that he wasn’t being rejected. “Oh god, honey.” Elvis breathed out, laughing nervously. He must have dropped the box onto the bed, because he wrapped both of his arms around you, one of his hands tangling into your hair. “I was scared you were gonna say no for a second there.” You sniffled, laughing through your tears in disbelief. “As if I could ever say no to you, Elvis.You never had anythin’ to be worried about. Don’t be silly.”

@bookklover23 @medleyj @idkwhattthisisss @dharnwjs @slutforsomegoodlettuce @crackerbarrelslut @macey234 @nightfiress @keepdrivingrr @melodydior @luvvrrrrr @mymamalife @wwebby657 @shynovelist @ssstrangersblog @harrysthecraic @hangmanswhore @jyvnho @alqvarde @bcofl0ve @mslizziesblog @ggxsan @screaching-cookie @fantuhsise @areuirish @hxllvely @lelifesaver @milaa24 @meladollsims @poppet05 @shrekstheloml @randomwriter888 @idc123sworld @vane28282 @mirandastuckinthe80s @girlblogger2002 @rockerchick05 @screechingstrawberrysong @simpforevery1 @girlabirla @dre6ming @obetrolncocktails @fairyjanes @jensenswinchester @lo-bells @in-my-body-bag @fxntxsix @petrparkrslut @eliseinmemphis @abloversblog @gwuide @blurredcolour @the-little-red-haired-girl @thella @anni-secret-account-75 @ab4eva @starcatchxr @hllfireandtheforce @obbsessivereader @marthablake @julietamidala @unsaidjaelinrose @dark-as-love @lucy27055 @cchl @austinsrealgf @austinbutlersgirlfriend @clearbolts @seventieswhore @silkeiy

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starryriize · 2 months

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any nicholas fluff thoughts pls 🥺 ppl often depict him as some kind of tsundere bc of his looks but he's actually such a sweetheart and the members have said he's a genuinely kind and caring person. he said he even tried smiling more growing up so that people wouldn't find him so intimidating oh i want to protect him with my life 😭

delulu thoughts | nico

╰┈ ⋆｡˚ 🪼genre: fluff!!

╰┈ ⋆｡˚ 🪼author’s note: i agree nonnie 🫶🏼 he deserves the world!! anyways, i hope you enjoy this love :(( hehee i giggled while writing this 🤭

🫧laur’s taglist: @chiiyuuvv @kehnarii

⋆⑅˚₊ the type of bf to have a small smile as he watches you work! or just the look of love when he sees you do anything :((

⋆⑅˚₊ plays piano for you and sometimes puts on music as he takes your hands, leading you in a slow dance in the living room (stop he would do this idc)

⋆⑅˚₊ the type to pout but smile when you call him cute!! he knows that he can come off with the vibes of "big scary dog" but like most big dogs, he's a total softie 🥹

⋆⑅˚₊ strikes me as the type to pick you up randomly and just give you big hugs!! he gets all smiley while hugging you too :((

⋆⑅˚₊ when you feel sad, he's by your side in a comfortable silence as he gives you a reassuring look 🫶🏼 words aren’t always necessary when his eyes speak a thousand words to you

⋆⑅˚₊ “why did you do that?” and “because i care” type of relationship!! he cares so much about you that he always remembers the tiniest details about you :((

⋆⑅˚₊ he’d take you on really cute dates and a lot of them are pure fun!! would buy the matching souvenirs and play games for you so he can win you the biggest prize 😌

⋆⑅˚₊ the type to always reach for your hand!! he just loves knowing that you’re his makes him feel like he saved a world in his past life🥹🫶🏼

⋆⑅˚₊ loves it when you play with his hair and let him lay down on your lap :((( it’s so comforting to him, especially after a long day in the practice room

⋆⑅˚₊ when you dress up together for a fancy occasion and you tell him that everyone's staring at him because he looks so handsome, he replies, "no love, they're staring at you." (argh stop i'm giggling even thinking about this) 🤭

⋆⑅˚₊ the type of romance that you only read about and used to dream of having! he entered your life and made you believe in true love :( the way he puts you first no matter what too :(( please it's so incredibly sweet

⋆⑅˚₊ his friends most definitely tease him when they catch him staring at you so lovingly, saying things like, "nico, when are you going to propose??" and he just stops. he secretly knows that you're definitely the one for him.

⋆⑅˚₊ often asks you why you love him because he fears that his intimidating looks might cause you to leave one day, but you always reassure him 🥹 you love him for who he is and that he has the most genuine soul and a pure heart :((

⋆⑅˚₊ he regales you with stories of his childhood and his time on i-land as you listen to each and every tale!! and then asks about your childhood while he's giggling at every word you say 😭 (he's so cute pls)

⋆⑅˚₊ KARAOKE DATES!!! hear me out when i say that he loves nostalgia and fun like...the carefree vibes! when you start dancing while singing off-key, he bursts out laughing, and at this point, both of you are just enjoying the vibes 😭😌

⋆⑅˚₊ when you're sad, he's holding you tight and letting you cry on his shirt! he's willing to listen if you want to and he holds your hands to reassure you that he's not going anywhere! through thick and thin, he'll be by your side 🫶🏼 (he gives forehead kisses too)

⋆⑅˚₊ overall, a green flag!! he's a gentleman and kind-hearted so please don't ever break his heart <3

🫧join laur's taglist!

#laur’s thoughts 🧚🏼‍♀️#andteam nicholas #&team x reader #&team reactions #&team imagines #&team fluff #andteam fluff #andteam imagines #andteam scenarios #andteam reactions #andteam x reader

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deathbecomesthem · 4 months

Text

The Piano Man

Part 2

Older!Eddie Munson x Reader | 1K

This is something. It's possible there will be more tomorrow. For now, I leave you with this teeny bit of a thing that I wrote while thinking about home.

The hotel is a ghost town, and it has been since the snow hit. Unlucky you missed your last chance at escape because you believed the weather report. You should have trusted the folks on their mass exodus from the tiny Berkshire village.

It wasn’t supposed to be this way. You were supposed to be on the road to your mother’s house last night. The trip was an impulsive decision. The day that Russ left, you turned in your request for the vacation time you’ve been hoarding for the last several years, and hit the road the following day. Your apartment was too quiet, and you remembered visiting this town when you were a child. The mountains are a dream this time of year, fresh snow capped peaks hiding over every hill. Mother Nature foiled your escape, and left you with the ghosts of regret to haunt you in the eerie stillness of the snow covered landscape.

Now, it’s Christmas Eve, and you’re sitting at the hotel bar with the elderly bartender as your only company. The martini is passable, it’ll do its job anyway. You’re picking at the tray of cheese and crudites, the only food available from the kitchen with no staff past 6 in the evening, when you hear it from across the big room.

Like a punch in the gut, the tinkle of piano keys echo through the space. O Little Town of Bethlehem. You close your eyes and listen to the song without turning around to see the pianist that’s celebrating their own private Christmas concert. A small part of you thinks you’ll see your grandmother sitting at the baby grand in the corner. Even now, with the taste of gin still on your tongue, you can almost imagine that you’re sitting in the first pew of your grandfather’s church on a Christmas Eve candlelight service so many years ago.

“Carl,” you draw the attention of the bartender behind the counter to you as the mystery pianist begins a new song - Hark the Herald Angels Sing, “can I get another martini please?”

He nods his head and makes your drink. When he sets it in front of you, you pick it up, along with the square black napkin underneath the base, and begin to make your way towards the sound of the music from the corner.

You do not expect to find a man, let alone a man with long black hair and tattoos on his neck and fingers, with his eyes closed while his hands dance along the keys in front of him. Of course, his long fingers are made for the instrument in front of him, and they are clever. You think maybe under other circumstances, you’d see him at one of the fancy piano bars Russ used to like to take you to. He’d fit right in there.

When his eyes open, he finds you standing next to him, glass in your hand. He smiles and nods his head in a bow before asking, “any requests? Christmas music only, please. ‘Tis the season and all that.”

“O Come, O Come Emmanuel,” you answer without hesitation, “and then you should join me at the bar on your break.”

He nods and closes his eyes, giving you the opportunity to watch him in private. His neck is long, and it delights your eyes to see the way he moves his body while his fingers pull the song from the keys in front of him. He’s not playing a song, he’s discovering it, he’s pulling it from the piano and breathing life into it.

After a couple of beats, you reluctantly turn and make your way back to the bar, hoping he’ll join you at some point. You’re willing to sit and wait. You’ll stay there until he either sits down next to you, or leaves.

Three more songs, ghosts from your childhood, float through the room. With your eyes closed, you are that child in knee high socks and a red bow in your hair. You can almost smell the spiced cake baking in your grandmother’s kitchen. You can’t even be sorry that he hasn’t joined you, this stranger is giving you the gift of memories long forgotten. You wonder if he’s searching for his own past in the songs he’s playing.

The timing is perfect, you drain your second marini as his clever hands run along the keys for a final time. O Silent Night, how true that is. The snow outside absorbs every sound, and the cars are all sitting under several feet of snow. You don’t remember another time when things were this silent.

“Is this seat taken?” The stranger, soon to be friend, takes a seat without waiting for your approval. A neat whiskey, double, and another martini for you, and you’re both well on your way to a new kind of holiday memory in the frozen New England hideaway.

—

The ink on his skin, jet black marks on his neck and thighs, gray on his arms and chest, shine under the bright moonlight that filters through the big window of his hotel room. The fresh snow on the ground outside makes that moonlight radiate in a way that can only be seen during this time of year.

The snow soaks up the small sounds that escape your lips while your bodies seek pleasure and refuge on that frigid December night. The clever fingers that danced along the keys of that baby grand piano move along your skin. Those fingers find the keys of your body, and bring out the songs that are hidden deep inside of you. You are his instrument, and he plays and plays and plays until sweat slicked and spent, you sleep under the warm covers of the hotel bedspread.

#eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson #eddie munson smut #eddie munson x reader

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reveluving · 9 months

Note

OKAYY moving into simu!ken’s mojo dojo casa house and him cuddling with you every night & not letting you go 🫣❤️

a/n: YUHHHHH more Simu!Ken, coming right up! Thank you dear anon! 💗💗💗 Can be considered an AU of this piece, btw! (+ again, you can kinda read this as Ryan!Ken!)

warnings: fluffy fluff! (+ spoilers obv!)

» fancy reading something new? check out my full m.list!

Let's say for an unbeknownst miracle, Mr. Mattel does allow our dear Ken to bring you to Barbieland, whether temporarily/visitor or as a permanent resident. What's more, he doesn't have a lot of say in it considering the universe has, in fact, destined the two of you to be together.

Ken is obviously your tour guide, not just in the sense of showing you around the place, but also being there for you since Barbieland and the real world worked differently, after all! He especially wants to be by your side the way you did for him when he struggled to get used to your world.

Acting as your guide, he just loves the way your eyes sparkle at anything and everything he shows you, whether it’s the Mermaid Barbies saying hi to you when you first arrived at the beach, or when your OOTD magically appears in your wardrobe or even when he held your hand as the two of you float down from Ken's house!

But the best part about having you by his side is knowing that you'd be the last person he sees when he goes to bed, just as you are the first person he wakes up to.

Shortly after the Barbieland vs Kendom kerfuffle, one of the first changes was the Kens receiving their own houses (read: Mojo Dojo Casa House, because they still liked the ring to it!) rather than living in Ruth knows where.

By now, all Kens, as you can imagine, would have different interests, and one could see it from the interior of their houses alone, including Simu!Ken’s old one! And just as his friends promised, they kept it just as he left it in case he decided to come back, and with the girl of his dreams.

He’d be into athletics, plus basketball and gymnastics. You'd also see a couple of his favourite posters of classic musicals here and there and his ol' good friends, his guitar and piano. He’d even bring some of his new favourites from your world to gift his friends and of course, to spruce up the place. Make his ol’ Mojo Dojo Casa House more ‘you-and-him-esque’.

The Barbies were all too happy to have a newcomer, let alone the significant other of the Pompadour Ken, even inviting you to your first ladies' night.

Ken would be lying if he said he wasn't at least a bit disappointed at their invitation, initially wanting to end the night, and your first night, no less, by playing some songs of your choice on his piano before cuddling with you. But, the last thing he wants to do is ruin your fun. This is your first time, after all. Plus, he knows he has all the time in the world to give you as much cuddles as he has to offer.

So, he returned home without you.

Still, he had a skip in his step, watching a bit of TV, jamming out on his guitar a little. Even as he showered, got changed and went under the covers. Not only was he happy to see his friends, but he was even more elated to introduce you to them.

And though he expected you to stay over at the Barbies’ place for the night, that didn’t deter him from staying awake for a while, laying in bed with his hands behind his head while humming a tune, reminiscing all the things you did from when he met you till today.

So, imagine his surprise when he heard footsteps coming up.

“Ken?” He immediately sat up at the voice, his face breaking into a smile as soon as you peeked your head from behind the wall, “Hi, handsome.”

“Hey,” Ken whispered in disbelief, pushing off the blanket before walking to you. He gently held your jaw, tilting it upwards to lock eyes, "You're here. Wait, how did you get here?”

Though he didn't have to worry about anything happening to you here unlike the more dodgy streets in the real world, he would've still come over in a flash if you had called.

"Have a good night, you two! Don't do something I wouldn't do!" She winked, laughing heartily when you looked away in embarrassment. Ken, too, but he also had a more goofy smile on his face because, well, even the president knew you were both practically joined at the hip. She then drove off, back to continue ladies' night with the rest of the Barbies.

"The president offered me a ride." You answered before looking over to the street, Ken following your line of sight to see the president waving at the two of you from her car.

“It’s not because of me, is it?” Ruth forbid he ruin your night just because he couldn’t give you some space for a few hours.

“No, no! Don’t get me wrong, Ladies’ night was amazing! I even had dinner with both President Barbie and Writer Barbie!” You gushed, remembering how you looked like a child in a candy store as they welcomed you. You then placed your hands on his cheeks, “But I didn’t want to be away from my boyfriend, not especially on our first night here.”

You watched his eyes crinkle as he grinned, even more so when you added.

“Plus, you know I’m not much of a party person.” You shared a laugh, holding each other for a moment before letting you go for a shower. Though, you didn’t miss the goofy smile on his face. Just when you thought you couldn’t be blinded any more by that look of his.

It didn’t take long for you to get ready, heading to your shared wardrobe and finding your sleepwear next to Ken’s outfit for tomorrow. Back in bed, he couldn’t help but grin when you let out a sound of awe as you were miraculously in your nightwear, the same cute noise you made this morning when you changed into your first set of clothes when the two of you first arrived. He stood up, walking to the wardrobe to find you checking yourself out in front of the mirror.

“How do I look?” You posed a little, only to be caught off guard when he took your hand for a twirl, then moved forward, chest to chest as he nodded in appreciation.

“Like an angel, but then again, you are one.” He wiggled his brows. Suave, “Come on.”

With your hand in his, the two of you headed for bed, getting comfortable in between the sheets before he brought you close by the hips.

“Did you at least have fun here?” Ken asked almost hesitantly.

“Ken, I had one of the best times of my life,” You replied, craning your neck to kiss the tip of his nose, “Thank you.”

“Mmm, and there's more where that came from,” Ken assured you proudly, “But right now, I just wanna hold you.”

Since then, there has never been a day where Ken was not cuddling you to sleep. You didn’t have a long-lasting social battery as much as the Barbies did, and Ken was already seeing his friends in the day, so nighttime was almost always reserved for the two of you. And still, he manages to surprise you every night with his bright ideas.

Even when the sun rises, good luck with getting out of his arms. If his proposition to stay in bed for the day won't work on you, his deep morning voice certainly will.

One of his favourite ones is when the two of you were watching a movie in the living room after dinner. You were both comfortably chilling on the couch when he saw you yawn from the corner of his eyes. He chuckled, wrapping one arm around your shoulders and coaxing you to lay on him. Your protests only came in light murmurs, though giving in as the temptation to lay in the arms of your man only grew.

He grabbed the blanket off the couch’s backrest, as he may or may not have hoped for nights like these, opening it up to cover both you and him.

He’d watch the movie for a few minutes, occasionally kissing the crown of your head and patting your back in a lulling manner. He then just stopped caring about the movie altogether, too entranced by how relaxed you were with one side of your face against his chest.

He was too focused on you that he didn’t notice that the movie had a scene revolving around a bomb, not until it detonated, releasing an all-too-loud ‘boom!’ through the speakers that had you stirring in your sleep.

Ken was quick to grab the remote, turning the volume down while cussing under his breath. His heart stopped for a moment when you moved, only to sigh in relief when your body relax again. He narrowed his eyes at the TV before putting his attention back on you. It was only a matter of time before he, too, went out like a light, holding you close before getting some shut-eye of his own.

But besides the jarring lack of walls or just privacy from the neighbouring houses in general, Barbieland is absolutely wonderful!

˚ · . f i n . · ˚

» a/n: wanna tell me your soft thoughts about Simu!Ken? go ahead!! you're not just feeding me, but you're also feeding many others with your chef's kiss-worthy ideas!! <3

» gorgeous rose divider by @firefly-graphics ♡

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here2bbtstrash · 1 year

Text

look down on me like that - 9 (explicit)

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

pairing: yoongi x reader

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

word count: 16k 🙈

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

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

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

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

read on AO3!

chapter eight | masterlist | chapter ten

~*~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~*~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you fucking kiddin—”

“Hey.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Of fucking course.

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

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

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

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

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

~*~

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You wear glasses?”

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

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

“Wow, glasses? Really?”

“What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Huh,” Yoongi finally remarks.

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

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

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

“Guess so.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Naturally,” Vernon interjects.

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

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

“Is it?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So, can I be honest?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I am?”

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

“So are you,” Yoongi counters.

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

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

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

Yoongi nods once. “Probably, yes.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you nervous?”

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

“The Grammys?”

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

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

~*~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh fuck yeah, please suck me off.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you asking for my help?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“He has good taste.”

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

“Is that right?”

“Uh-huh.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you know Sakamoto?”

You hum a no as you shake your head.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And the Grammy goes to…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Can you take us to Koreatown, please?”

~*~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Uh huh.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sounds like a good story.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Feel like Cinderella naega byeonae—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He pulls you as close as he can, until your bodies are flush all the way down, and you don’t ever want it to be any other way. You want it just like this, sucking and nibbling at his bottom lip until his tongue licks your mouth open and you groan into him. Just like this: his palms moving down to grab your ass unapologetically, your grip on his hair tightening, even your teeth knocking together with how drunk and desperate you are for each other. Just like this: two stupid, wildly flawed humans in black tie attire, making out in a Ktown noraebang at two in the morning on a Monday.

The sound of the door opening might as well be a gunshot for how loud it feels, and you just barely manage to jump apart as an employee pokes their head in.

“Hey, we’re closing in five.”

You don’t realize you’re not breathing until you hear the door click shut again, and your gasp for air quickly turns into an overwhelmed, embarrassed laugh. Yoongi groans drunkenly, running a hand through his hair, then sighs out a long exhale, like he’s trying to calm down.

“Come on,” you giggle, still close enough to tug playfully at one of his belt loops. “Let’s get out of here.”

Thankfully a cab is still easy to flag down even this late. The two of you manage to pour yourselves into the backseat and give the driver the name of the hotel. It’s not a terribly long drive, and you watch wide-eyed out the window as the sprawl of Los Angeles rushes by, painted in neon glow and the amber wash of streetlights.

Yoongi slumps against you, and he goes quiet for so long you think he might be asleep. When he finally shifts again, he presses his face into your shoulder with a noise of discomfort, and you’re suddenly worried he might be silent for a very different reason.

“Yoongi,” you murmur, trying to keep your voice low. “Don’t puke in the cab.”

“Stupid,” he responds, and you figure he must not be doing that bad if he can still talk.

You run your fingers through the soft, dark strands of his hair, admiring the texture, the way it’s nearly long enough now to graze his shoulders. “What’s stupid?”

“I’m—” he tries, but the car dips over a pothole, and he’s talking so quietly you lose the rest.

“You’re what?”

It’s quiet for a moment, save for the click of the turn signal.

“In love with you.”

His words stun you where you sit, and you have no idea what to do, say, think. You just keep twining your fingers through his hair, like you’re stuck on auto-pilot, distantly aware that every alarm bell in your inebriated brain is going off. It feels like way too much to try and process any of it right now. It feels like a trap.

“We can talk about this tomorrow,” you finally answer. Yoongi just stays slumped against you, and he doesn’t say another word.

The cab drops you off at the hotel, and it’s quiet between the two of you as you get him up to the room. You feel like you’re watching yourself from a distance, and it’s like your brain isn’t processing any of this as really happening, as if to keep you from thinking too hard about the big picture. From what it all could mean.

In the bathroom, you stand over the sink as you lend Yoongi your makeup remover and you both brush your teeth.

“Contacts,” you remind him through a mouthful of toothpaste when he spits out the last of his, and he nods sleepily.

“You don’t have to… administrate me all the time,” Yoongi slurs as he carefully slips one lens and then the other out of his eyes.

You spit out your own toothpaste, then sigh as you rinse the sink clean. “Well, you’re very drunk, and it’s my fault.”

“It was fun,” he says quietly, fumbling the case closed.

“It was,” you echo. “Really.”

The bathroom door is half-open on its sliding track, and you glance up in the mirror to see Yoongi hovering in the threshold, looking back at you as you wipe away stray traces of mascara from under your eyes. You think he’s going to leave, but then he steps in behind you again, and you feel his hand slide up the small of your back to ease the zipper of your dress open.

Something in your heart twists as you stare down at the marble counter, and you can already tell this isn’t meant to be flirtatious. That thought is confirmed when you finally look up, only to find yourself left entirely alone.

With a small sigh, you slide the bathroom door shut, then flip the switch to turn on the fan. The white noise still doesn’t feel like enough, so you run the shower as well, then grab a plastic water bottle from the counter to chug. You retreat into the far corner with your phone, scrolling until you find the name of the only person who can possibly help you right now.

“Hey babe,” Jimin answers on the third ring. “I’m at rehearsal so I really can’t chat. You good?”

“Yoongi said he loves me,” you answer immediately, and the reality of it hits you impossibly hard as soon as you say it out loud.

“Uh-oh.”

“But,” you lean back until your head knocks against the wall. “He’s drunk as shit. I— we are drunk as shit.”

There’s a pause, and you swear you hear Jimin laugh a little under his breath. “He really said it, huh?”

“Yes, Jimin,” you groan. “In love.”

“And?”

You grimace at the flippant response from your supposed best friend. “What do you mean and?! What the fuck am I supposed to do?”

“Well, that depends,” Jimin starts.

“On?” you snap, impatient.

“Have you realized you’re in love with him yet? ‘Cause if I have to hear you babble on about this man for another week without piecing it together, I really might lose it.”

His words actually make your stomach churn. “Jimin!”

“I—” he sounds like he’s preparing to explain himself, but then he pauses, and his voice is quieter when he speaks again. “Fuck, I’m getting yelled at. I gotta go. Call me tomorrow.”

You want to scream at him to stay, to help, that he can’t just unravel you like this and then leave you to figure it out for yourself. “Mochi, I’m on the fucking plane tomorrow—”

“I’ll come over when you get home!” Jimin interrupts. “And then you can tell me the entire story of you two finally figuring out how to be normal humans with feelings.” You scoff at his biting remark, but he’s already talking over you. “You’re smart, you got this, I love you!”

You hear him blow a dramatic kiss into the speaker, and then the line goes dead.

The world spins around you as you stare helplessly at the silent black screen of your phone, and you can’t shove it all down anymore. It’s overwhelming, all of the things that you’re feeling in this moment, so much so that you can’t even identify what you feel. It’s just a giant, tangled mess, in your brain and in your heart. The tears spill out like you’ve been holding them in for weeks, hard and fast, until you can scarcely catch your breath. You scrub at the first few that roll down your cheeks, but they continue relentlessly, and you eventually give up and just let it all pour out.

You don’t know how long you stay like that, crying on the bathroom floor. You can’t even really explain why you’re crying, except that everything inside of you feels like too much to handle.

There’s a dull ache in your head by the time you finally manage to cry yourself dry, and then you peel yourself off the floor to slip out of your dress and shut off the shower. You pull on the tank top and sleep shorts you’d grabbed earlier from the bedroom, trying to avoid your swollen face in the mirror as you turn the lights out and shut the door behind you.

Yoongi has left the lamp on your bedside on, and you immediately flip it off to plunge the room into darkness, not wanting him to see you like this. He stirs slightly when you slip under the covers, and you can feel the mattress shift as he turns over.

Like it’s the most natural thing in the world, his arm slides over your stomach to pull your body flush to his, and his lips brush at the join of your neck and shoulder. As confusing as it should be, there’s something about the weight of him pressed into you that relaxes you, even through your current haze of emotion. You allow yourself to sink back against him, to breathe deeper, though your inhales are still a little shaky.

Yoongi’s rough voice in your ear pulls you up from the edge of sleep. “Did I fuck everything up?”

You sniff softly, and your own reply is barely more than a whisper. “No, Yoongi, it’s okay. Let’s just sleep."

As you hear him settle in beside you again, you make a promise that you’ll deal with the fallout tomorrow. You’ll figure out how you really feel, and how he does, and what you want, and what the hell you’re supposed to do about it all. But tonight, you just want this: to lay here with Yoongi and pretend your entire world isn’t about to change when you wake up.

chapter eight | masterlist | chapter ten

A/N: oh hiiiiii, super secret bonus author's note down here!!! just wanted to share that, now that we're officially through the grammys, that means we are down to just two more chapters left in the series!!! i held off confirming the full length of LDOMLT until we got to this point (and honestly i could've easily split this into two chapters but i am NICE and i did not give you the WORST CLIFFHANGER OF ALL TIME LMAO) - but now i'm sure. chapter 11 will be the final one. gonna do my best to get 10 and 11 up before end of year, or by very early 2023 at the latest!!! and thank u, as always, for reading 💜💜💜

#yoongi smut #yoongi angst #yoongi x reader #bts fanfic #bts x reader #look down on me like that

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