#these two have flooded my brain since. god almost a year?

[strawglicks]

i am so unbelievably rotten abt a hypothetical silly friendship between these two for NO god damn reason

[gregmarriage]

me when i get out of a months long depressive episode

[livlaughloveluke]

hi! could u do something with luke castellan x daughter of hades!reader? maybe something abt them training together?

ᡣ𐭩 𝘄𝗵𝘆 𝗶 𝗹𝗼𝘃𝗲 𝘆𝗼𝘂

daughter of hades! reader x luke castellan 🪦

IN WHICH.. two competitive rivals are placed in the same arena for an intense sword fight.. what could go wrong?

warning! this fic contains- daddy issues ! // readers lowkey a bitch but for a reason // hades is also a bitch // swearing

[a/n]- is this cliche? maybe. do i care? no.

update: oh my gosh its been months but looking back on this i realized i did ares instead of hades 😭

i fixed it though!!

🎧- why i love you by kanye west

1.7k

The harsh sun beat down on Camp Half-Blood, creating an unwanted stench of sweat and a wave of exhausted campers. Its fiery touch left a red glow on the paler campers and the overheating of others. The heatwaves of mid-June had been expected, but that didn’t mean it hurt less to spend hours outside.

The flowers crisped up, and the lake overflowed with mucky children. Apollo’s choice of weather even caused Chiron to cancel activities, the infirmary becoming overcrowded with patients who had passed out from the unbearable temperatures.

However, while most campers and counselors enjoyed the cooling, fresh water, one remained absent from the day off. Leader of Hades Cabin, you have been missing all day. Everyone shrugged it off, the heat leaving them in a fatigued daze that removed all efforts to find you.

Instead of shedding your clothes and going for a swim, you took this moment to train in the amphitheater. Your camp shirt clung to your dewy skin as you swung your sword at a practice dummy. The unbearable sun only added to your determination.

‘Why would someone torture themselves by working in the dog days of summer?’ You may be asking. The answer was quite simple, really. Luke Castellan.

Camp liked to refer to him as ‘The Golden Boy’ for his friendly attitude and seemingly charming personality. He was the greatest swordsman to roam the property in three hundred years; his skills with the weapon were almost unmatchable.

Almost. 

You were first in the fighting industry for a while, until Luke decided to stumble in. You watched from afar as his fourteen-year-old self picked up the blade, slicing his opponents with ease. Your blood boiled upon seeing the sight, anger flooding your brain at his effortless talents. 

You had dedicated your whole camp experience to sword fighting, and now you were watching everything crumple with the arrival of a lousy new camper. Although your skills were displayed when you defeated him as a young teenager, he's improved since then. 

And that’s the reason he conquered you in battle a few months ago. It sent you into a fit of rage, a typical reaction for the children of Hades. Campers watched as you stomped away from the arena, breathing heavy as you carelessly tossed your armor onto the sandy floor.

What you hid from the crowd were the tears shedded into your pillow later that night. A mix of hatred towards Luke and disappointment bestowed upon yourself caused salty droplets to stream down your cheeks and into the fabric of your pillow. What would your father think of such a failure?

Ever since then, there has been none-stop resentment directed at the Hermes boy from you. Despite the fact that arguments were mainly caused by you, your interactions often left you pissed. But how were you supposed to ignore the way he constantly cracked his knuckles or the way he was always late to training who Chiron assigned you and Luke to lead?

While everyone was enjoying themselves and relaxing for the day, including Luke, you took it as a gift from the gods. No people in the arena meant a perfect solo training session, with no kids whispering in your ears about your loss to the counselor.

So here you were, sweating under 30 pounds of heavy armor and sticky clothes, working on your stance. Unfortunately for you, Luke had noticed your absence, and after asking around a little, he headed to find you. 

He came up empty-handed upon searching your cabin, then the fields, then the forges. Running out of hope and patience, he trudged along to the amphitheater. And there you were, looking heavenly as you swung your blade at a fake person. 

He saw as you furrowed your brows in frustration at every flaw you performed. You were so harsh on yourself, grunting in anger at nearly anything. He could tell you had been outside for a while by the way salty sweat dripped down your forehead. 

“You know training was canceled today, right?” He alerted you, crossing his arms and leaning against the wall.

“Yeah. Thanks, Castellan. You can go now.” You glanced over at him before turning back to continue your practice. All you wanted was a little peace, and with Luke here, you were sure to lash out. 

“Why are you out here then?” He persisted, ignoring your comment about leaving. You let out a heavy sigh, and this conversation became a large distraction.

“So I can practice. By myself.” You respond, not breaking to glare at him. For a moment, you thought he had left based on the silence in the arena. However, a few seconds later, he chirped back in.

“Go against me?” He offered, catching you off guard. You immediately turned to him, confused and slightly mad due to his presence.

“What?”

“Redeem your title of number one sword fighter. Without the pressure of anyone watching.” He said, sweetly smiling at you. You rolled your eyes, although in reality, this deal didn’t seem so upsetting. 

“Fine.” 

He perked up after hearing your approval, lightly jogging to the equipment station with a pep in his step. He strapped on all of the metal gear and grabbed his signature sword.

You watched as he walked back, slightly bouncing with joy. You fought back a smile while witnessing his positive energy, trying to keep up your usual hatred towards him. 

The sight of his sword snapped you back to reality, and you cracked your knuckles while narrowing your eyes. His small grin made it really difficult to remain tough, but you put in a large effort to remain unfazed.

You both got into the starting position, staring at him with a fierce gaze. He remained calm, holding his sword up. Time seemed to stand still as you both waited for someone to make the first move. Originally, your plan was to play defense, with a perfect strategy to ensure your win. 

But your dreams fell apart the moment he sent you a smug smile, rage distracting you and sending you lunging forward. You sliced at his arm, clashing with the steel of his armor. He easily rebutted, nicking your thigh with his blade. The seeping red dripping down your leg caused a gasp of shock from you; your normal skills were slightly fractured due to his sudden offense.

You were able to mainly recover, your moves converting into some with rhythm and precision. Until he began to swipe with such power, one move sent you stumbling to the floor. As he held the blade to your throat, signaling your defeat, you muttered out a quick “I surrender” and slid the cold metal off. 

He retracted his weapon, offering you a hand to help lift you. You fiddled with your breast plate before sliding it off and chucking it onto the dusty ground, trying to blink away the water forming in your eyes. 

“I hate you, Castellan!” You yelled, your voice shaky, as you picked yourself up and stormed off. Unable to control your emotions, tears began to flood down your face. Your skin felt hot, partly irritated by the beaming sun, and partly flushed with embarrassment from your sobs.

Luke rushed behind you as you trailed to a secluded spot behind the building, throwing his gear down. When he finally caught up, you were sitting against the wall, your head buried between your arms as you weeped.

“Hey, hey. Are you okay?” He comforted you, watching your back rise and fall unsteadily, matching the pace of your breaths. 

“Go away. Please. And don’t tell anyone you saw me.” You mumbled, not bothering to look up. He slid down next to you, sitting on the sharp sticks and dirty floor.

“Why are you so bothered by losing? I promise you, the world won’t end because you lost one lousy match.” He whispered. 

“You don’t know my dad. I’m lucky he’s forgiven me for my last loss.” You replied, messily inhaling through tears. Your dad expected so much of you, constantly reminding you of your mistakes instead of your accomplishments.

“Forgiven you? For what? You did nothing to him.” He mentioned it, and you rolled your eyes. Why were you even conversing with your enemy? Maybe he wanted dirt on you—something new to make fun of you for. 

“Never mind. You don’t get it.” You said, voice still muffled as you spoke into your arm.

“Cmon, tell me.” He insisted.

“Forgive me for being such a disappointment.” You responded, going silent after. You felt his judgmental stare and realized you shouldn't have said anything, now awaiting a snarky comment about your confession. Instead, you ended up surprised by his next words. 

“Don’t say that. Your dedication is amazing. He’s just a god who only sees your mistakes. Don’t let that define you.”

His hand rested on your back, drawing shapes on your skin. Raising your head, your eyes met his. It was then that you realized how one-sided your feelings were. How he never started any arguments with you, or how he was the only one who noticed you were gone from the lake and set out to find you. 

Not to mention, he was cute. Really cute. His brown curls draped over his forehead, and his dark orbs stared into yours with such passion. It's like he put a spell on you; the moment you made eye contact, you felt the need to apologize. 

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry for being so awful to you all these years, and for-" Luke cut off your rambling.

“All is forgiven. You know, you don’t have to be what they want you to be. You don’t have to hide your tears.” His sweet and genuine words caused you to grin for the first time in what felt like forever.

“Or your smile, either. You’re gorgeous.” He finished. The both of you silently leaned in until your faces were only centimeters apart.

“Can I..” He whispered.

“Please.” You responded, lifting up your hand to bring his head closer. He cusped your cheek, and within moments, his lips were on yours. Fireworks erupted in your stomach as you kissed for the first time, his dry lips getting coated in your spit. He pulled away, not wanting to creep you out so soon. 

"Would you want to, uh, maybe go out with me?" Luke whispered, nervously scratching the back of his neck.

"I'd like that."

୨୧

MASTERLISTS 𓏲𝄢 REQUEST / TALK TO ME 𓏲𝄢 RULES

[elegantmusicdragon]

Adventures in Bravo-Sitting

Pairing: Dieter Bravo x Babysitter!Reader (f!Reader probably? Can be gn!Reader for now)

Rating/Warning: Just some language! Words that rhyme with certain swears. Me being a menace. You know how it goes.

A/N: Okay so this is for @blueeyesatnight who just went a on a Dieter/Babysitter journey with me and inspired me to crank this fic out in two days. Haven't written a fucking thing except a fic I won't post and THIS. Blue, you're the best and Happy Holidays and Merry Christmas (if you celebrate) and thank you so much for the inspo! Our Dieter/Babysitter thread is my favorite thing and also if you wanna write some of these two or your own version PLEASE DO IT. I encourage it! Much love to you.

To anyone else who may read this: thanks for sticking around and checking this not beta'd dumpster fire. I have no clue what this is. It came out of my brain and onto the page in a frenzy. But it's fine. I'm fine. Everything's fine. Enjoy! And Happy Holidays!

You are terribly confused. 

"We know this is highly unconventional." 

Well, that's putting it mildly. 

"In all honesty, I've seen weirder." A nightmare child smearing his feces all over the baking appliances and a cake his mother had made takes the trophy as of now. Though this situation is a close second. 

The woman, Amanda, smiles at you - relief flooding her features. She readjusts herself on the ridiculously fancy chair she's sitting on. Behind her, a small cluster of people in suits and business skirts gather. And between Amanda and the group? A man. Well, not man. Celebrity. A celebrity who seems to be grumbling something close to the words “ducking shooshes”.  

You never thought you'd end up babysitting Dieter Bravo but, you guess, things could be weirder. 

"Can I just...ask...um...why does a grown man need a babysitter?"

Dieter rolls his eyes and cuts in, "I don't." 

Amanda talks over him, "I'm sure you've seen the...incidents...on the Cliff Beasts set." 

You nod. "Absolutely, who hasn't? A drug overdose, quickie marriage, annulment - all within the span of a year. And the giant bender in Vegas with the showgirl last month? It's been all over the news." 

Amanda nods, tension lining her face. Behind her, Dieter rolls his eyes again. 

"It wasn't that bad." 

Amanda finally graces Dieter with an irritated glance. Her voice raises slightly, “Not that bad, Dee?? You almost destroyed the MGM Grand’s lobby, casino, and the penthouse suite you were staying in! That showgirl almost lost an eye!” 

Dieter rolls his neck back to face the ceiling, “Yeah, but she didn’t. She was fun,” he chuckles. “Liked to party. We still got her number?”

You see a vein throb in Amanda’s forehead. You’re not quite sure if you should butt into their conversation. Amanda grips the planner she holds so tightly, her knuckles begin to turn white. 

“No, Dee. We don’t have her number. You know, since she ALMOST LOST AN EYE??” 

Dieter sighs. “Oh my god, she was fine. It was safe. I was totally able to handle that machete. That lobby guy was just scared.” 

You raise an eyebrow. 

Amanda fires back, “He was the manager!!! And you were swinging a machete at one of his showgirls!” 

“I wasn’t gonna hurt her, god it’s like you think I’m irresponsible or something.” 

Oh god what have you gotten yourself into???

You reach down and attempt to subtly get your belongings. You’ve decided you want no part in…whatever this is. To your utter disappointment, you’re apparently not subtle enough. Amanda’s eyes dart to where your hand is resting on the strap of your bag. Her eyes widen just a fraction in desperation. 

“I know we’re not giving the best impression here. But I promise, this is going to be a very rewarding experience. Dieter is special!” 

She had said that on the phone too, but it was your fault you had misinterpreted it. Dieter clearly is special just…not in the way you were expecting. He’s special in a super-fuckin-entitled-wealthy way. 

You swallow and your eyes dart to Dieter, who hasn’t looked at you once since this whole meet and greet started. 

“Listen, Amanda, I’m really flattered that you and your…” You peter off, realizing the entire group of people behind her are now listening to you basically say no to this insane job. Are they really surprised you’re not interested in this? 

You clear your throat and continue, “team…want me to do this. I just don’t quite think I’m what you’re looking for.” 

Amanda looks behind her at a gentleman in a neatly pressed suit. He leans forward and whispers something in her ear. She nods, and turns back to you. Dieter remains absorbed in the ceiling. 

“Alright,” Amanda starts, “how about I show you what your pay would look like and we’ll take it from there? Maybe we could do a trial run if the amount is to your liking?” 

Dieter snorts. “It’ll be to her liking, I’m loaded.” 

Amanda rolls her eyes. Despite that, she keeps her focus on you. “Well?” She asks. 

You sigh. You know you’re caught between a rock and hard place. Money? Or no money? Well, even if this job isn’t what you necessarily thought it would be, it couldn’t hurt to look at the amount. Why the hell not? 

You shrug. “Sure,” you reply back to Amanda. “I guess looking at the number can’t hurt.” 

She smiles and nods, turning to confer with the gentleman behind her again. They whisper to each other for a few minutes before Amanda turns back to you. 

“Okay! I just want to clarify that we’ll be starting with a trial run of a week. If just you, or both you and Dieter-” 

He snorts at his name. Amanda studiously ignores him and continues on. 

“Are interested in keeping this arrangement going, we’ll re-discuss and go from there. Is that amenable to you?”

You nod. “Sounds good to me.” 

Amanda smiles widely, looking truly relieved for the first time since you stepped into the room. 

“Great!” She replies. She reaches behind her to grab a small piece of paper from the suited gentleman (who is he???) and hands it over to you. You surreptitiously glance over at Dieter. For the first time, you find his eyes on you. You shiver slightly. His eyes sparkle with…something. 

You look back down at the folded piece of paper in your hands. You’re more nervous than you thought you’d be. You open it slightly and see the number written down.

WOW that’s a LOT of zeroes! Holy crap. 

You look at Amanda.

“Trial run it is.” 

P.S. Banners by @firefly-graphics

Tags:

@grampsgirl14

@apsiringghostmusicians

Anyone else want a tag? Lemme know!

[haley770]

glue me by los campesinos! is my favorite song(by my favorite band) ever and it is so so wilmon. literally everything about this song is perfect and beautiful. the lyrics represent wilmon and young royals so much. so lets go through it, shall we?

just a little note: almost nothing about this is in any order of the show(it is in order of the lyrics), basically just what scenes/things i am reminded of by some of the lyrics because so much of it lines up with this amazing show [:

/this song begins with such an amazing line, "the clouds salivating, drooling from the sky at the thought of the trouble to wreck" it is raining. water is such a big component as a metaphor in this show to represent everyones feelings. (thank you @tvmicroscope i love your analysis') its also just such a beautiful way to describe the rain as well, the clouds salivating, oh my god (!!! WTFF thats AMAZING I LOVE IT). and then it continues, "and its high tide, as the sewers rise and the drains have become obsolete" it is flooding. both of these just make me think of how it was raining on wilhelm in the soccer/football field scene. when he was soo fucking high and confused and overwhelmed, his brain was being flooded by so many feelings and emotions. probably conflicting each other. wilhelms entire life as he knew it is falling apart, he lost his brother, his best and only friend. he blames himself. he feels guilty. he is burdened with the title of the crown prince, which is the last thing that wilhelm wants. and most importantly(to him at least) he had to reject the love of his life because the crown prince cannot be gay like that. he felt like he was drowning in all of these emotions. he couldnt handle it, "i cant do this anymore", earlier in this same episode when he yet again rejected simon. but still, he goes on and makes the most amazing(and somewhat embarassing) love confession to simon because that is what he really feels. it is the only thing he can take a chance with for him to feel anything nice. and real. (ily tvmicroscope your analysis' are so beautiful)

/and now simon turns up, "seems theres no place in this town, for something as pure as you seem" wilhelm definitely thought this when simon actually came to rescue him in the middle of the night all like "you came, oh my god you came, im so glad youre here, youre so beautiful" wilhelm was definitely shocked simon actually came, especially after all the back and forth wilhelm put him through. it just further proves how amazing(pure) simon is(for this world/town).

/another heartbreaking one "water to my waist in a shark-infested bin" again reminds me of the football field scene when it was raining. wilhelm is so overwhelmed with everything. the water. he just wants to talk to somebody, but he is surrounded by fake friends who want to use him, people who dont give a shit about him as a person. the sharks. he doesnt have anybody to turn to. so he takes the chance of calling simon.

/this time, i hear simon. "and i heard, that it hurts" it literally echoes simon's "love shouldnt be this difficult" from the season 3 trailer. or maybe even in season 1 where wilhelm completely betrays simons trust and then doesnt understand what he did wrong. its just so heartbreaking for both of them ): especially because simon still loves wilhelm but hes also angry at him. at first, wilhelm didnt want simon to be mad at him because of the drugs, and he wasnt. but now he lied, and their relationship has since changed, and simon is mad at him, rightfully so.

/this one is more direct, "two wrists, two wrist watches. tick-tick-tocking second hands slightly out of time" how many times have watches been brought up or specifically highlighted in just seasons 1 and 2? SO MANY TIMES. (haha get it) we even saw some watches in the season 3 trailer! even boris! "ive had this watch for 40 years and it still works" 40 years is honestly crazy though, what the hell. let me see that watch.

/yet another heartbreaking one, "i requested a room with a view, in the middle of a war between me and you" is literally wilhelm looking at the beautiful lake in season 2 crying because he has completely lost hope for simon and he felt soso alone )): thankfully(...)felice came to rescue him, replacing simon from season 1. parallels am i right?(we did NOT need another kiss between felice and wilhelm. one was enough. or apparently it wasnt i guess)

/and, excuse me, OH MY GODD, i can HEAR wilhelm telling simon: "ill be gloomy til they glue me in the arms of [he] who loves me, til the rats and worms are all interned at least five feet above we" he will not give up on simon until he is sure there is no hope left(which we saw in season 2 until the valentines day ball kiss, also in the previous paragraph). another scene that fits is how wilhelm asked simon to hold him ): and finally, just wille being silly (the rats and worms because rats and worms are inherently silly like come on) reminds me of their 'date' by the water in s1e5, but its also so sweet because he is saying he wants to be together with simon until death. which is really the only thing wilhelm definitely wants(as well as for august to rot in hell, or jail, either works but both would be best, but thats besides this point).

/then simon, "[he] smiled, at a joke" just in general how happy he is when theyre together. this reminds me of the lake 'date' again and how totally in love simon looked whenever he was looking at wilhelm. as well as the laugh at the end of s2e5 after wilhelm closed the curtains, im glad theyre healing and can laugh about that.

/once again, excuse me, THE FOOTBALL REFERENCES(its los campesinos' thing to have a lot of football/soccer references in their lyrics but i dont really know much about football/soccer, i just know the references are there) WITH THE WHOLE FOOTBALL METAPHOR AND HOW FOOTBALL=SOMETHING REAL(from what i remember about the tvmicroscope analysis, read it if you havent it was so amazing and it was just so nice to actually see someone take the time to go through the show and each clip and write everything down, i am not very good at spotting metaphors but i love reading about them). but we have roshs great line, "rowing isnt a sport. football is a sport." very insightful for this entire metaphor. i guess you could say when they were at rosh's football/soccer game for these lyrics, but i think thats a bit boring, sorry. i would also like to note that, because of my non-existent knowledge on football/soccer, i chose not to talk about them in detail because i really dont understand the references in the song. from what i do know and so we are on the same page, the references are "im diving into headers, put this pretty face where the boots are flying in" | "but we connected like a yeboah volley" | and "of missed panenka penalty" as well as the chant at the end of the song, but i will actually talk about that in depth because it isnt very specific. there might be more(probably) but im not 100% sure about them.

/finally, we have the entire ending, "ex-boyfriend, boyfriend, give us a song" repeating. another football reference by los camp! which also fits the young royals narrative. the repetition is used as a chant for football, a play on "give us a wave". firstly, the valentines day ball comes to mind. this scene is showing simon who he really(again football is a real sport, thank you tvmicroscope) loves at the valentines day ball, hence him chasing after and kissing wilhelm. he also previously said he couldnt fall in love with marcus, "it just feels like he likes me for real" and "i just dont understand why i cant fall in love with him" ON THE FOOTBALL FIELD. too bad he didnt take the hint back then. also(unrelated) he couldnt even spell marcus' name right. "Hej Markus" seriously simon? too bad he never sent that text. they could have potentially broken up sooner. and then at the end of the valentines ball when marcus wille is listening to his ex-boyfriend his boyfriend sing a song he wrote about HIM(despite him being unaware of this fact until the next episode). it is such a crucial moment in season 2's whole plotline(and wilhelms sanity). next, this reminds me how he literally fell in love with simon when he was singing for him when he was being welcomed to hillerska. the glance around at erik and august like "are you seeing this shit?" or "are we watching the same thing?" look because of simon is so iconic. and the smile is so sweet. his first gay panic experience. moving on, it reminds me of how they sang the same song together later in this same episode "it takes a fool to remain sane". finally, when wilhelm was PISSED because simon couldnt sing his song at the jubilee(and they broke up yet again) and he asked jan olaf about it. he really wanted to see simon perform that for him ): and for simon to be able to perform his song and be happy. at least wilhelm was able to give his wonderful speech. really i am so proud of him, nobody could have expected this from him, especially at this point. not even simon! "it was a.. um.. a moment i didnt want to share, with anyone else, so i lied about it". he has matured so much in such little time, he didnt even want to give this speech either. he shouldnt have to. his anxiety must have been through the roof and he probably threw up afterwards. and of course the infamous consequences. the only reason the queen talks with her son. at least he has simon with him now to hold him when it gets too much(no more fights season 3 please i beg i cant handle it after season 2, the ending did kind of make up for it all though). i got a little off topic but you get the point. also, i brought each of these different scenes up because the ending specifically repeated this lyric several times, like all of these different moments line up. its literally wilmons song, you cant tell me otherwise.

well, that was a lot. i have been thinking about this for WEEKS. months even. and while i typically wouldnt post something like this, i put soso much thought into writing this. like ive actually put so much thought into this its driving me insane. its literally wilmons song, in my opinion. i also just needed a reason to talk about my favorite song and band and relate it to my favorite show. please listen to the song(or anything by los camp! theyre AMAZING). thats really all i need in life, for more people to hear this masterpiece.

🩷💜 thank you💜🩷

i dont know if i will ever do anything like this again, perhaps. im not sure. i did actually enjoy writing this though. i didnt originally plan on writing anything significant but i got carried away. i was supposed to be drawing more wilmon, i want to finish it before season 3 is officially out but it is just so detailed📚. someone yell at me to finish the drawing PLEASE ! time is ticking but its so fucking DETAILED and TEDIOUS. oh my god theres only a week left WHAT THE FUCKK. anyways i loved this [: very fun!

[if there are any typos or just flat out mistakes, either no there isnt or just let me know, i probably wont fix it but i appreciate it. i also want to say i am aware i am HORRIBLE at staying on topic i just had so many things ive wanted to say]

💜

[shaynetaro]

ℜ𝔲𝔫𝔫𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔦𝔫 ℭ𝔦𝔯𝔠𝔩𝔢𝔰.

A/N: Okay, so. It is,, almost 5 AM but who tf cares? Currently (and still) listening to (looping) Circles by Post Malone. Suddenly had the urge to finish this one scene I've drafted a few months back of both me and my brother's OCs from our (collaborative) work, Jobs. I kinda feel like this is an achievement (since I have been on hiatus since last year) so Imma just post it here before I stop feeling that. Hope it fits. Oh, and it's also unedited. Spare me.

I felt someone's rather prominent presence beside me move as the bed creaked, breaking the still silence of the room. I quickly sat up the moment my brain recognized the scent that's been flooding my nostrils for Zeus knows how long now.

Oh my God.

Did we?

We, then, made eye contact.

He immidiately flicked my forehead. "We didn't. Don't be a moron."

There was a brief moment of silence after that. Sho studied my reaction and sighed. "What's with that face? If you wanted to do it, you could've just went to your usual-"

Not again.

I covered his mouth with my left hand to stop him from saying anything more. I felt my eyes sharpening right at his pair of obsidian-coloured ones as I slightly leaned over to him. "I already told you. I stopped going there the first day we met."

His eyes widened for a split second but he was quick to shove my hand away from his face. I almost clicked my tongue. Can never go against that strength.

"Shut it and get up. I told you not to drink again, didn't I?" He turned to his side table and grabbed his glasses. We noticed the alarm clock as it beeped once, twice, thrice.

5 AM.

Sho grunted. "Damn it, it's way too early for this." He removed his glasses and put it back ontop of the table. He slammed his body back in the bed, completely facing his back towards me.

I felt my eyes sharpening yet again.

He sleeps naked.

I knew it.

"One more second Jace and I'll kick you out."

Crap.

I carefuly modulated my voice. "What? Why?"

"Stop fucking staring."

Ah.

His morning voice really-

Sho grunted yet again so I quickly laid back down as I stiffled a laugh from breaking out.

"Shut up and sleep."

He knows.

He'd always known but he never confronted me about it.

He also doesn't feel the same way.

I stared at his handpainted ceiling for what felt like two eternities. Sho really is kind. I sometimes wonder how he ended up being a yakuza leader with a heart like that. Or if he really had been one. I couldn't stop myself from stealing a glance at his direction.

Light had spilled in from the window- which I had probably covered with my figure earlier when I sat up- passing through the space just above my body to his. It wasn't too bight but it's enough for me to notice the scattered moles on his back.

Fuck.

I'm so screwed.

(He still didn't reject me, right? God, I really hope he won't.)

[archivallyfound09]

You Told Me Not To Think! pt. 1

Hi all- new to writing, not to reading, here on tumblr. Had to get the start of this fic out of my brain and down somewhere- let me know what you think. Already writing the next part.-M

Don't steal or post people's things as your own-not cool. None of these characters are mine-just borrowing them to advance the plot.

Pairing: Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x Reader (f)

Warnings: None yet, no promises made at all.

_________________________________________________________

(Not my gif- thanks @honey-dew-woo <3)

"Hey man, we don't open for another few hours."

You could almost smell the leather jacket as the man continued walking directly past you. You opened your mouth to repeat yourself, but he held his hand up, still walking to the bar. Your boss, Penny, had her back to the gentleman sat at one of the stools and removed his aviators. 'Typical Top Gun' you thought to yourself as you noticed all the patches littering the back of his jacket. You were about to march over when Penny turned, a smile overtaking her features. She at least knew the man, even if she didn't look overly thrilled to see him in her bar. You went back to wiping down tables and taking chairs off their tops, barely paying any attention to the two at the bar.

------

Somehow you managed to lose most of the afternoon while cleaning, prepping, and taking a few (well-deserved) breaks. You had hardly noticed all the people surrounding you as you stepped behind the bar, tying your apron around your waist. Penny threw you a smile that said 'here we go' more than anything. You casually rolled your eyes and checked your pockets: dollar bills, wine opener, bottle opener- you were ready for a typical night on North Island.

You took a breath, looked down, let it out, and then looked at the people seated in front of you. "What'll you have?" should have been your catchphrase as you moved smoothly through the back of the bar. Mostly beers, a few whiskies, a gin or two, and some god-awful made-up tropical monstrosity- this was just the pre-party to the main event.

As if they had sensed your thoughts, the doors flew open and your senses were blurred to nothing but khaki invaders. You looked around for Penny to give her a warning, but you managed to catch the eye of the man who had come in earlier. He gave you a tight-lipped smile and a shrug. You rolled your eyes and grabbed some new glasses as the pilots started to flood in. "What'll you have" quickly turned into "how many beers?" and it would remain that way for most of the night.

You recognized a few of the newer pilots, but suddenly you started noticing that you knew others that walked in. Most had been here a few years earlier and had left off on missions and deployments- surely they weren't sentimental enough for a class reunion, especially not here. Your thoughts didn't have much of a chance to wander as the count for beers went up as more and more bodies flooded the bar in front of you.

------

After a never-ending stream of Navy pilots and officers finally began to temper down, you finally caught up with Penny. She looked tired, but was enjoying a usual Thursday night. You smiled quickly and then saw the guy at the bar again.

"Who's your friend, Pen?"

She paused, looked back at him, and continued wiping the glass in her hands. The momentary silence pricked your ears. Before you could pester her anymore, you heard someone yell for you.

"Hey there, sweetheart! We're gonna need another round!" You turned and were surprised to see Hangman smirking at you. He hadn't changed much since you saw him-including his rage-inducing habit of snapping at you to get your attention.

"Hold on, killer, you'll get your beer," you yelled, walking his way. You looked back at Penny and noticed she was leaned in close to her friend who fiddled with his aviators.

"Hey Pen- Phone!"

Penny smirked at you, looked at her friend, and rang the ship's bell hanging above her head. Everyone cheered (and cheers'd) at the sound. The man looked around confused, until Hangman made his way over with a "thanks for the next round, pops" as Penny pointed to the sight behind her. "Rules and rules" you heard her say as you pulled another beer and filled the tray up, making your way over to where Hangman had wandered to.

-----

"I'm just surprised you're still here! It's a good surprise, I promise!" Phoenix gave you a half-hug while she held her pool cue in hand. "I figured after we graduated, none of us would ever be here-and that you would've escaped a long time ago!"

You laughed, "I've just been here waiting for all of you to come back and visit." You looked at Hangman as he finished her shot and stood up across from you at the pool table, "Well, most of you, anyway." He let out a snarky laugh and took a swig from his beer. Phoenix, Coyote, Payback, Fanboy all snickered, with the last two high-fiving. You caught Bob smiling as he quietly sipped in the corner. You opened your mouth to go after Hangman again, but Penny waved you over.

You smiled at the crew and started back towards your post when the door opened with another sea of khaki. But this time, something was different. Your heart skipped a beat when you saw the open Hawaiian shirt walking through the door frame. You immediately got to work refilling the bar in front of you and taking new orders as people started sauntering up to the bar.

-----

The last time you had seen Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw had been...well, honestly, you could barely remember it. It seemed that one day, the piano sat empty, the aviators weren't on the bar top, and his smile was slowly fading from your memory. You were barely paying attention to your pours as you tried to remember the last time he had been here.

"Hey, you."

----

Pt. 1

Pt. 2

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Pt. 5

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Pt. 11

Pt. 12

[marvelslut16]

The one with two Pietro’s

Pairing: Pietro x reader, Wandavision!Pietro (Peter Maximoff) x reader FORCED 

Synopsis: you find yourself in Westview living with Wanda, Vision, the boys, and your boyfriend Pietro. But happens when you start to remember your Pietro and figure out what Wanda’s doing to you and everyone else? 

Word count: 1.4k+

Warnings: Swearing I think. Angst. Fluff if you squint. Mind control. Forced relationship. Briefly mentions the idea of a forced magical pregnancy. Bullet wounds. Death. Grief I suppose. Mentions pmsing. The over use of italics. Kinda feel like I make Wanda a psychotic asshole. SPOILERS FOR WANDAVISION!

A/N: This was so much fun to write! Probably the darkest thing I’ve ever written, if you can really call it dark. Writing for Wandavision was a fun little challenge. Takes place in the 90′s so my title is a reference to friends, and so is a tv show character I use in the one shot. Pretend Evan Peters’ hair isn’t that blonde cause I will always see him with the silver he has in xmen and wrote him as such. 

"Vision, that's not my Pietro," you mutter in horror to your friend as the two of you stand in the kitchen. 

You’re not quite sure what makes you say it, but you’re glad you do when you glance at the new Pietro in the living room, he's been playing video games with Tommy and Billy for close to an hour now. He's sweet and funny, but he's just not your Pietro.

"I'm afraid not, (Y/N)," Vision's voice is sullen, but he's glad you're not in on Wanda's mind games. Unless you are, and this is just another way for Wanda to mess with him. He’s not quite sure what’s happening, but he knows from what you’ve reminisced in passing to him about Pietro on nights when Wanda isn’t in the room, that that’s not the Pietro you know and love. 

"Oh my god," you murmur, hand coming to your mouth as little bits and pieces of memories race through your head. The genuine pain, horror, and sadness that cross your face make it obvious to Vision you're being manipulated like everyone else, even if you are Wanda's oldest friend. "My Pietro, he had an accent."

Your knees buckle when you hear his native accent saying his catchphrase in your head, 'you didn't see that coming.' Vision rushes to your side to help you stand more firmly.

"His face was longer, hair a white blonde not silver, his body more toned, and he had gorgeous blue eyes- bluest eyes I've ever seen," you grip onto Vision's arms as you imagine moments with your Pietro.

You grew up in the cell beside his and Wanda's, immediately forming a sisterly connection with her at a young age while Pietro hated you. He would tease you, pull on your pigtails, and steal some of your food on the off chance you three were eating outside of your cells. Over the years the teasing turned to flirting, and your dislike for him turned into a huge crush.

One night-a night you can normally remember with full clarity- after Hydra fell and before Ultron, the two of you were out on a walk, much to Pietro's chagrin. You were telling him about this new book that you were reading and how the characters annoyed you so because they were obviously in love but wouldn't admit it. Pietro zoomed in front of you, causing you to smack into his chest and almost fall to the ground, you would have if not for Pietro's arms wrapping around your waist and bringing you close to his toned chest.

The wind was blowing his hair into his eyes ever so slightly, so without thinking you reached up to move it out of his face and away from his eye. The small act of tenderness that you had displayed caused Pietro to give into his desires, he leaned in and his wind chapped lips descended onto yours. You melted into the kiss, clinging tightly to his biceps to ground you. One of his hands slipped down from your waist to squeeze your ass, the other wrapped more tightly around your waist and kept you anchored to him.

"I love you, Printesa, I have since we were kids," he admits when you pull apart for air, leaning his forehead on yours.

"I love you too, Quicksilver," you use the superhero nickname he gave himself when you were twelve. He grins before attaching his lips to yours once more, it was an unforgettable kiss that filled you with warmth and hope for your future.

"(Y/N), are you okay?" Vision's voice brings you back to reality, or whatever this is.

"No," your voice cracks as you remember the last kiss Pietro planted on your lips, right before he protected Clint. The memory that still haunts your dreams, seeing him with all those bullet holes and knowing there was nothing you could do to save him. "What kind of person forgets the love of their life? I'm a terrible person Vis!"

"No you aren't (Y/N)," the sincerity in Vision's voice makes you really believe him. "Wanda's doing this, she didn't want you to remember."

You gasp as another memory floods your mind. You had agreed to go on a road trip with Wanda after being resurrected from Bruce's snap and defeating Thanos. You both wanted a break, or so you thought.

Wanda had stopped right when you had passed the entrance into Westview, she claimed to be checking her directions when you asked why she had stopped in the middle of nowhere. And no matter how weird it was that she chose to stop at the border to the town and not at a gas station, you believed your best friend and sister in law because she had no reason to lie to you.

A moment later her eyes and hands were glowing red as she touched your temple. She pushed all your memories behind a wall in your brain, then filled your head with memories of a happy life with her and Vision in Westview.

She did it again when 'Pietro' showed up on your guy’s doorstep, this time filling your head with memories of him. Memories of a different first kiss, but an eerily similar first date to the one you and your Pietro had. It makes sense to you now, you and Pietro had never told Wanda the real story of your first kiss, instead telling her you had it weeks later on your first date. You had tried to keep your relationship a secret for a little because you didn't want to make it awkward for Wanda if it didn't work out.

Another thing she didn't add was your engagement and subsequent marriage to her brother. In this reality you and 'Pietro' are just dating. You have to assume that it's because it happened weeks before the battle against Ultron and she doesn't want to remember anything that close to her brother's death.

The thing about the new Pietro is that he seems to rub Wanda the wrong way, something your Pietro never did. He makes comments that you know yours would never, and Wanda always tenses up near him. This Pietro likes to show you off more than yours did, which is saying a lot because your’s used to cling to your side, praise you, and show you off in town when girls would flirt with him. Every time this Pietro kisses you it doesn’t feel right, it’s nowhere near the earth shattering kisses that you had somehow managed to remember from the deep parts of your brain. 

"My ring," you shudder in horror when you realize the diamond ring that your Pietro stole from the jeweler in Sokovia is no longer sitting delicately on your left ring finger like it was before entering Westview. You hastily search your body for your most prized possession, sighing in relief when you find it hanging from a simple silver chain around your neck.

"(Y/N)," Vision says gently, resting a hand on your shoulder, it’s one of the few times he doesn’t know what to say. 

"He's dead," you cry, knees buckling under your weight again. This time you catch yourself on the kitchen table, before sinking in the seat to your right.

"Who's dead?" Wanda appears in the doorway out of nowhere. She has an innocent, concerned expression on her face, but the tilt of her head tells you she'll come take your memories away again if you slip up in the slightest.

"Dr. Drake Ramoray on Days Of Our Lives, the soap opera I was watching this afternoon when you and the boys were out. He fell down the elevator shaft, and I'm apparently taking it harder than I thought I would. I must be pmsing or something."

"Or maybe you're pregnant," there's a red glint in her eyes that scares you to no end.

"Oh," you swallow the lump in your throat, and hold back the bile rising up your throat from anxiety. "I don't think so, I'm not ready to be a mother yet."

"It would be so fun though," 'Pietro' zooms behind your seat, leaning down to place a kiss on your cheek. "Little mini me's and you's running around the house with Billy and Tommy."

"I think two super human children are enough for the house right now," you let out an uncomfortable giggle. You and Vision side eye each other, both very aware that you'll probably be as pregnant as Wanda was a few days ago within the week.

[always-andromeda]

Ooooh shit it’s my problematic fave: hate to love him, love to hate him, god help me it’s a good thing this man is cute

“The World Ender” for Calvin, pretty please ❤️ extra detail: reader is also a writer, and Calvin and reader are a bit competitive (maybe he’s even jealous of her at times, but she has no clue about that), but reader gets some particularly bad feedback on her writing (not from Calvin, from someone else), and she starts to doubt her abilities to the point where she’s extremely discouraged and down. Calvin catches her crying and puts his ego aside and steps in to comfort her/encourage her. The relationship of these two is sort of like enemies to lovers vibes. Thank you!

Author's Note | your juicy, big brain thoughts absolutely kill me, hon. like I planned on keeping these under 1,000 words but you gave me this prompt and my brain went NYOOM and now we have over 1,300 words of a scenario that I'm in love with and it's all your fault!! (in a positive way, lmao, love you, bb)

This is so stupid, you think to yourself as you mope on the stairwell of your publishing company’s building. After years of working through all of your anxiety and procrastination and the logistics, you’d published a book. Your first one since your debut a few years prior. You did the thing that everyone said you couldn’t do and that was come up with a worthy follow up.

And of course some asshole critic had to give their two cents. Amongst the flood of praise from your peers and the general public alike, some snot-nosed, insolent, slimy book reviewer had written a scathing review.

Uninspired. Incompetent. Unintelligible garble. This book is a waste of paper.

You scrolled through the review, skimming through each line that seemed tailor-made to make you break down completely. Had everyone simply been lying? They'd all told you that you were so talented. A promising young author. Had you really fallen so far in the years it took to build up your confidence again?

Calvin was particularly annoyed to find the elevator was out of order. After the particularly taxing meeting with Langdon, Calvin hated the idea of having to go back down the stairs. On the walk up, he'd been so confident. Finally ready to set a deadline for the first draft of his next book only to find out that Langdon hated his ideas and wanted him to go back to the drawing board.

With his ego shot, he's almost delighted to find you sitting on the steps as he rounds the corner onto the bottom floor.

The back and forth he has with you isn't playful, by any means. From the moment he'd overheard you say that you thought his first book was overrated at one of Langdon's parties, he'd been perpetually holding his nose up. At least his book was being sold. Sure, it had been years since he'd finished something that lived up to it...but at least he was working.

You, on the other hand, had taken a break for a few years. Too much pressure from the industry had made you cave. Calvin had scoffed at the news; he thought you were weak. A delicate little flower that couldn't handle criticism.

Calvin remembered reading your book the week it came out. Unusually, he devoured it all in a few sittings. And even if he was grasping for straws...he couldn't find anything he glaringly disliked. He thought he would have written a few passages better here and there. But that was just him being picky. On a technical level...it was brilliant. He'd closed your book shut when he finished it and simply decided that he was never going to give you the satisfaction of knowing his thoughts.

The urge to make up some bullshit insult upon spotting you is strong, yet, it subsides when he hears a high pitched cry. Then a short sniffle. Are you crying?

You hear his shoes stepping on the stairwell as he gets closer and you wipe away your undereyes with a knuckle.

Your head whips around to find the source of the intrusive sound. "Calvin?"

He sees your bleary eyes. Clearly red. Nose still running just a little as your back straightens in his presence. "Y/N." he greets coldly. He tries to keep his nose up. Tries to pass by as if he doesn't care even in the slightest that he caught his rival breaking down in the harshly lit stairwell. As if the idea of making some snide comment with the express purpose of kicking you while you're down didn't make him feel downright sick inside.

But as he reaches the step you sit on, he gives into the compelling urge to sit beside you. Almost instinctively you grimace to yourself and scoot a little further away.

Smoothing your hair back and sighing you ask, “What do you want from me this time, Calvin? Planning on saying I told you so?”

Really, Calvin can't think of anything to say. There's nothing aside from a bone-chilling awkwardness seeping into his touch as he slowly pats your back. Because if he knows one thing, he knows that you don't need him adding onto whatever pile you've got forming in your head.

"Are you okay?" he raises an eyebrow behind those tortoiseshell glasses and it makes you want to cry all over again. Are you really about to accept comfort from the notoriously full of himself, arrogant, douche, Calvin Weir-Fields? The answer to that seems to be a yes as you sob out loud, burying your red face in your hands.

"Why am I like this?" you ask, muffled by your hands.

"Ummm...I don't know...?" Calvin tries slowly.

You look at him suddenly, "Did you read the new Times article today? The one by Robert Novak?"

Of course he had. He drank in every single review. Mostly trying to find someone else who could possibly give him a reason to dislike your book. Robert Novak should've been his best friend for that task. He was relentless, tearing into your pages like he was being paid per word. Maybe he was. Maybe that's why he used so many run-on sentences and pulled random critiques out of thin air.

Regardless of that, Calvin was sure that by the end of the article that Robert Novak had no idea what he was talking about. And, frustratingly, your book was actually good.

"Yeah, it was...certainly one hell of a read."

"I put everything into that book. And he said it was garbage. I spent months pouring out my entire heart...and this one asshole...manages to get to me."

Calvin puts his hands up to explain, "Hey, if it makes you feel any better, I'm pretty sure the guy is a hack. One second he's writing about how your main character's character arc was nonexistent and the next he's claiming that the plot line doesn't justify the changes that the main character went through. I mean," Calvin chuckles nervously, "Pick a side."

You stare forward for a few seconds, processing for a few seconds before Calvin has the chance to ramble again, "You actually read my book?"

Calvin tries to loosen a little, screwing his face up into a nonchalant grin, "Of course...just for...comparison...purposes. Gotta keep in tune with what the public is consuming these days..." 

You stifle your own smile at his forced demeanor. You know what a truly indifferent Calvin looks like and this isn't it. This Calvin is sweet.

He waves the excuse away, "Never mind. Just know that...Robert Novak has no fucking clue what he's talking about. I'd be willing to bet that snob didn't even read it. Probably had a deadline to hit so he came up with whatever bullshit he could while skimming it. Wouldn't be the first time some asshole half assed something just to fulfill a quota."

Calvin knew that situation all too well from every time he had to rush to finish one of his short stories for review and publication. Just some asshole...half assing a project...whereas you had channeled your soul into your work. How dare he be such a snob?

You nod slowly, already beginning to feel better. "So I assume you liked my book."

"It was...alright." Calvin cleared his throat, "Tolerable." Perfect.

"You really expect me to believe that?" you cock an eyebrow at him.

"Hey, don't get too full of yourself."

You scoff playfully, "You're one to talk."

Calvin just stares at you. And he feels like he's looking at you with brand new eyes as he laughs at himself and concludes with a light smile, "Yeah. I am one to talk."

[mrsalwayswrite]

The Arrangement (Ivar x reader x Hvitserk)

Oh boy, so I don’t normally write smut but this idea came to me and would not let me write anything else. So here we are, friends. (I’m honestly so nervous to post this.)

A huge shout out to @geekandbooknerd for beta-reading this for me and listening to my ranting. You are the best, you beautiful person!

Warnings: SMUT, some feels, Ivar being Ivar 

Words: 5200

Tag List: @youbloodymadgenius​

 The fierce, blue eyes of Kattegat's king surveyed the Great Hall, full of people as they ate the evening meal.  Jovial conversations, yells for more ale, the pop and crackle of the large fire, even the fist fight that broke out…. none of it attracted his attention. No, instead his clever mind wrestled with one simple problem. Something he was certain no other man ever had to worry about. This problem had lately been at the forefront of his mind, slithering through his thoughts like vipers, distracting him from his duties. Weeks now he mentally wrestled with seeking a solution. Wracking his brain as what to do. He even considered going to the Seer, but quickly rejected that idea. The Seer only ever spoke in riddles and it would only further muddle his already troubled mind. He cursed the gods with his lack of a solution, for putting him in this predicament. 

 But this morning as he lay in bed, willing the pain in his legs to diminish, a solution came to mind. It was so simple, something he should have considered long ago…. but one that required trust. Something which admittedly was not his strongest suit. But for this solution to work, to gain what he yearned for, he must trust. There was no other way. It was like the gods came to him, spoke into his mind during his slumber, explaining what he must do. Though he trusted no one completely, there was one who he could trust with this solution. And the rewards…. oh, the rewards would be well worth it. 

 Besides, it could be fun. 

He observed where his brother sat at a nearby table, talking and laughing with some of their warriors. A broad grin lit up his face as he freely drank and shared stories. Although Hvitserk seemed to be fully invested in the conversation around him, from where Ivar reclined on his throne, he could see the way his brother's gaze darted frequently to another table nearby. Quick looks, never lingering, almost indiscernible from how his gaze shifted to his companions around him. But Ivar could see it. Many times he had witnessed his brother's secret looks. Now was the time to test it. 

 With a sharp order, Ivar sent a nearby thrall to summon the other Ragnarsson. Hvitserk glanced at Ivar with a confused expression before giving a single nod. As he rose from his spot at the tables, Ivar had a nearby thrall fill up his ale horn, eyes shifting from his brother to the one who continued to unknowingly entice the elder Ragnarsson. When Hvitserk stood at the bottom of the dais, leading up to the thrones, Ivar waved his hand, signaling for his brother to sit on the throne next to him. The Queen's throne. Your throne. 

 Surprise flashed across the face of the flaxen-haired Ragnarsson, eyes darting between the two thrones for a moment in surprise. Ivar wondered if thoughts of their beautiful mother crossed his brother's mind as he saw the throne as often as they did his own. After a second, Hvitserk shrugged and seated himself on the other throne. Silence persisted as they nursed their ales. 

 Looking over the crowd, Ivar returned his gaze to the one person who, beside his mother, he was most devoted to. You were smiling in a way that made his heart clench and his lips twitch, wanting to mirror your joy. He never understood your need to mingle with others during meals instead of remaining on your throne. At times, jealousy reared its head in his mind, but you always returned to his side, to his bed, sharing the latest gossip you heard or a particularly funny story. He would grumble but never admit how he enjoyed listening to you, or how he used that gossip to his benefit. 

 Now you sat with a few women he recognized as wives to wealthy traders in Kattegat. A baby lay in your arms as you spoke with enthusiasm to one of the women. With the light from the flames dancing across your face and the joy radiating from you as you cooed at the baby in your arms, Ivar knew there was no one as beautiful as you. Even more so than his mother. Every day he still found himself in awe that you chose him, you agreed to be his wife, that you loved him. It was enough to make him feel invincible. To conquer the world and lay it at your feet as an offering. 

 Without moving his head, Ivar peeked over at his brother, unsurprised to see him staring in the same direction. The horn of ale at his lips helped mask where his lingering gaze lay, but Ivar could see. He knew. 

 "I see how you look at her." Ivar said nonchalantly. 

 "Who?" Hvitserk questioned, eyes pretending to roam over the Great Hall. 

 Ivar smirked, fingers lightly tapping on the armrest of his throne. "My queen…. y/n."

 "She is a beautiful woman. Is it wrong now to admire someone so clearly blessed by Freyja?"

 "Ah, but I see your mind. You want to do more than admire, dear brother."

 Hvitserk shifted uncomfortably, head snapping to the side to eye his younger brother warily. "What is this, Ivar?"

 The young king leaned back, smirk still in place. After a tense moment of watching Hvitserk squirm, he dropped his voice so he knew only his brother could hear him. "I have a proposition for you."

 "What?"

 "I need your help with a…. sensitive matter."

 The flaxen-haired Ragnarsson scoffed. "Is this Ivar the Boneless actually asking for help?" 

 "Will you help me or not?" He sharply retorted, trying to force down the rising anger that bubbled under his skin. 

 "Of course." He said with a sigh. "What is it?"

 Ivar pushed off his throne, tossing back the rest of his ale and handing his horn off to a nearby thrall. "Come. We will discuss this in my bedroom." 

 He did not wait for his brother, already leaning on his crutch as he walked down the steps and down the corridor to the royal rooms. He hoped his plan worked. He needed it to work. Even if it meant trusting his brother with what was most precious to him. 

 *****

 Your steps were sure as you left the Great Hall and walked down the corridor to your bedroom. You had seen Ivar and Hvitserk leave the evening meal some time ago, but assumed they went to discuss important matters somewhere quiet. So, you stayed to talk with your friends, something you cherished. It was important to you that even though you were their queen, they could be comfortable in your presence and feel free to speak to you. Plus, you enjoyed the juicy gossip passed around. 

 One of the guards opened the bedroom door for you. You nodded a brief thanks and walked in…. only for your feet to stutter to a stop after you entered. Surprise flooded you to see your husband and his older brother both in your bedroom. Ivar reclined on his favorite, wide chair near the lit fireplace but what was most perplexing was how Hvitserk sat on the end of your bed, elbows on his knees with a guarded expression. 

 "My wife will not be needing your assistance tonight." Ivar stated to the thrall who had followed you into the room. "You may leave us….and inform the guards we do not wish to be disturbed for any reason."

 The thrall glanced over to you, since she was yours. The routine of helping you undress and prepare for bed, a regular occurrence most nights. At your murmured acceptance, she nodded her head and left, closing the door behind her. 

 "Is everything alright, Ivar? Have you heard something from your spies?" You quickly asked once the three of you were alone. Worry gnawed in your stomach. He had confessed to you late one night that there was a nearby earl he thought might try to attack and overtake Kattegat. 

 "Come here, my love." He held his leather-clad hand out for you to take, something you did without question. He guided you to stand between his open, brace-covered legs. With his other hand, he tapped his lips, a cheeky glint in his eyes. You giggled but obliged, pressing a sweet and tender kiss to his mouth in response to his wordless demand.

 His hands on your hips, he looked up at you with devotion in those piercing blue eyes. A sight that made your heart melt every time without him even having to say a word. 

 "What is going on?"

 "You know I love you, yes?" He softly questioned, still staring up at you like you were the moon and stars. 

 You cupped his cheek, his sideburns tickling your fingers. "Of course. And I love you."

 "Mmmm…. the gods have given me wisdom as how to solve our problem."

 "Our problem?" Your brows furrowed, confused by what he was talking about. 

 He pointedly looked at your belly then back up at you. 

 Then it hit you, and your heart broke a little at the heartache in his gaze. "Oh, Ivar, I told you…."

 "It's been a year, y/n." He interrupted, the grief slipping into his voice, even as he struggled to hide it. "We've been trying for a year and there is nothing to show for it. I never thought I could pleasure a woman until you came along and I hoped…. I hoped I could give you a child. Our child. But it seems the gods still will not grant me that ability. I need an heir, and I want to see you grow round with a child. I want a family with you. Something I never dreamed of before."

 Realization dawned on you as to why Hvitserk was in your bedroom. Eyes wide, you peeked over your shoulder at the other Ragnarsson, who was staring at the ground between his feet, then looked back at your husband. 

 "Ivar…."

 "Hvitty has agreed. He will be my cock and plant a baby in you in my name."

 This time you fully turned around to stare at the flaxen-haired brother. "Hvitserk, are you sure you want to do this?" 

 Gods, this sounded like something your husband would force his brother to do. Actually, you were beyond astounded that Ivar would even let another man touch you. Before your thoughts could follow that trail, Ivar's voice brought you back. 

 He chuckled darkly, an edge to his tone like he was confessing someone else's secret. "My brother can barely keep his eyes off you whenever you are around….and when I told him my idea, he agreed without hesitation."

 You witnessed an adorable blush rise to Hvitserk's cheeks as he rubbed the back of his neck and mumbled under his breath. For a moment he looked like a young boy again, caught staring at his latest crush. It was so innocent and precious. Yet with the rumors you heard from some of the women of Kattegat, you knew he was far from innocent. There had been a handful of times you secretly noticed the Ragnarsson's heated gaze on you, but your mind played it off, thinking he must have truly been looking at someone else or he was just admiring your dress. Now your mind flipped through those memories with a different lens. 

 After giving your husband's hands a quick squeeze, you stepped out of his embrace. Heart hammering away in your chest, you watched the elder brother with a new understanding as you approached. This time you did not miss the way his eyes raked over your form or how he licked his lips almost in anticipation. The shiver that rolled down your spine startled you, but not unpleasantly so. 

 Almost in a mirror image, you stood between Hvitserk's legs, his hands automatically landing on your hips, just like how you stood with Ivar; but the way his hands felt unbound by leather and almost hesitant to touch you, was a reminder this was not your husband. After a moment, you cupped his face, his beautiful brown eyes meeting yours with such naked want in them, heat coursed through you.  

 "Are you sure, Hvitty?" You whispered.   

 "I'd be lying if I said I haven't thought about laying with you." He confessed, a naughty smirk teasing his lips. His voice stayed low as you two traded secrets. "Are you alright with this…. arrangement? I know you love my brother, and I don't want to ruin that. Not for either one of you."

 You continued to stroke his cheek as you pondered his question. There was no doubt that you loved Ivar with all your heart. He was the love of your life and you knew you were his. Hvitserk easily was the brother you always wished for. You enjoyed his flirtatious teasing, especially when it made the jealous side of your husband come out because the sex after that was always mind-blowing. The blond was someone you trusted wholeheartedly. Your life was perfect, you were happier than you ever thought you would be. But there was one thing you always imagined, one thing you silently yearned for. So it was with that in mind, your answer, your decision was an easy one to make. 

 "I want a baby."

 His smirk grew, "I'll try my best to help with that."

 You laughed. "Oh, so gracious of you."

 He winked cheekily, taking one of your hands to kiss your palm slowly. 

 You shifted to meet your husband's cool gaze, with Hvitserk's hands gently kneading your hips. "Ivar, you are certain this is what you want? This won't cause jealousy between you and your brother?"

 Ivar scoffed. "Why would it?"

 "You threatened last month to gouge a trader's eyes out for staring at y/n too long." Hvitserk deadpanned. In the next second, he leaned over to lay a kiss on your hip meanwhile, his hand shifted to grab a handful of your ass cheek. You squeaked, surprised by the bold move in front of Ivar. As you tried to wriggle away, he only chuckled and pulled you to sit directly on his lap. It should not surprise you anymore how strong Hvitserk was, but somehow it always managed to catch you off guard. Though your mind certainly took notice of the bulge in his pants underneath you. 

 "He was talking only to her breasts. He is lucky I did not take at least one eye for his disrespect." Ivar leaned back in his seat. "You agree to this, my love?"

 "I do." You answered. 

 "Excellent. Come here for a moment." He beckoned you to him once again. 

 Hvitserk released you, not before palming your ass as you stood up. You swatted at his hands, but the smile on your lips let him know you were not truly upset. 

 That smile only grew as you glided over to your husband. For all of his anger and wrath, none of it ever touched you. Instead he treated you delicately, reverently. As if you were a dream and with one wrong move, you would vanish. Or a goddess he vowed to continuously worship. You thrived under his tender touches, drawing you further and further into the ocean of his profound love. 

 He guided you to stand between his legs again and for a brief moment you felt like a ball the brothers were taking turns passing back and forth. You dashed the thought away before it made you giggle. 

 "I have one condition for our arrangement." Ivar said, intently watching your face. His finger traced the edges of your lips, as if to memorize them. "Only I own your mouth. I was your first kiss. So as I live and breathe, only I get the pleasure of your kisses. Hvitserk can kiss and touch you anywhere else but there. Agreed?"

 You nodded mutely. The growing desire in his eyes caused your womb to clench and fire to begin warming your veins. 

 "Brother?"

 "Agreed." Hvitserk said from his perch on the bed behind you, his voice sounding a bit gruffer than a minute ago. 

 Ivar turned those piercing, passionate eyes back to you. "My love…." He placed a kiss to the valley between your breasts, allowing his face to linger there a moment. You carded your fingers through his loosened hair, feeling his hands gently holding your hips. When he looked up, gone was the sweet, loving devotion in his eyes, replaced with something wicked. "Shall we teach Hvitty what you like first?"

 "What do you have in mind?"

 "Take off your dress."

 "I need help with the laces." You reminded him as he was the one to demand your thrall leave earlier. 

 "Ah, you are right. Go to Hvitserk, he will help."

 Obediently, you walked the few steps back to the elder Ragnarsson wondering what game your husband was playing, but you could not deny the excitement thrumming in your veins. Without a word, you turned around to allow him access to the lacing on the back of your dress. You thought he would hesitate or his fingers would tremble knowing your husband was watching on. Instead they deftly plucked and tugged at the laces like he had done this many times. Once your back was exposed, his hand traced down your spine, causing you to shiver under the sensual touch. 

 Holding the front of the dress to your chest, you made your way back over to Ivar. Standing in front of him, his hands claimed your fingers from holding your dress to entwine with his own. Immediately, your dress slipped down your body to pool at your feet, leaving you completely bare before the two Ragnarssons. 

 Ivar's hands landed on your hips but instead of pulling you to straddle him, like you expected, he slowly spun you around and had you sit on his lap, facing his brother. What met your gaze was the wolfish look of Hvitserk, staring at you like you were something he wanted to devour. Ivar's hands slide up from your hips to cup your breasts as if offering them to his brother. 

 "Look at you, my goddess, my wife." Ivar whispered against your skin as he left hot, open-mouth kisses along the column of your throat. You could not help but whimper, your body so in tune with his. He barely had to touch you before your body begged for him to fill you. A dampness already coated your core. Without taking his eyes off of you, his hands fondling you in the way that made you breathless, he addressed his brother. "Is she not perfect, Hvitty? A goddess begging to be worshiped."

 "Gods, yes. Perfect."

 Normally you would be embarrassed by the praises. Now though, you felt like a lamb being toyed with by two wolves. Trapped by the lustful gaze of one and the feverish touches of the other. 

 Ivar's hands continued to fondle and pluck at your nipples, causing your head to fall back onto his shoulder. "That's right, you love these perfect breasts being played with, don't you?"

 "Ivar…." His name was a needy whine coming off your tongue.

 "Yes, my love. So sensitive. Just imagine it's Hvitty's mouth on them." 

 An unexpected, wanton moan escaped you at the thought. Your hips started rolling against your husband's lap, desperate for friction. 

 "Open your eyes." Ivar whispered into your ear. "Look at Hvitty."

 You obeyed even though your body demanded to close your eyes and wallow in the pleasure Ivar could induce in you. As your gaze locked with the elder Ragnarsson, you felt one of Ivar's hands skim down your stomach to part your legs, exposing your core. 

 Instinctively, you started to close your legs only for Ivar to tsk and bite the junction of your neck and shoulder. "Don't be shy. Let him see that sweet pussy." 

 Your legs fell back open, allowing his hand free reign to touch you where you most needed it. Your body automatically arched into his hand, silently begging for more. Sweat already began to dampen you as the heat burned hotter under your skin. 

 "I swear Valhalla is between her legs, brother."

 Hvitserk spoke up, his voice coming out rough and husky. "Touch her, Ivar."

 "You hear that, y/n?" Your husband teased, licking a stripe up the column of your throat. "Should I touch you?"

 "Please." You begged, too far along to care how needy you sounded. 

 He chuckled darkly, his hand dipped to your core, cupping and teasing you. You tensed as his skilled fingers played with your folds and clit but never entering you. He could tease you for hours, leave you on the brink as you begged for relief. It was a favorite game of his. You started to grind against him, your blood boiling with desire and the need for relief. 

 Somehow, he always knew when you were close, as if it was a sixth sense. 

 "She is close, Hvitty. Her pussy is weeping to be filled." He squeezed your breast, causing you to loudly moan.

"Do you want my fingers or my cock, my queen?"

 "I want you, beloved." You answered in a breathy sigh. 

 His teasing ceased, almost making you whine. Gently, he cupped your chin, turning your head to gaze lovingly into your eyes. It always seemed to astound him that you desired him, not just physically but as a person, as a friend, as a lover and a soul mate. He pressed a sweet kiss to your lips, pouring in all of his devotion in a way you understood since words always failed him. 

 Slowly you rose to your feet but instead of walking away, you turned to face him. This was a dance the two of you had done before. Knowing what he wanted, you straddled his lap without fear of the wide chair breaking under your combined weight. This was not the first time you had made love on this particular chair by the fire. 

 Still gazing at you in awe and adoration, Ivar cupped your breasts. His thumbs teased your nipples. A low moan fell from your lips as your head tipped back. His mouth then descended on your chest, first leaving small kisses before taking one of your peaked nipples into his mouth. 

 "Ivar…." You groaned. "Yes, yes."

 In an action well practiced, you were already reaching between your bodies to fumble with the laces of his pants. Without hesitation, you sank down onto him, being filled in the best way possible. Your lips sought out his, drawing pleasure from his mouth just as much as his cock. Your tongues swirled as your hips rolled. It was delirium. This pleasure he could bring out of you. It was all-consuming. No matter how much he teased, he was always gentle and reverent when it came to worshipping you. A slow, sweet burn that sunk into every fiber of your body, called forth your very soul to dance with his, just as much as your bodies writhed together. 

 You unlocked your mouth, throwing your head back with a loud moan as your pace increased, riding his cock, seeking your peak. His growls and words of praise only spurred you on. 

 Finally it came, crashing over you, eliciting a cry of Ivar's name loud enough the guards outside the door probably heard. Three more quick thrusts and you could feel Ivar spill his empty seed inside you. His head dropped onto your chest, both of you panting and sweaty. 

 "You're mine." He murmured against your skin as if reminding himself or branding the words into your naked skin. "You're my goddess, my queen, mine."

 "Always." You whispered back. 

 After both of you came down from your erotic high, Ivar leaned up, pressing a toe-curling kiss to your already swollen lips. 

 "She's ready for you, brother." He loudly announced. 

 It was then you remembered Hvitserk in the room. So caught up in making love with your husband, you had momentarily forgotten what was to happen. You stared down at your husband, silently asking him if he was sure. 

 Ivar rolled his eyes but caressed your cheek with his calloused fingers. "It's alright. Besides, if you don't go take care of him, he'll probably blow his load in his pants soon."

 You smiled, kissing him once more before carefully rising off his lap. As you turned to look at the flaxen-haired warrior, never before had you felt the seductress until now. With your husband's seed spilling down your thigh, you slowly walked the few paces to stand in front Hvitserk. With each step closer, his ravenous gaze devoured your nakedness; a predatory look that made your thighs clench and put a quiver in your belly. 

 "How do you want me?" You softly asked, standing before him. 

 He swallowed thickly, fists clenching and releasing before he cleared his throat and answered hoarsely. "Lie down on your back."

 Embracing the inner seductress in you, you crawled across your bed, giving your husband and his brother a spectacular view of your ass. Nerves aflutter, you laid down on your large marital bed. Yet you could feel the longing ache between your legs growing the more you thought about what was to come. 

 Soon, Hvitserk hovered above you, completely naked. Although you loved your husband and his body, the sight of Hvitserk in all his glory made your mouth water and core clench in anticipation.  

 "You are the most beautiful woman I've ever seen." He confessed, barely above a whisper. "Gods…." His mouth landed on your neck, lavishing his affections using both teeth and tongue. Sweeping downward, his ministrations continued, drawing soft cries from you as he equally used his mouth and hands to caress all the curves of your body. Each touch, each caress, each bite and lick, all felt like he was trying to get himself drunk on the feel of your soft skin, your scent and the sounds of pleasure coming from you. 

 It did not take long for you to begin writhing underneath him, clawing at his back, utterly at his mercy. This desire he invoked in you was molten and drugging. Your eyelids fluttered closed as you fought to remember to breathe. 

 Pulling back slightly, he lined himself up. Then instead of gradually easing into you, he slammed into you until he was fully sheathed in your womanhood. A cry left your mouth at the same time as he groaned. You expected pain but instead your body readily welcomed the intrusion, hot and wet, waiting for him. 

 He pressed his forehead to yours, remaining frozen, giving you both time to adjust. "Gods…. this is Valhalla." He whispered with a touch of awe in his voice. 

 You rolled your hips; your body begging for more, for release, for him to bring you to new heights. "Hvitty…."

 "Say my name." He grunted, a slow thrust accompanying it. 

 "Hvitserk." 

 "Again." This thrust was a little faster and harder. 

 "Hvitserk."

 "Say it." 

 His name rolled off your tongue in a gasp as he slammed into you, stars appearing in your vision. "Hvitserk."

 As a key unlocking, your fervid gasp seemed to unleash him. In the next moment, he began thrusting with abandon, almost animalistic in his pleasurable fury. He grabbed your hips, lifting them off the bed to begin pounding into you like a man possessed. 

 Never before had Ivar done anything like this and to your surprise…. you liked it. A lot. 

 Your hands clawed at the bed, desperate for something to hold onto. Cries of pleasure flowed freely from you. An inferno lived inside of you, threatening to burn you with ecstasy. Sluggishly you opened your eyes to be met with the sight of Hvitserk cradled between your thighs, sweat glistening on his flushed skin as he rocked into you, sending jolts of electricity each time. Those brown eyes stared down at you like he wanted to own your body and soul.

 With a silent scream, your peak overwhelmed you. Your eyes slammed shut as your back arched, delicious waves of pleasure making your mind cease to function. 

 Hvitserk followed quickly, a growl splitting the air between you as his thrusts stuttered to an end and his seed filled your womb. He all but collapsed on top of you after, both for you sweaty and sated. 

 "Did I hurt you?" He asked, his voice raspy and content. His head laid on your chest, his body seeming to be the only thing to keep you from floating away on waves of bliss. 

 "No." You mumbled languishly, too pleasure-drunk to say more. 

 He tipped his head to look at you, a lazy smirk on his face. "I really want to kiss you."

 "You know the one rule." You reminded him, brushing a hand over his frazzled braids. 

 He hummed, then with a mischievous glint in his eyes, he leaned forward and licked your lips. At first you just stared as he grinned at you, but giggles soon fell from your mouth. 

 "Hvitserk! What did I say?" Ivar demanded, walking over to sit on the opposite side of the bed. 

 Hvitserk rolled his head to look at his brother, but kept it on your naked chest. "I didn't kiss her. You never said anything about not licking her lips."

 Ivar rolled his eyes, muttering under his breath, as he unstrapped his braces and flopped onto the bed. His hand reached out for you, possessively tugging you out from underneath his brother and into his side. Not that you minded. You immediately curled against him, your eyelids straining to stay open. 

 "I'm alright." You answered the question you could see lingering in his eyes. "Just sleepy now."

 He smiled fondly down at you, leaving a gentle kiss on your forehead. Sleep called to you as you lay in your husband's arms. So wonderfully relaxed, your muscles were loose and your womanhood ached in the best way from the lasting effects of your pleasure. 

 The sound of movement made you tip your head to the side, only to see Hvitserk getting off the bed and reaching for his clothes. 

 "Where are you going?" You asked, your voice lethargic as if already infused by sleep. 

 Those brown eyes jumped from you to your husband and back. "I figured Ivar would want me to leave now so you two can go to sleep."

 "Stay, Hvitty. The hour is late." Ivar replied, running a hand up and down your bare back. "Besides I plan on this arrangement until y/n is with child. You can stay with us."

 With a tilt of his head, the brothers regarded each other for a long moment before Hvitserk chuckled, tossing his tunic back to the ground and crawling into bed in just his pants. 

 "Thank the gods. This bed is ridiculously comfortable."

 You smiled, rolling over so your back was pressed to Ivar's chest, snuggling closer to him. His arm settled around your waist comfortably as he placed a kiss on the back of your neck. Snaking a hand over the covers, you reach over and entwine the elder brother's fingers with yours. Hvitserk startled initially but quickly brought your hand to his lips, a brief kiss on your knuckles, then laid it back on the bed, keeping your fingers entangled. 

 Sleep found you within minutes, tucked between the two Ragnarssons, one being your husband and the other who would give you a child. 

 Your last thought was wondering if Fate would allow this arrangement to work….and maybe continue. 

[cinnaminsvga]

a love that endures | Yoongi

→ summary: 

“Oh come on! Just go say hi to him already,” Seokjin huffs. He wiggles his eyebrows, striking you with the urge to shave them off in retaliation. “I could feel your ‘God, I miss his dick’ vibes from across the room!”

“I do not emit dick thirst vibes,” you respond hotly, swatting him in the tit. You pause, considering. “Wait, but do you think he misses my p—”

“Say no more,” Seokjin interrupts, a wicked smirk gracing his lips. His gaze is fixed somewhere behind you, but you have a sinking suspicion you know why he looks like he’s won the lottery. “Speaking of the devil, look who’s coming over to say hello!”

{or alternatively: Yoongi and Y/N. Y/N and Yoongi. High school sweethearts that were never meant to last, until a reunion ten years later manages to reignite a flame that never quite burnt out.} 

→ genre: high school reunion!au, exes to lovers, fluff, humor, minor angst → warnings: shy!yoongi and shy!oc live rent free in my brain, mutual pining is poggers, hoseok and seokjin aren’t evil for once in a cinnaminsvga fic, implied smut so it’s pg-13 because i’m a wimp → words: 14.4K → a/n: SHE’S ALIVE!! this is dedicated to @himbeaux-joon​ who commissioned this piece ages ago. thank you again for requesting this because this was honestly so much fun to write. i’ve been in a bit of writing slump these past few weeks but this fic came out so easily and got way longer than expected (perhaps because it’s about yoongi and he’s always been the easiest one to write for me). enjoy!! ;o;

The mere sight of him is enough to knock the wind out of you.

Your body freezes, the hand curled around your paper cup filled with punch tightening ever so slightly. It isn’t like you’re surprised that he came; you aren’t supposed to be. Of course, you should have expected his arrival, but you’ve been hoping all night that he might have been too busy to attend.

He isn’t even on time—it has almost been two hours since the event started and you had been filled with a false hope that perhaps he had RSVP’d and decided he couldn’t make it. 

You had seen Hoseok, his best friend from your younger days, standing outside the entrance of the ballroom before they had started letting people in. The moment Hoseok saw you, he immediately came over to sweep you into a tight hug, his infectious laughter ringing in your ears. He had greeted you happily, expressing how much he missed you since high school, but never once bringing up the elephant in the room.

It wasn’t like you were going to bring him up first. No, that would be weird on your part. Nevermind the fact that going to high school reunions was a recipe for reliving past traumas and seeing all your childhood friends either married or pregnant—you weren’t going to be that person who asked where their ex was. You refused to be the person craning their neck to spy on the entrance every two minutes, hoping to catch sight of an old familiar face.

The problem is that you are that person, and you kind of hate yourself for it. However, it is also the reason why you are probably the only person in the entire ballroom who notices his quiet arrival.

He has never liked causing commotions, which is often apparent from the way he conducts himself. He walks into the room just as a loud round of applause breaks out; an old schoolmate of yours is walking up to the podium, probably the person who had arranged the get-together in the first place. It is a perfect distraction for him as he slinks past the door, keeping near the wall so as not to be seen by anyone just yet.

(Except he has been seen—he just doesn’t know it yet.)

You do not know for how long you stare at him, just that it takes you a moment to realize you haven’t taken a breath since he stepped foot into the same space as you. You take a deep, shuddering breath, forcing your racing heartbeat to calm down. You swallow thickly, throat so unbearably dry that even drinking from your lukewarm cup of punch doesn’t seem to do anything.

But the undeniable truth is there, standing only a few meters away from you, and nothing on earth will be able to wash away the nerves flooding through your system.

After ten years of radio silence, Min Yoongi is in your orbit once again.

In the grand scheme of things, ten years wasn’t all that long. Four years in university had passed by in a blur, and the absolute chaos that ensued right after you graduated as you scrambled to secure a job and move out of your hometown had made the days seem shorter than they actually were. You had not even noticed that time was passing until you found that cream envelope waiting for you one day after work, your alma mater’s school crest painfully recognizable even after all these years.

During all that time, the world around you shifted without you noticing, and that meant people were changing too.

Yoongi is 28 now. And so are you, after many months of denial. You have not seen each other since you were both 18—both of you far too young to know about any of the things you would experience in the next ten years.

He might have grown a little taller since then, something you are sure that your brother will find amusing. His hair isn’t dyed like you remembered, as he has opted to keep it his natural dark black that you have not seen since you were both in middle school. It’s styled differently too: combed over and gelled back, with his bangs pushed back and his forehead exposed. When he turns his head to the side, a gasp spills past your lips before you can stop it.

“Is that a fucking undercut?” you mutter in shock, your eyes straining out of their sockets as you try to drink him in. Even under the dim lighting of the ballroom, his new haircut is hard to miss. No one else seems to be undergoing the same mental collapse as you, judging by how everyone’s attention is still fixated on the person speaking at the podium. How the hell is no one else losing their fucking minds to the sight of Min Yoongi with a fucking undercut? Some questions are impossible to answer, you surmise.

When you decided to attend the reunion, you had not once thought about how Yoongi would look like. Somehow, you had developed this stagnant picture of him in your head, even after all these years. To you, he will always be the boy with the stark blonde hair, the mismatched eyelids, the pouty lips, the dumpling cheeks. He is the boy who can’t wear his own contact lenses to save his life, the boy who sometimes wears his favorite leather jacket to sleep, the boy who only drinks Americanos like it was water.

Gone are those days, you realize. That image of him has been smashed to pieces, instead replaced by this dashing (and incredibly hot) man—a stranger. A stranger with unbleached (and healthy) hair, a jawline sharp enough to cut glass. He has his glasses kept away, and there is no leather jacket in sight.

But you can see him, if you look hard enough. The same spark in his eye, the same curve of his lips. You catch him smiling for a second, and his cheeks still puff up like dough. Maybe it’s just hopeless thinking, but you see him. It’s still him. To you, he will always be your 18-year-old Min Yoongi, the one who would greet you with a sweet kiss on the forehead every time you would—

Raucous applause breaks you from your train of thought, and you blink rapidly in surprise. You have to forcibly pull yourself out of your Yoongi-induced trance, clapping alongside everyone without really knowing what was going on. All of the extra noise sounds like buzzing in your ears, especially when it is drowned out by the roar of your blood rushing to your head all at once.

“Once again, I’d like to thank you all for coming tonight. We will begin the program right after dinner, so please feel free to help yourselves to the buffet! Cheers everyone!” You faintly hear your old schoolmate speak, before her voice is quickly overrun by the commotion of people walking over to the extravagant display of food. It takes a moment for the crowd of heads to disperse, so when you can finally look back to where you last saw Yoongi, he is no longer alone.

Hoseok has his arm slung around Yoongi, his infectious laughter loud enough to be heard over clinking plates and silverware. The two are as different as night and day, with Hoseok practically bouncing from excitement and Yoongi rolling his eyes from annoyance. But it is easy to see that his pout is nothing but a ruse; you can already catch the beginnings of a smile tugging at his lips.

You feel your own seams breaking, unwittingly sporting a grin of your own. It is nice to know that Yoongi hasn’t been alone all this time, that he still seems close with his old best friend. You cannot count the number of friendships that you have lost over time, and you still grieve many of them during your quiet moments. Alas, it was often never even anyone’s fault, the strains of adulthood often being the biggest deal breakers in your relationships.

That is, of course, except for one.

“Enjoying yourself? I didn’t think we’d share the same voyeuristic tendencies,” says a voice, creeping up behind you. Now, normal people would not usually expect other sane people to invade your personal space and breathe directly into your ear, but that’s just your humble opinion. What you do know is that one certain individual enjoys breaking the mold when it comes to societal norms, and it is none other than…

“Jesus fucking Christ!” You shriek, nearly sucker-punching the offending degenerate in the face. You hold back your fist from connecting with his face, but your resulting irritation remains. Whether that irritation is because you regret holding back or not will unfortunately also have to remain unanswered. “Oh God, it’s you.”

“Oh, no need for that. Most people usually call me Seokjin,” he snickers, thoroughly enjoying your flushed face. Kim Seokjin pats you on the shoulder, his trademark “pretty boy” smile still as radiant as you remembered. It does nothing to quell your urge to raise your fists again, however. “Hello, Y/N. Fancy seeing you here!”

“The feeling is not mutual,” you snort. Much like how Yoongi was with Hoseok, your derision is nothing but a rouse. As much as you want to kick Seokjin in the nuts, you also cannot ignore how much you want to hug him the slimy bastard—but you definitely will not be the first one to admit it. So like the tsundere that you are, you decide to insult him instead. “Why are you here? You’re not even from this class. Don’t you have other things to do? Or rather, people to do?”

“My heart! You wound me,” he gasps, grasping his chest as though he’d been shot. “How could you say that to your best friend in the entire world? Don’t you know how much I missed you?”

“Easy. I do it because the only other alternative would lead me straight to prison,” you shrug, but your grin betrays you.

This time, you don’t jolt away when he closes in for a hug. “And I guess I miss you too,” you say, your words slightly muffled into his chest. Like always, he sees through your prickly act because as much as you like to pretend, Kim Seokjin is kind of amazing—loose bolts and all.

“It’s nice to know that your tongue hasn’t lost its edge, though I suppose I wouldn’t be intimately knowledgeable in that area. After all, I still am very much a raging homosexual and pussy isn’t really my forte,” Seokjin guffaws, his volume causing a few nearby guests to raise their heads in alarm.

You bow at them, sheepishly apologizing on his behalf before grabbing him by the collar.

“Will you stop being embarrassing for just one second? I swear, I thought I retired from my babysitting job when I graduated high school,” you hiss, but the way his mouth curls up with mischief is answer enough. God, you missed this son of a bitch.

“Unfortunately for you, being a pest is part of my DNA,” he smirks, carefully plucking your hands off from his neck, as though your nails were not mere inches away from ripping his trachea into pieces. “Though, I am offended by your assumption that I am still the same slut that you knew. I’ve grown up a little, you know! I’m a changed man!”

“Oh, please. Don’t tell me you of all people have settled down,” you laugh, not missing the way Seokjin’s perfectly stenciled brow raises slightly.

“I know we haven’t seen each other since Christmas, but come on Y/N! You of all people should be applauding me for my improved behavior! You must have noticed how much I changed when I visited.”

“When you visited me last Christmas, you immediately insulted my taste in kitchen towels, went on Grindr to find a hookup despite my numerous pleas, and promptly desecrated my guest bedroom that no housekeeper or priest is willing to exorcise to this day,” you gag, shuddering at the memory. “And then you ate all my ice cream and proceeded to clog my toilet!”

“Um? Aren’t you forgetting that I also bought you that dress you wanted? Rude,” Seokjin retorts, not the least bit remorseful. “Well, that’s what you get for agreeing to be my best bitch for life. You know that I take pinky promises very seriously.”

Unfortunately, he does take his promises seriously. It is probably the only thing he’ll ever be serious about, as much as the man enjoys parading his depravity. “Okay, whatever. I’ll bite. Who’s the unlucky man you’ve managed to deceive into a relationship?”

“Oh, it’s someone we both used to know. I’m his plus one for tonight,” he says, supplying you with the most useless non-answer imaginable.

“Seokjin. We’re at a high school reunion. We know everyone here. That could be anyone!” you exclaim.

“Well, isn’t that fun? Then we can do a scavenger hunt!” Seokjin grins, clapping his hands together excitedly. He pulls you in front of him, forcing the two of you to survey the crowd. “Okay, hold your arm out like this—” After a few seconds of you failing to resist him, he manages to get you to unfurl your finger as if you were about to order something from the dollar menu at McDonalds. Unfortunately for you, the tall twink is stronger than he appears. “—and just keep pointing around until I tell you that you’re getting warmer!”

“Seokjin, I don’t think this is very—” you start, but Seokjin is already moving your arm for you. Like a hurricane, Kim Seokjin listens to no one but his own homewrecking whims.

“Park Chanyeol? Close, but not really. You should know that I don’t double dip with past flings,” he says, shifting you to the left. “Kim Namjoon? Now that’s a hunk of meat that I wish I’d taken a bite of, but unfortunately he’s as straight as a ruler. Pass,” he hums, continuing to move you bit by bit.

You’re both getting uncomfortably close to where Yoongi is, and Seokjin doesn’t appear to be stopping any time soon. You did notice that Yoongi had come dateless to the reunion (a fact, by the way, that you did not rejoice over when you had noticed), but that doesn’t necessarily mean he’s single. You have known Seokjin for more than a decade at this point, and despite your odd friendship, you are sure that he would never do anything to hurt you on purpose.

Though, that does beg the question… How far does his dick thirst really go? Maybe you’ll finally find out today.

“Warmer, getting warmer…” Seokjin inches you closer and closer to where Yoongi is standing. You feel frozen in his grasp, unsure if you wanted to know anymore. If Seokjin really is dating Yoongi, then what? It’s not like you were dating him anyway… What difference does it make if it’s Seokjin?

(It makes all the difference, but you refuse to think about it.)

“Nope, not Wonho... A little bit to the left… Bingo!” Seokjin declares, stopping your finger right on— “No, Y/N! Stop moving! You’ve gone too far to the wall! I was pointing at him.”

“H-Hoseok? You’re dating Hoseok?!” You squeak, an avalanche of relief flooding through you. You don’t even have the energy to pretend to be composed as your entire body starts untensing involuntarily, your shoulders slumping as though a weight has been lifted from you. “Why couldn’t you have just told me like a normal person? Why must everything be tortuous and dramatic when it comes to you?”

“I am a naturally insufferable and theatrical person. Sue me,” he shrugs, greatly enjoying the exhausted look on your face. “What? Were you actually scared that I was dating your sloppy seconds? What do you think I am? An asshole?”

You stare at him. “Is that a rhetorical question?”

Seokjin scoffs. “If I wanted to get roasted, I would approach two tops at a gay bar.” He pauses. “Wait, are you seriously not going to congratulate me for finally snagging a boy who has a functioning moral compass?”

“Define ‘snagging.’ Did you, like, tie him up and blackmail him to become your boyfriend like those terrible One Direction Wattpad fanfics, or—” You stop halfway, giggling at your friend’s unamused pout. “Okay, okay. Yes, Seokjin. I am very proud of you. Congrats on finally becoming an adult. Your hoe days are over.”

“Who said they were over?” He snorts. Noticing your alarm, Seokjin rolls his eyes in exasperation. “Oh, don’t give me that look! I’m not into infidelity and you know that. I just meant that I’m still a hoe with significantly fewer options.”

“How did that even happen in the first place?” you say, jabbing your thumb in Hoseok’s direction. Thankfully, the man in question is still busy talking to Yoongi, though you don’t know for how much longer. If Seokjin isn’t lying, then there’s a high chance they’re going to walk over to say hi and you’re not sure if you’re mentally prepared to go through the five stages of grief all over again.

“Believe me, I’m surprised as well. I started dating Hoseok after he asked me for help with his sister’s wedding gift. He asked me to help arrange an itinerary for her sister’s honeymoon in America,” Seokjin explains with a dreamy smile. He sighs, holding a hand up to his chest. You can physically see the heart emojis circling his head like a halo. “We hit it off from there and dare I say… Not only is he the only person who can keep up with my high maintenance lifestyle, but dear Lord, he could totally be recruited into the NDA for his astounding dick game—”

“Ever heard of TMI? Gross,” you interrupt, your face crumpling in disgust. You shove him away when his loud cackles start rattling your eardrums.

“You were scared though, right?” he says through his giggles. “When you thought that I was dating Yoongi?”

Of course Seokjin had noticed your mini-mental breakdown, judging from the shit-eating grin on his face.

“N-no,” you stutter, but your heated cheeks and averted gaze give you away. “E-either way, I wouldn’t have cared if you did!” you say. You know, like a liar.

“I bet you don’t care that Yoongi got significantly hotter in the past ten years too, huh?” Seokjin teases, snickering loudly. Under the harsh lighting of the fluorescent chandelier lights, you might have mistaken the boy in front of you for the devil instead of your best friend of almost twenty years.

“I sincerely rue the day I introduced myself to you in the third grade,” you hiss, sipping from your cup to hide your humiliation.

“Aww, you’re so cute when you’re all embarrassed,” Seokjin coos, pinching your cheeks with the gentleness of an ape. You slap his hand away, unable to think of any retort.

“Cat got your tongue? You didn’t even deny it when I accused you,” Seokjin laughs. He claps his hands jovially, acting as though he’s enjoying a show at the circus. Given your performance tonight, that statement isn’t all that far from reality.

“I don’t need to defend myself from you,” you say, puffing your cheeks indignantly. “I just… think he looks handsome. Is that illegal or something?”

“Certainly not. Though, you might want to dial down the pining a teensy bit,” he singsongs. “That’s how I found you in the first place. I sensed your pining from a mile away and came as soon as I could!”

“I wasn’t pining!” you exclaim. “I was just… admiring the plant beside him.”

“Right, sure,” Seokjin says, arching an eyebrow in challenge. You feel your hackles rising at his smug expression, your ‘Seokjin-is-about-to-ruin-your-life’ alarm ringing in your ears. “So, you wouldn’t mind if I brought you over there to say hello? After all, my boyfriend is over there and as much as I enjoy pestering you, I also want to be with him very much.”

You whistle lowly, impressed. “Wow, that’s actually kind of sweet of you.”

“Yes, I know. Kim Seokjin’s heart grew three sizes that day, yada yada yada.” Seokjin says sarcastically, but his lovesick smile ruins the effect. When he opens his mouth once more, the mirage instantly disappears. “But you would understand if you saw how much he’s packing—”

“Shut up, I didn’t ask—”

“Fine, then let’s ask the man himself! Besides, you know you’re being ridiculous, right?” Seokjin tuts, annoyed. He fixes you with a glare, making you feel like a scolded child. “It’s just Yoongi. You and I both know he doesn’t have a mean bone in his body and probably would love to see you after so long.”

You wave your hands around helplessly, almost sloshing your drink onto a nearby bystander. After muttering a meek apology at your harried classmate, you turn back to Seokjin with a defeated sigh.

You know that he’s right, and you absolutely hate him for it. “Jinnie, I’m a mess! I can hardly think with Yoongi standing meters away from me, much less if he were to stand right in front of me! I’m just going to embarrass myself,” you lament, holding your head in your hand.

“That’s true. You will definitely embarrass yourself,” Seokjin hums, nodding sagely. He shrugs his shoulders. “All the more reason we should do it. Relax, I’ll be your wingman like old times! All we have to do is remind him of all the fantastic, mind-blowing coitus you had in your youth and he’ll be a goner for sure.”

“If by goner, you mean he’ll be gone from my life permanently this time, then you’re right,” you groan. You have a half a mind to dump the remainder of your disgusting punch all over his expensive Bottega Veneta coat, though you also don’t want to spend the next three months receiving packaged turds from Seokjin in your mailbox. “Please, just let me suffer in silence for the remainder of the night, okay? Is that really too much to ask?”

“Oh come on! Just go say hi to him already,” Seokjin huffs. He wiggles his eyebrows, striking you with the urge to shave them off in retaliation. “I could feel your ‘God, I miss his dick’ vibes from across the room!”

“I do not emit dick thirst vibes,” you respond hotly, swatting him in the tit. You pause, considering. “Wait, but do you think he misses my p—”

“Say no more,” Seokjin interrupts, a wicked smirk gracing his lips. His gaze is fixed somewhere behind you, but you have a sinking suspicion you know why he looks like he’s won the lottery. “Speaking of the devil, look of who’s coming over to say hello!”

Swiveling around, you see that your intuition is right: Yoongi and Hoseok are swiftly making their way through the crowd, one of them appearing to be more enthusiastic than the other. You swallow thickly, your palms growing damp as they get closer to where the two of you stand.

"Seokjin, we gotta go!" you hiss, but your panic goes largely ignored as your best friend leaves you to envelop his lover in a dramatic embrace.

The two men exchange teary and heartfelt touches, acting as if they had been separated by years of war instead of the meager minutes they had spent apart to greet their long-time friends.

"My honeybunch! Oh, how I've missed you so much!" Seokjin cries, nuzzling his nose into Hoseok's neck. You might have mistaken him for a vampire with how aggressively he sniffs Hoseok's skin. Had Seokjin been 5% more unhinged, you do not doubt that he might have started suckling on his boyfriend like a leech.

"Oh, hyung. It's barely been an hour, but why does it feel like it has been forever?" Hoseok sighs forlornly, jaw clenching as though he's in pain. He croaks out a sob, lifting Seokjin in the air and spinning him around. "My love, let us never part again!"

You take a few steps away from them, trying to make it apparent to all the bewildered onlookers that you have nothing to do with homosexual Tweedledee and Tweedledum.

"What kind of shitty production is this? I want my money back," you murmur, fake-gagging behind the two of them. The lovesick fools pay no mind to your disgust; in fact, they seem to relish in it. Their efforts double, their theatrical kissy-smoochy sound effects causing goosebumps to form on your arms. "Seriously, I've had enough of this and I've only been forced to witness it for two seconds."

"Tell me about it," says a voice to your left. Startled, you nearly let out a shocked gasp when you realize that Yoongi had found his way by your side, his own disgusted gaze fixed on the bumbling buffoons still lost in their world. He glances at you for a second, quirking his lips into a small smile. "Hey, Y/N."

In just six words, Min Yoongi manages to make time grind to a halt. You gape at him, your brain ceasing in function. It takes you a full minute to realize that the man standing beside you is not a figment of your imagination. You had been so caught up in the absurdity of the situation that for a moment you had forgotten that Yoongi is a real person.

It's Yoongi, your first love. The person you haven't seen or spoken to in years. The man who has haunted your dreams for over a decade. He's standing right beside you, and he's smiling at you. He's here, he's hot, and he's saying hello.

Like the incredibly eloquent and profound person that you are, you reply: "Yellow!"

You had meant to say "Yoongi, hello!" like a normal person, but your brain had amalgamated your words during its rebooting process. And so, you are left standing there silently, frozen by your embarrassment. You swear you can hear a pin drop as you beg for the earth to swallow you whole.

Unfortunately for you, the floor remains painfully tangible beneath your feet, forcing you to clear your throat and expound on your mystifying exclamation. Yoongi watches you with curious eyes, patiently waiting for you to speak.

"W-what I meant to say is, uh," you stammer, your cheeks heating up to an alarming degree. "Those yellow streamers are pretty tacky, don't you think?"

Nice one. In terms of comebacks, you would personally give yourself a C for effort. (Note: C stands for "Can I please shove a fist up my ass and crabwalk the fuck out of here?")

Yoongi contemplates the tacky decorations in question, nodding in agreement. "Yeah, I guess. They pretty much look like the stuff we'd make in elementary school during Arts and Crafts." He points to your mutual friends, grimacing in annoyance. "Them, on the other hand? No child should ever come into contact with those heathens."

"You're right," you snort, shaking your head.

There is a long and awkward pause. Yoongi clears his throat, swaying from side to side while staring at his shoes. You aren't any better, twiddling your thumbs as you will your cheeks to stop flushing. Your senses are practically screaming at you to run away and hide forever, but your limbs feel disjointed from the rest of you.

It's like we're at the zoo on a date and the monkeys won't stop fucking each other, your mind unhelpfully supplies, offering you an image that will permanently make its home on the backs of your eyelids.

Desperate to break the silence, eventually you say, "Hey, Yoongi—"

Right at the same time, Yoongi says, "Hey, Y/N—"

Another pause, but this one is slightly less tense. The two of you share a nervous laugh, though yours sounds a little bit more hysterical. You motion for him to speak first.

"I, uh... wanted to say that you look great. Yeah. Like, you haven't aged a day at all. N-not to say that I don't think you've matured or..." Yoongi stumbles over his words, his voice cracking.

Instead of feeling relieved that he's just as nervous as you, his anxiety only exacerbates your own. There's a reason you have never been good at public speaking, and this is a good example of why:

"No! I get what you mean, don't worry about it," you laugh, on the verge of a mental breakdown. What the fuck is this conversation, even? "You look exactly the same too. Umm... Of course, except for the, uh, hair?"

"Oh, you mean the gray hairs?"

"No, no! Of course not! I m-meant your hair looks really hot—I mean good! It looks GOOD," you repeat, frantically emphasizing the last bit. You had instinctively panicked, your voice rising in pitch.  If your cheeks weren't flaming hot already, then they're definitely redder than Seokjin's ass after a Friday night of fun.

The apples of Yoongi's cheek match your own flustered state, though you can imagine that you’re probably at least a hundred times worse. “Well, thank you. I was actually feeling self-conscious about my hair, so hearing that from you is really… nice,” he says, brushing his hair shyly. “I’m kinda done with bright colored hair for now, so seeing my hair in its natural state is still kind of weird.”

“I seriously doubt that Y/N was talking about your hair color, Yoongi,” Hoseok interjects, magically reappearing behind you when you don’t notice. You flinch in surprise, causing him to let out a hearty chuckle at your jumpiness. It seems that today is “Let’s scare the living shit out of Y/N” day with how many people have crept up on you in just one night.

Beside him, Seokjin looks like a bomb ready to explode, his fist jammed up his mouth to keep his guffaws from slipping out. “God, this is even better than the cringe compilations I watch on Youtube,” he wheezes, wiping a stray tear.

“Don’t be so mean to them, hyung! Don’t mind him,” Hoseok says to you, bowing apologetically. He smiles cherubically at Yoongi. “See, Yoongi? I told you that Y/N is even hotter up close!”

“God, fucking kill me,” you hear Yoongi groan.

“So, have you guys caught up yet, or have you just been fumbling around each other like a couple of horny teenagers?” Seokjin snickers, narrowly avoiding your heel stomping his foot.

“We’ve only just said hello. Leave us alone, jackass,” you huff.

“Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you? Well, Hoseok and I can go on our merry ways if you wish—”

“Yoongi! Did you tell Y/N about your work back in Seoul? I bet she’d love to hear about it,” Hoseok interrupts smoothly, saving you from further embarrassment (courtesy of his infuriating goblin of a boyfriend.)

You blink in surprise, turning to the man in question. “You live in Seoul now? Did you move there after finishing university?” you ask.

“Well,” Yoongi starts, clearing his throat. He’s permanently pink at this point, not that you mind in the slightest. He always did have the cutest blush (and once upon a time, you used to love teasing him about it.) “I sort of dropped out of university early. Decided it wasn’t really my thing, you know?”

“Don’t sell yourself short, Yoongi. You were a fantastic student. I’m sure Y/N remembers how smart you are,” Hoseok says, winking inconspicuously at you.

You force out a laugh in response. You know perfectly well what he was trying to do; Hoseok isn’t slick in the slightest, though you do admit that you are intrigued to find out what Yoongi had done over the years.

It isn’t like you haven’t been keeping tabs on him. In your defense, it’s hard to stay away from news about Yoongi when he’s such a big deal. So what if you’ve watched a couple of his interviews and streamed all of his songs? He’s always been talented with music, and all the radio shows seem to agree. You couldn’t get away from him if you tried (and it’s not like you were trying very hard, anyway.)

Yoongi shrugs, rubbing his neck bashfully. “E-either way, I decided to tough it out, you know? Follow my dreams and all that, even if it nearly killed me.”

“And now, he’s working in a famous idol company as one of their head producers,” Hoseok finishes for him, chest puffing up in pride. He slaps his best friend on the back, not noticing that he had inadvertently caused Yoongi's spine to cave in from his strength. “Yoongi is so cool, and humble too! He’s been working behind the scenes for a bunch of big names and never got greedy for attention even though he totally deserves it.”

“Damn, so no street cred? Bit schewpid, innit? Imagine all the chicks you could’ve landed, bruv!” Seokjin says, imitating a terrible British accent. You make a move to hit him in the groin, but for once, Hoseok beats you to the punch.

“Nope! Yoongi-chi is super single, aren’t you?” Hoseok says with a sweet grin, ignoring the pained groans of his lover on the floor.

“No need to rub it in, Seok-ah,” Yoongi grumbles defensively. He coughs into his fist, grinding his foot into the floor. He throws a glance your way. “Just been… too busy, I guess.”

From the floor, Seokjin holds up a hand, grasping at Hoseok’s pant leg to hoist himself up. “What a coincidence. Y/N is super single too. In fact, her pussy is so dry that there’d be no chance for any yeast infections to develop—WAIT, DON’T HIT ME AGAIN I PROMISE I’LL BEHAVE!” Seokjin is on his knees, holding his arms up in surrender as Hoseok’s boot is about to connect with his stomach.

“I know I said I was into BDSM, but not like this!” Seokjin says, faking a sob.

“Then behave, darling,” Hoseok replies, eyes lighting dangerously. When he returns his attention to you, you and Yoongi back away instinctively. “Sorry about him. We have an… arrangement,” he says, waving his hands vaguely.

“Understood,” you both say, not understanding but also not wanting to.

Seokjin manages to straighten up eventually, his skin slightly paler than it was before. “A-as I was saying,” he exhales, still gingerly cupping his crotch. “Y/N has been single for so long, but I don’t blame her. Not after that awful disaster of a boyfriend, right? God, Sungjae fucking sucked ass, and not even in the sexy way.”

“Um, yeah…” you say hesitantly, avoiding eye contact. You can feel Hoseok’s and Yoongi’s eyes trained on you, but you’re not confident enough to know that you can keep your face neutral.

With your gaze averted, you don’t notice the way Yoongi’s posture tenses. “Is that so,” he says carefully.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Hoseok says. You can hear the genuine sadness in his tone, and you chance a peek at him. He pats your shoulder gently, giving you a soft smile. “Honestly, I feel you. I’ve definitely been there, done that. That’s why I’m grateful for Seokjin-hyung, believe it or not. He’s been really good for me.”

“Hah, I told you I’m a good person!” Seokjin says. Again, he goes ignored.

“It’s fine. It’s all water under the bridge,” you say, shrugging. You can still feel Yoongi’s persistent gaze on the side of your head like a brand. You’re kind of afraid to see what sort of expression he has despite the curiosity burning inside of you.

You are still in the middle of debating if it’s worth explaining or not (and to a lesser extent, why you feel like you need to explain yourself to anyone), everyone’s attention is caught by the onslaught of waiters bringing in a fresh batch of food to the buffet. Your stomach growls in response, and you are reminded of the fact that you haven’t eaten since breakfast in preparation for tonight’s event.

“Hold that thought, Y/N,” Hoseok says, holding up a finger. “Hyung! I saw a platter of tuna belly and I know that shit is gonna disappear in two seconds. Let’s head out!” He tugs Seokjin in a hurry, the elder’s gangly legs flying about as he trips over himself to keep up. Seokjin yelps and hollers for him to slow down, but the hangry Hoseok train stops for no one. They run off, leaving Hoseok-and-Seokjin-shaped dust clouds in their wakes.

“Wow,” Yoongi says, dumbfounded. “Did we just get ditched by our two self-proclaimed best friends in the world?”

You nod, equally dumbfounded. “I guess we did.”

He shakes his head. “Fucking traitors.”

And just like that, the conversation dies.

Without your friends acting as buffers, the pair of you return to your painfully awkward states. You rack your brain for a conversation topic, anything to keep the tension at bay. You don’t feel nearly comfortable enough to ask him about his love life, even though you want nothing more than to shake the details right out of him. For perfectly sane reasons, of course.

Lucky for you, Yoongi thinks of a solution. “Um, I guess we should go grab our food as well? I’m assuming we’ll be sitting together since our friends are... you know. Unless you don’t want to, then that’s also perfectly fine with me. I can find somewhere else to sit.”

“I’d love to sit with you,” you say, cringing at your choice of words. Love to? What are you, desperate?! your brain screeches at you, and you mentally beat yourself in the coochie.

Deep down, you know that you’re overreacting, but you can’t help acting like a blushy teenager talking to your crush when you’re around Yoongi. It’s almost as if you’ve reverted to your high school days, back when you’d both started to notice your feelings for each other and the steady flow of butterflies erupting in your stomach had felt less like a burden and more like a revelation.

After tossing your disgusting drink into a nearby bin, you and Yoongi line up behind the rest of your classmates for the buffet, the scene reminiscent of having lunch at your old high school cafeteria. You’re still mildly distracted by Yoongi’s proximity, not looking at what food you were getting and randomly scooping and hoping you don’t dislike all of them.

From the corner of your eye, you notice that Yoongi’s plate is steadily piling up, probably with enough food to feed two people. You’ve never known Yoongi to be much of a heavy eater, but you suppose that free food is still free food at the end of the day.

“So,” Yoongi says after a beat. He pulls you from your trance, and you catch the small smile on his face that tells you that he figured you had been distracted. “How is Jungkook, by the way? He graduated from university a year ago or something, right?”

You pause, your hand stilling on the metal tongs. “How did you know he graduated last year?”

He shrugs. “Well, assuming that he didn’t take any gap years, I did the math and figured he should be at the age where he’s looking for a job.” He turns to you with a sly grin. “Plus, I’m still his friend on Facebook.”

“That’s surprising,” you comment. You backtrack a little, “And I mean it’s surprising in the sense that… All his posts are reshares from dank meme pages and I thought you wouldn’t be into that.”

Yoongi laughs. “I’m not. But… it’s nice to know how things are back home, I guess.”

Do you wonder about me, too? you think, but you internally shake your head. But why would he? He doesn’t owe you anything.

“And your dad? I heard he got hip surgery last fall,” Yoongi says.

“Wait, Jungkook has been posting about our dad’s surgery on his Facebook?”

“Oh! No, not exactly.” Yoongi clears his throat, suddenly nervous. He heaps a big portion of kimchi, some of it staining his sleeve. “I… called him a few days ago, to catch up.”

You’re staring at him, and you dimly register the people lined up behind you huffing impatiently. “You… called him? You have his cell number, too?”

“No, I just… happen to still have your home telephone number memorized and hoped that you guys hadn’t moved,” he says, a little guiltily.

You’re silent for a moment, thoughtlessly scooping more bean sprouts onto your plate than any sane person would be comfortable eating. The two of you inch along the buffet display as you attempt to process his sudden confession.

On one hand, you’re slightly betrayed that your own brother hadn’t thought to mention that your ex had called him, but on the other hand, what would you have done if he did? Ask if you could say hello? The Y/N from last month probably would have laughed if she had known that Min Yoongi still cared enough to call and check on her family, much less have her landline memorized even after all these years.

He still cared.

Unbeknownst to everyone in the room, your heart skips a beat at the thought. You cradle a hand to your chest, urging your nerves to quell. Keep it together, you beg your stupid, naive heart. You can survive one night without falling in love again, can’t you?

...can you?

“I…” you stammer. You swallow thickly, desperate for something to say, anything to stop your mind from going in the wrong direction. “They miss you, you know? You have no idea how many times my parents ask if you’re coming home for Christmas, or—I don’t know.”

“Yeah, my parents are the same. They always wanna know if I’m coming home for the holidays, and they,” he hesitates, swallowing thickly, “They always ask about you, too.”

Oh.

“Oh,” you mutter lamely. Your cheeks feel like they’ve been lit on fire the moment you got here, and you haven’t even visited the bar yet.

You finally make it to the end of the long buffet table where there is a large chocolate fountain just begging for you to ravage if only your stomach wasn’t besieged by butterflies. Yoongi glances at you, his own hands too full to get any desserts, but he still pauses as if he’s waiting for you. When you make it apparent you aren’t interested in the mouthwatering cakes and pastries (a big fat lie, but you also don’t want to vomit in front of him and your hundreds of schoolmates), he raises a brow as though he’s surprised.

“What? I’m not that much of a sweet tooth,” you scoff.

“This is coming from the girl who broke into her little brother’s piggy bank to buy some ice cream from a passing street vendor?” he teases.

“That’s the old me. Now, I make enough money to buy my own sweets,” you say smugly.

He rolls his eyes. “Whatever you say.” If you didn’t know any better, you might have thought he looked endeared.

The pair of you search for Hoseok and Seokjin, only to find that the couple had somehow found a table for all of you somewhere near the back. With one last longing glance at the wondrous chocolate fountain, you walk away with Yoongi in tow. You have to push through throngs of people, a few old familiar faces stopping to say hello before they notice the precarious situation on Yoongi’s plate and let you through. You wave at them, promising to greet them later before turning to Yoongi.

“Isn’t it kind of weird to see all these people again? Not gonna lie, it’s almost hard to recognize a few of them.” You note some of the crazy hair colors and drastic fashion choices that you never thought you’d see a decade ago. An even stranger sight, however, is the occasional schoolmates with little ones attached to their hips. You recognize one of the new parents, your mouth dropping in shock.

“Wait, is that Seulgi? And is that her—”

“Her son? Jesus Christ,” Yoongi mutters, equally as bewildered as you. “Damn, I did not expect her of all people to be one of the first to have a kid. I’d always thought it’d be Sooyoung.”

You nod in agreement. You observe the little boy tug roughly at her skirt, his tiny fists making grabbing motions at the cookies on her plate. “Yeah. I always thought I’d have a kid before Seulgi, at least. What a surprise.”

You speak before you think, and it takes longer than it should have for you to realize your mistake. By then, Yoongi’s expression had already morphed into astonishment, his eyes bugging out as he chokes on his spit.

Your cheeks are burning, your mouth opening and closing as pure panic seizes you. You cannot believe that you just said that! No fucking way! Did you eat lube this morning or something? Why are words just spilling out of your mouth at an unprecedented rate?! You’re begging your brain to come up with something, anything, to control the damage, but alas your thoughts remain resolutely frozen.

If aliens were to choose to study the human race right now, they’d be sorely disappointed to find the lack of intelligent lifeforms. No complex thoughts going on over here! Not one goddamn neuron firing in this bitch!

“O-oh, well, that’s…” he trails off. He clears his throat, his jaw clenched as he awkwardly tries to feign composure. “I didn’t know you were, um, interested? Well, n-not that I think you were averse to the idea of having kids, since I remember you mentioning it when we were, um,” he pauses, struggling to find a word other than dating, or together, or in love, or not painstakingly careful around each other, like every conversation topic was a fucking minefield.

“Younger?” you supply. A safe, neutral word. Yay for you! You deserve a snack from your animal care keeper right about now.

“Right,” he nods. He looks down at his shoes, revealing his flushed neck. He’s frustratingly adorable like this, but it does nothing except distract you. “Were you, um, planning on having a kid with your ex-boyfriend? Before you broke up?”

Ex-boyfriend? Why is he bringing him up all of a sudden? You stare at him in confusion for half a second before realization strikes you. Thankfully (or unthankfully), it seems that Yoongi misunderstands the implication behind your words and has taken your little slip-up the wrong way. For once, you are so thankful that Yoongi almost failed Math during the 10th grade and never learned to put two and two together.

“Definitely not,” you bark out a laugh, but it sounds incredibly forced, even to your own ears. You stare at the plate of food in your hands, a wave of unpleasant memories washing over you. “I doubt he’d ever want kids, anyway. Seokjin used to make fun of him and call him the world’s biggest toddler.”

Yoongi winces, his brow furrowing. “How long were you together?”

“Like, two years?” You shrug. “It felt longer, to be honest. Even if we dated for so long, I could never imagine myself having a family with him,” you say.

It was almost the truth, but not quite. While your ex-boyfriend had undoubtedly been a pain in your ass, he wasn’t completely bad, especially in the beginning. You had enough self-respect that you would have ended the relationship earlier if he didn’t have any redeeming qualities. The main problem was that he had a tough act to follow, and you don’t think any man on earth would be able to live up to your lofty expectations at this point, not when you’d constantly be comparing everyone to—

Yoongi speaks up again. “Seokjin seems to really dislike him. Was he really that bad?”

“Seokjin has never really liked any of my past flings,” you admit, rolling your eyes. (You fail to mention that Yoongi has always been the only exception.) “Despite his own disgustingly high body count, I can’t say he was wrong. Sungjae was a self-centered prick who never gave me the time of day. Hell, I was almost thankful when I caught him cheating. It was the final push I needed.”

Even though it’s been so long, the pain of seeing your ex-boyfriend locking lips with a stranger he had randomly picked up from the street still throbs inside of you. It wasn’t like you were particularly sad or surprised to find out, but you’d always been a bit sensitive to people who kept secrets from you. Plus, it kinda sucked to know that they had fucked on your favorite Egyptian cotton sheets.

“Fucking bastard. If I ever saw him in person, I’d definitely kick his nuts ‘til he’s left with a concave crotch,” he seethes, eyes narrowing.

You laugh. You have to confess that the mental image is satisfying. “You don’t even know what he looks like though!”

“Doesn’t matter. I’m sure Seokjin would tell me if I asked,” he huffs. He mutters something else after, but his volume drops to a whisper and you have to step closer to properly hear him.

“What? Sorry, I missed that,” you say, but you could have sworn he said something like “I wouldn’t have done that if it were me” but you couldn’t be completely sure.

“N-nothing,” he stutters, waving off your confusion. He tacks on a smile, but you can tell that he must have been embarrassed by whatever he’d said. If it was anything like what you thought he’d said, then you could understand. It wasn’t like he was wrong, anyway.

He makes a move to rub the back of his neck, but he greatly underestimates the weight of his platter and nearly drops everything. Something deep inside of you kicks in, and your body instinctively moves to hold his plate with your free hand, saving him from a very messy situation. However, that also means that your hands are now touching each other, your fingertips grazing his knuckles.

Instead of letting him go like a normal person, your ape brain makes the first move (as per usual).

“Your hands are still cold,” you say dumbly. You had wanted to say more, like “your hands are still as cold as they were from when we were younger,” but bringing up your past together, even for something so harmless, still feels taboo. You keep your hands where they are, your eyes locked on his. It feels like you’re in the middle of a dramatic TV show while I Will Go To You by Ailee plays in the background. You can almost imagine the numerous ads for random Korean cosmetic products framing the two of you in slow motion.

Yoongi chuckles, reluctantly pulling away from you. You already miss the sensation of his skin on yours. “I guess some things never change, huh?” he says, wavering slightly. He stares at you for another moment before shaking his head, as though he’s pushing away some unwelcome thoughts. He turns away, leaving you behind to make his way to your table.

Despite the unbidden emotions bubbling up your throat and threatening to spill over, you have no choice but to follow.

At the table, Seokjin and Hoseok speak mutely with each other, though the exaggerated expressions on both their faces tell you that they had been in the middle of an argument. When Yoongi takes his place beside Hoseok, the couple pauses in their bickering to greet you.

Hoseok looks at Yoongi’s overflowing plate. “Dude. I know I teased you about being a skinny twig a while ago, but I wasn’t implying that you gorge yourself.”

Yoongi jolts in surprise before staring back at his plate. Weirdly enough, he looks just as shocked as Hoseok to find the amount of food he had gotten, as though he hadn’t even noticed.

Perhaps he was just as distracted as you had been? you think, staring at your own meager pickings. Oops, you definitely didn’t get enough food to fill your ravenous appetite.

“That’s fine. I can share with you guys,” Yoongi says.

Seokjin peers at your plate, smirking knowingly. “Oh, yes. I’m sure Y/N would love to get some of your food. It seems like the two of you either over or underestimated how much you’d eat.”

“Aww, cute!” Hoseok coos, pinching Yoongi’s cheek. “You still have the habit of getting food for her. That’s so sweet that you still remember that about her!”

You had been in the middle of taking a swig of your water, but Hoseok’s comment nearly causes it to spew out from your nose. You cough harshly, beating your chest as your nose burns, among other things.

“Hoseok!” Yoongi scolds. He hits his friend on the shoulder, but Hoseok’s giggles refuse to stop.

“Oh shit, you’re totally right! Remember all those times when either one of us was forced to third-wheel with them?” Seokjin guffaws. “Y/N always orders something gross whenever we eat out together, and Yoongi ends up having to share half of his food with her when she starts moping.”

“I did not mope!” you retort vehemently.

“You kind of did,” Yoongi mutters under his breath, but you catch him this time.

You cross your arms, scowling. “Did not!”

Yoongi covers his mouth to fake a cough, but you can tell he’s smiling from how his eyes start to crinkle.

“You guys are so cute,” Hoseok sighs, squeezing Yoongi into a hug. Yoongi paws at him weakly, but you know that he enjoys skinship too much to push his friend away.  Still, he pouts cutely, his cheeks puffing up like a pastry.

“Anyway, why were you guys arguing a while ago?” Yoongi asks, changing the subject. “Seokjin-hyung is kinda red in the face.”

“Oh, we weren’t really arguing. Hyung had gotten some wine from the bar but he forgot to get me some,” Hoseok says. He glares sharply at Seokjin. “Bastard.”

“You just said we weren’t fighting!” Seokjin whines. He stands up, raising his arms in surrender. “But fine! I’ll go get your damn wine,” he sulks, groaning when he stretches his back and a few worrisome pops resound from his joints.

“Damn, hyung. I know I told you that I hope you grow up well when we were kids, but I didn’t think you’d take it that literally,” Yoongi jokes, earning a sharp laugh from you. Yoongi glances at you then, visibly proud when he catches the wide grin on your face.

Seokjin gasps, offended. “I am not old! I’m literally a year older than you guys! And here I was, about to get you both drinks as well! It sucks to be the nice one in a friend group,” he sniffs.

“Yes, we are eternally grateful for your service,” Hoseok says sarcastically. “Oh, and remember to get some drinks for Y/N and Yoongi-chi too!” Hoseok adds, slamming his palm on Seokjin’s sore back.

Seokjin yelps, before biting his lip. “Owwie, that hurt,” he moans, winking salaciously.

As the closest person to him, you make it your right to jam your heeled foot onto his gelatinous and push away with a shout of disgust. “Leave, wench!” you snarl, but you’re unfortunately drowned out by his cackling. Even so, he does make his leave, affording your table some level of peace.

“So,” Hoseok starts, a twinkle of mischief in his eye. He cradles his chin with his hands, smiling innocuously at the two of you. “How’s it goin’? Are you both having fun?” he says, laced with meaning.

Ah, you had forgotten; peace was never an option.

Though he is undoubtedly less annoying than Seokjin, you still don’t trust the way he’s staring at you, like he’s waiting for one of you to jump into the other’s lap and recreate his favorite porn scene.

(A terrible thought to have, especially when you’d probably be as begrudging as you should be if you were swayed sufficiently.)

“It’s going fine, thank you very much,” Yoongi responds, giving his best friend a stern look.

You nod wordlessly, unable to trust yourself to keep from stammering and making your frayed nerves apparent (if they aren’t already.) You grab your glass and busy yourself with your drink to delay answering.

You don’t notice that you had taken Yoongi’s cup by accident until you’ve already gulped a third of his water, dropping it with a loud clunk. “Oh shit, sorry! I didn’t mean to drink from yours,” you say sheepishly.

Yoongi smiles at your concern. “No worries. It’s just a cup.”

“Sharing cups too? Damn, what happened while Seokjin and I were away?” Hoseok laughs. Yoongi flicks him lightly on the wrist in retaliation.

“It’s just a cup,” he repeats before turning to you. “Sorry, I think he’s a bit drunk.”

“Haven’t had a single drop of alcohol but whatever,” Hoseok says, shoveling a large piece of tuna belly into his mouth.

The sight of him eating reminds you of your own hunger, your food slightly colder now after talking to Yoongi and your friends for so long. You take a spoonful of chicken, the taste not terrible but not as good as you would like. Your face must give your disappointment away because you hear Yoongi chuckling beside you.

“Bad food again? Guess you really are the same,” Yoongi says, low enough that Hoseok wouldn’t hear. He pushes his plate towards you, carefully nudging some of his bulgogi onto yours. “This tastes kind of sweet, so I’m not really into it. But you prefer it sweeter right?”

All you can do is nod in agreement, watching as he piles your plate with his food. His sleeves, which had already been stained previously by some stray bits of kimchi, become even more saturated with sauces and oils. Now that you see it up close, his sleeves seem a bit too long for him, his palms half covered like sweater paws.  

Without thinking too hard, you place your hands over Yoongi’s wrists, his entire body freezing as he waits for what you will do. Gently, as though you’re approaching a frightened kitten, you fold his sleeves until they’re no longer dangling into his food. The gesture is more intimate than you had intended, his proximity allowing you to smell the familiar fragrance of his cologne.

Paco Rabanne, your mind reminds you. Of course.

You pull away, trying your best to appear as unfazed as possible. You clench your hands and dig your nails into your skin to keep them from trembling. “If I’m the same, you’re no better. You always used to forget to pull back your sleeves before eating.”

After a beat, Yoongi returns from his stupor, licking his lips. “My hands were cold,” he explains.

“I know.” You lick your lips too, suddenly parched despite all the water you have drunk.

A forgotten treasure trove of memories resurrects inside of you, things that you had thought had been buried too deep for you to find again. You are filled with this odd feeling, an awareness. An old wound has resurfaced, one that you thought had healed long ago.

That wound throbs, still.

It’s so strange, being with him like this. A piece of your past that has come to your present, both the same and different as you remember. He knows parts of you that no one else will, as do you with him. But those parts were only ever supposed to stay buried: memories, after all, aren’t supposed to be tangible.

And yet, here he stands: real, alive, close.

It leaves you feeling emptier than before.

The atmosphere grows somber after that, neither of you offering much to the conversation. Hoseok is more than happy to pick up the slack, filling the stark silence along with the occasional hums from Yoongi. When Seokjin returns, he makes no note of the change in mood and focuses more on eating and talking with his partner. It allows the two of you to remain deep in thought.

You are pushing your remaining bits of food around your plate when the soft instrumental music playing on the overhead speaker stops abruptly, and the sound of a microphone being tapped prompts everyone to turn to the front of the ballroom. The host of the event announces that the next part of the reunion will begin shortly and encourages all the performers to head to the sound booth to prepare. A couple of your schoolmates rise from their seats, most of whom were the students you remembered being part of choir or band.

You half-expect Yoongi to stand up as well, but he stays rooted to the spot. Apparently, Hoseok is wondering the same thing.

“Yoongi? Didn’t you say that the organizers asked you to perform some of your songs?” Hoseok questions.

“They did.”

“But?”

Yoongi brings his fingers to his teeth, biting on them anxiously. Your hand makes a move to pull them away, but you think better of it. No need to supply your friends with more teasing ammunition. “But I changed my mind last minute. I felt kind of embarrassed to be performing my own songs. I’m more of a producer, not a performer.”

“There’s nothing to be embarrassed about, Yoongi. You’re poggers, as the kids like to say,” Seokjin pipes up.

“I wouldn’t put it like that, but he’s right. A lot of people like your music and think you’re a great performer,” you assure him. “And I like your music, too,” you add shyly.

Yoongi’s hand drops from his mouth, eyes glittering with disbelief. He looks like he wants to disagree with you, but eventually decides to just smile in gratitude. “I didn’t know you listened to my music,” he says quietly.

Before you can reply, Seokjin chooses to interrupt with his migraine-inducing cackle and ruin the moment (as he is prone to do.) “Oh bitch! If you only knew how much this girl loves your music. She even buys your physical CDs AND collects your photocards.”

“I do not!” You scream, flinging a piece of bread at his head. You refuse to peek at Yoongi.

“Don’t worry, Y/N! I collect his photocards too. Wanna trade sometime? I’m missing the one when he still had mint hair,” Hoseok giggles.

“Will the two of you stop? God, it’s like you both had been planning to embarrass us as much as possible,” Yoongi exclaims, incensed.

When neither of them responds, you and Yoongi whip your heads towards them only to find two self-satisfied, smirking shitheads.

“Why watch reality shows when you can make your own?” Seokjin says in lieu of an answer, pointing finger guns. He blows you a kiss with a wink.

You clutch your chest, pretending to wince in pain. “Augh! Poison damage!”

Seokjin scoffs. “Swagever, man. You’re just mad because you’re angry,” he retorts, sticking out his tongue.

While you were occupied bickering with Seokjin, you had not seen that one of your old schoolmates had invited herself to your table. She sandwiches herself in the space between you and Yoongi, bumping you roughly enough to topple you out of your chair.

“What the fuck?” you yelp in surprise, holding onto the table to balance yourself. After straightening back into your seat, you find that your view of the world has become obscured by asscheeks the size of beachballs.

“Hi Yoongi,” she purrs seductively. Or at least, what she thinks is seductive. To you, her voice sounds like nails grating on a chalkboard.

“Hello?” Yoongi says, but it comes out sounding more like a question. It’s clear that he doesn’t remember her name, as he searches your eyes for help. You shrug unhelpfully; you deleted almost all the names of everyone that you had gone to school with right after graduation. Besides, her horrendous plastic surgery makes it even twice as hard to discern her identity.

“Hi Hyejin,” Hoseok speaks up, answering your unspoken question. Oh, right. The name does ring a bell, somewhat. You don’t recall her looking like a cartoon character before, but you suppose beauty standards are meant to be subjective. Maybe she wanted to look like a One Piece character.

Hyejin purses her lips into a tight smile but doesn’t return his greeting. She turns back to Yoongi, bending forward until her boobs are practically smooshed against his face. You wonder idly if stabbing her chest with your chopsticks would cause them to burst like a balloon, or perhaps drain like a puss-filled pimple. Both, you surmise, would be very entertaining to watch.

“It’s been a while since we’ve last seen each other, hm? I heard you’ve been very busy ever since we graduated from high school,” she says, batting her eyelashes.

“Uh, yeah? Some of us have jobs,” he says, passively dissing her. You let out a strangled laugh, causing Hyejin to aim a glare back at you. You bring your (his) cup of water to your lips, feigning innocence.

Hyejin rolls her eyes. “Right. But I meant that you’ve become a real star back in Seoul! I didn’t know you were such a musical prodigy!”

“I’m really not. I just work hard,” he shrugs. He’s visibly uncomfortable, especially since Hyejin was pretty much breathing the same air as him. Every time he leans away from her, she takes it as an invitation to come closer. He is nearly lying horizontally at this point, his back parallel with the floor.

“Humble as well as handsome? My, my. I didn’t think you’d be such a charmer,” she laughs, saccharine sweet. She twirls her dyed brown hair with her perfectly manicured acrylic nails. You rub at the goosebumps forming on your arms, cringing at the phantom sensation of her nails digging into your skin.

“Just spit it out. What the hell do you want so you can leave,” Seokjin interjects. Everything about his demeanor says calm and collected, but the way he presses his lips into a thin line says otherwise. You can sense the air dropping in temperature, despite the embers burning behind his eyes.

“I came over here to ask if Yoongi could give me his autograph, that’s all. I am his biggest fan, after all,” she sulks. She winks at him for extra measure. “And maybe his number too? I’d love to discuss your music with you sometime!”

“Oh, um. That’s—” he cuts off, hesitant to answer. He tugs at his ears nervously, exchanging subtly alarmed glances with you.

You remember that signal very distinctly; it’s a distress call that he would do whenever he needed a way out. He used to do it a lot when you were at social gatherings, especially when people would trap him in boring or awkward conversations. He never did like socializing with people outside his circle, but he was often dragged to parties by his more extroverted friends.

He might be hot as hell with his stylish clothes and jaw-dropping undercut, but he’s still awkward as hell around strangers. When the universe created him, they made sure to keep everything in balance. If they hadn’t been fair, you certainly would’ve died much earlier.

“Yoongi, don’t you have spare CDs of your music?” you quip, dragging Hyejin’s attention onto you. Her eyes narrow imperceptibly, suspicious.

“I do?” He stares at you blankly.

You resist hitting your forehead in exasperation. “Yes, Yoongi. Remember? You left a couple of them in my car.”

Yoongi’s eyes light up in understanding. “Oh, right! I left my CDs. In your car. That we drove here. Together. We came here. Together. Yes, correct.”

From your periphery, you can sense Hoseok barely holding onto his sanity after witnessing that pitiful display. Who can blame him when Yoongi’s infamously terrible acting skills are having their first appearance in over ten years? How he managed to pass Drama class is still a mystery to this day.

“Yup,” you say, popping your p.  You give Hyejin a winsome smile, your hands folded neatly on your lap. You can almost see the steam blowing out of her ears. It fills you with delicious satisfaction. “Why don’t Yoongi and I go get them so he can sign one?”

If her eyes had been made of lasers, you’d be a cauterized mess jumble of organs by now. Can’t say you would regret it either way.

“How kind of you.” She sneers. “Also, I wasn’t aware that you two were still a thing.”

“I wasn’t aware that we were required to inform you of anything,” you retort placidly. You plaster on your fakest grin. “Now, if you can please move your fat ass—I mean, if you can please move out of the way so I can go to my car...” you trail off, gesturing for her to leave.

After a few more indignant sputters on her end, she eventually makes her exit. She throws a couple of poisonous glares, but they go largely ignored by you and your friends. With her gone, you feel as though you can finally breathe fresh air again.

“Great stuff, Y/N! Congrats on winning your first bitch-off,” Seokjin chirps, back to his usual self. You roll your eyes at his antics but smile nonetheless.

“Thanks. I learned from the best.”

Yoongi clears his throat. “So, are we still gonna go?” He looks back and forth from her to you. “Just so we can pretend you actually have my albums in your car?”

“Trust me, Yoongi-chi. She does have your albums in her car.” Seokjin titters. “I wasn’t kidding about the photocard collection.”

“Ignore him. And yes, I do have your albums. I listen to them in my car from time to time,” you say, attempting nonchalance. “I’d hate to give them away to that bitch, but if it keeps her away...”

Away from you is left unsaid, but it’s heavily implied.

(No, you aren’t jealous. You’re above jealousy. It’s not like that bitch would ever have a chance with him anyway, unlike you—!

Woah there, cowgirl. Let’s stay on the right path. Don’t want your heart getting chewed up and spat back out all over again, do you?)

“I’ll just mail you a new one. Signed, if you want. You can probably sell it on eBay or whatever.” He tries to say it like a joke, but his brow is too furrowed to be convincing. (You want to kiss him there and make it go away.)

You don’t trust yourself to speak, so all you do is nod mutely. You stand up and Yoongi follows suit.

“We’ll be right back. If she comes back before then, tell her to scram,” you tell Hoseok and Seokjin. They salute you in response (well, Hoseok does. Seokjin does a very rude gesture with his fingers that is supposed to mimic something explicit. Feel free to use your imagination.)

The walk to the parking lot is a quiet one. The two of you stay side by side, his strides naturally matching your own. Unlike before, you don’t feel the need to fill the silence for once, content to just be in each other’s presence.

The hotel that your reunion is being held at is unusually unpopulated. The lobby consists of a handful of employees milling about, a few of whom look ready to fall asleep on their feet. You nod politely at the bellboy who opens the main doors for you, declining his offer to call the valet service to fetch your car.

“Just hand me my keys. I’ll look for my car in the parking lot.” It wouldn’t be hard to find, anyway. Your beat-up Toyota Corolla looks as though it’s been through three wars and then some.

It isn’t long until you find it parked close to the entrance. You unlock your car from the passenger seat, shimmying the glove compartment open to reveal your collection of CDs.

“Wow, you weren’t lying when you said you listened to my music,” Yoongi says, voice loud amidst the tranquil night. It startles you, and you accidentally knock over some of the albums onto your car floor. On top of the pile lies Yoongi’s most recent album, the one you recall he had released a couple of months ago.

Strange, how just hours ago you were listening to his music on the way to the reunion, only for the boy on the cover of the album to be just inches away from you.

“Yeah, well. You’re a pretty good artist,” you say.

“Only pretty good?” he repeats, amused.

“Don’t push it,” you snort. You grab the album on top, waving it in front of him. “This should be good enough, right?”

He plucks it from your grasp, an unreadable expression clouding his eyes. He chuckles, but there’s an edge of sadness in his tone. “Good enough,” he agrees solemnly.

His sudden quietness is different from the peaceful one before. It’s sorrowful, maybe regretful. He looks like a man stuck in grief.

“Did you know that I didn’t finish this album before releasing it?”

The question seems a little out of the blue, but you answer regardless. “No, I didn’t. They don’t sound unfinished to me.”

“The songs themselves aren’t unfinished,” he explains. He turns the album over, his finger running down the back where the tracklist is printed. “One of my songs never made it in.”

“Couldn’t you have delayed the album launch so you could complete it?”

He shakes his head. “It was actually the first song I finished out of all of them.”

“Then..?”

“It didn’t matter, at the time. I wrote it for someone specifically, but I didn’t want to put it on the album if she—they didn’t listen to it. It wouldn’t matter if the whole world heard that song because only they would understand it.”

“But now? What changed?” Fear and hope run down your spine in tandem when the question tumbles out of you. You hold your breath, and the world shifts from its axis.

But he doesn’t elaborate further.

x x x x x

You return to the hotel after acquiring both an album and some more tension. The album feels heavy in your hands, weighed down by secrets you are still too afraid to uncover. Not that Yoongi would ever willingly divulge them to you—because revealing them would make them real, and making them real would mean you would have to accept them, and accepting them would cause you to—

“They’re gone,” Yoongi announces when you reenter the ballroom. You can’t spot your table from the entranceway, but the certainty in Yoongi’s tone makes you believe him.

“No fucking way. Did those two little shits ditch us to exchange body fluids or something?”

Yoongi grimaces. “Please don’t say it like that. It’s bad enough that I was sitting close enough to Hoseok a while ago that I got accidentally footsie’d by Seokjin hyung.”

You wince, placing a pitying hand on his shoulder. “God didn’t make us his strongest soldiers.”

Yoongi tries dialing Hoseok a few times, but none of the calls connect. “Just my rotten luck,” he groans. He types angrily into his phone, worry creasing his forehead. “He was supposed to be my ride back to his place.”

“Seokjin isn’t answering his phone either,” you say apologetically. “How much do you wanna bet this is part of their evil scheme to leave us together?”

“I don’t doubt it in the slightest,” he deadpans. He sighs tiredly, rubbing his temples. “I suppose I can take a taxi there, but I also don’t know if he’ll be home to open the door for me.”

“Then why don’t you just stay with me?”

You don’t know what you’re doing.

In your head, the offer makes sense. He’s just a friend, you remind yourself. Nothing is stopping you from rekindling a friendship with him. You have purely platonic intentions. Friends help each other out.

Never mind the fact that your heart hasn’t stopped fluttering the entire night. Never mind the fact that you’ve caught yourself staring at him just as many times as you’ve caught him staring at you. Never mind the fact that you don’t want the night to end, not now not ever.

(Never mind the fact that you’ve never quite stopped loving him.)

So when he accepts, you convince yourself that offering had been the right thing to do.

(Maybe. Hopefully. You just wish your heart doesn’t end up as collateral damage.)

The drive home is short, thanks to the late hour. You had asked him if he had wanted to stay until the end of the reunion, but he had declined. “Nothing else left for me there,” he says.

You feel as though he’s hinting at something. Your grip on the steering wheel tightens. “At least I get to keep my album.”

Yoongi laughs, short and sweet.

As much as you try to fight it, sitting in the car with him brings up a lot of memories.

The two of you in the backseat as his older brother drives you to his house for dinner, backpacks filled with crumpled notes and loose pens, a promise of an intense study session for your upcoming exams ready to be broken. You remember how the sky would turn orange in the afternoon, the warm light streaming through the car window and washing Yoongi’s skin with a soft glow.

His cheeks had looked inviting, his lips even more. And you would lean over, kissing him like it was easy. Because it was easy, and you never had to think twice about it.

Your trip down memory lane doesn’t end in the car. As you walk up the steps to your childhood home, you hesitate by the door, your keys frozen over the lock. You can hear Yoongi’s soft breathing behind you, but his presence doesn’t feel as stifling as you thought it would be.

You’re far from being at ease, but you aren’t frightened either. Mostly, you’re just filled with anticipation. Of what? You aren’t sure.

“Excuse the mess. Jungkook is in the middle of moving out so there’s just stuff everywhere,” you say just as you open the door. You toe off your shoes by the entrance, kicking them off haphazardly into the pile of sneakers and boots.

You hear Yoongi huff out a laugh behind you. “Aish, that kid. Still hasn’t let go of his Timbs, huh?”

“He has also been really into chunky sneakers these days. I think he’s finalizing his transformation into Thumper,” you joke. “He’s staying at his new apartment for the weekend with my parents, so you won’t be seeing them. They’re helping him settle in.”

“Really? He didn’t mention moving when we spoke. Where is he moving to?”

“Busan. He and his best friend from college are going to start a restaurant in his hometown. Which is funny, since neither of them are the best chefs.”

Yoongi whistles. “Still, that’s impressive. I can’t remove the image from my head of when he was a kid. He was so scared of anything. He wouldn’t let go of your mom’s leg even if his life depended on it.”

He steps deeper into the house, his gaze jumping from end to end as he surveys your childhood home. You watch him, noting how right he looks standing there in the middle of your living room, like a chipped painting that has been restored.

It’s scary, how easily you’ve accepted him back into this place.

He stays rooted to the spot, the moonlight filtering through the kitchen windows and illuminating his frame. The air pulses with something magical, something dream-like, and it muddles your vision. It’s the only explanation you have for why your chest tightens when he turns to face you, with a gaze filled with sadness, mourning, yearning.

“Jungkook’s height chart is still here,” he murmurs. The small nicks on the kitchen door frame are hard to see, and other people have mistaken them for signs of wear and tear. But he knows what they are because he was there when your mother had etched the first scratch.

He looks at your ancient dining table, his hand brushing over the surface. “This too,” he says, rubbing at a large burn mark on the wood.

“Mom made sure to use placemats after that. I didn’t think a sizzling plate would burn through the table like that,” you say, giggling as you reminisce. “You know, we still use your mom’s galbi jjim recipe. We haven’t found a better one.”

“I’m sure she would love to hear that,” Yoongi smiles, but it fades just as quickly. “It’s so… strange. Being here again and seeing that nothing really changed.”

But things did change. Upstairs, in your bedroom. That night, ten years ago.

You still remember what you had said to him, when you had said it to him, how you had said it to him.

It was a sunny afternoon, the time of day when you’d be on your way home from school. The two of you had stood in your room, neither of you wanting to sit because sitting meant staying, and staying only made this harder.

There hadn’t been many tears in that moment; those were shed only after the realization had sunk in, when you’d fully understood what had happened. At the time, the decision had been as easy as breathing.

Except you had both been drowning. The clock was ticking down to the end of high school, and the inevitable wasn’t slowing down.

Yoongi wanted to chase his dreams in Seoul. You wanted to stay closer to home, with your friends and family.

You weren’t going to be the one to hold him down. You weren’t going to be that person, not when he’s destined for greater things than his hometown could offer—not even a girl who loved him would be worth staying for.

He had suggested it, first. He had been prepared for you to cry, or maybe scream, but you did none of that. Instead, you pulled him close, hugging him tighter than you ever had before. You wanted to make it last, imprint the sensation onto your brain so that his warmth might stay with you, even after he’s little more than a distant memory. You trembled, terribly so, even though the beginnings of summer crept on your skin like a brand.

It’s time to let him go, Time whispered. You refused to listen, just for another moment.

Let me have this last moment, you beg. But Time refused to listen.

“Do you know?” Yoongi had spoken into your neck, had hoped his words would stain there. “Do you know how much I love you?”

Love, not loved. “I did,” you say. You think better of it. “I do.”

When you separated, for good this time, it had left an ache deeper than you could have ever imagined.

But you were young. Young love was supposed to hurt, but it wasn’t supposed to last. “You’ll find others,” your mother had said, brushing a soothing hand through your hair as you sobbed.

Then why? Then why has it lasted this long?

It has been a question you’ve asked yourself, and you’re starting to think that the answer has always been right in front of you.

The answer is standing in front of you: real, alive, close.

“Why didn’t you ever date again?” you ask. You ask even though you know he can lie, if he wants. He can tell you anything and you would believe him.

But he wouldn’t; you know he wouldn’t.

“I was afraid of closing a door that I never meant to close in the first place,” he says. His voice crackles like static, but that might be the blood rushing to your head. He moves toward you but keeps a hand’s width away. Still too far.

He continues. “After that day, when I left,” he swallows, “after I left, I think… I think I left a piece of me with you. A-and I don’t think I ever stopped…” he cuts off, exhaling shakily.

“Stopped what?” you breathe.

“You know.” He waves his hands around helplessly. They fall heavily back down to his sides, defeated. “You know?” he repeats.

You do. Because you are the same. The old wound had never healed; it burns and it bleeds like new.

Your skull feels like it’s stuffed with cotton when you close the distance between the two of you. He circles his arms around your waist, tentative, but he relaxes when you wind your arms around his neck. Your vision is warped, so you choose to close them. You wait, with bated breath, as his warmth inched closer and closer.

The sensation of his lips on yours jolts you back to your senses. His kiss reminds you of your youth, of a love that had made you excited to start your day. Even now, your body remembers, and it rejoices.

The tenderness does not last long before it turns fervent, tongue and teeth crashing like waves against the shore. If his kisses could speak, they would tell you stories of how much he missed you, of how much he mourned the time you had both lost. They would tell you of the days when he’d almost pressed your number onto his phone, of the nights when he’d stare at the polaroids he had kept of you.

They would ask if you still love him like he still loves you.

He tastes of desperation, and you are likely to be the same. It is a desperation you haven’t tasted in years—but it doesn’t feel scary like it used to. Time no longer feels like it’s racing against you, like you had something to prove before the hour was over. This reckless abandon feels like home against your skin—it is an ache being soothed after having ripped your scabs over and over again.

It’s Yoongi.

And when he pulls you to your room, he doesn’t even need his eyes to find his way as his feet still memorize the floorboards. He struggles with the doorknob, forgetting that it always jammed, but it’s okay because you can always teach him again. You can teach him everything again.

The bed creaks under your weights and even the mattress sounds like it is sighing in relief. That sigh echoes from your lips when his hand slips under your clothes, his palm stopping over your heart.

“I won’t break it, this time,” he says. He promises. “If you let me.”

You wonder if he can feel your heart soaring, pounding against your ribs. “I think the line has long been crossed to ask for my permission.” You place your hand over where his is laid. You squeeze tight.

This time, you don’t let him go.

[coweye]

Guys My Age - PT.1

Pairing: Francisco ‘Catfish’ Morales x Miller!Reader Word Count: 1.5k

Summary: After four years away, you return home to realise that maybe everything you’ve been looking for was right in front of you all along.

Warnings: Mention of depression, Slow burn - no smut yet but it will eventually be horrifically filthy 18+ only pls gang, LEGAL Age Gap. 

Note: This bad bois been worming its way to the surface for a while now, hope you enjoy! 💕 I apologise in advance for the slow burn.

⇢MASTERLIST

Life was strange sometimes.

Here you were, back in the hometown you’d sworn never to return to after four years away, flanked by your older brother Benny. 

Two thirds of the Miller gang back together, reunited or at least you had been.

“I’ma get us a table, you order the drinks.” Ben muttered distractedly whilst scouting out potential tables.

“Hey, I’m supposed to be destitute, the least you could do is get the first round in.” The sad thing is, you’re only half joking. He rolled his eyes at your expense, before handing you his credit card and continued on his journey to get a table, presumably with a great view of the blonde woman he’d spotted upon entry to the bar. Benny was predictable if nothing else, it was part of his charm. 

So, you pushed your way forward through the throng of warm bodies, Friday night at Flanagans was a nightmare but you had agreed to be sociable as Santiago was in town, so you’d made the sacrifice and took a night off from your crushing depression to don a nice t-shirt and apply makeup for the first time in the two weeks since moving into Will’s back room.

You smiled what you hoped was a somewhat friendly lift of your lips at the bartender and ordered two beers, as you were waiting you heard the familiar call of Santiago Garcia - the man who you’d spent your teen years obsessed with. 

He was gorgeous inside and out, though your crush had morphed into something a lot more wholesome and you had a genuine platonic love for the man, as an extension of your brothers.

“How have you been, guapa? God, long time no see!” He all but cried, clearly already a couple of beers in as wrapped you in a strong hug, pulling you onto your tiptoes. He wasn’t lying, you hadn’t seen Santiago in two maybe three years ago now. 

Time had gotten away from you and your visits had become less and less frequent, especially with the boys being deployed, you couldn’t say you were happy to be back, but it was certainly nice to see them all again.

“I know, damn, you got old!” You chuckle as his face straightens out in feigned hurt. “Like fine wine, Santi, Fine wine!”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Stop flirting, you two.” Will grumbles as he slides through the crowd to lean on the bar beside you, lifting three fingers up to the bartender who had already placed the pints of beer before you. 

“Where have you been?” You question raising an eyebrow “I’ve been back at least two weeks.”

“I’ve been in Australia for a little while, it's nothing serious but-”

“Pope’s got a girlfriend now, Squirt.” The low voice is a new one, but only one person used to call you that awful nickname. 

You turn to see Francisco Morales behind you, his eyes are older than the rest of him but still irrevocably kind and he has an easy smile painted on his lips. You can’t quite remember him being this handsome as your eyes drink him in, perhaps you’d been blinded by the effortless beauty of Santiago as a teen but my god, Catfish had almost floored you. 

“Frankie!” You smile - all teeth, trying somewhat successfully for an air of normalcy despite your brain processing the change that five years has had on your taste in men and pulling him in for his own hug. 

You tried to stop yourself, you honestly did but as you breathed in, the smell of him overtook you, the spicy scent of cinnamon and sweet vanilla; the man somehow smelled like a goddamn cupcake and you had the biggest sweet tooth. 

Locking your inner sex offender deep down inside a box so as to not assault the man you’d held in a hug for what was becoming longer than appropriate, you pulled away. 

“A girlfriend?” You question, your brain scrambling for something to talk about other than those brown eyes. You can’t help the smirk that sneaks its way across your lips as you tease the man before you. “Santiago Garcia, have you gone soft on me in your old age?”

He huffs as he grabs his beer. “Fuck off, baby Miller.” 

The three of you chortle in response to his defeated tone as he walks towards the table Ben has secured. Will grabs at his wallet, hand coming out to stop you in confusion when you hold out a card to pay. 

You shake your head and shrug. “Ben’s treat.” 

That kills any argument on his tongue as he picks up his drink and follows Santi’s lead. You can’t help but chuckle at your brothers, you had missed them both so much. 

You’re very quickly aware of Frankie lingering to your left, waiting for you to finish paying, ever the gentleman. 

You turn to him as the machine processes the transaction. 

“Your-”

“How-” You both chuckle, the two of you have always been the quiet ones of the group, more observant with witty one liners thrown in than the loud mouths currently chatting at your table. 

It seems years apart haven’t helped either of your awkwardness.

“You go…” You dismiss with a quick laugh when he waits for you to speak.

“I was just gonna say, it's nice to have you back!” He shrugged before gesturing to side of him “After you,” 

Frankie creates a barrier with his body for your fellow thirsty patrons who want your spot at the bar. You pick up yours and Bens drinks and turn to find the guys. 

Frankie’s hand finds your lower back as he guides you through, its innocuous enough, hell if you hadn’t been drooling over the man minutes before you wouldn’t have given it so much as a second thought, but that palm guarding you from the brunt of the crowd was like molten lava slowly burning your flesh. 

“W-Well, it’s good to be back! I’m not going anywhere in a hurry!” You pretty much shout over the deafening ambient chatter around you. His low voice is in your ear when he replies, you force yourself not to close the distance and push your spine into his chest, Frankie isn’t like that; Hell, he has a girlfriend and baby at home.

He’s just being friendly - he’s known you since you were seventeen. 

“You miss your friends back home?”

“They’re not my friends. None of those assholes let me sleep on their goddamn sofas.” Trying to break the tension only you seemed to be feeling with a joke, it seems to work as he chortles.

“Well you’re more than welcome to my sofa if Will ever gets too much, Squirt.” You couldn’t explain the things that this man saying the word squirt to you was doing. No matter the context, even if it was because you squirted slurpee from your nose when laughing too hard when you were a teenager. 

“I may hold you to that - he bit my head off the other day because I didn’t wash a glass the second I used it, I swear-” You’re cut off when you find the booth rather quickly, the raucous laughter from the rangers acting as a siren call.  You slide in beside Ben and turn to your other brother “-I was just telling Frankie, how much of a control freak you are.”

And because God hates you, Francisco slides in beside you. 

…

You were a grown woman and you had a ridiculous infatuation.

It wasn’t for a lack of trying either, after sitting in that bar you had made an effort to block out the sensation of his thigh against your own or when he leaned back against the plush fabric and wrapped his arm around the back of the booth.

But so help you god you were only human, you couldn’t help but laugh a little harder at his jokes than the others or the warmth that flooded your belly when you’d meet his eyes as you told a story and find his chocolate orbs transfixed on you as if you were telling a great tale - rather than an anecdote about how you dislocated your tailbone last year when you were drunk on some stairs.

It wasn’t even as if it was just his looks - though you were big enough to admit that initially that had been a large part of it.  It was the ease you felt around him, the kindness you could see clear as day painted on his face. 

Though you knew, deep down in your toxic heart of hearts, buried beneath your daddy issues and depression, this deep desire was because he wasn’t all that interested. 

It wasn’t as if he ignored you, no. He was friendly, but he had no interest in you besides just that, being a friend. 

He had a baby and a girlfriend and you weren’t a home wrecker.

He was your brother's best friend, an extension of your family. 

These were all things you reminded yourself about as you lay in bed alone staring up at the ceiling the morning after.

You could just be his friend, right?

⇢ Next Part

[extasiswings]

“i’ll keep you warm” eddie has a nightmare post-shooting 👀 (or however you wanna write it!)

This was not supposed to be this long...rated M-ish for some mild smut at the end. On ao3 here.

The thing Eddie remembers most about the shooting isn’t the shot itself, or the pain, or even the fear—it’s the cold. The icy numbness of shock curling down his spine, twisting through his veins like tendrils of frost creeping across a windowpane in winter. Cold, as his pulse skyrocketed, his body’s signals all crossed and confused and trying to circulate blood, not seeming to grasp the fact that his blood was seeping out onto the asphalt beneath him, that trying to circulate it faster was just making it worse. Cold, like he was a stupid kid at camp diving into a frigid lake before dawn, except above him was blue sky and a bright sun beating down and the fact that it was Los Angeles in May didn’t do a damn thing to help.

He couldn’t feel it. He could only feel the cold.

Buck, though—Buck, he felt. Buck’s hands burned, on his chest, his neck, his face, so warm that Eddie almost wanted to flinch away, but he didn’t. He was aware enough to realize that if Buck was warm, he was probably telling the truth when he said he wasn’t hurt. And that was good. That was all he needed to know.

The cold—

Eddie’s been through enough in his life to know that his subconscious works in weird ways. After Afghanistan he dreamed more directly of burning helicopters and gunfire, blood in his mouth and smoke on his tongue. Shadows and screams and guilt. After the well his dreams were of Christopher, Shannon, waves crashing on a beach. And Buck. Sunlight.

This time...this time Eddie dreams of drowning. Trapped beneath ice, his hands slamming against it, eventually forced to inhale—water flooding his mouth, his throat, his lungs—cold, cold, cold—

Sometimes after he wakes he’ll spend hours shivering. Phantom chills that won’t go away even when he wraps himself in blankets.

The therapist he’s mandated to see before he can be cleared for work tells him that the brain doesn’t always process trauma by taking the most direct path. Eddie doesn’t know why his has fixated on this. The cold. Maybe it’s just easiest. Because the shooting—

His chest gets tight when he’s walking in open air. Sweat breaks out across his brow when the sunlight glints off of windows. His pulse races.

He can’t breathe.

It feels a little like drowning.

“Do you feel safe?” Dr. Kingston asks one session. And Eddie thinks about freezing in a grocery store parking lot, gripping the edge of a cart to keep his hands from shaking, thinks about Buck curving a hand around his shoulder, solid and warm—

“Sometimes,” Eddie admits. “It depends.”

“Depends on what?”

He tastes the lie on his tongue before it slips out.

“I don’t know.”

*

When the world shut down and Eddie had to leave Christopher with his abuela so that he could keep working without worrying constantly that he was putting his son at risk, Buck’s was the obvious place to go. And Eddie doesn’t know if things would have been different if it had been just the two of them but Hen and Chim deciding it was also the obvious place for them to go meant there weren’t a lot of options for sleeping arrangements.

So Eddie shared the bed with Buck. And it didn’t matter if either of them wound up wrapped around the other, the lines of their bodies pressed close enough to bleed together. If they curled into one another like plants twisting to find the light.

It was...instinct. To seek comfort. Warmth. Touch. Both of them alone for so long, and just needing—

Needing.

They never talked about it—there wasn’t anything to talk about. If it made Eddie’s heart race, if it made him ache for something he hadn’t expected and didn’t wholly understand, if when he returned home alone again his own bed felt too empty, that was his own problem.

Now, though—

Now, he knows. Because he stood frozen on the street and stared at Buck with Carla’s words in his head—make sure you’re following your heart—and realized oh. It hadn’t just been convenience, it had been love. Need and desire and love.

Now, he knows, but doesn’t know what to do with that knowledge, with the awareness he has suddenly. Buck is living in his house, in his space, helping him with Christopher and with his own recovery, making sure he takes his meds and gets to his appointments and does his exercises. Buck is there all the time and it’s a blessing and a curse because Eddie burns whenever Buck touches him.

And Buck touches him. A lot.

He hadn’t at first, right after Eddie came home from the hospital—Eddie would catch him sometimes looking like he wanted to, but holding back, reaching out but stopping himself, and Eddie never asked why. Even now he doesn’t think he ever needed to—he knows what it’s like to be afraid, to be unsteady, adrift, worrying that touching something you expect to be solid will reveal it’s just an illusion. Not wanting to find out if it is.

But Buck touches him now. And sometimes Eddie will wake up to find that Buck’s migrated from the couch in the living room to a chair by his bed, folded in and fitfully asleep. Buck never says, but Eddie’s pretty sure it’s so Buck can reassure himself that Eddie’s still breathing.

Eddie understands that need too. Sometimes he isn’t sure himself.

The first time it happens after Buck’s relationship with Taylor has flamed out—for himself, he and Ana have been over since just after he left the hospital—Eddie finally just gets up.

“Buck.” He curves a hand around the side of Buck’s neck and passes his thumb along the edge of his jaw.

Buck startles awake, looking somehow guilty.

“I didn’t wake you up, did I? Sorry, I know it’s—I can go back to the—”

“Will you just come to bed?” Eddie interrupts before Buck successfully talks himself into leaving the room. “Please?”

Buck’s eyes flick down to his shoulder. He swallows hard.

“I don’t want to—”

Oh.

“You won’t hurt me,” Eddie promises. “Okay?”

Buck searches his face in the dark, but if he sees anything, he clearly doesn’t mind because he nods and gets up from the chair. When they both resettle on the mattress, Buck only pauses for a moment before curving around him like a parenthesis, his arm falling across Eddie’s waist.

Eddie’s breath catches.

“Is this—?”

Eddie closes his eyes and sinks into the embrace. If it feels just a little bit like cheating because he hasn't told Buck how he feels, that’s between him and god.

“It’s fine,” he assures, then adds to make it a little more fair, “you aren’t the only one who needs—you aren’t the only one.”

Buck relaxes at that, his grip tightening a little with newfound certainty.

When Eddie dreams, he doesn’t drown.

*

“You look good,” Dr. Kingston acknowledges two weeks later. “You’ve been sleeping better?”

“Yeah,” Eddie replies. “I stopped having nightmares, so I haven’t been waking up as much.”

He catches the surprise that flickers across her face.

“They stopped completely?” She asks. “Have you been doing something different or—?”

Eddie shifts in his chair and clears his throat. What is he supposed to tell her? That he stopped having nightmares when he started sleeping with Buck every night? He’s not really ready to unpack that with his therapist—he’s barely ready to unpack it in his own head.

“Just lucky, I guess,” he says. Dr. Kingston puts down her pen and levels him with a long look that tells him she knows that’s bullshit and is trying to decide whether to push or let it go until another time.

She lets it go.

“Well,” she replies. “I’m glad to hear it.”

Eddie feels like he’s dodged another bullet.

Later, though, he wonders if he shouldn’t have said more. If he shouldn’t have asked questions. Because he goes to sleep and—

The water is pitch black and freezing. Eddie’s eyes sting, but it doesn’t matter whether he keeps them open or not—there’s nothing to see. He kicks his legs anyway, swims up, up, up, even though it hurts to make his limbs work when they’re so cold. There’s a faint light—the surface—and he kicks harder, desperate to reach—

Ice. Nothing but a sheet of ice, solid and thick. His lungs burn from lack of air, his palms beat against the ice—

He can’t keep moving. It’s too cold. He can’t—

“Eddie. Eddie.” Hands seize him from nowhere, almost too warm, and Eddie could have sworn the ice had no cracks, but he’s being lifted out—

“Eddie.”

He snaps awake, gasping. Buck’s face swims into view, worry painted across every line. His hands are on Eddie’s shoulders.

They’re so warm.

Eddie shivers.

“You were hyperventilating,” Buck says. “I thought—”

“Just a dream,” Eddie grits out, trying to keep his teeth from chattering. He still feels frozen. Stupid—it was a dream, it wasn’t real, so he shouldn’t—it shouldn’t be this difficult.

He shivers again.

Buck’s brow furrows deeper.

“You’re shaking—are you cold?”

Eddie sits up and scrubs his hands over his face. He swallows back the denial on his tongue, the urge to run away and hide in the bathroom until a scalding shower makes him feel somewhat human again. Maybe he can’t always be honest with his therapist, but he can be honest with Buck.

“Yes,” he admits. “But it’s not—it’s just in my head. When I got shot I—it’s hard to explain but, yes. I’m cold. Freezing. I don’t know how—”

He cuts off and Buck shifts on the mattress, reaches out slowly so Eddie has plenty of time to stop him if he doesn’t want to be touched, and finally wraps his arms around him, pulling Eddie firmly against his chest.

“I’ll keep you warm,” Buck says quietly. And Eddie—

Something in him cracks. Not like ice during a thaw, but resolve after too much time of being worn down, pressure applied in precisely the right spot. He’s raw and ragged and his scarred heart hardly feels like anything anyone should want, but he’s so tired of pretending he hasn’t been trying to press it into Buck’s hands for a year in different ways. He’s tired of not asking and being afraid and waiting. He’s tired—

Buck makes a soft sound of surprise when Eddie kisses him. But he doesn’t push him away. And Eddie can’t help himself from pressing closer, curling one hand into Buck’s shirt and the other around the back of his neck and kissing him again and again and again, feeling altogether too frantic. He’ll probably find it in himself to be embarrassed in the morning, but want and desperation have left very little room for shame at the moment.

Buck kisses him back. His hands drop to Eddie’s hips as Eddie does his best to climb into his lap.

“Eddie,” Buck pants between kisses. “Eddie—I—” His head falls back and Eddie takes the opportunity to continue his exploration down the exposed line of Buck’s neck.

“Should we talk about this?” Buck finally manages, even as his own hands flirt with the hem of Eddie’s shirt.

Eddie freezes. The answer, of course, is yes. But talking is the last thing he wants to do when part of him still feels chilled to the bone, not wholly alive. He wants to be touched, wants to be consumed, wants to fall into orbit around Buck’s sun and never leave.

And it’s late. Dark. The two of them, the bed, the very room caught in a liminal space where anything could happen, anything could be said, anything could be forgiven. Eddie can’t decide if that’s a good thing or a dangerous one.

His mouth drags along the edge of Buck’s jaw.

“This isn’t because I wanted someone and you happened to be here, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

He doesn’t look at Buck’s face. It’s easier to not, to focus on something else. He stopped going to confession a long time ago, but he never had to look directly at his priest either, always some curtain or other barrier obscuring things, lending the illusion of privacy, anonymity.

“I’m in love with you,” he admits, and Buck’s hands flex on his hips. “I’ve been in love with you. So we can talk about this if you want, but—”

In an instant, Eddie’s on his back, the rest of his sentence swallowed up by the tongue sliding into his mouth. Buck is a warm, solid weight on top of him, pinning him, anchoring him, and Eddie finds he doesn’t mind when it forces him to be in the moment, reminds him that he’s fully in his own body.

“I love you, too,” Buck whispers when the kiss breaks, and then he’s pushing Eddie’s shirt up and off and dispensing with his own—

Shannon was his first. Eddie wasn’t hers and he remembers being glad that at least one of them had some idea of what to do because the second she touched him he was so overwhelmed by sensation that he could hardly think.

This is…not dissimilar. Buck’s chest presses flush against his, all warm, bare skin, and Eddie feels like he could drown in a different way. He arches up, seeking Buck’s mouth again, and Buck obliges.

Eddie’s focus narrows to certain points—the slick slide of Buck’s tongue against his, Buck’s hand ghosting along his ribs, the careful space between their hips and the low burn of heat in his gut that makes him want to close the gap—

His hands slide up Buck’s back slowly, his fingers tracing the knobs of Buck’s spine, the sharp edges of his shoulder blades—they dance along the line of his shoulders too, sketching the breadth that he’s noticed but never allowed his thoughts to linger on. His touch is careful, reverent, as if Buck is a holy thing that his stained, sinner hands have no business touching. Perhaps, in a sense that’s true.

He’s never been a very good Catholic, but sex—sex, desire, love—sex has always been something…sacred to him. In high school, he shied away from the locker room-style conversations about who went how far with whom, kept out of any discussion involving lamentations about still being a virgin at graduation. For one thing, he thought they were usually crass and disrespectful. But mainly he just—he didn’t care about waiting until marriage or anything like that, but he always knew he wanted to be in love. Hence, Shannon. And why there hadn’t been anyone after her.

Until now.

Eddie kisses Buck until his lungs ache, but he’s not close enough, feels like he can’t get close enough. One of his hands slides into Buck’s hair, but the other trails back down, presses lightly on Buck’s lower back as his own hips rock up, seeking friction. Buck swears against his lips and closes the distance—Eddie can feel him hard in his sweatpants and flushes, dizzy at the thought of having made that happen, dizzy at the thought of more, dizzy—

He feels very much like a clumsy teenager again, fumbling his way through on instinct. At least this sort of thing is familiar, even if he hasn’t done it with a man before. Buck grinds their hips together, the friction sending sparks through every one of Eddie’s nerve endings, and kisses down his neck, teeth scraping over his pulse point. Eddie gasps and Buck hums, low and pleased, against his skin.

And then, just as he thinks he’s used to the slow burn of pleasure, Buck shifts his weight and slides a hand down to toy with Eddie’s waistband. Buck meets his eyes in the dark and swallows hard.

“Can I—?”

This time, when Eddie shivers it has nothing to do with the cold.

“Please,” he rasps, and Buck smiles before tugging Eddie’s pants down just enough to wrap his hand around Eddie’s cock.

Buck’s touch is a little tentative at first, clearly unused to the angle, and the part of Eddie that’s still capable of noticing that spends a brief moment feeling grateful that he’s not the only one lacking in experience here. But what Buck may lack in experience, he makes up for in enthusiasm, experimenting with grip and speed and pressure to figure out exactly what to do to make Eddie gasp again, to make him bite his lip, to make him hide his face in Buck’s shoulder to muffle any louder noises he can’t quite hold back.

It doesn’t take long. Even before the shooting, Eddie rarely bothered to touch himself with any sort of regularity, and during his recovery he had even less of a reason to do so, what little energy he had in the first few months better spent elsewhere. He hadn’t realized how badly he needed it. But clearly his body did because his orgasm hits him like a train when Buck spits into his hand for extra glide and twists his wrist on the upstroke. He bites Buck’s shoulder and Buck’s hips jerk and then he’s just floating—boneless, breathless, and utterly wrecked in the best possible way.

Buck collapses on the mattress next to him as Eddie’s catching his breath—Eddie reaches out, his hand skating over Buck’s stomach, and makes a questioning noise. Buck laughs quietly and catches his hand, bringing it to his lips.

“I, uh—I’m good,” Buck promises, and even in the dark Eddie can see his cheeks flush.

Eddie curls into his side. “Really?”

Buck kisses him. “I don’t think you realize how long I’ve wanted to do that. Or how good you look. So, yes, I already—yes. Really.”

Eddie’s lips curve up. He presses a kiss to the edge of Buck’s jaw. As the immediate aftermath wears off, his eyelids start to grow heavy, his limbs moving a little less easily.

“We should probably shower,” he acknowledges, although the strength of the statement is likely diminished by the yawn that interrupts him halfway through.

“Probably,” Buck agrees, but he too makes no move to actually get up.

Pressed against him as he is, Eddie is warm and sated and content. He drifts, skirting the edge of sleep.

“I love you,” he says again. Because it feels important.

Buck hums. If he says something else, it’s too low for Eddie to catch.

When he dreams again, he doesn’t dream of drowning. He doesn’t dream of the cold.

Instead, there’s just light. Just warmth.

Just Buck.

[1-800-gaygentsofshield]

you + me = ? | n.r.

summary: after the war you and Natasha settle down, deciding to start a family in your cozy little home. The problem is though, how many times can hope be ignited before it fully burns out?

warnings: (trying to get pregnant) reader, canon/sterile Nat, swearing, Nat and you cry, post-endgame, sprinkle of angst with a very fluffy ending

word count: 4,016

im having baby fever rn im so sorry

-flashback, pre-endgame-

"I wanna have a family." Your voice is barely above a whisper as you both look up at the night sky, laying in the garden atop the Avengers compound. "What?" Nat asks softly, breaking out of her trance as she looks at you. You're laying on her chest and her arm is wrapped your back, Nat's other arm folded up behind her head.

"I wanna have a family, with you." You repeat yourself, making eye contact with your girlfriend as her brows furrow. "Y/n.." Nat's voice is hesitant and panic floods your chest, your eyes widening as you move to sit up. "Oh my god I'm so sorry, that was so quick-" You apologize quickly as you avoid Natasha's gaze, the redhead sitting up with you.

You've dated Natasha for two years but everything has been slow, knowing how the assassin will close herself off if you try and move too fast (emotion wise).

"Hey Y/n no." Nat says softly as she looks at your side profile, a soft frown forming on her face as she sees you. "That's not the reason why." She says as she gently turns your head to face her, fingertips delicately grabbing your chin. "I do want to have a family with you, moya lyubov'..it's just that I can't." Nat whispers and you finally lock eyes with her, seeing the pain and sadness on her face. "What do you mean?' You ask carefully and she sighs, waiting a beat before deciding to tell you. "In the Red Room me and all of my other group mates were sterilized..it was like a sick graduation ceremony that prevented us from having a family of our own." She tells you and hurt immediately grips at your heart, seeing Nat avert her gaze for a moment.

"Why?" You question and she purses her lips together, one of your hands rubbing her knee gently. "So we would never have any distraction from our mission..so that our only purpose in life was to kill and be used as a weapon." Disgust drips from Nat's voice at the last part, your soft hands on her wrist bringing her back to reality. "Im so sorry Nat, I shouldn't have anything I didn't know-" You start to apologize again but Nat stops you with a soft shake of her head, a bittersweet smile on her face. "Don't apologize, Y/n. I'm the one who should be sorry for not being able to give you the family that you deserve." She says and now it's your turn to shake your head, grabbing Nat's hands and caressing them gently. "Its alright baby." You smile gently before an idea pops into your head, your eyes lighting up and Nat gives you a look of curiosity.

"Besides.." You start, gently tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "If you really..truly..wanted a family with me, there could still be other options. Like adopting or getting a surrogate..or I could get pregnant instead." You suggest and Natasha's eyes light up like the stars in the night sky, a small laugh escaping your lips as you see the excitement on her face.

"Really?! You'd do that?" She asks and you nod your head, giving your girlfriend a soft kiss before laughing. "Mmhm, but you'd have to put a ring on it first, Miss Romanoff." You giggle and Nat wraps her arms around you again, both of you laying back down on the blanket. "Im planning to, future Mrs.Romanoff."

-present day, post-endgame-

You nervously pace around the bathroom as you wait for the three minutes to be up, Natasha sitting on the edge of the bathtub and observing you walk back and forth. The pregnancy test is laying by the sink and you can’t help but glance at it every few seconds, not having felt this nervous since battling Thanos and his army. You’ve faced gods, powerful Titans, super soldiers, but you’re sure this the most nerve wracking thing you’ve ever had to do. Once the timer on Natasha’s phone goes off, you practically jump towards the sink, Natasha leaning forward a bit more on the bathtub. Picking up the white and pink pregnancy test, you nervously turn it over in your hands, eyes scanning the small window for the results.

Natasha doesn’t even have to ask for the results when she sees your shoulders slump and your face drop, quickly getting up from the bathtub to wrap you up in her arms. Hugging you from behind, she can see the negative test in your hands, gently kissing your cheek when you don’t say anything. “It’s okay baby, we can try again.” She says softly and you shake your head, slowly placing the test down and closing your eyes.

“Nat, what if somethings wrong with me?” You whisper and her arms hug you closer, tears pooling under your eyelids in frustration. “Nothing is wrong with you malysh.” Natasha reassures you and you turn in her arms, releasing a shaky breath as you press your face into her neck. “Three times Nat..three fucking times..” You sigh and she only holds you closer, knowing how much hope the both of you had for this one. “I know, I know.” Nat hums softly as she rocks the two of you back and forth gently, feeling the hope starting to dwindle from you. “What if we just weren’t meant to have a biological children? What if we weren’t meant to have lives after the war?” You question out loud and Natasha pulls back, gently tilting your chin up so you can look her in the eyes. “Hey no, don’t say that. We were meant to have a family Y/n, biological or not.” Nat takes a pause to brush some hair out of your face.

“Let’s try one more time, okay? And if that doesn’t work then we can look into other options.” She continues and you think for a moment, not knowing if you could go through the hope and pain again. “Okay.” You whisper softly and Nat nods her head. “Okay.” She echos you before placing a gentle kiss on your forehead, pulling you back in for a hug.

————

Nat’s leg is bouncing up and down as she watches the timer tick down, only ten more seconds before you can check. This is the last try, all or nothing. You’re too anxious to pace this time, instead opting to sit next to Natasha and leaning into her as you watch her leg bounce. “You know..whatever happens, I love you.” Nat says softly when she sees you blankly stare at her knee, lost in thought about what’s going to happen. “I love you too.” You reply equally as soft as you look up at your wife, grabbing her hand and intertwining them slowly.

Leaning into each other, you both share a soft kiss, love shining through the small interaction. You both only pull away when the timer dings, Natasha rubbing your back as you sigh and get up. It feels like time slows down as you walk towards the sink, heart pounding in your chest as you reach out to grab the test. The bathroom is silent as you pick it up and flip it over, looking at the little window for the results. You’re silent as you look at the results, body frozen in place as you stare at the test. Natasha’s brows furrow and she gets up, sighing as she rubs her temples.

“Baby I’m so sorry-” “It’s positive.” You interrupt Nat midway through her sentence, your voice in disbelief as you see those two pink lines. “What?” Natasha asks, unsure if she heard you right. “It’s positive.” You repeat as you turn to face her, pregnancy test in hand as you smile from ear to ear. “You’re pregnant?” Natasha asks, almost in disbelief as she stares at you. “I’m pregnant.” You nod your head and Natasha immediately sweeps you up in her arms, hugging you right and picking you up from the ground. “Holy shit! We’re gonna have a baby!” Nat laughs as she spins you around, joyful giggles falling from your lips as you cling onto your wife.

“Oh my god we’re gonna have a baby.” Nat breathes out as she comes to a stop, quickly putting you down once the realization hits her brain. “Shit, you’re pregnant we need to be careful.” She says and you only laugh, pulling her down a bit to kiss her. “You don’t need to be that a careful dummy, but yes..I’m pregnant.”

————

“Tony gave us an iron man onesie.” You laugh as you hold up the tiny piece of clothing, Natasha grinning as she watches you. Even though the announcement was made a week ago, the gifts have been steadily pouring in, Tony insisting that he pays for the majority of the things that are needed for the new arrival.

He paid for the crib, the high chair, the car seat, most of the nursery, and all the bottles and toys a newborn could ask for. Pepper had a huge part in it too, having experience since bringing Morgan into the world. “That man is self centered.” Natasha laughs as she walks over to where you’re sitting, her heart full of love as she kneels down next to you.

“Mmhm.” You hum in agreement as you fold the article of clothing away, Natasha handing you the next gift. You’re about sixteen weeks along and you’re already showing, a small baby bump forming from your midsection. You both decided to wait until the second trimester to tell the rest of the team, wanting to enjoy the first few months in peace.

Natasha watches you wordlessly as you open a gift from Steve, a smile tugging on her lips as she sees the captain america pacifier. “I love you so much.” She blurts out randomly and your head turns to face her, a smile on your face as you gently kiss her.

“You’ve gone soft Romanoff.” You tease and she only laughs, gently kissing you again. “I blame you, you’ve made me domestic.” She grins and you roll your eyes, placing the gift to the side.

————

As the pregnancy goes along, you start to notice Natasha’s lack of touch, the redhead only going as far as running her hands through your hair or holding your shoulders. You have no idea what has gotten into her and you're determined to investigate, missing the way Natasha used to spoon and cuddle you all day.

Your questions were finally answered when one day you and Natasha were watching TV in bed, the redhead's arm slung around your shoulder as you lean into her. When the commercial break finally came on, you turned your head to look at your wife, curiosity written all over your face. "Why don't you cuddle me anymore, Nat?" You ask softly and she looks at you with confusion, lowering down the volume on the TV. "What do you mean? I cuddle you all the time baby." She says and you shake your head, reaching up and gently toying with her hair.

"Ever since I've gotten pregnant you've treated me like I could break at any moment, what are you so afraid of?" You question and Natasha sighs, glancing at her lap for a moment before answering. "With these hands I've done some awful things Y/n..things too horrific to say out loud. I feel like if I touch you or the baby I'll just ruin it, or hurt you..like everything else in my life." Nat confesses softly and your heart melts at how scared your wife is, knowing how much she's struggled with her past and with the red in her ledger. "Natasha Romanoff." You whisper, gently grabbing her hands to put them in between the two of you. "You are the kindest," You start, gently kissing her knuckle. "Most caring." another kiss, "Most selfless" another kiss, "Person I've ever met" another kiss. "And I know, with my whole heart and soul, you would never do anything to hurt me or the baby." You look up at her and gently rub your knuckles over the back of her hands. "So please stop acting like you will. These are the hands that I love, the hands that will raise our child, they're strong and secure, so stop thinking otherwise." You finish as you wordlessly move both your hands towards your belly, gently placing Natasha's hands over the bump.

The redhead is stunned as your hands rest over hers, the baby suddenly kicking. A wide smile spreads across your face as you both look down at your belly, the baby never having kicked before. "That was the first time they've ever kicked." You inform Natasha and you could see her still processing that fact. "That's our baby?" She asks softly and you laugh, nodding your head. "Mmhm, that's our baby. They recognized their mama." You say fondly as the baby kicks again, Natasha's heart bursting with warmth as she looks at you.

Slowly, Natasha moves to lay down on the bed, resting her head right beside your bump and holding it gently. "Hi malen'kiy golub'." She whispers softly, your hand coming down to gently play with her hair. You smile as you watch Natasha gently cuddle with your bump, knowing without a doubt that she's going to be a great mother.

-----

Placing the stuffed animals down on the table, you turn to look at Natasha, a giggle coming from your lips as you walk over to her. "What?" Nat grins as she turns to face you, putting the paintbrush down to the side.

"You're a mess." You laugh as you rub some pastel green paint from her cheek, both of you deciding that the nursery would be painted a light grey with a pastel green accent wall. "I'm still hot though." She teases and you only roll your eyes, cupping her face as you gently kiss her.

"Yeah yeah you're always hot." You laugh and Natasha looks around the room, grinning at the stack of Avenger's themed stuffed animals your team gave you. "They're all trying to be known as the cool uncle aren't they?" She asks softly and you nod your head, knowing that whatever Avenger your child takes after will forever have that bragging right.

"Let them have their fun, they're happy for us." You smile and Nat only sighs, shaking her head with a small smile on her face.

-----

You feel like Natasha was more anxious than you when you went into labour, your water breaking in the middle of the night. There wasn't any dramatic screaming or freaking out, you just calmly pushed the sheet back and let out a soft "huh" as you saw the damp bedsheets.

"Oh, okay we're doing this." You say before turning on the light, acting like it was any other day as you gently shake Natasha awake. "Nat, baby wake up." You whisper softly as Natasha stirs, squinting at the light once her eyes opened. "Y/n? What's wrong?" Nat mumbles sleepily as she rubs the sleep from her eyes, seeing you in a sitting up position.

"My water broke." You say and it takes a second for the words to process in Natasha's brain, the redhead suddenly sitting up and fully awake. "What? Okay okay it's happening. It's happening." Nat says as she pushes the sheets off herself, her mind immediately going to all the books she's read over the past nine months. You've already packed your hospital bags a few weeks in advance so you aren't too stressed about it, only needing to change and grab a few extra things. Natasha, on the other hand, is working on full overdrive, pulling on sweatpants and making sure everything is in order.

"Natasha, baby." You say as you gently grab her arm, needing your wife to slow down if you're going to survive the next few days. "You need to calm down my love." You say softly as you hold onto her shoulders, making the redhead look at you and take a few deep breaths. "Okay..okay. I'm sorry. I'm just nervous." Natasha admits and you nod your head, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

"It's okay to be nervous Nat, you just need so slow down. We haven't even gotten to the hospital yet." You laugh softly and she nods her head, waiting a few more moments before stepping back slowly. "Okay, let's have a baby."

---

Your head is resting back against Natasha's shoulder as she acts like a backrest to you, allowing you to grip onto her hand when your contractions hit. Nat has been nothing but supportive the entire time, humming reassuring words into your ear as the pain washes over your body.

"Fuck." You whimper once another round of contractions end, Natasha's hand coming up to gently push back the sweaty hairs sticking to your forehead. "You're doing amazing baby, I'm so proud of you." She hums and you sigh, closing your eyes as you feel your wife rub your back. It's quiet as you feel Natasha's hands move down to your bump, rubbing your stomach softly as she sighs.

"Come on malen'kiy golub, your mommies are so excited to meet you." Nat coos and you smile into her neck, warmth flooding your chest as you listen to her. "And I know all of your aunties and uncles are excited to meet you too. We're so excited to hug you, and kiss you, and watch you grow." She hums as she rubs small circles on your belly.

"So please come out before your mommy kills me." Both of you laugh and you snuggle more into Natasha's embrace. "You're going to be an amazing mom." You whisper and Nat grins, looking at you with a quirked eyebrow. "Yeah?" She asks and you nod your head. "Yeah..I couldn't have asked for a more amazing wife, best friend, and now..a mother to our daughter." You hum and Nat blushes, kissing you gently.

----

Your eyebrows furrow as you grip onto Natasha’s hand, pain coursing through your body as you deliver the baby. “You’re doing amazing y/n, almost there.” Nat says as you practically crush her hand, hiding the pain in her face as she watches you. "Congratulations, it's a healthy baby girl." The doctor announces as the baby's cries fill the room, your chest heaving as you lay back. Nat cuts the umbilical cord ("I've seen worst in Budapest") and they place the baby on your chest, draping a blanket over the two of you to keep you warm.

"Hi baby." You coo as you hold your child close to your chest, Natasha standing next to you with unshed tears in her eyes. You look up at her and sniffle (you're crying so hard at this point) as you see the look of awe on her face, smiling as you gently reach out to grab her hand. Softly placing her hand atop of the baby's blanketed back, she slowly moves her thumb, the child's cries quieting at both of her mother's touch. Nat is speechless as she watches the tiny newborn cling onto your chest, loving the warmth radiating off of your body.

"She's a boob man, just like her mama." Nat whispers and you laugh, that being the first thing that comes to her mind. Your child's hand slowly comes up and wraps her fingers around Natasha's thumb, that being the breaking point for the tears as they finally fall down her cheek.

----

"Are you gonna hold her or are you just going to stare at me?" You ask as Natasha watches you and Mila sit on the bed, the two of you now alone with your child. Natasha looks hesitant as she walks over to you, never feeling so nervous as you look up at her.

"You aren't going to break her Nat." You say and Nat's eyebrows furrow, seeing the tiny infant look up at her with Y/c/e. The baby took from both you and Natasha, having scarlet red hair from her and beautiful y/c/e from you. "I just don't know..I mean what if I drop her? What if I do something wrong?" Nat worries her bottom lip between her teeth and you only beckon her to come closer, scooting over so she can sit on the hospital bed.

"You won't Nat, I promise." You reassure her and she slowly sits down on the bed, following your instructions as she places her hands out. Gently transferring the baby into her arms, you smile as Mila looks up at her mama, letting out a soft "gah". "See? She loves you already." You hum as you rub Mila's hair gently, seeing the love on Natasha's face. "Hi Mila." Nat breathes out as you rest your head on her shoulder, watching your wife interact with the baby. The tears return to Natasha's eyes as the newborn looks up at her, her emotions going everywhere as she processes that this is her child, her little bundle of joy that she gets the privilege of sharing with you. "Thank you." Nat whispers out as she looks at you, a smile on her face as she sniffles.

"For what?" You question and she only kisses you softly, smile still on her face as she pulls away. "For giving me another reason to live for." She whispers and her statement covers a wide range, thank you for being her wife, thank you for giving her a chance, thank you for her daughter, thank you for giving her the family she's always wanted, just thank you.

----

Mila's cries ring out through your room and pierce your eardrums, rousing you and Nat from your slumber.

"Mm, I've got it." You sleepily mumble out of instinct as you start to get up, now used to getting woken up in the dead of night.

Mila still doesn't have a sleep schedule since she's a newborn so sometime's she'll sleep for a few hours and other times only for ten minutes.

This time around though, you get gently pushed back onto the bed by Natasha, feeling a comforting kiss placed on your temple as your wife gets up. "I've got it, moya lyubov'." She whispers and you don't have enough energy to resist, watching as Nat walks over to the bassinet. "Hi malen'kiy golub, you have a healthy set of lungs don't you?" Nat mumbles sleepily as she pulls the newborn from the crib, cradling the baby to her chest and gently rocking her back and forth. "Yeah I know, it's okay baby. It's okay, mama's got you." She hums as the baby's cries slowly die down, you still sitting on the bed as you watch your wife in awe. "Your mommies need their sleep huh little one, that sounds nice doesn't it." Nat yawns and you cant help but smile.

"But don't worry, every time you wake up we'll be here okay? We'll love you and hug you each time you cry. And I'm gonna protect you, malen'kiy golub. I won't let anything happen to you or your mommy, I promise." Natasha coos as she continues to rock Mila, not noticing how you're wide awake now. It's a soft, quiet vow, spoken in the dead of night, that Natasha will protect her family with everything she has in her..and it makes you fall more in love with her, if that's even possible.

Getting up, you make your way over to your wife, gently placing your hands on her shoulders to notify her of your presence. She knew you were coming as soon as she heard the bedsheets rustle, even in her tired state she was looking out for the two of you. "Hi." Nat greets you softly and you only hum, a tired smile on your face as you rest your head on her shoulder. Your hand comes up and is gently placed on Mila's back, rubbing soft circles on her onesie. Natasha's heart swells as she looks at her small family, smiling when you kiss her cheek. "I love you." You whisper before looking down at your daughter. "And I love you too." You hum, gently kissing her fiery red hair. Nat kisses your temple gently and closes her eyes, finally at peace with her daughter in her arms and you at her side.

[mae-gi-writes]

Once Again (Pt.2) | Iwaizumi Hajime (Haikyu!)

ONCE AGAIN | PART TWO

Summary:

Iwaizumi’s broken marriage results in his five-year-old son trying to match him up with his primary school teacher, whom he thinks will make a wonderful replacement for a mother. 

Genre: fluff, angst, f! Reader x dad! Iwaizumi

Taglist: @multi-fandom-fanfic, @168-cm-png​, @bakugouswh0r3​, @yatoatyourservice​, @ayocee​, @marvel-ing-at-it-all​, @astrolcve 

A/N: Let me know if you want to be added to the taglist! Thanks to everyone for the kind feedback and for reading my work <3 

< PREVIOUS PART | NEXT PART >

----

He swings his beer over the counter, "one more."

He shouldn't be drinking. Imagine the damage it's doing to his organs, alcohol sweeping through his bloodstream and purging him of all coherent thought. Iwaizumi can hear Oikawa's nagging voice in his head even within the depths of intoxication.

Does he care though? He should. He should care. Because his job is basically to get people in their best shape.

And here he is, drinking away his sorrow, still shaken up by the way Hoisuke's fingers had grabbed for him that night. The bundle of nerves he'd squashed down had only intensified upon dropping his son on his mother's doorstep the same weekend and though he knew he should've said something to Mizune, he couldn't find the will to utter the words out, lest they came back to haunt him.

His phone buzzes in his pant pocket and after finishing it out with clumsy fingers, he manages to press down onto the green button.

"Yeah?"

"You're drinking!"

"No."

"Iwa-chan~" Oikawa's voice pierces through the receiver, sickly sweet and yet with a dark threatening undertone, "what are you doing?"

"Fuck off, shittykawa."

"Where are you?"

Iwaizumi doesn't answer. He doesn't need to, for Oikawa's already exclaiming the said bar's name as he takes another sip of his newly-filled beer glass.

"I thought you said you wouldn't drink anymore," Oikawa reproaches, "think of what Hoisuke would say--"

"I said fuck off."

There's a small pause where Oikawa bristles, before he says in a quieter tone, "what's wrong?"

Still, Iwaizumi says nothing but takes another huge gulp of his beer. His head feels buzzed, disoriented.

"Iwa-chan."

The said man press his lips in a taut line.

"Iwa-chaaaan."

"I'll talk to you later," Iwaizumi barely hears his friend's protests before he cuts off the call and downs the rest of his beer like a parched man, eyes narrowing towards anyone who dares reprimand him of his behaviour.

"One more," he rasps out towards the bartender, whose sending him a look that closely mimics one that clearly says he's had enough. But he scowls in response and that's enough to make the bartender's eyes slip away.

Seriously. What is wrong with him? It's already been four months goddamnit. Get over yourself. He wishes he could punch himself in the face. God, he sounds like a loser. He looks like one. And it's no wonder that his wife has left him for someone better, richer. Everything that he's not.

Not to forget that this wound will never leave their son's heart.

"One rum and coke please."

A presence lingers in his right and the brown-haired man turns with a glare at the ready, eyebrows furrowed and lips pressed in a thin line to scare whatever stranger that comes a little too close for his liking.

What the--

He stares at you. You stare back at him, just as dumbfounded. Looking the same, yet completely different.

"Miss Y/N?"

"Iwaizumi-san?"

He feels the sudden urge to hide his empty glass, "what--are you doing here?"

"Don't look so surprised, Iwaizumi-san," you chuckle at what you think is his flabbergasted expression, "I'm still twenty-six you know. I came here with a few of my friends."

His eyes slide towards the table in the far corner -- easy to spot since it's one of the loudest -- before he almost misses your question, "and you?"

"I come here often."

"Ah I see."

As you pay the bartender who slides your drink over, you bristle for a bit before you ask hesitantly, "mind if I sit here?"

Iwaizumi shakes his head. It's not like he can say no after all. You're his kid's teacher. And shit, how many beers has he had? He better not run his mouth. It's a dirty habit of his whenever he's shit drunk.

"So," you start off slowly, looking so out of place next to the said man with a scowl so dark it can scare off the most violent of gangsters that the corners of Iwaizumi's mouth tilt upwards in amusement, "how's it going?"

Seriously? You're seriously going to do that? His gaze searches your features for a moment, satisfied when warmth floods your cheeks.

You look away, "you don't have to look at me like that, you know. I just thought you’d want some company."

"What makes you think that?” Iwaizumi says while he flags down another beer from the waiter. 

You blink at him, “I can go if you want--”

The man sighs, rubbing his temples with tiredness, “that’s not what I meant.”

A weird, empty gap of silence ensues. Long enough that Iwaizumi gets his fourth beer of the night in his hand and he takes a grateful swallow. 

He really should not be drinking so much.

"Where do you work?” 

You’re persistent. He’ll give you that, “personal trainer. I work at the sports academy.” 

“That’s cool,” there’s a small smile edging upon your lips, “you like it?”

He nods, pauses briefly, before asking, “do you?” 

Of course it’s a little too close for comfort, especially since you’re Hoisuke’s teacher and all. But you merely relax in your high stool, swinging your legs while nodding eagerly. He can’t help but notice the tightness of your dark jeans, your black high-heeled boots, “I don’t see myself working as anything else. I’m bad with people most of the time.”

Taking another swig of his beer, Iwaizumi feels the tension slowly ease up from his shoulders, “well you’re way better with kids than I am.”

“You’re pretty good with Hoisuke."

“That’s because you haven’t seen him throw tantrums.”

You laugh, "oh don't worry, I have. I know all about his little fits. All my kids have one, at some point."

You say it lightly, but there's definitely love laced in your words and for a minute, Iwaizumi thinks back to the way Hoisuke kept on praising you, the way he spoke so affectionately about you.

"Do you still play volleyball?" You ask him while sipping on your drink.

He mimics the gesture, "sometimes. The guys are all over town so it's harder to meet up now."

"Dang, your team was so good though."

"It was Oikawa that held us together. We weren't that good," he tastes the bitterness of Karasuno's victory on his tongue.

"That's not true," you protest, fiddling with your empty glass, "the only reason why I watched Aoba Johsai's games was because I liked watching you play."

Dark coffee-coloured orbs sweep up to yours at that statement, as if trying to peel layers off yout shell, as if wanting to confirm the truth of your words. You feel like cowering away but you don't, instead holding his stare in hopes that he doesn't notice how your hands tremble slightly underneath his scowl.

And then, features softening ever so slightly, he murmurs out, "thanks."

You know he means it in the best way possible.

-----

One drink turns to two. And two multiplies by four. And soon enough you're tipsy off your head and singing so blatantly off-key you wonder why Iwaizumi's still by your side. You haven't been this drunk in ages and this sense of freedom makes you bold; you tug him to the dance floor to join your friends, order shot after shot as the music gets louder and your head gets lighter, proceed to blabber your mouth off about literally anything and everything that by the end of the night, you wish the ground would swallow you whole so you won't have to deal with Iwaizumi the next day.

You're not entirely sure how you find yourself being dragged by none other than the said man himself, or how your nose is currently lodged in the crevice between his neck and shoulders. But he smells good, like citrus and a mixture of mint and-- you sniff a little more -- is that cookie dough? Your mouth waters just at the thought.

"You smell like cookie dough," the words tumble out of your mouth in a jumbled mess and you inwardly feel like stabbing yourself.

So pathetic. Pitiful really.

"That's Hoisuke," Iwaizumi replies, surprisingly patient even when he's clearly not impressed, glaring at the lamppost ahead, "it's his flavour of the month."

"That's cute!" You giggle, "just like you, Iwa!"

The man sighs while shifting his grip upon your waist, "let's just get you to bed."

You probably doze off at some point or black out because the next thing you see upon opening your eyes next is the ceiling.

Hoisting your head up and groaning when your head pounds in warning, you lie back down as nausea takes over.

Shit. This isn't your room. You know that much.

What the fuck happened last night?

You remember dancing atop tables, remember spotting Iwaizumi by the bar and talking to him because he just seemed so sad and lonely. You remember dragging him onto the dance floor, dancing together, his hands on your waist--

You danced with Iwaizumi?!

The thought is enough to trigger another pounding. You groan once more, placing your hand atop your head in hopes that it will stop it from throbbing. It doesn't. But before you have more time to wallow in your self-pity, the door creaks open and your eyes almost pop out of your head when you spot a mop of brown spiky hair enter the room.

Iwaizumi.

Oh fuck. Your brain short circuits. Fuck fuck fuck.

Surprise crosses his face, clearly having not expected you to be awake yet. He walks over to place a glass of water by the nightstand and grabs your palm to tilt two aspirins into your hand.

"How's your head?" He asks.

"Fine," you wince. It's far from fine. In response, he holds out the glass and you gladly wash down the pills, warm and feeling suddenly vulerable under his stare.

Chewing onto the inside of your cheek, you muster up all your courage to ask, "what--happened last night?"

You don't miss the way his eyebrows shoot up, "you don't remember?"

"...no."

Is that amusement dancing in his eyes? You're not sure since it's gone just as quickly as it came before he says, "you got drunk. Danced on the table, had too many shots and made out with two different men--"

"I'm pretty sure the last part didn't happen."

"You said you didn't remember," he smirks lightly.

"I can't even flirt, let alone kiss strangers."

That earns you a chuckle from his part, causing your heart to flutter slightly as he straightens up, "you probably want to wash up. Bathroom's on the right. I'm in the kitchen if you need me."

"Okay," and as he turns away, you quickly add, "thanks, Iwaizumi-san."

He nods back, exiting the room and finally allowing you to collapse back against the bed to try slowing down your galloping heart. Jesus christ, you think to yourself as you slowly take in your surroundings. From the lack of furniture and with only a few clothes flung over a wooden desk chair shoved in the right, you guess it's his room. A closed laptop and a small plant sits on his desk. On the left is the nightstand filled with sports books and some manga, a closet shoved in a corner and the floor is made in veneered wood.

There's no sign of family pictures, nothing that indicates the warmth of a cosy household. It doesn't take a genius to understand why. While Hoisuke had begged you not to tell his father, you weren't a stranger to the young boy sobbing in-between breaks because he misses his mother.

Well, it's not like you're allowed into family affairs anyway, as much as that breaks your heart.

After a much needed shower and a quick brush of your teeth -- you had to make do with using your fingers with his toothpaste, too embarrassed to actually ask him whether he had a spare toothbrush -- you walk out into the kitchen to see Iwaizumi already seated at a quaint wooden table laden with eggs and toast. Behind him sits the kitchen stove and white countertops next to a fridge fitting snuggly on the left corner. On the far right of the room is a large dark grey couch and a tv set, and just behind it is a small hallway which seems to be the entrance -- guessing by the coat rack and array of shoes. 

"Sunny side up or boiled?" Iwaizumi asks as you take a seat opposite him. He has already poured you a cup of strong coffee and you inhale before sighing in bliss. Your headache already feels slightly better.

"Anything is fi--" you're interrupted by his scowl, quickly changing your answer to, "sunny-side up please."

He grunts, passes you the plate and digs into his own fried eggs, the soft boiled ones forgotten at the centre of the table.

"Uhm, forgive me for point it out, but that's a lot of food Iwaizumi-san," you mumble out, not missing the way his features harden slightly.

"Force of habit," he mutters in-between mouthfuls. He doesn't need to say more, for you're pretty certain he's referring to the family he used to have, those lazy Sunday mornings that started out with brunch.

You eat in companionable silence and though it'a definitely less awkward than last night, your mind still races trying to figure out what to say to erase the permanent furrow between his brows.

Or is that his normal demeanour? To be honest, you're not quite sure yourself.

So you settle for thanking him for last night, to which he replies, "do you usually drink that much?"

"No," you duck your head, avert your gaze, "I got carried away. I'm really sorry."

"Well I wouldn't have expected my kid's teacher to be that wild," he muses while taking a bite of his toast.

Alarm zaps through you, making your eyes go wide, "I swear I'm not usually like that, really. I just--this was an exception--"

"It's fine, miss Y/N. I know," his brown pupils lock onto yours briefly, "I'm not going to report you."

"I--" nothing can really make up for your behaviour last night. You know that much, "still, I'm sorry. That wasn't appropriate," you glance up, chest tightening at the intensity of his stare, unflinching. Unwavering.

He cocks his head at you then, a semblance of a smile along his mouth, "I was pretty entertained, if you ask me."

"Was I that bad?"

"No. But let's just say that you won't want to show your face around for the next week or so."

You groan and bury your face in your hands, "what did I do?"

"You might've broken a beer glass or two," he gives you a look, "on purpose. And tried to steal the Dj's headphones cause he wasn't putting the music you requested."

"Oh god," you want to bury yourself right then and there and to your surprise, you see him laugh softly before he nudges your coffee towards you.

"Drink," he orders, "it'll make you feel less shitty."

You're about to retort with a roll of your eyes, only to be interrupted by the doorbell ringing. From the way Iwaizumi tenses, you know it's not just the mail man.

Excusing himself to go unlock the door as you twist in your seat to follow his figure, shock courses through you the moment your eyes land on Hoisuke's.

Then, his mother.

An alarm bell rings through your mind.

"I thought you said evening," comes Iwaizumi's grunt, totally unlike the guy who'd been chuckling a few seconds ago.

"Hoisuke wanted to come back early for some reason," the woman says, her gaze flickering to yours for a brief moment. It's enough to cause you to swallow hard. She continues, "I'll pick him up on--"

"Miss Y/N?!" Hoisuke shouts out suddenly and before you know it, you're being tackled into the child's arms as if you haven't seen each other forever, "what are you doing here?! Daddy!" he whips his head around in accusation, "you lied about not really really liking Miss Y/N!"

"Wha--No!" Iwaizumi yells as you frown in confusion, "huh?"

"Daddy said that really really liking someone means you wanna be boyfriend and girlfriend with them, like he was with Mama before she moved houses," Hoisuke blabbers on, totally oblivious to how the three of you keep on staring at him in growing alarm, "and then I asked him if he really really liked miss Y/N because I really really like miss Y/N but he said no, but that's a lie!"

"Hajime, what is he talking about?" His ex-wife is quick to narrow her eyes, "what have you been telling him?"

"Nothing, it's not what you think--"

"I think," she pointedly glances at you, "I should leave now. We'll talk about this later."

And with that, she swivels around and storms out, leaving the three of you to stare after her in a mixture of shock and confusion.

Hoisuke, oblivious to the sudden tension, blurts out, "daddy, why is Mama angry with you?"

----

The few weeks following the tiny incident that had resulted in an awkward misunderstanding between you, Hoisuke’s parents and the said child himself had caused you to retreat back into the shell of professionalism that included avoiding Iwaizumi whenever it was deemed possible. It hadn’t been hard since he was usually present and waiting outside class to pick up Hoisuke right on time, making it much easier to avoid conversation with him altogether. 

You’d texted iwaizumi right after reaching your humble abode the day he’d practically saved your drunk ass and though you spent a few spare moments to chat in-between the bustling activities of life, it doesn’t erase the fact that he’s still Hoisuke’s father, one of your dearest students. That, and the fact that you don’t really find it fair to put Hoisuke in-between the two of you, if there’s anything worth digging for anyway. 

Who are you kidding? It’s not like Iwaizumi would ever be interested in you in that sense. Having spotted his ex-wife once or twice proved that his style was of more refined women, the type that would drink wine instead of chug down beer and who’d enjoy gifts such as perfume and romantic dates instead of going on grocery trips and meal-prepping for the entire week. 

“Miss Y/N!” Hoisuke’s voice pierces through your thought bubble and your eyes quickly find his grin as he jumps towards your desk, "are you coming to our house this weekend too?!"

"Wh--What? Uhm-- no I don't think so--" eyes quickly flitting over the classroom, you're relieved to find that the rest of his classmates are long gone, "I don't think that's appropriate."

"But why? I even told Mama that I wouldn't be coming this weekend because you were," he pouted and it took all of your determination not to melt, until his words registered in your brain and your eyes widened, "o--oh, but that's--"

"Hoisuke?" You both turn to see his father's head poking through the door. Your body reacts instantly, warmth flooding through your limbs and flushing through your cheeks.

"Daddy!"

"H-Hello, Iwaizumi-san," you bow your head slightly. He returns the gesture, facial expression not giving anything away. His son bounds up to him with just as much vigor, "daddy, can we invite miss Y/N this weekend too?"

You might have laughed at Iwaizumi's shocked face if not for the fact that you are the person in question.

He splutters, "Miss Y/N has things to do--"

"But she came last weekend!"

"Yes well, it's bad manners to impose on someone when they're not free," Iwaizumi replies sternly, "come on now, we're gonna be late for Karate."

With a loud sigh and a scowl that resembles so much like his father, Hoisuke mutters out his goodbyes while Iwaizumi catches your eye, bowing slightly and muttering a silent "sorry" before he guides his son out of the room. You're glad he's out of earshot that he can't hear the stuttering of your heart against your chest.

You place a hand on your chest, sigh tiredly before looking down at your students' papers, "get a grip, Y/N," you mutter to yourself.

But it's not that easy to control yourself when Iwaizumi is making it so easy to like him.

----

Iwaizumi: sorry about yesterday. 

Y/N: it's okay. Hoisuke’s young, it's normal for him to want for a motherly figure around.

Iwaizumi's fingers drum over his knee as he watches with slight interest the newest male volleyball team practice their serves. He shouts after a few, calling them out for theit lazy postures, but other than that he can't seem to stop his thoughts from winding their way back to you.

"Who is she?" Mizune had asked him on the phone on the day following their encounter. Her tone was friendly, yet held that tone of warning that he was so accustomed to.

"How does that concern you?"

"I want to know who you're bringing around to hang out with Hoisuke."

"She's an acquaintance of mine," he paused, "and Hoisuke's teacher."

"That's inapropriate if you ask me."

Scoffing, he replied, "like what you did's so appropriate?"

A small pause ensued. When she spoke next, there was no mistaking the edge to her voice.

"You can't keep using that against me, Hajime."

"Don't tell me who I can or can't hang out with."

He'd hung up without bothering to wait for her response, seething and red hot with rage blubbering through his stomach.

Of course now that he thinks it over, Mizune has a point. Mixing the professional and the personal have never ended in happy endings. Not that this has ever stopped him before. He doesn't believe in what everyone else thinks is right. That's also one of the main reasons why Mizune couldn't handle it anymore. Or so she said before she went to suck someone else's dick.

His phone vibrates and fishing it out, a scowl instantly shadows his face upon seeing Oikawa's name flash across the screen.

Oikawa: Iwa-chan ~ have you asked her out yet?

Iwaizumi has to force himself to stay in control and not pound his phone to pieces when he types out his reply.

Iwaizumi: No.

Oikawa: BUT WHYYYY~ YOU SAID YOU FOUND HER CUTE.

Oikawa: and Hoisuke likes her. He already knows her.

Iwaizumi: I didn’t say that. And she's not interested.

Oikawa: Just because you suck at picking up cues doesn't mean she isn't throwing them at you 😏😏😏

Iwaizumi: shut up, shittykawa.

Oikawa: Just do it or I'll do it for you.

Iwaizumi: I don't even like her that way.

Oikawa: why'd you rant about not wanting to hurt her feelings yesterday night then?

Iwaizumi's hand rubs at his face with a groan. Oikawa's a little shit most of the time, but he's a perceptive little shit.

Oikawa: I mean it. Ask her out or I'll do it for you.

Oikawa: gotta go now. Match is starting. See ya!~ muah ❤

"Dumbass," Iwaizumi growls under his breath before shoving the phone back into his pocket. Easier said than done to ask someone out so casually, especially when she's Hoisuke's teacher.

If she accepts, great. If she doesn't, he'll have to suffer through humiliation for the rest of the year or avoid picking up Hoisuke altogether.

Oh fuck it.

He lets his body send the message before his brain can catch up to the way he has thrown himself under the bus, shoves his phone back into his pocket and tries to put the thought out of his mind even though the device suddenly feels hot and heavy in his pant pocket.

Iwaizumi: we're having takeout and movie night on Friday. You're free to join.

----

[pan-ick]

Golden Child Pt. 1

I literally can't remember where I found it but I read a headcannon for an angsty SBI +Reader and I loved it so much that I had to write something similar to it but I think I might have forgotten to like it, so if you know what the original is please tell me so I can credit them I was partially inspired by@helliontherapscallion's "Adrenaline Junkie" series, simply for the fact that because of them i haven't stopped thinking of inventor reader. Also let's just pretend that uh my human biology degree isn't going to waste by me writing blindness incorrectly ha ha. This is a purely fictional way that blindness works.

(REMINDER YOU IDIOT, FOR THE PURPOSES OF THIS STORY: Wilbur is 26, Techno is 20, Tommy is 16, Phil is 32, SO READER IS 22, GET IT RIGHT AND STOP MESSING UP)

As soon as Y/N's wings started developing, they were instantly the favorite child. Philza still showed his love to Wilbur, but nowhere near as much as he did to his winged child. If he had to choose between spending time with them or Wilbur, he'd pick them in a heartbeat. Wilbur was usually upset when this happened, but he had gotten used to it and had learned ways to cope with it.

This was until Techno showed up. On their doorstep. Next to a freezing Philza who had sacrificed most his warmth to the young piglin. Wilbur had his thoughts on this, yhough he kept them to himself. But Y/N couldn't be happier! This meant a new friend, AND they were right when they said that Phil was just a nice person, there wasn't a favorite child! Right?

They quickly realized that Techno wasn't their friend, as the first interaction they had together was them getting a claw to the face by the piglin. Philza just simply sighed and made sure the wound would stop bleeding before tending back to the scared pig.

Y/N was only eight at the time, they didn't know what they were feeling. But whatever it was didn't feel good.

Since that day, Y/N was the new Wilbur and 'Technoblade' was the golden child. Y/N wanted the spotlight back, so they tried hard at everything. Nothing ever worked. Nothing was better than what Techno could do. Nothing was more amazing than Techno's knowledge, or his skills in fighting, or his odd way of speaking, or those stupid things that he did, or the fact that he'd always blame it on some 'voices' in his head. That he had a God complex. That he was better than Wilbur. He was better than Tommy. He was better than you...

He was always better than you. Of course. Thats what you felt when you first met. Not amazement, not the happiness of having another friend. Of course not. It was overwhelming jealousy. But he was your brother, so you had to suck it up just like Wilbur did.

But soon enough, they came to peace with this. They moved on and worked on what they actually enjoyed, not what Philza enjoyed. Mechanics. Phil would have killed you if he learned of all the dangers that you put yourself through to consider yourself an inventor. Or.... Would he?

One day your older brother approached you with his idea to create "L'manburg". At first you couldn't help but laugh. But when it was realized that Wilbur wasn't joking and that he had already recruited Tommy, they agreed to join the fight for freedom. It was a way to pay Wilbur back for being there for them, afterall.

Y/N never imagined the true horrors that they would have to go through so they could say a 'thank you' to Wilbur. They never even truly said it to him, L'manburg was already exploded and he was killed before they could say it to him. Not even saying it to Ghostbur was good enough.

Y/N was forced to suffer through watching her loved ones go mad. Sometimes, they would try coming up with inventions that could help her friends out, and some that could help some regular problems in the world for other people. Most of them didn't work, they were only able to produce goggles that could just barely help fully blind people see. But it was a step in the right direction.

Then doomsday came. Y/N didn't want to be part of it, they didn't want to even try hurting their father and younger brother. They aren't even sure how they came to that point.

Before they knew it, they were begging the man who once gave them anything in the world for him to stop. The whole server was one big family especially everyone in the homes he was about to destroy. But what they wanted didn't matter anymore. It's what Technoblade wanted, and he wanted blood.

At the last moment, Y/N remembered Friend. Ghostbur would be devastated if Friend died.

Falling down to the ground from the small warning of TNT, Friend flooded their mind.

If they couldn't save L'Manburg, they needed to save Friend. Ghostbur wasn't the same, but Ghostbur is Wilbur. They still never said thank you. They have to show their gratitude through the miracle of Friend surviving.

And so that's what they set off to do. With no mind to their own self-preservation, Y/N got up and flew as fast as they could to save Friend. But before they could reach the sheep, a large pile of rubble fell on one of their wings, almost snapping it right off. Y/N tried to get it off but to no avail, and their whole body wasn't safe. As they saw more rubble they crouched down while covering their head with their hands and covering the undamaged wing with their body, they prepared for impact.

The last thing they could speak out was almost incomprehensible.

"Wil..... Will...... Ghosbu.............. Tommy.......... Dad............."

And then everything went black. Y/N couldn't see or feel anything. Not even after her youngest brother, the ghost of her older brother, and the three fiances of the SMP untrapped them. There was nothing.

After what felt like years for the brothers, there was finally a glimpse of Y/N waking up. But they continued to drift in and out of consciousness and whenever someone tried communicating they were completely unresponsive.

During this amount of time, it was agreed that it was in their best interest for their wings to be removed. They were both utterly useless now after being crushed and would just be extra weight with unnecessary pain that can be avoided the sooner their wings get removed. Just in case Y/N was still aware of everything going on, they were put under amnesia to lower the chance of them feeling the agony of a wing removal surgery.

Slowly Y/N began more responsive to people, but never to the same amount. Everyone that took care of them were absolutely heartbroken when they figured out part of the rock that fell on them damaged a vital organ that allowed a person to see. Luck was in fact on their side for damaging their eyesight instead of the brain, however most people didn't see it that way.

Ghostbur took it upon himself to become Y/N's seeing-eye dog. He missed having Friend nearby and Y/N was the thing he connected to the most after Friend's death.

After a few months of trying to get used to no longer having sight or wings Y/N was finally allowed back in their lab with a large amount of supervision from Ghostbur. While carefully running their hands across some unfinished inventions, Y/N comes across the goggles that they made at least a year ago. It immediately smarked a memory deep within their brain, the closest thing they had felt to seeing something ever since doomsday.

"Ghostbur, what color are these?" "Oh, they're blue. Blue's a really nice color, it reminds me of Friend. Do you remember Frien- Why are you looking down at those like that? Would you like some blue, it takes your sadness away! Wait dont put them on, the glass has cracks!" Y/N snickers as the ghost tries to take them away from them without being super forceful, "I'm already blind, what's the worst it can do?"

"Dont say that!" Ghostbur gasps, "We will find a way to get your vision back, those goggles might make it impossible!"

"I made these around the time you first showed up. I ran multiple tests with them and I was able to help a blind person see the world again. Sure, it was very blurry, hard to distinguish a lot of colors from each other, we have a different kind of blindness, and its been more that a year since I last tested them, but they might still work." Y/N explains, then they turn their back to Ghostbur and put the goggles on. This time, Ghostbut only makes a sound in protest.

Blinking, Y/N could feel the stimulation in their brain that they lost along with their eyesight come back. They moved their hands from the position they were in to put the invention on to Y/N's line of sight, and they could see their hands again. Fuzzy, shapeless, hands with a few bandaids and many scars on them.

"So, are they working?"

The voice of your brother brings Y/N back to reality and they turn to look at him. They had completely forgotten what Ghostbur looked like, only remembering vaguely what child Wilbur looked liked and a brief description of how Ghostbur's appearance differed for Wilbur's.

Y/N wraps their arms around the Ghost, not actually hugging but just doing the motion to where they would hug a person they could actually touch, as they tried to not cry in front of him.

(WOOOOOO THIS ENDED UP A LOT LONGER THAN I EXPECTED AND I'M NOT EVEN DONE YET, SO I SEPARATED IT INTO TWO PARTS)