#the pieces that make my brain light up and buzz are often the ones with characters unabashedly grinning

[neverendingford]

.

[thefairywithboots]

Tea For One

Hello, I am back with another fic! This one is a songfic (I think that’s the right word for it?) inspired by Tea For One (my favorite Led Zeppelin song.) I was very hesitant to post this because it seems to be a taboo and often discouraged topic to include band members’ wives in fanfiction (at least with Zeppelin.) But I felt the creative urge to use this couple as a muse. I also wanted to prove that I am capable of writing Robert fanfiction that is not smut. 😃

It should go without saying, but no disrespect is intended towards Robert, Maureen, or any other real person mentioned in this piece.

Thank you to my good friend @thestairwayremainsthesame for proofreading this for me.

Summary: Robert sits alone at night while confined to his wheelchair, his heart aching as he pines for Maureen.

AO3

~~

October 1975

The silence in Robert Plant's bedroom was deafening as he sat alone in his wheelchair. The soft lapping of the waves on the shore could be heard outside, but he took little comfort in the sound. The villa Jimmy had rented in Malibu, California, had been buzzing with noise as the four of them sought inspiration for songs for their next album.

The sunny weather of the day seemed to mock Robert, for nothing could ease the longing he felt in his heart. His wife was on the other side of the Atlantic, far more seriously injured than he was from their car wreck in Greece two months earlier. He longed to be in England with her, but instead he was confined to a wheelchair. And the British tax authorities would most likely arrest him if he set foot in Wales again.

Robert's notebook was open on his desk as he rolled over to the kettle by the fireplace where he'd left it to boil some tea. He poured himself a cup. He wished more than anything that he were home with Maureen right now, pouring two cups of tea instead of one. Lost in her familiar, intoxicating embrace while Carmen and Karac slept peacefully in the next room.

Robert set his cup of tea down on his desk and picked up his pen before adjusting a small photograph he had leaned against the desk lamp where he had been writing in the dim light. It was a photograph of him and Maureen at Jennings Farm. It had been taken when their daughter was just a toddler. Maureen had her arms around his waist in an almost possessive, territorial embrace. He closed his eyes and felt tears burn his eyes as his heart yearned for happier times.

He glanced at the clock on the wall. The minutes passed agonisingly slowly. He took his pen to his paper and continued writing the lyrics he had been working on:

“How come twenty-four hours

Sometimes seem to slip into days?

Oh, twenty-four hours

Baby sometimes seem to slip into days

One minute seems like a lifetime

Oh baby when I feel this way”

The car wreck was not something Robert liked to replay in his mind. But in the dead of night, his brain ran away from him. The sense of horror that he felt as he looked over to see his wife lying motionless next to him, with blood running down her face, and the cries of Carmen, Karac and Scarlet in the background piercing his ears. The children were traumatised but physically unharmed. The brief moment when he thought his wife was dead was with him late into the night, an invasion of his dreams. Often he would wake up in a cold sweat. He felt the urge to pull his wife's small frame close to him, to hold her protectively to his chest. But then he remembered: He was alone in his bed, thousands of miles away from her, with a broken leg.

It was bad enough that he was away from home so much on tour and that he hardly ever got to see her. He blamed himself for being unable to return to the woman and children he loved, even though his broken leg and the tax exile he and the rest of the band were in made it physically impossible. Not to mention that he was told he would not be able to walk in six months, and even then, it was never guaranteed he’d make a full recovery.

He had memories of the way her eyes would light up when he came home from a long tour. She wrapped her arms around his waist and held him close, as if afraid he would drift away again. She was much smaller than him - almost a foot shorter. She would bury her face in his chest without bending down, while he buried his face into her thick dark hair and inhaled her familiar scent. Their two small children would be calling for him and running towards him with their arms reaching for him.

“To sing a song for you

That I recall you used to sing

Baby this one’s for we two

Which in the end is you anyway”

Robert continued to scrawl away in his notebook. Maureen had been transferred back to England, but he couldn't stay more than a few days at a time because of British tax laws. He would have been at risk of heavy taxation and possibly even arrest. In spite of this, he felt a pang of guilt that he had not stayed by his wife's side while she was in hospital.

It had been his choice to leave her there, he realised, the guilt growing inside him. His heart felt like it was being squeezed by a giant fist as he imagined her waking up alone in the hospital room and realising that he was not there. She had always been there for him, taking him in when he had no other place to go. And when she had needed him the most, he had fled to another continent.

He felt as if there was a barrier between them that was far larger than the vast ocean and the thousands of miles that separated them at that very moment. As if the memory of holding her in his arms with their children on either side of them felt like years ago.

He became more and more morose as he sat alone at his desk, wondering if this rock'n'roll thing really meant anything at all.

“There was a time when I stood tall

In the eyes of other men

But by my own choice I left you woman

And now I can’t get back again”

Maureen wouldn't want him to blame himself. He knew that. But for now, he didn't care about his tax exile, he wanted his foot to heal so he could catch the first plane back to England. He wanted to see the beautiful, shining faces of Carmen and Karac again, to hold his three-year-old son in his arms and to hear him laugh.

He also wanted this damn leg to heal so that he could once again be the strutting rock lion that he had once been.

Robert closed his notebook before looking back at the photograph on his desk. After all the years they'd been together, Maureen's beautiful features were etched in his mind. She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, possessing all the power and radiance to rid his mind of all rational thought.

He felt a weight lift from his chest as he turned off the lamp, leaving him in the dim moonlit room with the soft sounds of the waves lapping at the shore outside. Only now the sound brought him a peaceful sense of solitude. He felt less lonely now. It was as if he had been communicating with Maureen through space and time during his writing session. It was almost... a spiritual feeling. He wondered for a moment if she was feeling the same way at this very moment.

Crawling into bed from his chair, he settled into the pillows, being careful not to lie on his foot. He placed a pillow under it, following the doctor's instructions to keep it elevated while he slept. He hoped for a time in the future when he would be able to lie beside Maureen again, and they would be lost in their reunion. But for the time being, he found himself falling into the peaceful realms of a much-needed sleep.

[delulumc]

Secret bonus thing

Here's a thing I did that I'll post only here because I don't have any followers anyway! I did it only to get it out of my system

Her fingerprints stung; hot, slightly swollen and itchy, as the sharp corner of another Lego piece angrily dug into her flesh.

Mina wasn’t mad. She was happy, in fact. So happy that she decided to celebrate by tearing open the cardboard box that had been sitting under her bed for a few months. Another Lego flower bouquet. She already had one, but someone -couldn’t remember who- had gifted her the same set without knowing.

But what the hell, let’s celebrate, she thought. The occasion deserved it.

“Really?” She remembered asking her, incredulous. “Not even back in middle school? It hardly counts, but still.”

“Nah, not even then,” Chaeyoung had answered with a shy smile and a hint of embarrassment tinting her dimpled cheeks. “It’s not that hard to believe, is it? I’m not exactly approachable, so I guess it’s only natural that nobody has ever asked me out.”

“I think you’re right. You’re straight up scary.” Dahyun teased. Everyone laughed. And that was the end of it.

The conversation, like so many others, had kept replaying every so often for months when her mind was idle. As soon as she heard the news her brain sprung back to that memory. That’s good for her, isn’t it? It’s great, even. She got asked out finally, and the guy’s just her type, to boot. Yay for Chaeng.

Yay.

She sighed, then grunted while trying to force two pieces together. They didn’t budge.

He’s probably decent, right? She’s not known for being a great judge of character, but she wouldn’t say yes to the first guy that comes knocking…

Right?

Mina dropped the pieces on the table and moved on to a different flower, frustrated. 

Her phone buzzed.

🍓👸💕: going out

🍓👸💕: u?

Mina’s chest tightened. Chaeyoung had finally answered the text she had sent her three hours ago. 

ミナリ: Going out too.

🍓👸💕: whaaaat

🍓👸💕: minari going out? thought only i could make that happen

Her face felt heavy, hanging onto her skull against the pull of gravity. She locked her phone. Chaeyoung wasn’t wrong.

You got to be honest about your feelings, Mina. Old therapy kicked in like a robot’s programming. She went through the steps from the start.

First, name your feelings. It’s… the feeling of being left out. Of being forgotten. Fear.

Then try to find the source. It’s okay if you don’t manage at first, but try. The source? It’s been several little things. It’s been…

She paused. What was it that she felt, really? She unconsciously held on to the pendant of her necklace. A silver teddy bear split in half, their matching best friends necklace.

She’s my best friend, and I love her so much, and want her to be happy. But I’m supposed to be her best friend too, right? And she didn’t tell me.

The root of the issue was that she didn’t tell her first, though. Somi had known before. Introduced them, actually. Somi was her best friend, after all.

Then Dahyun had been the first to know among the nine of them. They’d been two peas in a pod since their trainee days. Dahyun was also her best friend, too.

How many “best friends” can someone have? Doesn’t that defeat the purpose? 

She reached behind her head to undo the thin chain and take off her necklace. She hadn’t seen Chaeyoung wear her matching one in a while, in fact she’d only used it two or three times since they bought them… How long ago..?

Mina froze for a moment, staring vacantly at the little bear cut in half. She stopped her brain from doing math. After a minute, her vision refocused and she exhaled slowly.

st

ends

Said the etching on the bear’s chest.

“Why’d you buy this stupid thing if it was gonna end anyway?” Mina murmured to herself. “I bet you did it on purpose. Stupid. So corny.”

She dropped the necklace onto the table next to her phone and the half-assembled flower, then dropped her head too, into her own arms. Her hair made a tent that protected her from the world’s light.

“Why is it so hard to just… talk, like normal?”

Her phone buzzed again, screen lit up letting her know that the group chat was going insane. Twelve unreads in a fraction of a second.

The first new message was from Jeongyeon; a screenshot of Chaeyoung’s photo for her ‘close friends’. It was a mirror selfie, she had a facefull of makeup and a black satin crop top with spaghetti straps that showed off her tattoos. Her kissy face was cute. A nice contrast with the risque outfit.

Yoobeep: Care to explain this scandalous look, missy??????

The rest of the messages were the members teasing, praising and freaking out in equal parts. It was extremely annoying. For a split second she gathered the impulse to type something snarky, almost mean, but she stopped herself immediately.

Okay. From the start again.

She breathed in and out slowly.

First, name your feelings. Jealousy. Petty, pathetic, useless jealousy. 

Then try to find the source. It’s okay if you don’t manage at first, but try. Somi. Dahyun. That man…

Mina closed her eyes.

Chaeyoung.

She hated being honest with her feelings, but understood why it was necessary. 

It’s because I’m pretty sure I’m no longer her best friend. Actually, I’m not sure I ever was.

But Chaeyoung *was* Mina’s best friend. And had been for a long time. A few times she was tempted to name it something else. It was deeper, more special, more intense. She could’ve sworn it was there, that something was there between them. Apparently not. You don’t cast aside something so special.

She sighed, so deep and heavy that she briefly lost control of her lungs and emptied them entirely. She gasped sharply, pain stabbing behind her sternum as air rushed back inside her without any regard for the fragile, brittle tissue of a feeling that she held inside her chest.

It was an immature overreaction, all this. Chaeyoung had told her, after all, though she wasn’t the first or second or even third person in the list. Haesol, was it? Something like that. 

“He’s… your type!” Mina had said. For a brief moment she considered saying ‘cute’, but couldn’t push herself into such a canyon of a lie.

“Right?” Chaeyoung smiled. A disarming, bright smile, full of tiny little teeth bookended by sharp fangs, pointed and painful like a thorn in the crook of your knuckle. Mina’s eyes almost hurt, and could’ve even watered. She was looking at the sun.

So many times had Mina’s smile been planted into her own face like a seedling by Chaeyoung’s mere existence, by just being next to her, and bloomed into the gummy smile she had hated so much when younger. She didn’t mind it if it was for her. She had come to like smiling, even. For her.

Was it asking for too much, then, to have the chance to do the same? Of course it was. A mere mortal, a little girl like her can’t pull the sun out of the ocean, can’t coerce dawn to break. She was powerless.

Her phone buzzed away. Mina ignored it.

One of three roses of her set were complete. By now she could put together the last one by memory. She grabbed a green plastic stem and started working, selecting all the pieces she needed. The petals were a strange color - kind of… yellow?

Mina thought back to a flower arrangement workshop she had gone to once. The instructor had talked at length about the meaning of flowers, specifically their color.

Yellow was friendship. Friendship and joy. Mina scoffed.

Honest with your feelings, Mina.

She was hurting. She had no right to, yet she was hurting. Selfishly, pathetically, she felt like something was being taken away from her. 

“You’re being a kid. This is kiddie stuff, jealous because your little friend got a boyfriend and won’t play with you anymore.” Mina’s mind scolded itself.

Her phone buzzed for the millionth time  and she finally snapped, grabbing it violently to see what the racket was all about. The group chat was still at it, but she had another notification for her direct messages.

🍓👸💕: where u going?

🍓👸💕: alone?

🍓👸💕: of course not, duh

🍓👸💕: sorry for prying

🍓👸💕: have fun tho!

🍓👸💕: maybe we run into eachother thatd be awkward as hell lol

Mina’s heart crumpled, conflicted. Suddenly Chaeyoung cared that much? She grunted, then lied through shaky fingers.

ミナリ: Sorry, I’m on my way already. Hadn’t seen this.

🍓👸💕: have fun!!

🍓👸💕: dunno if u saw me all dressed up lol im nervous

🍓👸💕: but its fun

🍓👸💕: tho if by chance we go to the same place youd make me look like shit haha

🍓👸💕: u probably look super pretty u always do when u go out

🍓👸💕: thats why it only happens every 1000

🍓👸💕: so outfit check?

ミナリ: What?

Why did she care so much to look at her? Mina panicked slightly, she couldn’t send her the photo she was asking for. She was in sweats, her hair was a mess -a bun atop her head that looked like a gull’s nest- and her eyes were probably swollen from being on the verge of tears for hours.

🍓👸💕: yeah pic of ur fit!

🍓👸💕: if u wanna

ミナリ: Sorry. I’m in the car already.

ミナリ: Talk later.

She pressed the side button, turning her phone off, then flung it across the bedroom. It bounced on her bed, then fell on the floor with a pathetic thud. Mina let out a muffled, low roar of frustration through clenched teeth.

Mina pushed aside everything on her desk, loose lego pieces rolling off and falling on the floor with high, plastic clinking sounds. Mina didn’t cry. The tears just fell out by themselves, but she didn’t allow herself to break into a full sob. Mina was good at numbing herself.

With a shaky sigh, she found herself thinking back to the first few days after she returned to Korea from her hiatus, her raw, tender heart newly prescribed with a cocktail of anxiety medicine.

“Don’t numb yourself anymore, Minari. If you gotta cry, then cry. If you have to scream then do it. If you feel like smiling then please smile.” Chaeyoung held both of her hands and gave Mina a smile of her own. In turn, she felt her cheeks tense with a faltering smile.

“Good enough for me. Thanks, Minari. I’m glad you’re back. Love you.”

Mina opened her eyes. The only things that remained on her desk were the tangled necklace, a puddle of silent tears and the half-assembled Lego rose. Now that she looked at it closely, it wasn’t really yellow. More of a peach-like color.

Peach is sincerity, truthfulness.

She sighed, letting out an additional stream of measured, muted tears.

Honest with your feelings, Mina.

The silver bear mocked her with its “st ends”. In truth it never even started. She was feeling a grief that wasn’t hers to feel. An envy that was unearned.

One more time, one last time. From the start.

First, name your feelings.

Love.

[notahorseindisguise]

laughing crying throwing up over your live blogging of American psycho holy shit 😭 I have to call Patrick Patty from now on that's. Classic. Also yeah that movie is truly unhinged. The prevailing theory is that it's about how rich white men are often isolated but have the privilege of low acting so they can (and do) get away with murder but also the flipside of that is that these men do not get the help they may need if they're suffering from mental or physical illness like Patrick (because he is clearly severely mentally ill and a repressed fag lol). He isn't a good person, that's not the point of the movie but he does need help and he's unable to get it both because he doesn't know how to ask for help and is repressing his feelings, and because of the cultural taboo around him asking for help. He's doing what is expected of him: dating/fucking women, going to nice restaurants with his buddies, showing a surface level understanding of politics. But under that is a deeply fucked up guy who is probably into men but is unable to explore those feelings. Idk. There are better worded analyses out there but I'm just glad you enjoyed it!

this is a good analysis!! yeah i can definitely see a queer reading honestly. i think you could definitely say that the hypersexuality of him constantly having sex with woman and seemingly getting nothing out of it is a form of overcompensation, or like, trying to prove to himself that he is straight.

all his political views that he mentioned, seemed to just be buzz words. like i hate the idea of "virtue signalling" but, my understanding of the phrase makes it seem that thats what he was doing, just trying to make it seem like he had all the right political beliefs, when really it was shallow. that was interesting.

also, due to the nature of it being . id say first person. obviously we dont see directly through pats eyes but we do hear all of his thoughts and only see his actions (which i think is what makes something first person in a film perspective? unless thats just third person with a limited narrator? idk all the film terminology). anyway due to us only seeing pattys side of everything. we get this idea that all the men around him are fulfilled. they appear to be doing all the same daily work activities as him, but unlike him, they seem to be enjoying it, further isolating bateman. you could probably take a marxist reading of this, study batemans actions through like, the theory of alienation maybe?

i unfortunately dont know too much about the marx's theory of alienation, but it did seem as if patrick was very isolated and had no real substance in his life, leading to a degradation of the self and then a loss of empathy? leading him to kill to just, find some semblance of humanity? unless it states earlier in the movie that he's lacked emotions since he was a child. anyway maybe a marxist reading but definitely an anti-capitalist reading this movie is chockers full of anti-capitalist messages. dorsia as an unachievable goal, the godot theyre waiting for or the green light theyre chasing could be like, personal fulfillment in a capitalistic society, like how theyre always pressing for the next level, trying to gain more money for really no reason? idk . idk why i mentioned godot that probably doesnt have many textual links other than the one i mentioned and even that is weak, but theres probably some good links to be made between this and gatsby? not sure, i didnt pay too much attention to it .

anyway. this analysis is like. really weak. its late and my brain is off LOL im sorry its so messy. this is a great exam piece though

[groovesnjams]

33 / 50

"Ah!" by Jaloo

MG:

This year, I learned about Mr. Beast. But before I learned about Mr. Beast, I learned that I am no longer experiencing pop culture or society or the information drip in the same untranslated, mainstream way I was a few years ago. There are a lot of factors, it’s not simply aging, and I’m intensely satisfied by the way I just do not know about shit like Mr. Beast or the bird test or rizz until it filters down to my chosen sliver of reality. Mr. Beast was already all around me but I was unaware. I use YouTube daily but he’s never suggested to me. I go to the grocery store almost daily but I’m conditioned to ~shop the perimeter!! And tune his cookies or energy drinks or whatever out of my perceived existence. Anyway, all this to say, Mr. Beast is someone who decoded and subsequently gamed the YouTube algorithm to become a ubiquitous presence, a cultural force, a mirror to our monkey brains. There’s a lot that went into making Mr. Beast that I don’t really want to think about or engage with, but one seemingly small but frankly huge and insidious piece is sound effects. Whistles, hands clapping, kazoos buzzing, doorbells, explosions, anything in the Apple ringtone arsenal, etc. Mr. Beast did not invent plunking these sounds every, I don’t know, 15 seconds of “content” (Mr. Beast did not invent anything) but he is responsible, inadvertently, for my own raised consciousness. Once you become aware of sound effects you become aware of how constantly, how pervasively, how insidiously your awareness is being remotely manipulated. Sound effects (I think even more than blue light or screens or whatever) are responsible for our profoundly broken attention spans because while we may be addicted to clicking our phones on and off, we have no fucking say in how often a little noise demands “look!” and it is ALWAYS. 

So, the sound effects aren’t going away. Good luck muting literally everything. I am, instead, choosing to learn to love the bomb. If I must be surrounded by the sound of tiny plinks and rocks hitting the ground, I want it to be in the context of a Jaloo song. Every element of “Ah!” is an attention directive, not just the production, but Jaloo’s voice and his cadence, too. It’s the passive aggressive counterpart to nihilist screaming and industrial noise. It’s irritating your brain but if you can prefer that irritation then your DNA can mutate and your children can better survive.

DV:

Not having had a phone that makes alert noises for at least a decade now, I still hear "Ah!" as built out of silliness and irritants. But while I'm not totally confident about the lyric's nuance based on reading translated Portuguese, "Ah!" is definitely a song about a drunk guy trying (and failing, because he's too drunk?) to pick someone up because he's bored and doesn't have anything better to do. The song sounds like cell phones because the singer is making a call; it sounds persistently annoying because like any drunk dialer, he is annoying. It's instrumentation as punctuation, as context, as theme. The guy isn't calling us, after all, and bad hookup attempts don't sting when they're experienced secondhand. "Ah!" is an annoying story, well told, its production funky and bouncy enough to ingratiate and its punchline difficult to resist.

[private-bryan]

WIP Wednesday

So, after "In Their Thirties" rewired my brain the other day, this fic idea moved in - this is your fault, areseebee. When/If it's done, it'll be a companion piece for chapter 13 of MQRB (assuming I make it that far for that fic, too), and this also is a prequel explaining James and Erin's living arrangements in my fic "To Travel", set ~5-6 years beforehand.

It's not alluded to yet in the draft, but this fic will show the main difference I have in my headcanon for Future Jerin compared to most of my mutuals' - that is, I think Erin would be the one to leave Northern Ireland, not James.

He's found a home with them, which is something he was missing with Kathy IMO, and I think he'd stay in Belfast for a bit after Uni, then later move back to Derry. Erin wants to be more worldly, but she does have a habit of looking before she leaps...

He should have gone. It was stupid, really. She was his best friend, the person he'd call every week to spend hours chatting to, and she'd email him every day to check in. Even with all the wedding planning going on, she had still kept it up. He'd lost track of which excuse he'd told which person. He was sick. No, he was working. No, he'd lost his passport (which even Michelle had said was a stupid excuse, considering he could have travelled over on the ferry using just his driving licence). Whatever anyone believed, she was over there, no doubt being whirled around on the dancefloor by her new husband under the loving gaze of her friends and family (could he still include himself in that, now?), while he was sitting in his depressingly empty new home, surrounded by still packed boxes and unassembled furniture. He tried not to think about the fact that he'd made sure the bottles of wine were near the top of the kitchen box. The only light was from the front hall, the previous owner having removed the rest of the bulbs when they’d moved out; he’d not bothered to move it over to the living room, knowing that he’d just have to go out and get more the next day anyway. He thought there was a bedside lamp tucked away in one of the boxes nearby if he needed it, but right now the darkness suited his mood. A quiet buzz sounded from the other side of the room, and the walls were briefly painted a pale blue as his Blackberry received another text message. He’d been getting them, on and off, all day; Michelle had been gently teasing him at first, saying how all the English were rides and that he’d obviously pulled the short straw looks-wise, but then she had texted him. I hope you’re OK. I wish you were here today. I need you here. That was her to a 'T', ever the stickler for correct spelling and punctuation. He’d tossed it into the corner after that, his stomach giving sickening flips, and had resolutely ignored every text and call that had been sent since. He didn’t need the play-by-play of what was happening, about how the ceremony had gone, about how happy she was. A car drove past, its lights briefly illuminating the room and catching the half-filled glass in his hand, before the evening gloom returned.  He’d wanted to get drunk all day, the knowledge of what was going on across the Irish Sea preying on his mind as he shifted things from the rented van into the house, but even this late he was still only on his second glass of rosé. Maybe that was the reason she’d never made another attempt at them getting together over the last nine years; he was too safe, too boring.  She’d had ample opportunities to make a move if she’d wanted to. They’d been together often enough, thick as thieves all the way through the last years of school, through Uni and beyond, until she’d found her match and they’d drifted apart a bit. He’d never seen her more enthusiastic then, and she didn’t need him hanging on when she was getting a serious relationship off of the ground. So he'd stepped back, still being good friends but not as close as they'd once been; it had almost come as a relief when they became separated by the ferry journey. A clock chimed from one of the boxes, muted and faint, and he checked his watch.  11 o’clock, and all was “well”.

[cripplepunkbarbarian]

More detailed explanation for why I chose each thing for each bad kids:

- Riz with APD! My main APD moods revolve around my frustration with overlapping sounds because my brain can only process one source at a time. I can perfectly envision Riz constantly having to “step out” of rooms to take a phone call, latching on to one person for a conversation when TBK are all talking over each other and being astounded and perplexed by the contextless chunk of those conversations, and also having to sheepishly ask Sklonda to repeat herself because his brain latched on to the noise of the running coffee machine instead of her voice for some reason. That and also just. Pretending like he definitely knows what everyone is saying at all times even when he misses 75% of what he was “supposed” to be hearing. It works out remarkably well for him since he’s so good at mentally piecing together how things got from point A to point E in his head. Most of the time.

- Kristen with arthritis! This one is actually one I had since way before making this post. It specifically came from her having died and been brought back to life multiple times in canon, which I HC as having negative effects on people. She also just has the vibes of a spoonie to me. Like I can see her just laying down on the floor doing weird stretches to alleviate aches and grossing people out by purposefully cracking and popping her joints. She also just has the manic energy I associate with my own brain fog. Like at a certain point you’re so tired and achey but still expected to be a functioning person so you just become more unhinged the more stress is thrown your way. Plus I very frequently just start feeling random burning on my skin and notice large parts having gone red and itchy. Which, Kristen having tan skin with random red patches is a very clear image in my mind. Just feels right.

- Fabian with agoraphobia! This one is probably the least rooted in my own experiences with the condition. This boy is constantly being thrown into situations where he tries his best to be cool, collected, and strong only to end up being belittled, hurt, and humiliated. I feel like Hangman and Cathilda are sort of his “safe people”, situations that would usually trigger regression and anxiety are quelled by their presence but it makes him feel “childish” for needing them there. My experiences with agoraphobia have always been more “what if I have a medical issue and no one can help” driven, where I feel like his would be pretty “what if something makes me feel uncomfortable/unsafe but no one is there to make the situation comfortable/safe again” driven. Mainly due to Leviathan but his bio parents definitely didn’t help in that department.

- Adaine with migraines! I’ve actually seen this hc from multiple other people and fully agree. I literally can’t envision having magically compelled trance states randomly forced on someone and that person not ending up just curled up in bed with an ice pack and the lights off just trying to power through the residual head pain. For me they don’t come too often but when they’re here they hit HARD and the literal only way I can get over them is by sleeping through it, so that’s what I’m imagining here as well. Give this girl a Power Nap to reset her mind. Also it’s funny to imagine her feeling a migraine starting to creep up while she was still working at Bsraars and just putting herself in the walk in freezer with her head pressed against the wall. Eyes closed. Focusing on the mechanical buzz. This is just her break now.

- Gorgug with schizoaffective! Like Kristin’s I actually had this hc for a while before this post. Out of all tbk Gorgug is probably the one I relate to most from my experiences in middle and high school. The nightmare forest stuff is definitely where my brain made this connection for him. My main hallucinations have always been bug-centric. Plus I absolutely see my own “emotional blunting” to “manic episode” range in him, especially this season lmao. In general I’ve already talked about his themes being very depersonalized/derealized coded which also fits here.

- Fig with untreated tmj! This one is mostly just funny. My tmj issues were clocked way too far into my teen years despite me having seen multiple orthodontists and dentists prior. To the point where I had already gotten 100% used to living with it and sculpting my diet around it. So when they finally noticed and told me they could do an incredibly invasive surgery to break, realign, and reset my jaw to fix it. I was like. “Invasive surgery that would put me on a liquid diet for like a full month and take twice as long to recover from? Just so that I can painlessly eat some foods I swore myself off of eating multiple years ago? No thanks??” Which just seems like a very Fig move to me for some reason.

Gonna start projecting my more "obscure" disabilities + medical conditions onto TBK for fun.

Riz Gukgak auditory processing disorder. Kristen Applebees psoriatic arthritis. Fabian Seacaster agoraphobia. Adaine Abernant random spikes of debilitating migraines. Gorgug Thistlespring schizoaffective. Fig Faeth untreated tmj.

[prolix-yuy]

Chapter 1: Previz

Pairing: Dieter Bravo x F!Reader Production Designer

Summary: Previz - the visualization of complex scenes in a movie before filming.

Word Count: 1.9k

Warnings: M, mention of drug use and overdose, mentions of sexual acts (non-descriptive), overuse of filmmaking terms, will be E in later chapters so full series is 18+ MINORS DNI.

Notes: Welcome to Day 1 of Dieter Takeover! This interesting little concept got into my head and I couldn't stop writing it. A lot of this story ended up being a love letter to a few different mediums and professions, so I hope you enjoy the ride!

Cross-posted on AO3

Below the Line Masterlist

INT. PARLOR - DAY

It was finally here. Your big fucking break. It felt like you’d been slogging for years, through internships and low budget movies your friends begged you to work on, but it was finally paying off.

You were working on an honest-to-goodness real serious-business Hollywood film directed by THE Ronna Lewis.

And you were the production designer.

The offer almost catapulted you into orbit. Ronna had seen your work on a weird indie film about a 1950’s zombie apocalypse, which had been relegated to the depths on YouTube and was only on your resume for proof of experience. While you assumed it would be off-putting to a big shot director, she commented on the unique look and feel of your design and how it complimented the cinematography. Talking about the limitations of period pieces and finding adequate spaces and set dressing, her curly red hair and bright brown eyes sparkling as you fell into the comfortable language of your craft, you felt that you might have a shot. The phone call an hour later offering you the job felt like the culmination of so many years of hard work and “paying your dues.” 

You’d worked on sets that barely needed an art department, assigned to steaming green screen cloth and becoming the de facto props master and occasional wardrobe assistant. The most soul-sucking had been interning on Cliff Beasts 5, a popcorn blockbuster with barely any direction at all. “We’ll do it in post” was spoken more often than the actor’s lines. But you’d persevered, making sure nary a wrinkle was in the cloth swathing the background, touching up the few small set pieces when the director inevitably kicked them, and trying to stay out of the actors’ ways. You were below the line, you didn’t get to interact with anyone on screen.

Well, you’d gotten to interact a little, but that was…an anomaly. Not to be expected, and not repeated in the next several films you worked on. 

But that was all in the past, a hazy memory in comparison to this opportunity dropped in your lap. Ronna was fantastic, you’d seen her last 3 films and loved them all. The script was adapted from a Charles Brockden Brown novel, one that picked at your brain until you realized you’d read it in college. The story of a sheltered family, a brother and sister with their respective partners, being encroached upon by an outsider who ushers in doubts and paranoia, was so strange and gripping that you read it twice. Your mind was already buzzing with 18th century wardrobes, cluttered manors and eerie mist clinging to the ground.

The budget was…fair, you’d have to stretch some. You’d transformed an elementary school hallway into a water-damaged basement on a $250 budget, you could make it work.

The weeks of planning before production went by in a blur, spent pouring over script breakdowns, scene plans, location scouting and storyboards. You felt giddy when you discovered the house you’d be filming in - a gothic country estate resplendent with detailed archways, intricate religious reliefs cut in the sandy stone, and plenty of shadowy places. Every room held a different tone, some airy and light, others ceremonial or brooding. The grounds were extensive, plenty of space to work and set up with several outbuildings and impeccably manicured formal lawns leading to a breathtaking orangerie just outside the rose garden.

Aside from a few pieces of furniture the owner was allowing you to use, you would have free reign to make this a home for the family. You’d have work to do to bring Ronna’s vision to its full glory, but the potential seeped from the walls. You could have fun with this.

The day before principal photography was set to begin, the assistant director Dee, a tall whip of a woman with classic Grecian features and a shock of jet-black hair, gathered the crew and handed out call sheets. You scanned the page for your call time, and skimmed over the other names. Your two interns were there, Dane and Shelly, both fresh but not inexperienced. Then there were a couple familiar names on other teams. Hollywood was a smaller town than you’d expected, and you were happy to see a sound tech you went to school with, and that the focus puller was a woman you’d worked with on the 48 hour film festival. It was nice to have an ally or three.

Then you let your eyes skim over the actors on call, and your heart skipped a beat. Skipped several, in fact. 

Right on the top because of his ridiculous name.

CARWIN - D. Bravo. 

You swallowed and tried not to let your face change seeing that name on stark white paper. Dieter Bravo. You knew the name well before you started your career, knew the infamy of him. He’d been on a drug bender for several years, but on the sixth installment of Cliff Beasts he overdosed and finally got his act together. He married a beautiful Russian girl, the one who saved his life and who he called his “angel” in every press junket. There was also Kate, the pretty woman who followed them around, but you weren’t sure what was going on with that when ET tried to report it. It looked like Dieter Bravo had finally gotten his life together, as much as a playboy actor could.

That’s why when it all started falling apart you followed the story with rapt attention. How Anika’s father’s expectations of Dieter weren’t being met so he threatened him with his mob buddies. How when Anika discovered the real reason why Kate was part of their life (the GIF of her throwing a vase and screaming at Dieter becoming an instant reaction meme on every news show) she divorced him and married a Russian movie producer. And when Kate realized why Dieter was so obsessed with her (another unfortunate reaction GIF that circulated the internet), she filed a restraining order and made him relinquish his Mirror. Every blow made you wonder if this would be the one, the time Dieter would relapse back into the haze of his former life. The tabloids were practically salivating at the prospect.

But he soldiered on, not without a pain you could see in his few red carpet appearances. He started doing action movies, mostly as the villains, before moving into some dramatic roles. He was still referred to as “Dino Gio” or “That guy who stole the Oscar from Javier Bardem” often, but you could see him really pulling himself through and, despite everything that came before, it made you root for him.

And now you would be on set with him. Not much, of course, you would mostly be relegated to video village or flitting around on set when the actors were between takes, resetting furniture or fixing continuity. So you wouldn’t really be on set with him. Not in a way he would notice.

Not that he’s ever noticed.

The next day you tell yourself the nerves you’re feeling have everything to do with working on the biggest film of your career and not fucking it up. You can’t eat breakfast, stomach too tied up in knots, so instead you inspect the set for a fourth time. The first scene was the establishment of the family dynamic, allowing the actors to both ease into their roles and get the crew settled into Ronna’s specific shooting style. It was a refreshing approach, the way she was treating the crew and actors with respect for their crafts. You hope she goes places with an attitude like this.

The sitting room envelops you in chocolate draperies and crimson silk walls, the dark wood of bookshelves softly caressed by the light filtering in the picture window. You’re adjusting the delicate fringe on a lampshade when you hear a voice getting close to you. Most of the actors and nonessential crew were kept in the outbuildings to prevent noise pollution, so when Dieter fucking Bravo steps into your room, his phone to his ear, you’re taken aback.

He doesn’t notice you at first, and you don’t interrupt his phone call. It sounds like one to his agent, lining up a dinner and lightly griping about it. He’s not in costume, instead wearing tan chinos and a gray T-shirt that looks stretched out at the neck, wrapped in a maroon cardigan. Gesturing to no one with his large hand, he rubs his fingers into the scruff on his chin or through the wild mane of hair that curls at odd angles.

“The tell her I’ll work with him, but only if Dahlia will too. Better a bulldog than a fucking poodle,” he says into the phone, making you stifle a snort. The metal of his rings glints in the light, and the dark ink of the contrasting triangle tattoos clash against the old world aesthetic of the room. His sunglasses are too sleek to be anything but expensive, and with another stifled giggle you notice he’s wearing the black Crocs and gray socks.

He’s more polished, but still the old Dieter.

Albeit when you last saw him he was wearing a ratty green bathrobe and pajama pants when not in costume, reeking of weed and glassy-eyed more often than not. Cliff Beasts 5 was eye-opening for you, teaching you a lot about the industry and giving you a secondary education on the secret lives of actors. Dieter was an Oscar winner, but he was also the man who hotboxed his trailer bathroom so badly the production had to replace the whole thing. Or there was the time he walked out of said trailer with both the wife and husband owners of the only bar within 25 miles. He was notorious in the papers and even more in the NDAs you had to sign. 

Now he’s here making placating noises on the phone, a strange sight coming from him. He seems cooler, more poised than you anticipated. The signature slinking walk, bathrobe flapping behind him, is replaced with an ambling saunter that takes up space yet looks completely effortless. He shifts from foot to foot, his face expressive as he agrees to something with a sigh: “You know me too well. Thank you.” You could trick yourself into thinking he was a completely different man.

Almost.

He ends the call and huffs with a shake of his head, finally turning to you and startling a bit.

“Jesus, I thought…shit. Sorry,” he murmurs, rubbing his hand over his mouth before offering a bright, half apologetic smile. “Just looking for a quiet place to talk. Didn’t mean to disturb you.” He looks around the room, hung with replica photos and paintings, decorated in the messy yet refined style of historic homes you used to tour as a child. “Though this disturbs me just as much. Wow. Lots going on here.”

You shake your head at his analysis of the room. “Don’t worry about it, just doing last looks. And I’ll take that as a compliment,” you say, smiling and picking up your script binder. Dieter grins again, in the way that photos never capture, his eyes disappearing into crows feet and dimples popping out of his cheeks.

God, he’s handsome.

“Dieter Bravo,” he says, extending his hand to you.

You stare at the hand for a moment, trying to still the rush of emotions inside you. Your smile comes on and off your face in quick movements, forcing it to remain before meeting Dieter’s eyes.

“Pleasure to be working with you, Mr. Bravo, I’m the production designer,” you answer, giving him your name and putting your hand in his. It’s warm and dry, engulfing, comforting, unlike the first time he’d shook your hand, clammy and sweaty without a single look in your direction, most likely on so much coke the world was vibrating in front of his eyes. 

That’s how you rationalize why Dieter Bravo doesn’t remember you.

NEXT

[randomperson351]

Chocolate brownies - Venom

Summary: Venom isn’t having a great time so you make him some chocolate brownies. Venom feels better now thanks to his tiny human, and he’ll make sure you feel better too.

Do not repost or rewrite, or even just blatantly copy any of my works. Minors and ageless blogs get blocked.

Masterlist

Blend all the ingredients together and bake for 30 minutes. At 30 minutes, cover the brownie with kitchen foil and cook for a further 10 minutes or until a knife comes away clean.

Recently Venom had been having a bit of a rough patch, the FBI was still looking into the Life Foundation incident so eating people at the moment was a serious no-no.

Eddie had left the city for a while, for business and holiday, so he left Venom with the person he could trust to keep control of him, you.

Venom was hesitant at first, yes he'd been around you through Eddie before but never on his own. However, on his second week with you, you let him eat a guy that was trying to seduce people and steal their money, that changed his tune pretty quickly.

Since you couldn't go out to get him food, you decided to make some chocolate chip brownies to compensate.

What are you doing tiny one?

You smiled at the deep baritone voice rumbling in your head, the nickname being a new fascination he's started with.

"I'm making you brownies since we can't go anywhere to get you brains."

Brownies?

"Essentially spongy chocolate squares." You could practically feel his eyes light up inside you.

Chocolate! My favourite.

"I know, that's why I'm making them." You giggled. One of Venom's black tendrils wrapped around your wrist as you moved to the sofa to watch TV and wait for the brownies to cook.

You treat me too well tiny one.

"I treat you how you deserve to be treated." You answered quietly, running your thumb along the black goo as it spread up to cover your hand.

Venom's head floated out from your back and rested contentedly crooked in your neck while watching the television with you. He slowly but surely wrapped your body in his form under your clothes, the day was rainy so the apartment got cold quickly; considering the symbiote's obvious aversion to lighting the fire, he often wrapped around your vulnerable, squishy pink form until it warmed up or you asked him to stop. Though if you were being honest, sometimes being wrapped up in Venom was the best part of your day.

You were so settled in your place on the sofa you almost missed the incessant buzzing from the alarm you placed next to you.

What is that sound?

“It’s my alarm.” You sighed, turning it off and getting up to check on the brownies. Venom’s head floated next to you as you walked, staying silent as he watched you cover the pan with foil and put it back in the oven. The scent of chocolate was starting to get to him, it was wafting through the whole apartment and covering every surface.

When will they be ready to consume, small human?

“Well-” you bent over and checked various points of the brownie with a knife, when you pulled it away the end was clean- “they’re all done so once they’ve cooled a bit you can dig in.”

We, nibbles, we. The brownies are ready for us to eat now.

“They are too hot for me to eat yet, they’ve just come out of the oven, V.”

Go sit down, let me handle this.

“Venom-ooh!” He’d wrapped around your legs and (practically) threw you onto the couch. One of his tendrils had wrapped around the tray and was holding it out the window in the wind. "What are you doing?"

Cooling the chocolate spongy squares for your tiny digestive system to absorb.

He was only out there for a few minutes when the tray was plopped next to you on the sofa cushions, brownie pressed out of the mould and grease leaving a lovely mark on your sofa.

"Board, Venom."

The brownie was lifted and on a board, chopped into squares before you could ask. Venom formed a finger and thumb and lifted a piece to your mouth.

Taste.

You tested how hot the piece was by your lip pressing against the edge. When you decided your esophagus wasn't going to set on fire, you happily took a bite and felt Venom relishing in the chemicals from the chocolate going straight to your brain.

"They're good!"

Indeed they are, tiny one.

Slowly you ate about 4 brownies before the sweetness got too much and you chugged back the rest of your drink. However, although you might've been done, that doesn't mean Venom was.

What are you doing? We haven't finished yet.

"We don't need to finish the whole tray, V! They're finger-food. You can just eat a few and save the rest for another time." You chuckled, licking your fingertips clean and pushing the rest of the brownies off to the side.

But they are necessary sustenance!

"For you-"

Us.

"-I, on the other hand, would turn into a beached walrus if I only ate everything you wanted."

You sound as if I have eaten your brain, fleshy human. I take care of us, I eat what I need from your food, I absorb the fat and keep you healthy. We live forever.

"I'm not quite sure that's how it works." You smiled. Venom's head floated down and rested on your lap, looking up at you.

Of course that's how it works!

"Alright, alright, whatever you say."

It was quiet for a few minutes with the movie playing on TV in the background when a tendril looped itself around your fingers.

Please just one more tiny one.

You sighed to cover a smile and agreed, much to Venom's delight.

But one turned into two, and two turned into four and then he's somehow managed to coax you to eat all the brownies bar one. Venom's tendrils wrapped around each square and brushed it against your lips, a different tendril fetching you a new drink and another supporting your posture as you ate to avoid stomach ache.

Venom's very toothy grin got wider as he reaped the effects of the chocolate and he voiced his pleasure with ease.

Well done, my small human. Thank you for doing this for us, I'll make it up to you.

He moved the solitary square to the kitchen and waited to see what you wanted to do now.

"Venom look what you've done, my pudge has gotten so big it's sticking out from my shirt!"

An easily fixable problem. Take a nap, tiny one, I'll keep you and your 'pudge' warm.

He flooded your body with sleep hormones and wrapped you up in his form again, head contently resting next to yours, trying to formulate a plan on how to get you to bake more delicious chocolate sponges.

[2d-reality]

Late Night Drunk Chats ♡

characters: Lucifer, GN!MC content/warnings: Fluff. This is the first piece I've written in well over a year, and it has not been beta'd lol. word Count: 3568 notes: Heavily inspired by this from @obeythedemons because it feckin,, wouldn't leave my brain. My guy I loved it and I hope I did it justice. Could be taken as a little plagiarizing so I'm happy to take it down if I stepped on your toes, I just couldn't help myself T-T I've also jimmied with the in-game chat a little for funsies.

Ding! Your DDD’s screen lit up as it buzzed, jerking you awake. You hissed and hid your face in your pillow as it dinged and buzzed a second time. Groggily, you reached for the device, turning to face it and immediately regretting the decision. It alerted you a third time as you swore under your breath, cursing yourself for not turning the brightness down before you fell asleep. 

You unlocked the phone and squinted at the screen, lowering the brightness as much as it would go before opening the text thread that had been chiming at you. 

MC.

MC!

A sticker followed-- one that you used often, a little smiley sunshine. You couldn’t tell who it was from-- your vision was still hazy with sleep. You blinked it out of your eyes as your fingers hovered over the keyboard, ready to shoot back. If it was Levi being impatient about another midnight special event trade on Mononoke Land, you were going to threaten to uninstall the app entirely. 

But the name that you noticed at the top of the chat as you rubbed the sleep from your eyes wasn’t Leviathan. It was Lucifer. You hesitated a little, confused, but typed back a reply.

/// what's up with you?

Lucifer’s response was quick.

Hmmmmm? Nothing. 

I suddnly felt hte urge to chat with youu. That’s all

Your brow furrowed. Lucifer’s texts rarely lacked punctuation, and he never misspelled anything. For a fleeting moment, you worried if something was terribly wrong, but he wouldn’t be texting if it was. It dawned on you that he had been summoned to the castle earlier that day, and had spent the evening with the crown prince. With that knowledge, you had an inkling of what was happening.

... are you drunk? 

Lucifer’s chat bubble appeared, then disappeared, then reappeared.

How could youtell? You rally know me well, MC!! 

ehehehe.

I ws drnking Demonus with Diavolo earlier 

And yu know,  he kept syaing all these nicethings about you... 

Let me tellyo, I’m also reaally happy you’re down here with us. 

...

Who even came up with the ifea that whoever empties their bottle first, wins...?

Oh, rght. I did... 

My bad. Ahhh, my head isspinning. 

Good night MC.

ILove you.

Unsure how to respond, or even if you should respond, you lie staring at your DDD. Unbidden, a feeling of worry hooked your chest again. It wouldn’t hurt to double check that Lucifer made it to his room okay-- both for your peace of mind and his; you knew his brothers would never let him live it down if they were to find him passed out on the stairs. And in the event he did make it all the way to his bed before the demonus took over, he would appreciate a glass of water and a couple devildom painkillers on his bedside table. Knowing Lucifer, he wouldn’t let this hinder the next day’s responsibilities, and you could feel a sympathy headache forming just thinking about the hangovers you’d experienced. No doubt it took a very strong bottle indeed to get the most uptight demon you’d ever met to the point he was drunk texting you. 

You rose from bed, slipping a hoodie over your head and tucking your DDD into the front pocket. 

Outside your door was quiet and dark, save for the intermittent light coming from under Levi’s door and the perpetually full yellow moon shining through the half-drawn curtains. You crept down the hall, bare feet silent on the ancient carpets. Your demon-babysitter-sense convinced you the best course of action would be to check from the front door all the way to Lucifer’s room first, just in case he was half-conscious somewhere, or before he bumped drunkenly into one of his vases. Diavolo was sure to have sent him home in a hired car, but while the headless spirit that served as the Crown Prince's valet was useful behind the wheel, that’s also where his usefulness ended. Lucifer would be on his own getting through the front gate, up the path without tripping over the various gravestones that littered the yard, through the heavy wooden doors and beyond. 

Turns out, you discovered as you tentatively cracked open the front door, that your demon-babysitter-sense was better honed than you thought. Leaning on the right of the two doors, hair disheveled and blinking in disbelief at you, was Lucifer. 

“MC,” he breathed, hauling himself to standing straight, though he swayed a little. “I couldn’t get it open a moment ago.” 

You opened the door wider to let him in, keeping your voice quiet. “You always lock it before you leave.” 

“Ah.” It was more of a sigh than a word. “I do, don’t I?” 

Lucifer shuffled forward as you shut the front door behind him and locked it again, and all but collapsed on the bench at the base of the stairs, his fur-lined cloak pooling around his hips.

“Ah, no, come on,” you beckoned, moving forward to grasp his bicep. “Let’s go to your room before someone finds us. One of your brothers could take advantage of you in this state.” 

A strange, loose smile split Lucifer’s mouth. “So clandestine,” he chuckled, a deep rumbling in his chest that you felt as he stood, leaving the coat behind, and leaned against you as you moved slowly up the stairs. One of his hands snaked around your back and latched onto your hip. One warm finger slipped under the hem of your sweater, and you hoped you didn’t react as your heart jumped. “You could take advantage of me in this state.” 

You huffed, half in amusement and half out of effort-- this demon was heavy. You were lucky he was lucid enough to walk-- there was no way you could have dragged him to his room full-ragdoll. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

Blessedly, you made it to the top of the stairs, but the hallway seemed a lot longer with a couple hundred pounds of demon lord draped over your side and growing heavier by the second. 

“Lucifer,” you hissed through gritted teeth. “Help me out, here.” 

He practically giggled, which would have given you pause for its bizzarity if you weren’t trying as hard as you were to keep the both of you on your feet. 

“Hmmmm... for a kiss.” 

You resisted the urge to groan. “Not now. It’s late, and you’re too drunk.”

Lucifer whined, but eased off your side marginally. “You’re so virtuous.” he sneered the last word, like it tasted bad. “Sometimes I wish you weren’t.” 

Okay, that hurt a little. He didn’t mean it to be, and he probably wasn’t aware of what he was saying anyway. You changed the subject. 

“You could have called me. I would have let you in.” 

“I already said goonight,” he countered, slurring the last word. “Didn’t want to wake you.”

You were nearly to your salvation-- his bedroom door. “I was already awake. I texted you back, didn’t I?” 

“I--” he grunted. “I suppose.” 

You breathed a sigh of relief as you made it to his room and pushed the door open. The two of you stumbled the last few steps to his bed, and collapsed head first onto it, with you pinned halfway under him. Lucifer heaved a heavy sigh, blowing sweet, demonus-scented air over your face. He didn’t move to say anything further, and you thanked your lucky stars you at least got him here before he passed out. 

You wriggled free to shut the door, and Lucifer groaned. When you turned back to him, he had rolled to his back, fingers half-heartedly working the buttons on his vest. You resigned yourself to help a little, and moved to untie his slick black formals. 

“You don’t need to help me undress,” Lucifer rumbled. “Unless you want to.” His voice lilted in a way that made your heart flutter, but you stayed on task. 

“I told you, not now. Once you’re sober.”

His head lifted as he propped himself up on his elbows. His ruby eyes bore into yours. “Promise?”

You forced yourself to look down at his shoes as you slipped them off and tucked them into place on the floor by the foot of the bed. Lucifer, however, appeared to be genuinely awaiting an answer, and sat up further, catching you with his calves behind yours and pulling you in to press your knees into the side of his bed. His hands covered your hips. 

“Diavolo’s teasing was relentless tonight,” he said, eyes on you. You stared at the collar of his shirt, afraid to look anywhere else. 

“Yeah?” you responded noncommittally, strategizing the best way to extract yourself from his grip and get him water before getting to bed yourself. “About what?”

Lucifer giggled again. “You.” 

You snapped your gaze up to his, but his eyes were closed, and he pursed his lips. “He knows how fond I am of you. The more we drank, the worse it became.”

His head lolled back, and when he righted himself, his eyes were open again, capturing you. “We started talking about the future of the exchange program, but our conversation derailed halfway through dinner.” He tilted his chin a little to regard you. “We spent most of the night talking about you.” 

“You mentioned,” you responded, unsure of what else to say. You loosened his tie and finished unbuttoning his vest.

“Do you want to hear more?” 

You put up a token effort to free yourself, but even intoxicated, Lucifer was stronger than you. “You were drunk. I’m sure most of it was silly. Now let me get you some water so you can get to sleep.” 

“You’re right,” Lucifer said as he loosened his grip slightly. “We were using the wrong word. Fond doesn’t nearly begin to explain how I feel about you.” 

“Lucifer,” you pleaded softly, but he continued, though he let you go as he mumbled to himself. You slipped the vest and tie off him and draped them on the coffee table.

“What would be the right word? Captivated? Bewitched?” 

You lost the next couple of words as you fetched a glass from his demonus shelf and filled it with water from the bathroom sink. From the side drawer you retrieved a few pain relief pills from the bottle Lucifer occasionally used to ease his headaches. The demon in question was still mulling over a few descriptors with himself as you returned.

“Besotted?” he finished, straightening his back and looking up at you.

“You’re besotted right now,” you pressed the glass and the pills into his hands. “You probably won’t remember this in the morning.” 

“I assure you, I am perfectly lucid,” he bit back, voice clear and assured. “And I think the best phrase would be to simply tell you I’m in love with you.” 

You bit your tongue before responding. “I love all of you, too.” 

“No,” Lucifer pressed. “I love you, but I am also in love with you.” 

“Of course you are,” you hummed, despite your racing heart. “Take these. They’ll make you feel better.” 

“You don’t believe me.” 

You pinched your mouth shut and guided his hands up to his face with yours. Begrudgingly, he swallowed the pills, and at your behest, finished the water as well. You took the empty glass from him and refilled it, setting it out of drunken-arm-swinging-reach on the bedside table.

“I believe you,” you soothed once you noticed that Lucifer was very pointedly watching you, brow furrowed. You reached out to smooth his forehead with your thumbs, and pressed a light kiss to his hairline. He didn’t seem to buy your assuagence. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

You stepped out of reach before he could capture you again, and made for the door. “Goodnight, Lucifer.” 

“MC,” he called after you, one hand on his head and tilting dangerously sideways, but it appeared the drunken spinning of the room forced him to stay where he was. You shut the door softly behind you, heaving several deep breaths to calm your heart as you returned to your room. 

It took a while to get back to sleep.

~

The next morning, Mammon woke you. He was having trouble with his tie again (how hadn’t he learned to do it yet?) and if you didn’t help him and get dressed quickly, Beel was going to eat your breakfasts for you! So hurry up and help him already! 

You kicked him out of the room to dress, and he all but dragged you to the dining room once you were done, chatting animatedly about the magazine his latest modeling gig featured in. You left a series of courteous but loud knocks on Levi’s door as you passed it, knowing he was still up when you went back to bed last night and could very well have slept through his alarm.

Asmo, Satan, and Beel were all seated at the table when you arrived. They greeted you each in turn, Beel somewhat half-mindedly as he tried to prop up a still fully asleep Belphie in his chair. 

You dished yourself first as the boys waited, as you usually did. It had been a courtesy enforced by Lucifer in your first weeks in the House, while you were accommodating to Devildom cuisine. You were allowed to serve yourself as much of whatever you found palatable, before his voracious brothers cleared the rest of the spread. It was an unspoken condition now, and you didn’t really think they needed to bother anymore, but the habit had carried, and you appreciated it for what it was. 

No one mentioned Lucifer’s absence from the head of the table as breakfast continued as usual. Mammon tried unsuccessfully to badger information out of Satan regarding an upcoming Majolish event, to which the latter had been invited by a distant acquaintance. When Asmo caught wind that one of his favorite designers would be in attendance, the prodding effort became two-pronged. Levi dragged himself into his chair as Beel was filling his third plate, and Belphie had managed to blearily skewer a bit of seasoned shadow hog on his fork, but he was quickly losing the battle against sleep again. 

Asmo complained about having to be on dish duty once he was finished eating, but you offered to do the washing, if he did the drying, and Beel helped clear off the plates before going in the sink. This seemed to lift Asmo’s spirits, and he left a lipgloss-sticky kiss on your cheek as he left for the kitchen with a short stack of dishes. This drew complaints from almost everyone else in attendance (minus Belphie, who was using his plate as a pillow, now), but you only rolled your eyes as you followed.

Satan’s phone alarm chimed a short while later, alerting the table that it was time to leave. He poked his head in the kitchen to tell your dishwashing crew as you finished up, and was out the front door first, no doubt to feed the stray cat he had been not-so-secretly caring for on their path to RAD. Asmo rushed up the stairs to fetch a last-minute accessory he realized would go with today’s ensemble. Levi whinged as he tugged on his uniform, complaining it wasn’t fair he had to attend in-person classes once a week, because he was doing fine in online courses. Somehow Mammon’s tie had become completely skewed and hung crookedly off his neck in the thirty-some-odd seconds it had taken him to walk from the dining hall to the front door. You shouldered your messenger bag as Beel shouldered his twin and set off down the steps, calling for the others to get a move on. 

You cornered Mammon to fix his tie, but turned your head at the sight of movement at the top of the stairs. You opened your mouth to chide Asmo for taking so long, but the words died in your throat as you saw not Asmodeus, but Lucifer. Mammon slid from your grip like the slippery little fish he was and booked it out the door, smacking Levi on the back as he passed. 

Lucifer looked just as put together as always, but as he descended the stairs, you could see his face was a little haggard. 

“Good morning,” you greeted, plastering a smile on your face and internally yelling at your pulse to slow down.

“Morning.” His voice was gravelly, but his posture was as rigid as ever. 

Asmo bounced down the stairs after his brother, slowing for a moment to ask you if you were coming. You told him you were and moved to follow him out the door, but Lucifer stopped you with a hand on your arm. 

“One moment, if you would, MC.” 

Asmo tittered and winked at you before heading on his way. You turned back to the dark-haired demon as he released you. 

“How are you feeling?” You teased, unable to help yourself. Lucifer closed his eyes briefly and ran a hand through his hair. 

“Admittedly I have been much better.” You chuckled at his admission, but it seemed he wasn’t finished. “I’m sorry I troubled you last night. My behavior was... unbecoming of me.” 

“It’s alright,” you said, beginning to feel a little tense. 

“No,” Lucifer countered. “It isn’t. I am lucky I had you to help me. My stubbornness in forcing Diavolo to let me return home in such a state could have ended much worse than it did. I appreciate your patience with me.”

“Well... I couldn’t just leave you on the front porch all night.” A smile tugged at your lips, and you were somewhat relieved to see Lucifer match it, however, it was short-lived.

“About what I said.”

You lifted a hand to stop him and shook your head. “I know you didn’t mean it. No hard feelings, Lucifer, really, I--”

He cut you off with a swift “No,” then sighed almost imperceptibly as your jaw clicked shut. “I did mean it. I did, and I have been doing a very poor job of things if you still don’t believe that. It’s shameful that I had to be drunk to admit it to you.” 

“That’s not...” you trailed off, unsure how to continue. You didn’t mean to make him feel bad, but the fact that he apparently remembered all of last night and remained steadfast in his confession... well.

“We all love you very dearly, not only for what you’ve managed to do for us, but... I’ve come to realize you mean more to me than that. I know that I am not always the most forthcoming with my thoughts and feelings--” he swallowed hard. “It is something I could stand to change. For you.” 

All you could do was blink as he spoke to you, eyes searching your face. “At least let me take you out after classes today. To Madam Scream’s, or that new cafe pop-up you and Satan were talking about the other day. Or I could see about reservations at Ristorante Six.” He seemed to realize he was getting away from himself and slowed down. “To express my gratitude. And to take a step in the right direction, hopefully. If--” his jaw clenched for a beat, and he forced it to relax. “If you’ll have me.”

“Uhh, I... how about dinner?” You suggested. “Ristorante Six sounds nice, but if you can’t swing it--”

“I can.” he assured before you could finish. “If you wish to go, I will see to it. I owe you that much, at least.” 

You nodded, trying to calm your swirling thoughts, and the butterflies swirling in your stomach. Lucifer took up one of your hands in his, and you could feel a flush raging on your cheeks as he brought it up to his lips and pressed a reverent kiss to your knuckles. 

“Thank you, MC,” he murmured, the words ghosting over your skin and leaving goosebumps in their wake. He lowered your joined hands. “You should get to class. I’m sure Mammon is waiting for you at the front gate.” 

Again, it was all you could do to nod. You cleared your throat, realizing you had to say something. 

“Thanks, uh, too.” Very smooth, MC. Great move. “For offering. And for being honest. We’ll talk more over dinner tonight?” 

Lucifer’s smile was soft and lovestruck. “Yes. I’ll text you when I have our reservations ironed out.” 

“Okay.” You shifted on your feet, hesitating, and then decided to take the plunge, leaning up to press a lingering kiss to the side of his mouth. 

“I owed you that,” you offered in a way of explanation. “I love you.” 

You dropped his hand and all but flew out the door before he could respond, or you could combust with a combination of excitement and embarrassment. If you had stayed a moment longer, you would have reveled in the bright, hot blush that crawled all the way up Lucifer’s neck and face, to the tips of his ears. He lifted a gloved hand to the tingling place your lips had been before pulling out his DDD and swiftly making a number of phone calls to reserve for you not just a table, but a secluded, private booth, and premium bottle service. You would have a lot of talking to do tonight, and hopefully, a lot less talking eventually, as well.

[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.

[thr-333]

Just Another Class Trip :)

Part 1

No, no ignore the smily face i assure you it means nothing foreboding, nothing foreboding at all.

Next >

---------

“It’s suspicious,” Marinette glares as they leave customs.

“What would that be, Mari?” Chloe yawns, not bothering to dedicate her limited remaining brain power apparently.

“Lila,” She whispers back, “She’s been so quiet all the way here,”

“What about how she weaseled her way into first class?” Chloe yawns again, sleep mask resting on her head.

“Or tried to steal your bag,” Kagami says with venom, her having saved Marinette from that disaster.

“Accused you of giving her the wrong flight time,” Adrien adds, somehow being full awake even after their long flight.

“Slipped metal into your pocket so security would go off,” Chloe downright glares at Adrien, but would never admit to the bags under her eyes.

“Came by and woke you up every time you fell asleep,” Kagami looks at her pointedly, shadows under her eyes being her only give away.

“Too quite,” Marinette whispers, the list going largely ignored as they approach the security scan.

“Just relax Mari,”  Adrien pats her shoulder, not enough to break her concentration, “Lila will be so distracted by being in Gotham she won't have time for you,”

Adrien was wrong.

Of course he was wrong.

This is Lila they're talking about.

“Oh Marinette!” Lila all but yells as Marinette is placing her bag in a tray, “I’m so glad you didn’t go through with it,”

Marinette cringes, the security guards all looking her way as Lila dances off. She just sighs as she is escorted away by the airport security, to the protest of her friends and not much else.

“No sir I am not holding any firearms or weapons,” Marinette answers as monotone as possible, the security guard didn’t deserve her ire not matter how tiresome this was getting.

“We interview the source,” Oh no “Apparently you were discussing terrorist activities,”

“I was not sir, Lila must be mistaken,” Yep big mistake, I’m sure that's all it is , “I’m simply here for a class trip,”

“You’re wearing a bulletproof vest,”

Yeah probably should have left that one at home

“My parents are protective, they know how dangerous Gotham can be,” They were not fans of the horror stories Aunt Selina used to tell her from this city, “They insisted I have it as protection,”

While they most certainly wanted her to be safe the vest was more her idea. It was also more for enabling trouble than avoiding it. At least she was trying to be safe about secret crime fighting.

“Makes sense,” He sighs from across the table, checking through some paperwork, “You’re seventeen, here on a class trip right?”

“Yes sir,”

“Well if you’re here on a Wayne funded trip they probably did and extensive background check,” He pauses for a minute looking deep in thought, “Alright then, you can go,”

That seems kind of lax

“Are you sure?”

“We literally have super villains walking through here every other day,” True that, “You’re holding no weapons and have been endorsed by the Wayne's that's better than most people that have been in here,”

“Well if you’re sure,” Marinette stands awkwardly walking to the door as he waves her off, “Is there anything I need to sign, or…”

“Unless I want to fill out extra paperwork, no,” He seems so tired, Marinette wished she could get back at Lila for making his job harder.

“Have a good day then!” She smiles brightly, getting a small one in return.

She leaves, the security guards handing back her bag, fortunately not mentioning the miracle box or her Kwamis. She smiles brightly, even with Lila trying to ruin her trip she could still enjoy her time here in Gotham- and her phone buzzes with an Akuma alert.

With a sigh, Marinette ducks into the nearest bathroom, locking a stall behind her.

“Kaalki,” The Kwami zips out of her bag, “Tikki, Combine,”

With a flash of light followed by another she appears in Paris dropping Kaalki’s transformation.

She looks over the city, some Akuma attacking the Eiffel tower. At least they didn't seem to be the brainwashing type, she didn’t have Chat Noir there to help with crowd control.

With a flip she jumps, planning to kick the Akuma on the way down. They dodge and she lands in front of them instead.

“Well, well if it isn’t the bug,” The Akuma, in a horrible patch work costume mocks, a purple mask appearing over their face, “Hand over your miraculous!”

How about you come and make me Hawkmoth? I promise to stick that cane up your ass

Oh how she wishes she could say just that, but it wouldn't be very Ladybug of her. Why did the younger her have to have a stick up her butt?

“Not today Hawkmoth,” She says instead, making sure to put the practiced amount of enthusiasm into it, “Or any other day for that matter,”

“How are you going to save Paris without your little kitty cat?”

How are you going to beat me with that terrible fashion sense

Besides Chat Noir deserved a break. At least she hoped he was taking a break, he couldn’t tell because of secret identity reasons. It wasn't like she had any right to stop him, she was having a vacation in Gotham right now, and she was out all the time for work. She could manage without Chat for a while, he deserved that much.

“I will do whatever it takes to protect the people of Paris,” Ladybug remembers to answer the question.

“Hand over your miraculous now!” The Akuma lunges at her

I should have chosen a different persona

She dodges the beam of light that can’t mean anything good. Jumping back to get some distance.

Chat Noir had the right idea

She bites back the cutting remark on the tip of her tongue. Instead throw out her yo to wrap around their arm. The Akuma pulls it forward, sending her through the air. She leans into it swinging around to get a better vantage point, studying the monologuing Akuma below.

Maybe I can for Starling

She has created Starling as a vigilante identity to use in Gotham, if the class was ever in trouble. No not if, when . With a sigh she summons her lucky charm getting a table tennis paddle.

Although I’m only meant to use that identity as a disguise to protect the class

The only thing that stood out was the Akuma's hand, she'd have to gather more information before striking.

Maybe Starling can have a word or two with Lila, that could be fun

She drops down in front of the Akuma. They seemed to like monologuing, maybe all she had to do was probe a little bit.

“Why would you want to side with Hawkmoth?”

“This is my family's greatest heirloom it has been passed from generation to generation for centuries, some fool broke it and I was crushed having disappointed all my ancestors!” The Akuma holds up a broach type jewel, “But Hawkmoth- Hawkmoth brought it back and now my greatest and dearest treasure will forever be-”

Ladybug smacks it to the ground, crushing it underfoot.

The Akuma looks at her shocked, letting out a long drawn out gasp. Marinette does not meet their eye as she catches the Akuma. She throws the paddle she used to smack it out of their hand into the air to cast the cure.

I must be really jet lagged, I’m usually at least a little more creative than that, but it worked

She pretends not to see the reporters coming in for interviews, seeing the victim and their broach in one piece. She makes a speedy exit, needing to transport back to Gotham before the class get too ancy.

“I’m sorry the rented bus left a long time ago,” The attendant informed her, looking sorry for the dishevelled teen.

Marinette groaned, so much for running around the airport for thirty minutes with a dead phone. Thanking the attendant she sulks off to collect her bag instead, she’d have to figure another way to the hotel.

She spends another hour hunting down her bag. Chasing after leads of people who might have mistook it. Checking again with Airport security, who again pulled her aside for having a suspicious missing bag. Luckily the security guard before defended her, she brought him a coffee and two for herself.

“Maybe someone will return it?” Tikki whispers, her and Kaalki hidden in the folds of her scarf.

“It’s fine Tikki,” Marinette sighs, halfway through her first cup in under a minute, “I have replicas of all of them anyway, I’ll just grab some samples from the MDC fashion show,”

She’d have to stop by later, the outfits should have been transported last week along with most of her recent catalogue. The only problem was all the other necessities she lost. But that wasn’t a problem, she carried the miracle box in her backpack and that's all that really matters.

“And some of my… special outfits when we go back home,”

She had altered her current outfit to transform into her vigilante disguise. Her scarf pulled up and could be turned inside out into a mask. Her skirt could be transformed into a cape and hood combo. A zip down the middle of the skirt to split it for the cape and a zip up hood that lay flat along her skirt. She simply turned it inside out and wore it around her shoulders. Combined with a bullet proof vest it wasn't half bad, her belt full of weapons could always be hid under her skirt which was a big plus.

She sighs waiting for a taxi in the cold Gotham air, hating it more than most. Although she supposed superhuman strength was a fair exchange for extra cold fingers. Marinette fought to stay awake, she had also been holding Kaalki for so long she was starting to develop the ability to sleep standing up and would doze off randomly. Certainly helpful at times, but not right now.

“Hello,” Marinette is startled out of her drowsiness.

She looks at the hesitant young man before her, looking just as tired as she is.

“Hello?”

“Is something the matter?” Something sparks at the back of her mind, a feeling she often gets from Chloe whenever she is helpful.

Do I look that bad?

“Just a mix up with transportation,” She smiles, he clearly knows it’s fake.

“Do you need a ride?”

“No I’m-” She sighs, what could go wrong getting in the car of a random person in Gotham, “Yes, I do thank you,”

“Over here, I’m Tim by the way” He stifles a yawn, leading her towards a limousine, the door being opened by a driver.

“Marinette, here,” She hands over the extra coffee, “You look like you need it just as much as me,”

Tim looks at her like a god sent, taking the coffee as they reach the limo.

“Good call Alfred,” Tim whispers to the driver, slipping into the car.

“Hello miss, I am Alfred Pennyworth,” She shakes his hand, something stronger fires at the back of her mind, a true holder perhaps? But Chloe was a true holder right?

“Marinette Dupain-Cheng,” She smiles, trying to assess what miraculous would suit him.

“Best get inside Miss Dupain-Cheng,” She climbs inside at Alfred's behest, “Gotham is awfully cold for a Lady,”

She gets the feeling that is not chivalry.

“Where to Miss Dupain-Cheng?” Alfred asks, already in the driver's seat.

“Wayne hotel please,” She pulls her backpack onto her lap, still regarding Alfred suspiciously.

“Traveling alone?” Tim asks absentmindedly, still nursing his coffee cup.

“I’m here with my class, they left without-” No that's no good , “I got held up they went ahead,”

“Class… staying at the Wayne hotel…” Tim mumbles to himself.

“I believe what Master Tim is trying to ask is if you are part of the Martha Wayne foundation trip,” Alfred informs from the front seat.

“Yeah that,” Tim takes another scalding gulp of coffee.

“Yes I sent in the submission, I’m still surprised we got it,” Marinette had been thrilled at a trip to Gotham, it is where her Aunt Selina lives after all.

“You seem very responsibility Miss Dupain-Cheng,” Alfred complements, “Almost as if you could shoulder the weight of Paris,”

“I didn’t say where I was from,” Marinette tenses getting more than a little unsettled, he seemed to know something more.

“Not to worry, I have close connections with the Wayne's and was aware this years class was from Paris is all,”

“I see,” Marinette nods along, the possible meaning behind the comment still being concerning.

“We forgot your bags!!!” Tim suddenly yells, jumping up and making Marinette jump, they both curse in sync as they spill coffee on themselves.

“It’s alright!” luckily the coffee landed on her black tights, so no noticeable stains, “My bags were stolen,”

“Oh…” Tim relaxes back, “Wait… that's not alright at all!”

“It’s fine, I already have a plan to get some spare clothes and I just need to run to the store,”

“Right… to the Wayne hotel was it?” Marinette nods and Tim starts tapping away at his phone.

She fishes out some wet wipes from her bag, passing them to Tim, who looks confused until she points out the growing coffee stain. With a smile and a few more taps at the phone he takes them off her.

“Left behind and bags stolen, doesn't sound like your Lucky day,” Alfred presses, and he needs to stop, it could be chance, surely its just chance.

“I guess not,”

You don’t know the half of it.

“Well I hope the rest of your day is much better,” Tim bids as they pull up to the hotel.

“Thank you, and thank you so much for the ride,” Alfred opens the door for her to get out.

“Not a problem,” She waves them off, watching them disappear down the street.

They’re nice, probably wont ever get to see them again, thats a shame

“Dick! Holy fuck!” Tim kicks down the door of his brothers room, “I just met the nicest girl who's had the shittest day on earth,”

“First of all welcome back, how was your trip?” Dick greets hanging from the ceiling as Tim takes his desk chair, “Second, what are you talking about?”

“Met a girl at the Airport who didn’t have a ride, she gave me coffee,”

“That's enough to buy your loyalty,” Dick grins, Tim flips him off.

“Listen, she's part of that Martha Wayne Foundation trip and her class left her at the Airport!”

“What?!” Dick drops from the ceiling onto his bed, “Thats so dangerous, especially in Gotham,”

“Right?! She even had her luggage stolen!” Tim pushes the chair over to Dick, “And she was still so nice, even after an eight hour flight!”

“You said she was part of the Wayne foundation trip?” Dick asks, getting a nod from Tim, “Yeah, we are definitely seeing her again,”

[stargazingthenightaway]

See Something You Like? Part 1

Pairing: Rebels Rex x Female Reader

Word Count: 2.1K

Warning: NSFW 18+ Sexual tension, dirty thoughts, praise kink, size kink, Oral (female receiving) unwanted attention (not from main character) Dom!Rex

A/N: So I’ve decided to write a few, but what I thought would be a one shot has turned into this monster, so I’ve decided to break it down. Not sure how long it’ll be, but I get the feeling it’ll be at least 3 parts. This is inspired by @samrubio art especially her Rex pieces, go check it out! Also, if I missed any warning tags, let me know :)

It was a rarity for the firing range to be this empty. Usually it was crammed to the walls with training drills for new recruits, post mission vent sessions with the faceless targets or if you were unlucky, the cocky fly-boys trying to one-up each other, seeing who had the better ‘blaster’. If you were really unlucky, instead of leaving, their attention would turn to whoever they thought would enjoy their company, which consisted of what barely passed as a conversation before leading to the real objective, servicing the dangly bit between their legs. Their limp pick up line “I’ve got another blaster you can handle sweet cheeks” was in just as much need of an overhaul as their piloting skills. Sadly, you’ve been on the receiving end of these lack-lustre ‘invitations’ far too often and are quick to shut them down. It’s become so repetitive you can time it to the second when they make their appearance. All these boys are the same, give them a flight suit, a ship and they think they’re the Maker’s gift to the galaxy. 

‘They’re just so immature’ you think to yourself, a scowl on your face. Your last rebuffed fly-boy hasn’t gotten the memo that you’re not interested and continues to pester you. As if you’d want to spend 30 seconds listening to a dying bantha grunt into your ear, fumbling to get himself off and counting down until you’re smothered in dissatisfaction. Hard. Pass.

The only reason you have some peace is because they’re out on a mission, but you will take the reprieve. It’s a joy to have an opportunity to fit in some blaster practice without an audience. While you weren’t the worst shot in the rebellion, you certainly weren’t the best, but with enough practice you hope you’ll be placed on some off-planet missions. 

Sliding into an empty booth, you pick up one of the safety helmets, placing it on your head and type in one of the easier simulation codes on the keypad on the side of the wall. As the program calibrates, you remove the blaster from its holster on your thigh, flicking off the safety and settling into your stance. Breathe in, breathe out, shoot. This mantra helps get a rhythm going and soon you’re oblivious to everything around you except your target. The steady stream of blaster fire rings out, mixed with the sounds of high tings for each successful hit and clunky thunks with each miss. It’s pleasing to note that with each round there are more tings than there are thunks. Soon you’re drifting off with the repetitive movements, your thoughts going through your encounters with him.

Captain Rex, member of the Ghost crew and key participant of the rebellion. A legend in his own right. You had first seen him in passing, bringing up some data pads needed for a debrief and you just happened to look in his direction as you were leaving, and stars did you look. He was thick everywhere. His armour did nothing to hide his size as your gaze travelled from his barrel chest, to his thick waist, finally ending at his powerful thighs. Rex has the kind of body that makes you want to rub yourself all over him like a nexu in heat. As he spoke with Agent Fulcrum, Rex crossed his arms over his chest, pulling his shirt tight over his biceps, and your mouth watered. You were so busy ogling that Rex had finished his conversation and looked over your way.

Seeing you staring he gives you a small smirk and a wink before mouthing “see something you like?” You swear he flexed his arms a bit as he did that.

The smirk on his face grows as you feel your face heat up, hightailing it out of the debriefing room and making your way back to your office. It’s quite a while before your blush goes away, and more than one person asks if you’re feeling well. 

The next time you saw him was a bit more hands-on and it still makes you clench your thighs together when you recall this particular memory. You’d been paired as sparring partners, and if you thought Rex looked good in his armour, he was downright edible stripped down to a simple training shirt and grey sweatpants. The shirt stretched in all the right places and the pants were loose enough to provide movement where it was needed, but just snug enough to tease you about what he was packing.

You were so distracted that he easily put you on your back, repeatedly. Each time he knocked you over his thighs would bracket your own, your hands pinned by your head and the rest of his body caging you in. How in the Sith hells were you supposed to concentrate if this was exactly where you wanted to be! You clawed at whatever self-restraint you still possessed to not rub up against him, but maker he made it difficult. 

After the final throw Rex settled on your thighs and smirked down at you “What’s the matter mesh’la?” He took in your flushed cheeks, “You seem distracted, I didn’t think you’d take everything I gave you so easily.” 

Your face was on fire, your brain traitorously giving you ideas of what else you’d take from him, and how well you’d enjoy it.

“Surely you can get me on my back.” You eyes snapped up to his, “all you need to do is use your hips and thrust.”

Fuck.

You felt yourself get wet as a throb built up between your legs from just his voice alone. You needed to finish whatever this had become so you could finish your own needs, preferably in the privacy of your own bunk. With a strength that surprised even you, you took Rex’s advice to thrust your hips up, bracing you leg to provide enough leverage to push him over. The look of surprise on his face that you took his words to heart was something you would never forget. 

As you settled over his waist, his hands came up to your sides, sliding down to rest on your hips, keeping you in place. 

“Knew you could do it” His surprise had turned into a beatific smile, looking up at you as his hands squeezed your hips. “Good girl.”

The triumphant words die on your lips as you look down at him and see exactly how you’re positioned. Your hands are braced on his chest and your thighs have splayed out to the sides to fit over his waist. There is a pleasant ache along your inner thighs from the stretch. If anyone saw the suggestive scene of the pair of you right now, the gossip hotline would be buzzing for months. You made a motion to move but Rex’s hands keep you snug against himself. His thumbs had made their way under the edge of your shirt and traced light circles over your skin. Arousal flooded your veins and you felt your slick starting to soak your panties. 

You look back up to Rex’s face and he tightens his grip “See something you like mesh’la?”

Before you could answer the door burst open, causing the two of you to startle, zoning back in to the present. Chatter filled the room as Wolffe and Gregor brought in the next group of ‘shinies’ for sparring practice. The bubble of intimacy had burst and you hurriedly got off Rex, babbling some thanks about the advice before bolting out of the room. That was six weeks ago, the Ghost having left on a mission, taking Rex with them.

The buzzer in your booth goes off, signalling the end of the simulation. You’re not ready to head back to the responsibilities of intelligence just yet, so you up the intensity of another exercise and when you’re happy with your rhythm, let your thoughts turn back to Rex. 

He’d become the prominent figure in all your fantasies. Before that, neither your toys or your hands would work to get you off, leaving you frustrated and horny. In a fit of desperation you thought back to your spar, but instead of sitting on Rex’s waist you were sitting on his face.

You imagined how his arms would wrap around your thighs, muscles flexing to make sure you stay exactly where he wants you to, and that’s on his tongue. Moans fill the room as he slowly eats you out, long licks up your folds to harsh sucks on your clit. The vibrations from his groans sending you spiralling to the edge, only for him to back off when you’re so close, leaving you sobbing and trembling with need. He’d leave little nibbles and bites along your inner thighs as he waits for the trembling to stop, and his beard, fuck. Rex would nuzzle the side of his face along your legs, leaving more marks that you were his. Letting you know that he was the only one that could give you the satisfaction you craved. You’d squirm, just to feel him tighten his hold, knowing that he controlled your pleasure. 

“Look at me,” he’d growl before licking up your slit, drinking you down, “want you to keep your eyes on me when you cum on my tongue.” This sends another rush of slick from your core, the feeling in your belly coiled tight, waiting to snap. You yelp as there’s a sharp bite to your thigh.

“You like it when I tell you to watch” Rex grins from between your thighs, and you can see the evidence of your arousal glistening on his beard. Stars that is hot. There is a feral look in his golden eyes “Next time I’ll make sure to fuck you in front of a mirror, show you how wet you get for me.”

Your needy whine of approval turns into a lascivious moan as Rex plunges his tongue into your heat, rapidly bringing your orgasm back to the edge, but this time he doesn’t stop. His tongue speeds up, alternating between fluttering around your opening and pushing in as far as he can, nose pressed into your clit. All too soon you’re flying over the edge into sweet oblivion.

With a choked scream you cum, legs clamped tight around Rex’s head, his arms pulling you closer as his tongue working furiously to collect everything that you give him. He groans in delight and that sets off another small orgasm which has you seeing white. When you finally come down from your high you look back down at Rex, a blissed out expression on your face. 

Rex has to practically lift you off him, moving you down so that you’re straddling his waist and conveniently nestling his cock between your folds, and that’s another part of him you’re all too eager to get to know. 

As you bask in the afterglow of your orgasm, Rex puts a hand around the back of your neck, pulling your closer. You don’t need to be force sensitive to feel how smug he is, it’s written all over his face and the possessive arm draped around your waist. 

He nuzzles your nose when you’re close enough, before whispering two devastating words “Good girl.”

A blaring sound yanks you out of your daydream, and you realize that you’ve stopped shooting at the targets. The noise is the warning alarm that the simulation will shut off after 30 more seconds of inactivity. What it is is an inconvenience. You slam the pause button a little more forcefully than you need to, too riled up from your own fantasy simulation. It seems to have worked a little too well, judging by ache between your legs. 

Putting the safety back on your blaster, you drop it onto the shelf in front of the booth opening. Thinking back, there was something in Rex’s eyes as he called you “good girl”  that you can’t quite put your finger on. Discovering that you enjoyed being praised was one thing, but it seemed that Rex was holding something back, something that had to do with that phrase. Not knowing what it was set you on edge, that it could be something about you and that feeling didn’t sit well. 

There was just something about him that makes you crave his attention, wanting to please him so he’d call you “good girl” again. You shiver as you think about how he looked between your thighs, how wide you had to stretch to fit him between you legs. 

You groan to yourself, knowing you’re well and truly gone on this man, and that you’d let him do whatever he wanted, just as long as you could be his good girl. You lean forward against the small shelf, burying your head in your arms.

“Fuuuuck me.” 

“Am I interrupting something, mesh’la?”

To be continued

[bestintheparsec]

As Does the Snow

Frankie Morales x Reader

Summary: You and your neighbor, Frankie, get snowed in together. 

A/N: I wrote this down when the power was out while I was—you guessed it—snowed in. Nothing too deep/angsty in this (for once), just softness. Thank you for reading and I hope you like it!

Words: 3.5k

Warnings: none, some obvious tropes (snowed in, there was only one bed)

*Masterlist pinned to my page

~

Your phone buzzes in your pocket, prompting you to drop the pile of clothes you’re holding to answer it.

“Hey, Santi,” you answer the familiar friendly voice on the other end.

“You lose power yet?” he asks, slight concern in his tone.

“Just about an hour ago,” you reply, peering out the window. The sun’s still out, so you’ll be okay for a few more hours until it sets.

You’d all been expecting the power to go out, of course. The news has been tracking a seemingly out-of-nowhere snow storm that’s been headed your way, starting its impact a few hours earlier. You hadn’t expected to lose power so soon, though—it usually takes a lot more ice or wind to damage the lines. You’ve been preparing as best as you can for the cold nights ahead. With the lack of heat and power, it was bound to be a long night or two.

“You have everything you need, right?” he asks after a short silence. Santi and the other guys, most of them, live closer to the city and away from the countryside that you'd chosen to live in. With the way the roads are, everyone's been warned not to drive if possible. Not that there’s anywhere to go.

“Yeah, I always do—”

“Listen, I was wondering if you could go stay with Frankie during this whole thing,” he chimes in.

Frankie lives across the street from you—you’ve been good friends with him ever since you moved in years ago, even becoming a part of his group of ex-military friends when he introduced you to them, and you'd fit in like you’d always belonged there. It’s perfectly reasonable that Santi would ask you to go stay with your friend to hunker down during a storm. You would all stay with each other if you could, but seeing as that’s impossible and you and Frankie only have each other right now…yes, completely reasonable.

Fuck, who are you kidding?

What seems like a long time ago, you realized you had feelings for Frankie. And, by some luck—or not—you found out they were reciprocated.

But things don’t always work out the way you want them to; hell, it seems like things never do. At the end of the day, you both had wanted to pursue something more with each other, but life got in the way, just as it often does. You both had a lot going on in your lives back then, things you had to deal with and sort out alone. Ultimately—awkward conversations and deep talks and all—you’d both decided it was best if you simply stayed friends, lest things become overcomplicated.

And so you did. Despite this small history, things haven't really been awkward since then. He’s still a good friend to you, one of your best friends, really, and the subject hasn’t been mentioned again ever since.

Only, you haven’t really moved on. You haven’t been much good at leaving the feelings behind you, either. At first you just kept shoving them away, trying to convince yourself that you felt nothing at all whenever you were with him, nothing except friendly love for one of your best friends. But despite your best attempts not to, you found yourself slowly falling more for him. Being close to him for this long has made it even harder for you to move past it.

Not that you've addressed any of this again.

Had you sorted out the things you were dealing with back then? Maybe. But you’d both decided on what was best, years ago, and given that Frankie hasn’t brought it up again since, it’s likely he wants to keep things that way. Time tends to help some people to move on, where it drives the knife in deeper for others. Frankie’s been on plenty of dates since then, even a relationship or two. So you know you were probably just a momentary interlude in his love life, someone he stopped thinking about in that way long before you could ever even think about moving on. You're nothing more than a good friend to him now. And so you've kept your continued feelings for him to yourself, allowing them to thinly layer your friendship like a light dusting of sugar that’s never quite sweet enough to stand on its own.

But the thought of sheltering with him for a few days? You're not sure if you can keep your feelings contained if you're with him for that long and with that much free time to get lost in your thoughts. But given the seriousness of the storm, you were both bound to end up at one or the other's place, anyways.

You must have been silent for a little too long, because Santi speaks again, breaking your thoughts. “You can watch over each other, that sort of thing. Besides, you know how he can be…” he trails off, waiting for you to answer.

“I—yeah, I’ll go over there,” you finally agree, nodding to yourself. “I was going to check up on him eventually, anyways. I’ll go over as soon as I finish up what I’m doing.”

“Sounds good—let us know if you run into any trouble. We’ll find a way over there if we need to.”

You mutter a quick thanks and remind them to stay safe before hanging up, tossing your phone onto the couch with a resigned sigh. Moments later you pick it up again, quickly sending a text to Frankie to ask him if it’s alright for you both to bunker together for the night. Which he quickly agrees to, of course—you’ve spent many evenings over at his place, or his at yours.

Really, you don’t know why your brain’s suddenly trying to make this weird for you. You’ll bring some snacks and blankets, and it’ll be just like any other Friday night you’ve spent with him. Not weird. There’s nothing there (at least on his end) for you to feel awkward about.

You shake your head and finish your emergency preparations, trying to be done with it before it gets dark so you can head over to Frankie’s.

~

Exhaling deeply first, you ring Frankie’s doorbell.

“Coming!” His deep voice calls from inside.

You shove your hands into your pockets then change your mind, moving them to grip anxiously onto the straps of your backpack. Another few moments pass before you hear Frankie trod to the door. He answers it with a soft smile plastered on his face, the same one he uses every time he greets you. Immediately taking the bag you’re carrying off your arm, he beckons you inside and you follow, shrugging off your backpack.

"Did you need help with anything?" You ask, dropping your bag onto the ground and looking around the darkened place. The windows are covered, there's flashlights and candles out on the table, and a couple cases of water are stacked in the kitchen.

He’s layered up in clothing just like you are—a familiar flannel button-up peeking out from under his jacket. His hair is messy like he’s been running around all day, which he probably has been from the looks of it. If you had to describe it, he looks like...home.

Stop it, you mentally chastise yourself.

“Nah, I’m just making some final tweaks,” he remarks, walking over to pull the living room curtains shut. “The house is warm enough for now, but it won’t be long before it starts feeling like the inside of a fridge in here.”

He turns back to face you with a different sort of smile on his lips, a gentle expression you can’t quite make out.

Unbeknownst to you, Frankie’s been in deep for you, too. He knows you'd both agreed not to date, but over time he's come to greatly regret that decision. It was the right one at the time, but he can't help but wish things had gone a little differently. There’s no one he’d rather be around, and any and all dates he’s been on over the years have failed for the same reason—they’re not you. They could never be you.

Chances come and go, and his has gone. In more ways than one you’re a light in his life, someone he couldn’t ever deserve, and somehow he’s lucky enough to have you in his life at all—even if it’s just as friends. If he’s a better person now, a lot of it’s because you’ve been there to pick up the pieces, the same way he does and will always do for you without a second thought.

But something you can’t help him with is the fact that he’s fallen for you, hard, long after you’d both agreed to just be friends. And he keeps on falling.

He knows people change their mind all the time, but he’s been unwilling and unable to bring it up again with you. For all he knows, that agreement had just been your gentle way of telling him “it’s never going to happen.” He doesn't want to risk scaring you off and losing one of the best people in his life.

Frankie comes back to reality, watching you smooth out the front of your shirt.

“Okay, well, I brought some of my blankets in case we need to pile them up…” you say, pointing to the large bag you brought. “And since your stove is electric, it looks like we’ll be eating snacks for dinner.”

“That’s bold of you to assume,” he retorts, walking over to the kitchen. With a silly gesture, he proudly uncovers a large dish full of one of your favorites.

Frankie is certainly no chef, but he can put together a dish or two, even going out of his way to learn how to make the things that you both love. He puts a hand on his hip, amused by the surprised look on your face. “I made it before the power went out. They did teach us some things about preparation in the military, you know,” he teases, dimple on full display.

“And here I was packing junk food and sandwiches, like a loser,” you jest, grinning back at him. Frankie somehow always manages to make your life a little better. He beams and your chest constricts at the sight.

"Oh, we'll definitely need those for later," he reassures you with a grin. "If the guys were here that'd all be gone before the worst of the storm even hits," he adds, making you laugh.

Some of your favorite nights with Frankie are the ones that are completely uneventful, ones where you relax after a long day of work and binge your favorite snacks while watching some crappy movie on the couch. Then again, it's always the little things that make you happy when it comes to him.

~

Once you've had your dinner you both get comfortable next to each other on the couch, chatting about life and nothing in particular, the way you often do—minus the lack of electricity and a mostly dark room that’s barely lit up by a couple of small camping lights Frankie has. No doubt the other guys would make things a lot more chaotically entertaining if they were all here, but you’re happy it’s just the two of you now—even if it does make it harder for you to think straight at the moment.

Frankie says something that makes you chuckle and you look up at him, noting the delicate smile on his lips and the way it almost balances out the tired lines under his eyes.  He meets your eyes, and if he looks like he wants to say something else, it's probably only in your mind because he doesn't.

The wind outside makes itself known, rattling the windows in its wake. You're suddenly grateful you'd agreed to come and stay with Frankie. Although you’re lucky to have a shelter, these kinds of storms are best when you don't have to ride them out alone.

You also become hyper-aware of how intimate the moments you share with Frankie are. At the end of the day, you're glad he's in your life, even if it's not the way the younger version of you wanted. You still have him and he has you, and that's really more than you could ever ask for.

A chill suddenly makes its way through you.

"Are you shivering?" Frankie stops talking mid-thought to ask you.

"What? No, I—" He cuts you off with a chuckle and shakes his head, reaching down into your bag. With a quick movement he pulls a beanie on over your head, purposely tugging it past your eyes as you laugh and playfully smack his hand away.

"Watch yourself, Morales," you attempt to glare at him as you smooth down your hair, but fail to contain your smile when you see that goofy twinkle in his eyes.

“Alright, alright, I’m sorry,” he concedes and raises his hands in mock surrender. The grin is still on his face as he moves to fix the beanie on your forehead. Another quiet chuckle escapes his lips until his fingers move away from your forehead, accidentally grazing along your cheek.

It’s not the chill that makes you both fall abruptly silent.

It’s almost as if the wind wiped the grins off your faces as Frankie looks into your eyes with an intense gaze. His hand still hovers along your cheek, neither of you seeming able to move. You’re suddenly grateful that it’s impossible for him to hear your heartbeat pounding in your ears right now. Your imagination must be getting the better of you again, because you almost believe that there’s something wistful about the look on his face.

But just like that, he drops his hand and you both avert your eyes.

“It’s, um...getting late,” you break the silence. “We better get settled before it really starts getting cold in here.”

Frankie clears his throat, nodding in agreement and standing to pile some blankets onto the couch.

“What are you doing?” you ask him.

“Um...you know I don’t have the guest room set up. There’s just the bed in my room. You go get cozy, I’ll take the couch.”

"What? I'm not gonna steal your bed, Fr—"

“And I'm not going to have you uncomfortable in my house,” he brushes you off with a wave of the hand. “It's fine, querida, really. You know I've knocked out on this couch more times than I can count." Your chest warms at the sound of his pet name for you. It's harmless, just something he's always called you. But for some reason it makes your face warm to hear it this time.

“No, I mean...isn’t it better if we share? I think the whole point is to keep our bodies warm. It’s easier to do that if we’re in one room.”

He finally meets your eyes again, holding your gaze as though there's more than one thing on his mind, then runs a hand through his disheveled hair.

“I...Are you sure? I really don’t have any problem with—”

You smile softly at him, trying to hide any indication of awkwardness in your tone. “Yes, Frankie, it’s fine. Really. Besides, we can stack all our blankets together this way.”

He smiles back. “I have a big, fluffy one we can use, too.”

~

All the remaining heat in the house has definitely dissipated now, leaving behind a frigid chill. It's bearable for the time being, but leaves your skin covered in goosebumps anytime you expose so much as a sliver of skin to the air. The last time you checked, the snow had already made a significant cushion to the ground outside, and was still going strong.

You've been in bed for an hour or two, huddled into a ball underneath several layers of blankets and refusing to move because it only makes you colder to shift the air around.

Frankie's asleep next to you—you assume he's asleep, anyways. Neither of you have said a word in a while, and with the pattering sounds of snow falling outside, you're getting drowsy yourself. Still, you haven't been able to fall asleep, not even when you jam your eyes shut. It's too cold, for one thing, and for another, it's difficult to ignore the fact that he is right next to you. It's a big bed and there's a decent space between you, but still.

You shift positions yet again, trying to wrap yourself tighter in your section of the blankets. You move to readjust one of the blankets that's gotten pushed away, accidentally bumping Frankie's arm in the process. You grimace, hoping you didn't wake him.

"Your hand is like ice," Frankie's quiet voice suddenly fills the room.

"Oh—Sorry. I thought you were asleep," you mutter back, your voice muffled by the blankets.

"No. It's hard enough for me to sleep even when there's not a historic snowstorm going on." He jokes, though you know it goes deeper than that for him.

Not really knowing how to respond, you remain silent. Rolling onto your side facing away from him, you tuck yourself further into the blankets before resolving to pull them up and over your head entirely.

Frankie's soft laugh rumbles next to you. "Seriously, your skin is frozen," he tells you. “You’re like the opposite of a space heater right now,” he chuckles and you can hear the grin on his face.

You push the blanket off your face, feigning a groan. “Freezing weather and a lack of heat lends to poor circulation, Francisco.”

"I know, I just…maybe it would…it might be warmer if we slept closer together." His voice is so soft that you can’t help but think how nice it would be to fall asleep to the sound of it every night.

When you don’t answer right away he quickly adds, “Or not—I wasn’t trying to...I didn’t mean—Sorry.” Frankie shuffles uncomfortably under the covers.

“No, you’re right,” you murmur hesitantly, barely louder than a whisper. “It...would probably help.”

A beat of silence.

Then you hear Frankie gently move his pillow over towards you, scooting himself in until you can feel his warmth against you. He doesn’t move again at first, you only feel his chest rising and falling against your back. But ever so slowly, he wraps an arm over you, the weight of him sturdy and comforting. You can tell he’s tense—hesitant—until you place your own hand on his, holding him closer to you. Feeling you make yourself comfortable must put him at ease, and he relaxes around you. Neither of you say a word, just lay there sharing each other’s warmth.

You’ve fallen asleep on his shoulder on some late nights on the couch before—things two normal, friendly people do, right? But you’ve never let yourself think too much about it. You can hardly help it now, reveling in the way you feel safe in his arms, fitting perfectly along the curve of his body. You are warmer, although some of it may be because of the way your pulse is just a little bit quickened. You wouldn't mind if you had to stay like this forever.

Frankie quietly exhales, his breath warm against the back of your hair. “Better?” he finally speaks, his voice gravelly and hushed, not much louder than the sound of snow hitting the window.

A pause. “Yeah.”

You feel him relax even more, burying his cheek a little more into the space above your shoulders. “Let’s try to sleep, then, querida.”

And just like that, Frankie Morales manages to make you fall a little bit more in love with him.

It’s then that you realize—it’s always been simple with him. Everything is always...easy with him. Nothing’s overcomplicated or messy; it’s just you and Frankie. It’s what drew you to him first, long ago. It wasn’t the outspoken openness that that others had, nor the confident resolve, but the quiet way he cares for you. The way he manages to always make you laugh, even at the times when it’s almost impossible to. The way he makes you feel so whole that you forget there was ever anything missing in the first place. That’s how he found his way, permanently, into your heart.

For Frankie, it’s always been you. You’re a grounding presence to him, someone who’s made him familiar with peace again over the years.

He lies there listening to the sounds of your breathing, sure that you’re finally fast asleep. He feels sleep coming over himself, too. He knows he’ll sleep a little easier tonight with you. He’ll weather anything when it comes to you. That’s how he knows, and convinces himself that once this storm business is over, he’ll tell you. For now, he lets himself follow you into slumber. His last conscious thoughts are of how he wouldn't mind having you in his arms like this every night, and if it weren't for your warmth lulling him to sleep, he might've confessed to you right then and there.

 ~

Permanent tags: @immundusspiritu @aeryntheofficial @i-like-those-odds @padlilli @hail-doodles @hiscyarika @taman-a @electricprincess888 @max--phillips @myrin1234 @aloneontheoutside @pascalisthepunkest @ah-callie @fleurdemiel145 @katialvi @murdermewithbooks @pisss-offf-ghostt​ @kayebede @lamnothome @fan-g0rl @lokiaddicted @mrsdaamneron​ @poedaneron​ @wolfshifter4life @dindjarindiaries​ @rociomz​ @opheliaelysia​ @dyn-djarin​ @randomness501​ @unsaidsunset​ @hayley-the-comet​ @mrsparknuts​ @exy-issexy​ @palalover​ @forever-rogue​ @adikaofmandalore​ @kaetastic​ @zannemes​ @mstgsmy​ @wille-zarr​ @arabellathorne @f0rever15elf​ @lv7867​ @stilllivindue2spite​ @urbankaite2​

[jadelynlace]

Ink Drinker / Modern Vikings AU [Ivar x F!Reader], Chapter 6

catch up here!

synopsis: Ivar was only meant to be a friend with benefits, but he caught feelings for his older brother’s best friend, and co-worker: you.

pairing: Ivar x F!Reader

***content warning [PLEASE READ]: this chapter has the after effect of the trauma call, and too many emotions. surgical mentions and medical terminology are in this chapter as well. anything in italics indicates a flash back.

author’s note: I’m so sorry.

 ~

“Floki, why can I be left alone?” Ivar asked.

“Because the last time you were left alone you ended up with fifty thousand milligrams of pain killers in your stomach. Now, come here—do you know this?” Floki replied with his fingers taping the photo copied image.

“I drew that.” Ivar said back.

“Yes, you did. Where do you want it?”

“What do you mean?” 

“You hate your body so much why don’t you cover it in something you like?” 

*

It is sixteen hours that Ivar is in surgery. His world is dark, nothing but, with pierces of noises that he can recall. But trying to decipher them only makes the surroundings dull, caked in black and muffled with a buzz of an unruly bee hive. There are pokes of pain, he remembers the green light, and he remembers the pot hole he swerved to miss. He doesn’t remember how fast he was driving and the second he was over the yellow line made no difference for the sudden beast of a truck to find him. 

Everything below Ivar’s powdered knee caps are reattached. Grueling hours on the table while he’s sewed back together like a monster. Enough time for Hvitserk to get clothes, to get you clothes, to pack a bag for his brother per your request. Even in the presence of clean laundry you can’t take your blues off yet—they’re holding you proper because you just saw Ivar that morning. You two made love in the low morning light, filled with ecstasy, his seed and then he made you eggs with extra hot sauce and hugged you tightly you were sure you stopped breathing. He told you to be safe, baby, like he did at the dawn of each shift and that he would call you when his last appointment was finished, and on his way back from shopping for supplies for the parlor and that you two would make lunch plans. In his speed, his haste to make sure he didn’t miss you before the two tone song of death would sing in the radios, he instead, became the reason it did.  

Your chief shows up when you tell him the nature of the emergency. Pulling additional personnel on for overtime and they take the rig out of service and from your hands. Words don’t spare any differences and although he offers you a hug, when you take it he slips you a piece of paper. 

“Remember the job you’re doing. And the change you’re making.” He whispers in your ear and you look at the folded sheet. It’s a photocopy of a poorly drawn fire truck with an even worse sketched stick figure, and you had scribbled it when you were five. Back when you met chief for the first time because now you hold the same badge number your father once did. 

“If I give you your Dad’s old badge number, are you going to act like a jack ass like him?”

“I can’t make any promises chief.”

“I have a partner in mind for you, you’ll like him. He’s a good kid. A good medic.”

“This good kid got a name?”

“Yeah, Hvitserk. I’ll introduce the two of you.”

This is the call that shapes you as a medic, as a provider, and changes how you see things. This is the call that sends a new person out into the street, whether Ivar lives or not. This is the call that forever holds terror in your heart because he was laying in the back of your ambulance, and that was the one spot you never wanted him to occupy. 

Aslaug walks through the doors and she’s already two tissues deep into a soggy mess. Hugging Hvitserk and hugging you and you wish you were meeting this woman for the first time under any other circumstance. Floki thanks you and you don’t quite know why, even though the words fall heavily and un-calming, he still thanks you. And when the surgeon returns before the four of you, you’re the only one that doesn’t stand. But he calls your name because you know him, he was lab staff that tested you for your certifications and he told you that you’ll make a damn good medic one day. 

“Remember what I said on the day of your exam?” He asks and you nod, puzzled and impatient looks on the other faces. “You are a damn good medic—you both are.” He adds, eyes jumping from yours to your partners. “And it shows on this call, of all of them.” Hvitserk’s shoulder nudges you and you only nudge him back, perhaps little too hard in your delirious state. “Essentially what we did, was replant the lower portion of each leg. Now, given the extent of his injuries and how his body handles such, I don’t have a clear cut answer for you on his overall mobility. He may need to have screws implanted, he may need prosthetics. He’s going to be in the ICU for the next 48 hours for constant monitoring. We’ll have him sedated so his body can focus on what’s at stake. He’ll need physical therapy for a long time, and he’ll likely be disabled for the rest of his life, given again, how his body handles this. It’ll be a long road. But, like I said—you two are damn good medics and that is the one reason his legs were able to be saved. I will let you know when he’s moved to the ICU.”

You look back at your partner and his face is as blank as yours; influx of emotions just ready to dive from the void but your minds are still churning, still processing all of what boomed from the doctor’s mouth. Ivar’s chance at returning to a normal life was resting in your hands and you two gave the best damn efforts and they worked. The countless hours of dissection, wondering if you’re cut out for this career, these responsibilities, hours of trauma and blood and vomit all fizzle away because you now know that you are. And it just took Ivar to prove it.

When your eyes open again there’s a sharp pierce in your temple, scrunching eyes together and slowly moving, your head rises from Floki’s shoulder and the lights in the ICU have dimmed in the late hour. Impressions stood between his nostrils, falling like petals over his cheekbones, bleeding through split brows and pink flowers through the depths of his neck. His chest sinking and fainting with time, there was a moment of deafening silence when you are looking at his body; seemingly so small under the contraptions. The depths of earth, and the worst hell was seeing him lay on this cot. He’s only sedated now, even though Ivar looked of death, he was still alive under the harvest of wires. The words of how “we’re doing all that we can” do not bring any more comfort, they just take Ivar like a wave rapidly back out to sea. And now you understand how your patients, and their families feel when you speak the same phrases to them. The clinical assessments do not stop a rigorous schedule, motoring for the possible failure. The room is kept warm, and every so often when you will yourself to peek in, you can see the sheen of sweat that’s over Ivar’s forehead, dancing across his chest under the stickers, the monitors. The capillary refill on his toes show promise, and when the nurse says that to her doctor, you find yourself attempting the same motions on your thumb nail. Pressing the pink away and making room for the white, and then in a quick release, the pink swarms back. The ultra sound machines reminds you of the new equipment in your rig as it assess arterial blood flow every hour.

IV bags drip, slow and agonize and the change of wrappings, dressings and cleaning of both the limbs and Ivar himself collect. You spend hours watching the fluid levels sink, his eyes flutter, his fingers in his hand dance and you grow cold because you just want to hold him. To lock him in a steel tower and to constantly remind him how strong he is, because you know the longest road will not come from learning to walk. It will come from Ivar trying to find that he is worthy to live on.

Blackness had retired across your cheeks, wrapping a veil of makeup that melted into battle scars and you could not move if your body depended on it. Aslaug sits next to you; she takes her time wiping the makeup off from under your eyes, the soiled mascara and she’s humming to you. She had been telling you how when Ivar was young, she would sing to him and it would calm him down. How she sang to him in the hospital after he tried to overdose, tubes pumping his stomach as she blamed herself for such wrong doing. How Hvitserk blamed himself because he gave no one a warning cry. And how she’s singing to Ivar now, even though he can’t hear it, because it comforts the three of you as a whole. 

When your eyes follow the nurse into the room, you can hear her say something to Ivar and you watch his head turn in confusion. Grogginess and a fog on his brain as she talks to him like it’s a normal conversation; wishing him a good morning, how the weather looks promising for a beautiful day and you wish you had that level of bed side manner. You never get the promising parts of the journey; you get the patients that are coding and in a rush to the life saving team in the hospital. You love the ones who tell you their entire live’s story in the back of the rig on the way to the emergency room, sharing details and calming your mind with how simple, and yet how different every walk of life is. The nurse says something about you, about Hvitserk and Aslaug and Floki, out and waiting and ready to see him when he’s fit. You wave through the glass and there’s the tease of a smirk on Ivar’s face, even in his slightly sedated state. A dastardly, bastard smirk and his hand lifts off the bed slightly, wiggling his fingers back to you. The tears start up again, pounding a sledge hammer through your skull after all of the unruly pressure and messes of crying as your body tries to go numb.

“Where’s my mom?” You hear Ivar say in a voice that muted slightly as the nurse stands in the door way to exit. “Can I see my mom?” And the nurse nods. Aslaug stands and kisses your hair line as she walks into the vicinity, Ivar watching her and you need to back up, you need to walk away from the room, this hall way and this battle. A faint wheeze goes through your chest and Floki catches it first before Hvitserk has a chance to lift his head and open his eyes.

“Let’s walk, dear,” Floki says and his voice is not authoritative but it still demands you to comply as he loops an arm around your shoulder. “Walking can help to clear the mind.” It’s your first time outside in almost three days, and the sunlight burns you like you had been its victim on a sand covered shoreline for one too many hours. The hospital grounds are manicured, they’re neat and arranged with an abundance of flowers and colors in the open air but everything to you still feels so dull and lifeless, pointless and hopeless and walking only churns your thoughts to double, triple in size like a snow ball rolling down a hill. 

You’re finally allowed in to see Ivar and you approach slowly, like touching him will seer you suddenly, stain you with a unremovable pattern and you’ll forever be reminded. His blue eyes are dull and groggy when they open, the nasal cannula wrapping his face and your eyes dance over the scurf collecting on his jaw, and the faint bruising, cuts and scrapes on his skin.

“Hey baby,” His voice rasps and you kneel by the bed, tears already on their journeys to streak your tried skin and Ivar’s needle poked, IV covered arm comes to wipe what he can reach. “You were there, weren’t you?” And you can only nod, eyes still damp and you relish in the touch he gives you only if it’s for a second. “You saved my life, baby,” Ivar finally adds and that makes the whimper start again, the choke of a sob in your throat and he tries to quiet you, slithering a quick noise from his lips and you rest your head against the bed, his hand still on your hair. 

“I drove the ambulance over a hundred miles an hour,” You finally say and they’re the first words you can use to process the trauma you two had lived through together.

“That’s my girl,” Ivar smiles, speaking with a voice that sounds like sandpaper.

“I love you Ivar—no matter what happens, I love you so much,”

“I love you too, Y/N,” Ivar says and his voice is weaker now and he needs rest. “Kiss me before you go?” He says with eyes scanning your face, and you can’t deny that now. Pressing your lips softly against his, your hands cupping his cheek and you hope it’s not the last kiss you’ll ever get from him. “I’m not going anywhere, baby,” Ivar tells you. “I’m afraid. But I’m not going anywhere,” You nod as he speaks, a forehead against his for a second and his hand is still trying to reach on you where he can. This is the man that would pull the tubes and the wires from his chest if he could, if that would make him get closer to you. “You’re stuck with me,” And there’s a faint snicker after his words, weak and drowned out from the normal tone but you’ll take it after not hearing his voice for three days.

“I’m stuck with you,” You say back with a small smile. But it still doesn’t bring enough hope.

Ink Drinker Tags:

@smileysam13579 @dreamtherapy @heisentwerk @angelofthenightposts @ill-skillsgard @youaremyfamiliar @unbetaedimagines @kathryn-jane @readsalot73 @skrsgardspam @lihikainanea @queen-sarang @anastasiaskarsgard @andmyannabellee @walkxthexmoon @flowers-in-your-hayr @peachyboneless @heavenly1927 @istorkyou @victoria-styles @quantumlocked310 @xbellaxcarolinax @mighty-ragnarssons @alexhandersen-marcoilsoe-fandom @queen-of-upshur @nanahachikyuu @fandomlifeandeverythingelse @ivarhoegh @a5hl3y5ibley @hashimily @youbloodymadgenius @love-all-things-writing @theanxietyqueen17 @trip2themoon @tgrrose @synnersaint @kataphine

*please message me to let me know if you would like to be added or removed from my tag list. specifications for series/etc. are also welcomed, as well as feedback.*

full masterlist can be found here.

[blackwidow-bby]

By the Poolside - Wanda Maximoff x fem!Reader

Hiya~~ have a little summer fic as a ✨treat✨

I also don’t own Marvel or their characters

Warnings: it’s not too crazy, maybe some suggestive language but keep it 18+

Today had really been a sweltering day. One of those days where you weren't called on a mission and the pool at the tower looked too tempting. When the situation allowed, you loved to sunbathe during the summer. Unfortunately it was your job that rarely allowed it, being a S.H.E.I.L.D. agent. Luckily, you took residence in the Avengers tower where, of course, Tony had to have a pool in place for everyone.

Sometimes you think he had it installed just to make his famous parties more fun, but who doesn't enjoy a nice cool swim from time to time.

As you laid in bed, the temptation continued to call out to you. Your skin buzzing to be outside. What could it hurt to relax the whole day? You got up in search of a good bathing suit that would assure the most sun exposure. Finding an almost revealing black strapless bikini would do, you shed your pajamas and grabbed a towel.

-----

The sun was a lot stronger than you thought, having already began sweating before you finished applying your tanning lotion. Delicately you pulled your hair back into a tight ponytail and and twisted the length into a bun securing it in place.

"Good to see another face. I was starting to think I was all alone in the tower today."

Her voice caught you by surprise, obviously thinking the same, but had immediately comforted you knowing who it belonged to.

"I didn't take you for the sneaky type, Wands, but I guess there's a first for everything."

Wanda had been the object of your desire since you first laid eyes on her. She was visually stunning with her high cheekbones and full lips. Green eyes that practically bore into your soul every time they found your gaze. Her voice was borderline angelic to you, and her accent adorable.

Turning around to look at her caused you to quickly compose your growing desire. She was wearing an all white one piece swimsuit with a low dip in the back and a little cut out on her chest. You had never seen so much of her body before, it really took you by surprise. Wanda's usual fashion sense mostly consisted of t-shirts, pants, and a zip up jacket from time to time. Seeing her in something that hugged all of her curves the way it did, hit all new nerves in your body. You silently held back a groan at the sight.

"Considering I wasn't even trying to sneak up on you, really shows how good of an agent you must be Y/N." she looked you over with a smirk. All you did was give her a playful roll of your eyes.

"Well maybe you can make it up to me by putting some of this tanning lotion on my back. I'm not flexible enough to reach it myself." you gave her a little wiggle of your eyebrows that you doubt she saw as she didn't respond to your playful gesture.

"It's the least I could do." Wanda took the bottle from where it sat on the lounge chair. You watched closely as her nimble fingers gently squeezed the bottle to obtain as much as she thought was enough. Your eyes followed every single movement she made with her hands. Putting the bottle down, rubbing the lotion on her palms...

"I can't put any on your back if your front is facing me." Your face flushed, but you were willing to blame the heat as quickly as possible if need be. You turned your back to her and maneuvered yourself backwards to make it easier for her to apply.

You could've sworn your body almost failed you when you narrowly avoided whimpering when she placed her hands on your shoulder with the lotion that was way too cold for how Wan-...the sun made your skin feel. Her thin fingers worked your skin so slowly and professionally it was as if she took the care of your body more serious than you did. Her electric touch made chills a long term placement upon your arms. When she started to inch lower down your back you almost coughed when she slipped her hands under the band of your bikini top. You had been so enthralled with the young woman behind you that even simple ministrations sent sinful feelings between your legs. You silently thanked both Wanda and your attraction for the lack of thoughts in your mind. The redhead creating a lack of any thoughts or commands to enter just by existing. Certainly drawing a blank with every small touch and rub and dragging of fingers.

Your poor heart was bounding out of your chest as Wanda's fingers got awfully close to the sides of your breasts. Silly Wanda, that's all covered by bikini top, no need to apply lotion there. Controlling your breathing became harder and harder but eventually she moved away from your ribs and ventured to your lower back. A small part of your brain was thankful Wanda cared so much about sun exposure, because she was definitely taking her time and making sure every spot of your back was touched. You let your eyes fall closed for a brief moment until you felt her lean forward.

"Now it's time for you to do me." Wanda whispered very close to your ear, you felt every bit of her words on the shell. The shakiest breath fell from your lips at the abrupt closeness that you fully missed when she backed away to turn around.

It's like your brain was short circuiting at the entire exchange, no thoughts crossing your mind, just trying to find the motor skills so that you could return the offer back to Wanda. Amidst trying to squeeze out some of the lotion on your hand, your eyes caught sight of Wanda lowering her straps down her arms to give you better access to her back. She didn't have nearly as much skin exposed as you did, but the sun is a wrathful star and would fully take any opportunity to burn all those that bare themselves to it.

Your hands were shaking with desperation to attach themselves to her bare back. Any opportunity to touch your crush was enough experience to fuel the thoughts that would come later in the night when you wanted to wind down and imagine a future that may never come to fruition.

Finally your hands landed. You started at her shoulders just as she did you. Her skin was much softer than you expected. Even though she had been exposed to the sun, her back still felt unfairly cool under your touch. You focused on trying to move your hands as gracefully as Wanda had earlier. It must've worked since you heard Wanda let out the softest sigh at your movements, lulling her head to the side like you were rubbing sore muscles. When you thought you applied enough to her shoulders you worked your way down. You couldn't help but notice Wanda leaning her back into your touch, everywhere your hand hit. You also couldn't help slipping your fingers under the hem of her swimsuit, only to cover every inch in tanning lotion, you know...to help Wanda out. But whenever you did, she would shudder and let out a light sound, like she wanted you to hear but was concerned about it happening too often.

"That felt so relaxing, maybe I should make you give me back rubs regularly." Wanda was smirking again at you after she got up from your lounge chair. "You're very good with your hands."

That last comment made you choke. You could swear she was doing everything in her power to fluster you, but why? Could she be interested?

"I don't think it would take much to force me to rub you." Wanda's eyebrows shot up. Did you really just say that? "I- I-I mean rub your b-back or l-like your arms or something is what I meant." Nice save Y/N. You truly thought you saved that situation until Wanda suddenly busted with laughter. It wasn't that funny was it? She must've noticed your confused face cause she started walking up to you very slowly. She took your hand from your side and pulled you flush against herself, snaking her arms around the back of your neck.

"Won't take much for you to rub me, huh?" Oh you were really short circuiting now. Was she into you? Like...really into you? While you were struggling to take in what was happening, Wanda was leaning closer. The closer she got, the wider your eyes went. Her lips came so close to yours but stopped just short of the kiss you only thought of in your dreams.

"You're cute but I like you much better when you're nervous like this." Your brain was still malfunctioning. Not yet caught up to what was perspiring before you. Only one thing playing on repeat, "You think I'm cute?" Wanda giggled against your lips and tightened her hold around your neck finally bringing your lips together. The kiss could've knocked your legs from under you had you not already been leaning forward on Wanda. Her lips were soft and cold against your heated face. She smelled sweet like strawberries and banana boat.

You felt her start to pull away, so reluctantly you followed suit. Her arms remained wrapped around you.

"What do you think?"